Chapter 649: Steel Flesh and Fire
The dragon-vein gnomes were in a frenzy, their fingers jamming the accelerator to the floor, screaming as the Iron Beast roared to life.
“To the Emperor of the Ashen Flame!”
“Crush them—”
The earth trembled. Dust clouds erupted. The Iron Beast bellowed in fury, spewing thick plumes of steam, then charged forward with terrifying acceleration toward the Dwarf Heavy Infantry.
The three-meter-tall Steam Tank loomed larger and larger in the Dwarves’ vision—like a mountain barreling down upon them, radiating an overwhelming majesty.
“This—”
“By Molradin’s name!”
Even the most iron-willed Dwarf Heavy Infantry could not help but gape in shock, their voices trembling slightly.
Against such a monstrosity, no matter how thick their Heavy Armor, the Dwarves felt no true sense of safety. They were still flesh and blood.
“Do not retreat! Do not fear! We stand firm—no step back! We die defending the Path of Forging!”
“To Aivendeldan!”
At the front of the formation, the Dwarf commander stood tall, gripping his massive Heavy Hammer with both hands, bellowing like a storm.
Though the enemy came like a tidal wave, not a single Dwarf faltered. They stood shoulder to shoulder, forming a tight defensive line across the valley’s mouth. Behind their heavy visors, their eyes burned with unyielding resolve.
This was the High Mountain Kingdom’s Dwarf Heavy Infantry—fearless, unbreakable, known across the realm as the “Wall of Blackstone Mountain.”
In past wars, a mere hundred of them had held off the Ogres’ relentless charges for hours, inflicting near ten thousand casualties. Their battle merits were legendary.
But now, they faced the Steel Tide of the Ashen Empire.
The ground shook harder. The Iron Beasts broke through the dust clouds, closing in on the Dwarf line.
Five hundred meters. Two hundred. One hundred. Fifty.
The Dwarf commander raised his Great Shield with his left hand, bracing forward, then swung his right War Hammer in a thunderous arc, roaring:
“To Aivendeldan! Hold them!”
Instantly, every Dwarf Heavy Infantry raised their Great Shields, forming an impenetrable steel wall. They roared in unison:
“To Aivendeldan!”
Their battle cry echoed through the valley—powerful, majestic, soul-stirring.
But the next moment, it was drowned out by the deafening, booming roar of the engines. The Dwarves felt a wave of deafness wash over them.
Boom… Boom… Boom—
The Iron Beast charged forward, crushing mountains, sending dust and stone flying.
“Come on, show me where you got the nerve to stand in my way!” Bill screamed with wild fury.
Under the control of the dragon-vein gnomes, the Mountain-sized Steam Tank charged headlong into the Dwarf formation without hesitation, slamming into the line with crushing force.
The armored ram at the tank’s front tore through the Dwarves’ Heavy Shields like paper, ripping a massive gap in their defensive wall.
Boom!
The impact sent the front-line Dwarves flying backward. Shattered shields, broken armor, and severed limbs scattered through the air.
“No!” The Dwarf commander swung his hammer wildly, trying to strike the tank’s thick armor, but the force of the impact hurled him like a ragdoll—crashing into the rock wall behind him and embedding himself in the stone.
The Great Shield defense that had cost the Ogres thousands of lives to break—this Imperial unit shattered it in a single instant. The tank was like a sledgehammer smashing glass, piercing through the first line of defense with terrifying ease.
The second and third ranks of Dwarves couldn’t withstand the onslaught. The sheer force of the Iron Beast pressed down like a storm, crushing everything in its path.
The Steam Tank—weighing over a hundred tons—kept advancing. The fine Great Shields and Heavy Armor groaned under the relentless tread, creaking like old wood before finally collapsing inward, flattened into twisted, bloody iron pancakes mixed with flesh.
The dragon-vein gnomes howled with glee:
“Hahaha! Is that all you’ve got?!”
Outside the cockpit, the gnome was small, frail—any Dwarf could crush him into a meat paste with a single blow.
But inside the tank, he was a tyrant. A god of destruction. A killing machine capable of unleashing cataclysm.
Bill reveled in the power, drunk on the sensation. He believed the blood of the enemy would awaken the Iron Beast’s Machine Soul—after all, he was a devoted follower of the Mechanical Divinity.
More enemies must die. Only then would the tank unleash greater strength.
With arms raised high, Bill screamed:
“Burn them alive!”
“Burn them alive!”
Inside the cockpit, the goblin crew shouted in unison:
“Roar for the Empire!”
On both sides of the tank, metal barrels burst open—frenzied Fire Dragons erupted, engulfing the surrounding Dwarves in flames. The thick, sticky gasoline mixture coated their armor, turning them into human torches.
The Dwarf commander crawled from the crater in the rock wall—only to find the world around him a blazing inferno. Smoke choked the air.
“No!”
“Damned fire… it won’t go out!”
The Dwarves writhed on the ground, rolling desperately to extinguish the flames. But their Heavy Armor—drenched in gasoline—became a steaming cauldron, glowing red-hot, melting into their flesh.
What had once been an unbreakable defense now became their prison—a scorching tomb that burned them alive.
“Too hot! Too hot!”
“You think you’ve won? Don’t celebrate too soon, damned Dragon’s Favored! The Dwarves will break you!”
“You filth, born of Ogres!”
“Aivendeldan Lives Forever! High Mountain Kingdom Lives Forever! Shield Dwarves Lives Forever!”
From the fire-wrapped figures, desperate roars rang out—screams of defiance, fury, and unwavering pride. Even as their life force faded, they refused to surrender, cursing their brutal invaders, wishing they could devour their meat raw.
Hearing the cries of his comrades, the Dwarf commander dragged himself from the rubble, picked up his War Hammer, and staggered forward.
Seeing the Iron Beast still crushing his fallen brothers, his veins bulged, his eyes flared with rage. Ignoring the searing flames lashing at his face, he charged straight into the fire.
Through gritted teeth, he growled:
“Let you see the strength of Mountain-born!”
He raised both hands high, pouring every ounce of his strength into the swing. The War Hammer came down like a falling mountain, striking the tank’s armor with a thunderous clang!
Clang—
The sound split the sky.
Under the full force of a Supernatural-level Dwarf warrior, the armor buckled inward, cracking with a violent shudder. The entire tank lurched, nearly tipping over—like an ant trying to move a hill, utterly absurd.
But the Empire’s military engineers had learned from past wars with Demons. They had designed a targeted transformation—specifically to counter Supernatural beings’ frontal assaults.
Crack— Boom!
As the hammer struck, the Steam Tank’s Emergency Defense Mechanism activated. Lightning crackled around the hull, and a Force Field erupted instantly, hurling the Dwarf commander into the air like a ragdoll.
Bill pointed at the flying Dwarf, face twisted with fury:
“Damned Dwarf! Dared to hurt my baby? Tear him into a sieve!”
“Yes, boss!” The goblin machine gunners leaned out, manning their twin machine guns, unleashing a torrent of fire.
Tatata-tatata—
The Dwarf, paralyzed and airborne, could not dodge. The bullets raked into his body.
His armor glowed with a protective spell, but the impact left behind a web of shell craters.
This was no ordinary bullet—the Emperor’s Wrath tank was equipped with anti-magic rounds, each shell etched with intricate runes.
With a loud crack, the armor exploded apart, metal shards flying.
“No—!”
The Dwarf roared, his powerful frame torn open. Blood blossoms burst across his body. Even a Supernatural warrior, no matter how tough, was still flesh and blood. He could not survive continuous machine-gun fire.
Pain wracked his body as he fell, rolling across the ground, his body riddled with holes, blood pooling beneath him.
The commander was near death. The hot bullets had torn open his internal organs, shredding his insides to pulp.
With his last breath, he turned his head toward the distant, majestic fortress clinging to the mountainside. His voice was a hoarse whisper:
“Aivendeldan… never falls.”
Then—Boom!—the Iron Beast crushed over him. Blood blossoms sprayed into the air, painting the treads crimson.
At the valley’s mouth, smoke choked the air. Flames danced and snapped. The ground was piled high with the corpses of Dwarf Heavy Infantry.
“To the Empire!” The goblins cheered, their voices wild with frenzy.
One after another, Steam Tanks rolled through, crushing the fallen, tearing through the smoke, advancing toward Aivendeldan.
Wyverns descended into the valley, screeching as they scoured the ruins, their winged forelimbs clawing at rocks, heads raised in triumphant roars.
Elite Half-Red Dragon Infantry poured into the valley, sweeping the battlefield with precision.
The “Path of Forging”—once considered an unbreakable fortress by the Dwarves—was breached in under an hour. Not a single meaningful resistance remained.
The fallen Dwarves—some burned in the Sea of Flames, some suffocated, others cut down by random rifle fire—had each paid with their lives to understand the true meaning of the “Steel Tide” and the “Thunderous Offensive.”
On Aivendeldan’s towering city walls, Dwarf warriors stood ready—armored, hammers and Great Axes in hand, eyes sharp, hearts on edge.
After Zhen led the elderly, the weak, the sick, and the disabled out of the city, fewer than ten thousand Dwarves remained—almost all adult males. They had sworn to guard Aivendeldan, to share the city’s fate, to die with it if need be.
Far off, the valley belched smoke. Battle cries, screams, and a strange, deep growl—like a giant beast—rang through the air.
The Dwarves tensed. Their hearts pounded. They knew what it meant: the comrades within the Path of Forging had suffered catastrophic losses.
How could this be?
Less than an hour had passed. According to their experience against the Ogres, the Imperial Army should still be trapped by endless traps at the entrance.
Had someone surrendered?
Impossible. They were Shield Dwarves—offspring of Earth and Mountain. They had come here with the will to die. Cowards would have fled long ago.
Suddenly, a deep rumble echoed through the valley. The Dwarves craned their necks. From the black mist, massive shadows emerged.
A chill gripped their hearts.
“Look! What’s that?”
“Wait… it’s the Army of the Ashen Empire! They’re really the Dragon’s Favored!”
“What?!”
“By Molradin’s name… how could they move so fast?!”
Then—Boom!—a horde of terrifying, blood-soaked Iron Beasts burst through the smoke, roaring into view.
Above, a colossal, fearsome shape descended from the sky—a bipedal dragon, armored in crimson scales so thick they looked like real dragonhide.
This was the Head of the Bipedal Dragon Clan—the Empire’s Dragon Blood Duke: Smaug.
Perched atop the valley’s peak, Smaug stood upright, wings spread wide, head raised, neck stretched—then unleashed a thunderous, soul-chilling roar.
Roar—
At the sound, hundreds of Wyverns answered, their cries forming a deafening chorus. They flapped their wings wildly, taking flight in a dark, swirling cloud, casting jagged shadows across the smooth earth.
As the Steam Tanks rolled out of the valley, the Empire’s elite infantry emerged in perfect formation, marching swiftly across the plain.
Each Imperial soldier bore the latest firearms, wore dazzling military uniforms, and marched under the banner of the Ashen Empire.
Behind them, the Engineering Corps, Artillery Corps, and Player Special Units marched in unison, crossing the Path of Forging and pouring onto the plain before Aivendeldan.
The plain—already narrow—now teemed with nearly fifty thousand Imperial troops, packed so tightly it seemed to vanish beneath them.
And beyond the valley, half the army waited in reserve, ready to pour in at a moment’s notice.
The Dwarves stared in awe, swallowing hard. Unlike the twenty thousand Ogres they’d faced, this was no mercenary force. This was the true Elite of the Empire.
Even just the Iron Beasts alone—these massive, living war machines—were enough to leave the Dwarves speechless. Such iron giants… how many fine weapons could be forged from them?
On the city tower, Aid stood at the highest point, gazing across the plain. His voice was quiet, almost sorrowful:
“No wonder they conquered Aether in a single month, and shattered my Path of Forging without effort. This… is the true might of the Ashen Empire. No exaggeration.”
A deep melancholy filled his heart. Such an army—this force of less than ten thousand Dwarves could not hope to defeat it.
But even so… he would ensure the Dwarves left behind one final glory. The world would remember their courage.
“Come then,” the King of the Dwarves whispered, gripping his War Hammer. His eyes were like steel.
And across the plain, in the Imperial formation, the Great Goblin General Drool lifted his head, locking eyes with the Mountain Lord.
His gaze flickered with cunning. Then, a wicked smile spread across his face.
“He’s the famed Mountain Lord? Hah! Perfect. My ascension depends on him.”
(End of Chapter)
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