Chapter 650: Artillery Fire
On the battlefield, the sky above Aivendeldan was stained in mottled, chaotic hues, as two armies faced off across the plain. The air hung heavy with tension. The Dwarves stood motionless, on high alert—but the Empire showed no haste. Instead, with calm composure, it meticulously arranged its forces across the open field, forming precise, disciplined formations.
“Boom—”
A deep, resonant boom echoed across the plain as steam-powered carts, laden with heavy cannons, rolled forward. Ogre tribesmen, scattered in small groups, dragged the massive artillery pieces behind them. Imperial troops flowed like a mottled current, moving swiftly and efficiently into position—orderly, disciplined, and utterly unlike the chaotic hordes the Dwarves had expected.
Even the wyverns in the sky moved in tight, synchronized formations, circling high above with practiced precision before descending in perfect succession to land near supply armored vehicles.
“What are they doing?” The King of the Dwarves frowned, staring at the scene.
In his mind, the Ashen Empire’s army should have been a brutal tide of gnashing fangs, armored scales, and sheer numbers—composed of savage, blood-maddened dragon-born monsters. But this was not madness. This was strategy. This was discipline. The Ember Army was not only organized—it was more disciplined than even the famed High Mountain Kingdom’s forces, its tactics sharper, its coordination flawless.
Biyao stepped beside the King, letting out a soft sigh. “Your Majesty, haven’t you realized? The world has changed. A new era of war has dawned. The Lute Players’ Alliance has sent us countless reports. While we Dwarves were deep in the mountains, mining and forging, the Empire’s fire weapons have already spread across the world.”
“Is that so…” Aid lowered his head, offering a wry, reluctant smile.
The situation was far worse than he’d feared. His decision to lead his people in migration under Zhen’s guidance had been the right one—this realization settled heavily in his heart.
The Dwarves murmured among themselves, bewildered but not afraid. In their rugged, bold tradition, victory came through brute strength, superior weapons, and fearless courage. Tactics? What were those? Just fancy words for the weak.
“What in the name of Moradin are these damned invaders doing?”
“Doesn’t matter. No matter what conspiracy the Dragon’s Favored have cooked up, we’ll smash their skulls with iron hammers!”
“Ogre’s mongrels!”
“Damn filth! I’ll avenge my fallen comrades!”
They railed from the city walls, spewing curses and venomous words, but their rage was hollow—words failed them, choked by disbelief.
They had no idea: the Empire’s artillery units and air assault force had already completed their deployment. The merciless punishment was imminent.
On the hillside, Great Goblin General Drool raised his sword high, the blade glinting under the sunlight like a shard of ice. His face was fierce, his posture full of confidence.
“All units—open fire!” he bellowed.
The sword slashed down with violent force. The order echoed through communication devices, rippling across the entire Ember Army—reaching every officer, every soldier.
“Fire suppression!”
Three hundred and twenty-seven heavy cannons and eighty-six tanks fired in unison. The steel war machines roared to life, their massive barrels belching torrents of fire. A deafening explosion shook the earth.
“Boom—”
The cannons roared. Dust surged into the sky, the heavens trembled, the ground boomed beneath their feet. Across the heavens, streaks of ashen brown tore through the air—like claw marks on a bleeding sky.
Shells, trailing flame, arced through the air in graceful arcs, hurtling thousands of meters toward the mighty Dwarf fortress.
“Gods above… what is that?”
“What in the name of Moradin—how is that even possible? That’s over a kilometer away!”
The Dwarves’ panic grew. Even Aid, hardened by decades of war, felt his breath catch. He whispered, “By Father God Moradin…”
Only now did he understand what Biyao meant by the “new era of war.”
He snapped back to reality. “No—quick! Activate the Protection Ward!” he shouted, turning to his people.
But it was too late. The enemy was still kilometers away. The High Mountain Kingdom’s priests and mages were unprepared, still waiting for the enemy’s advance. No one had expected aerial shells to fall from the sky.
The shells were already overhead. They plummeted toward the city wall—irreversible.
“Boom!”
The explosions ripped through the city wall. Dozens of shells detonated at once, unleashing fire and smoke in a terrifying storm. The entire fortress trembled. Debris rained down. Sections of the wall collapsed instantly. Dwarves were engulfed in flames, others torn apart and hurled into the air.
In a single barrage, the once-magnificent Aivendeldan wall was riddled with wounds. Hundreds of Dwarves perished in the sea of fire.
Remember—after Zhen led the migration and the Path of Forging fell, Aivendeldan held only nine thousand seven hundred warrior Dwarves. Losing a hundred was already a devastating blow. And this was just the beginning—no contact with the Imperial army, no melee, no battle. Just a one-sided bombardment.
“Boom! Boom! Boom!”
More shells exploded in rapid succession. Flames and smoke consumed the walls. Shrapnel tore through the air like blades, slicing off arms, heads, bodies. One shell detonated in a crowded square, annihilating unprepared warriors in an instant. When the smoke cleared, only a dozen charred, lifeless husks remained.
Aid watched, his heart pounding. His people—being slaughtered. Not in glorious battle, not in honorable combat, but murdered by magical weapons that could explode at a distance.
“Damn it! We can’t wait any longer!” he snarled, teeth clenched. He pressed his hand to the ground, summoning the last of his life force. The ochre-yellow aura flared around him as he forced the Protection Ward into activation.
“Woo—”
Shelter of the Mountains!
The ancient Dwarven runes along the city wall flared to life. The earth groaned. A mountain’s strength surged upward, wrapping the fortress in a thick, protective shield—blocking the incoming shells.
At the same moment, Aid raised his war hammer high. He roared to the heavens, a deep, thunderous bellow.
Instantly, ochre-yellow light burst from the hammer. Cracked stone erupted into the air, intercepting dozens of shells mid-flight—causing them to explode in the sky, harmlessly.
But the King was not alone. Dwarven warriors, the strongest among them, unleashed their own power—firing arrows, hurling boulders, doing everything they could to disrupt the barrage.
One reckless warrior leapt high into the air, charging headlong at a falling shell, slashing with a mighty cleave. He was left blackened, bleeding, covered in shrapnel—but alive.
Yet the Empire’s assault was far from over. The artillery barrage had only been an appetizer. The real storm was coming—air assault.
“Woo—”
A spine-chilling, ear-splitting roar tore through the sky. Dozens of wyverns, lined up in perfect formation, sliced through the heavens like arrows, diving at terrifying speed.
Their wing membranes, edged with razor-sharp metal, cut through the air with a shriek that made even seasoned warriors shudder. The sound wasn’t just physical—it was psychological, a weapon in itself. To this day, many Aethel people still trembled at the sound, haunted by the memory of past bombings.
Aid’s eyes narrowed. “Beware the two-headed dragons!”
“Shiiii—”
The wyverns swept low over Aivendeldan. Bombs rained down like hail, exploding across the city wall.
“Boom! Boom! Boom!”
The explosions flared again. Fire swallowed Dwarves whole. Wails echoed across the battlements.
“Molradin above!”
“My arm! It’s gone!”
The mountain protection could block shell impacts on the wall—but it was useless against bombs falling from the sky.
By the time the Dwarves looked up, the wyverns had already climbed back into the clouds, vanishing into the distance.
Watching helplessly as his people were torn apart, Aid’s fury burned like wildfire.
“Boom!”
A bomb exploded beside him. The shockwave hit him—but his protective aura held. He was unharmed, though his face was blackened by smoke and ash. He shook his head, whispering, “No… this is not how my people should die. Not like this. Not meaningless…”
His eyes burned crimson. He stared at the returning dragon horde.
“I will make you pay. Blood for blood.”
Near the wall, Dwarf crossbowmen struggled to move their massive, three-meter-long steel crossbows, their movements frantic.
Aid stepped forward, his face grim. He pushed back the rage in his chest, his voice low and commanding. “Step aside. Let me handle this.”
“Yes, Your Majesty!” The crossbowmen scrambled out of the way.
Aid approached the weapon with practiced ease. He nocked the bolt, steadied the bow, and with one hand braced against the frame, he began turning the massive crank. The tension built—gathering power like a coiled spring.
Then—the wyverns entered range.
“Die!”
He pulled the trigger.
The bolt screamed through the air, splitting the sky. It pierced two wyverns mid-flight. The beasts shrieked, tumbling from the sky. Their riders were thrown, instantly killed.
But the horde remained unbroken. A two-headed dragon from behind took its place, continuing the assault toward Aivendeldan.
The iron wings cut through the sky. The death cry echoed once more.
“Still coming?” Aid growled, eyes blazing. His muscles tensed, veins bulging. “You damned crawlers.”
The King roared—his body glowing with ochre-yellow light.
“Dragon’s Favored… witness what it means to be the Son of the Mountains!”
“Boom!”
The ground cracked beneath him. Dust flew. The city wall trembled. For a moment, his footprints were clearly visible in the stone.
Then—he leapt.
With the power of the mountains behind him, the legendary Dwarf warrior soared hundreds of meters into the sky, breaking through the clouds.
He hovered above the wyverns.
Facing the lead two-headed dragon, Aid raised his war hammer high.
“We Dwarves are the strength of the mountains!”
The hammer’s head blazed with golden light, carrying the force of a collapsing mountain. He plummeted toward the dragon horde—his silhouette framed by a colossal phantom image of Blackstone Mountain, as if he were bearing the entire peak upon his back.
“Die!”
Boom!
The hammer struck the lead wyvern square in the chest. A shockwave exploded outward, tearing through the sky, generating a storm of fire and debris.
The wyvern shattered mid-air, exploding into a storm of crimson blossoms—bloody petals raining down, no single intact piece left.
But this was only the beginning.
A golden hurricane tore through the sky, hurling sand and stone into the remaining wyverns. They screamed, flailing their wings, trying to escape—but they were too late.
Some two-headed dragons triggered their own bombs mid-air, consuming their own riders.
In a single, devastating strike, the entire squadron of twelve wyverns was annihilated—no survivors.
Blood and meat fragments rained across the battlefield. Aid crashed back to the ground, carving a deep pit into the earth. Dust flew. The ground trembled. But the King emerged unharmed—clutching his war hammer, eyes locked on the distant Ember Army.
“Pffft!”
A gunshot cracked the sky. A bullet, fired from over a kilometer away, streaked toward the King’s head.
Then another. And another.
Multiple bullets came from different angles—aimed at his eyes, neck, heart.
Snipers.
The Empire had perfected this art through years of war. They stationed dozens of elite rifles, specifically trained to eliminate enemy strongholds.
In the Northern Aether War, countless Supernatural-level Aethel warriors had died silently—cut down by a single bullet from a sniper’s rifle.
But Aid’s instincts were honed by centuries of survival. His wisdom, far beyond mortal comprehension, had already warned him.
He swung his hammer sideways—a flash of motion.
Debris, lifted by force, surged into the air, colliding with the bullets mid-flight, altering their trajectories. The bullets missed.
Aid picked up a still-hot casing from the ground. He stared at the intricate runes etched into it.
“Anti-magic rune. Piercing rune.”
“Pffft!”
More bullets. More shells falling from the sky.
But Aid stood calmly, raising his war hammer with one hand.
“Is it really that easy?” he muttered.
Behind the front lines, Great Goblin General Drool watched through his telescope, his expression grim.
He watched the King effortlessly deflect the enchanted bullets.
“Hmph. Not bad,” Drool murmured. “No wonder the Mountain Lord is feared.”
He turned to his aide. “Tell Colonel Mil—no more air strikes. We don’t need to waste our dragon horde on this war. The prelude is complete. Full-scale assault—now!”
Drool grinned, his eyes alight with ambition. He could already see himself ascending to Duke.
“Yes, General.”
At his command, the massive iron beasts began to move. The battlefield trembled under their thunderous footsteps. The ground shook.
The true siege had begun.
(End of Chapter)
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