Chapter 614: The Last Aethel Winged Cavalry
Yet, Leonie’s reply was drowned beneath the roar of the Iron Beasts, the trembling Wasteland, and the searing flame and thick smoke belching from the cannon muzzles.
“Boom!”
The shell struck directly in front of Leonie, detonating with a violent blast.
In an instant, blinding flame light filled his pupils. The explosion erupted like a storm—shattering shockwaves surged outward, jagged fragments of metal tearing through the air.
Thanks to the automatic magical shield activated on his armor, Leonie survived the blast. But the other Winged Cavalry were not so fortunate.
Some lost limbs. Others were reduced to charred corpses—or scattered into bloody fragments.
Leonie could only watch, helpless, as his comrades were torn apart.
Clutching his Horse Sword, he let out a low, oppressive growl:
“We are Fadalan.”
In his memory, the past Faldran Empire had been glorious—unrivaled in strength, ruling over other races, hunting mighty dragons like prey, and believing themselves born to conquer the world.
The Aethel Winged Cavalry had been one of its most sacred legions—honored warriors of the Holy Faedran Army.
But now?
The Radiance of the Sun God dimmed. Their strength ebbed away. The Three Great Kingdoms were locked in endless war. Even the vile kingdoms from the North dared to treat them as prey.
Worse still—Leonie had nearly lost the very confidence of being a Fadalan citizen, crushed beneath the Majesty of those Iron Beasts.
This was unforgivable.
He was Fadalan! A descendant of the mightiest empire on Feanso—eternal guardians of the Sun, loyal to the immortal Emperor, the eternal flame of Faith!
They were never meant to fear. Never meant to submit. They were meant to march under the light of the sun, unyielding and eternal.
“Huff… huff…”
The explosions roared around him. Memories blurred. His eyes turned crimson. His breath grew ragged. He raised his Horse Sword high, veins bulging along his forearm.
“We are noble Fadalan! We will never submit to any vile barbarian! Aethel Winged Cavalry—follow me, Charge!”
His voice cut through the thunder of artillery and the growl of engines—raw, desperate, unyielding.
Leonie rode his white horse, leaning forward, his broad metal wings unfurling behind him. Wind howled through the cracks in the wings, screaming like a blade through flesh.
The magical runes across his wings flared to life, emitting a radiant glow like the sun itself. For a moment, he lifted from the ground—his steed galloped forward, its hooves hovering a few feet above the earth.
At that moment, Leonie was no mere man—he was a true Divine Offspring, trailing light as he charged through the air at terrifying speed.
This was the true form of the Winged Cavalry.
With a roar, Leonie swung his Horse Sword:
“Sacred Fedran shall endure forever! Give your hearts for Fadalan!”
Hundreds of surviving cavalry focused their gaze on him. Dextrously dodging the barrage of artillery fire, they gathered around him, forming a tight, disciplined mass.
“It’s Leonie Lord!”
“We are Aethel Winged Cavalry!”
“Amanata above! Holy Faedran Empire lives forever!”
Amidst the chaos, their cries rose in unison—fierce, defiant, alive with fire.
Now, life or death no longer mattered. These frenzied knights only longed to charge as their ancestors once had—majestic, glorious, and worthy of battle. To die on the field, as true warriors, for the Fadalan they had built in their hearts.
“Fadalan Long Live!”
The Winged Cavalry formed a dense two-line formation, knees touching, their horsemanship flawless. Their long lances were drawn, ready to pierce through enemy lines.
The magical runes on their armor synchronized, shimmering in harmony. Before them, a long, impenetrable wall of radiant energy surged forward—advancing at high speed.
Whoosh—
Behind them, their wings roared like a storm, unleashing a powerful forward blast of wind that accelerated their charge, amplifying their speed and strength.
Hooves pounded the ground in perfect rhythm—steady, heavy, silent. Even as comrades were torn apart by explosions, they adjusted instantly, closing the gaps in formation without hesitation.
Now, only a hundred meters separated them from the Iron Beasts. Thick smoke billowed toward them, stinging their eyes, blinding their vision.
“For Sacred Fedran!”
The cavalry summoned courage, shouting with every ounce of their being.
Their wings snapped open with a shattering scream, thunderous and bone-chilling. Hooves hammered the earth like war drums—urgent, relentless.
Such force. Such speed. The shockwave alone could shatter flesh and bone. No human, ogre, or giant could withstand it.
In the past, the Aethel Cavalry had swept across the continent, unstoppable and unchallenged.
But this time… their enemy was not flesh and blood.
It was steel—massive, mechanical beasts. The Empire’s most advanced war machines—Tanks.
The roar of the Iron Beasts, the scream of artillery, the thunder of engines—everything drowned out the world. Even the earth itself seemed to wail.
The cavalry felt deafened, their ears ringing. The wind itself was silenced.
Leonie gripped his Horse Sword tighter. His heart pounded. His breath grew frantic.
In a flash, he was back—thirty years ago. Young, fiery, charging into battle like a storm. That day, they had slaughtered the last of the Aethel Ogres like swine.
Would it be the same now?
We are Fadalan, he repeated in his mind. We will win. We must win.
One hundred meters.
Leonie raised his sword high, eyes blazing, unleashing a mighty, soul-shattering battle cry.
Fifty meters.
But in the thick smoke, the monstrous silhouettes—like mountains—loomed larger and larger, breaking through the haze.
And then—they were here.
The Steel Tide of the Ashen Empire collided with the Aethel Cavalry charge—like a tsunami crashing against the shore.
“Boom—”
A shockwave ripped through the air. The cavalry raised their long spears, driving them forward with all their might, hoping to deliver a decisive strike.
Even with the momentum of their charge, the spears only scratched the thick armor. The impact was like striking stone—no penetration, no damage.
The lances shattered. Splinters flew.
The Iron Beasts roared. The cavalry were dragged under the treads—man and horse crushed into bloody pulp in an instant.
Not even their wings, nor their finely crafted armor, nor their strength could withstand the crushing force of the Steel Tide.
This once-unstoppable force—now, like fragile glass, shattered at the first touch.
“No—!”
Leonie’s face twisted in agony. He watched in horror as the embodiment of his dreams—the Aethel Winged Cavalry—was crushed beneath the steel tide. His heart shattered with them. Despair flooded him.
The phantom image of the eternal Holy City—his soul’s sanctuary—wavered, teetering on the edge of collapse, as if about to be reduced to ruins by a dragon’s breath.
With a wild, frenzied cry, he roared:
“Fadalan will not fall—!”
In a final, desperate act, he charged forward like a knight charging a windmill, pouring every ounce of strength into a single, thunderous swing of his Horse Sword.
“Never!”
Swish—
A golden blade cut through the sky. A gale surged from the ground. Space itself seemed to split.
In that single, divine strike, the tank’s armor parted like paper. The body was cleaved cleanly in two, revealing the dragon-vein gnomes inside—the drivers.
“Damned Human!”
A goblin shrieked from the cockpit, cowering in the corner, one hand gripping the console, the other fumbling for a pistol. He fired wildly.
But as Leonie saw the goblin—the goblin—his fury erupted like a volcano.
The goblin—the goblin—had crushed his army. Destroyed his last hope.
The goblin!
The one the Aethel Cavalry had once treated as trash!
This was naked humiliation. A mockery of Fadalan itself.
“Die, cowardly southerner!” the goblin screamed. “Long live Emperor Kai Xiusu!”
But Leonie did not fall. Instead, he charged forward through the bullets, his sword swinging like a scythe—splitting the goblin in half.
Leonie leapt onto the wreckage of the tank, raising his sword high.
“Warriors! They are not invincible! They are just hollow shells of iron!”
He looked around.
Only smoke. Armor fragments. Mangled corpses. Blood-stained earth. Deep wheel tracks—remnants of the Steel Tide.
No one answered.
Some cavalry had escaped through cracks in the tank, but bereft of comrades, their will had broken. They fled in numb silence.
Leonie roared:
“Do you forget the glory of the past? We are Fadalan—”
“Boom!”
A massive explosion nearly tore him apart. The tank wreckage collapsed into ruin.
Leonie looked up.
A Wyvern swooped from above. Bombs screamed down, tearing the earth apart, turning the battlefield into a wasteland of craters.
“Come on! Kill me! Back then, you’d have been crushed by me!”
Far off, the steam tanks turned their turrets, forming a loose but deadly encirclement—like wolves hunting prey on the plain.
Dozens of cannon muzzles aimed at Leonie. Black holes spat fire.
“Boom! Boom! Boom!”
The barrage was relentless—explosions detonating like a storm, lifting dust and debris into the sky.
Leonie dodged through the smoke with unmatched horsemanship, but soon, his steed let out a final, weak cry—kneeling, collapsing.
The horse—once sleek and proud—was now covered in dust, scarred and broken. Shrapnel embedded in its body. Blood drained dry.
It had served Leonie for decades. And now, it was dead.
But there was no time for sorrow.
Leonie leapt from the saddle, sword in hand, charging alone toward the cluster of tanks.
Boom!
Shells rained down where he had stood. The horse’s corpse exploded into charred fragments, flying in all directions.
“Kill him!”
“He’s strong! He destroyed a tank—be careful!”
The drivers shouted through their comms. The tanks retreated slightly, then reformed—surrounding him in a wide, deadly arc.
Machine guns atop the tanks locked onto him. Muzzle flashes erupted like lightning.
Clack-clack-clack—
Bullets poured in torrents—hitting Leonie’s armor like a storm. Dents formed. Metal cracked.
But Leonie pressed on, fearless of death, charging forward in a mad, desperate fury.
“Concentrate fire!”
“He’s alone! Don’t waste shells!”
The fire intensified. The Wyverns swooped low. The ground around Leonie was stripped bare—three feet deep in craters.
Explosions and gunfire tore through his armor. His body became a shell of charred metal, riddled with shrapnel and bullets.
Yet he did not fall.
Shaking, staggering, he limped forward—evading death again and again.
Finally, he reached forty meters.
His arm trembled. He raised the sword—his last strength gone.
He could not charge. He could not fight.
But he stood.
And the bullets kept coming—piercing his broken body, one after another.
Click—
A sharp, clear sound. The cannon turret rotated slowly. The barrel—black, empty—now pointed directly at him.
Leonie looked up.
In his eyes—only despair.
At last, the Baron understood the cruel truth.
The Holy Faedran Empire he had sworn allegiance to… was already dead.
And on the ranks of the Ashen Empire’s army—Leonie saw the pride, confidence, and arrogance of the old Faldran Empire.
The old king is dead.
His lips moved. He tried to speak.
But the searing flame light had already consumed his vision.
“Boom!”
Another earth-shattering explosion. The ground trembled. Dust and smoke exploded into the sky.
The last Aethel Winged Cavalry of Fadalan—was gone.
And with him, the legacy of a proud order—vanished into the dust of history.
---
New Era 1789, 7th Month 11th
Without any warning, the Empire of Ashen declared war on the Northern Aethel Territory.
Their declaration claimed the Northern Aether had committed the crime of “Insulting the Emperor of the Ashen Flame.”
With four Armorist divisions, three Light Armored Divisions, and two Air Divisions, the Ashen Empire launched a devastating offensive across the vast, flat Western Aether Plain.
They tore through the 80,000-strong defensive line of the Ducal Territory like a storm through paper.
The defenders had no time to prepare. They hadn’t even received the declaration.
They were crushed—unprepared, unready—by the sudden onslaught of the Steel Tide.
Armored units, air forces, and arcane troops executed a lightning-fast deep penetration, quickly dismantling and encircling the outdated Faldran Empire army.
And over a million players—like locusts—rushed forth, hunting down every enemy within sight. Their trails stretched across the entire plain.
The news sent shockwaves through the remnants of Duke Walter’s forces. They trembled in fear, retreating into fortified cities, waiting for help.
In the cities, countless people looked up at the sun, whispering prayers to Amanata.
Their last hope—the legendary “Wings of Fadalan” of the past—was now only a name.
---
“Kai Xiusu's Secret Treasure” event continues.
Draw results tomorrow at noon. Stay tuned.
(End of Chapter)
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