https://novelcool.info/chapter/Chapter-697-Easily-Armor-Classifiable-Victory/13677575/
Chapter 698: Isengard Blitzkrieg Operation
The vast expanse stretching south of the Elbert Mountains and north of the Radiant Mountain Range was, in Tradition’s terms, the Agostino Region—the ancestral heartland of the Ancient Agostino Kingdom. This land was fertile and rich, its air thick with elemental energy. Decades ago, Aragorn I had led his invincible Divine Descendant Army to annihilate the Agostino Kingdom, annexing it into the Sacred Fedran Empire and renaming it Thrace.
At the mountain pass of the Elbert Mountains stood a fortress of immense strategic importance—Isengard, meaning "Unpassable Steel Fortress City." Twin crescent-shaped castles spanned the chasm, their walls shimmering with golden light at sunrise, forged by a magical barrier. Three miles of cast-iron wall stretched across the mountain pass, gleaming coldly in the morning mist. The city stood like a colossal wall, severing Northern Aether from Thrace.
Inside, tens of thousands of the finest soldiers from Northern Thrace were garrisoned, alongside several noble Angel Divine Offspring serving as military commanders. Their combined might was more than enough to crush any small nation. The city walls bore relics of the Sacred Fedran: the Sun God's Great Crossbow, the Radiant Disc, and the Sacred Spear Defense System.
It was said that beneath the unbreakable walls, dozens of steel constructs and war colossi from the Faldran Empire slumbered in eternal sleep. Should the city be attacked, these titans would awaken from their long slumber, and utterly destroy any enemy that dared approach.
Yet now, with the Empire's expansion into the North growing ever more brazen, the citizens of Isengard grew increasingly tense.
In official Thrace Kingdom propaganda, the Red Dragon—though merciless and devastating, having razed countless lands and enslaved the northern populace—was said to be held at bay by the wisdom and might of His Majesty Wilhelm. It dared not advance southward, and even signed a decades-long peace treaty with Thrace. According to the narrative, Isengard’s people had nothing to fear.
But people weren’t fools. The observant had long sensed the gathering storm. They had seen the elite forces of Thrace gradually concentrating at Isengard—clear omens of war.
A cold wind howled across the cast-iron wall.
A messenger warrior climbed the city tower, his steps heavy. “Lord Baron,” he announced, voice cracking, “urgent news from August—The Empire of Ashen has declared war on us! The Dragon’s followers could arrive at any moment.”
“I know,” the Lord Baron replied, eyes sharp. “Order every unit to assemble. Prepare for war. No slackness allowed.”
At the peak of the towering fortress, a warrior clad in thick, ornate armor, with wings splayed behind him, stared northward—his expression grim, unyielding. He was Hain Diaz, Divine Noble of Thrace, and commander of Isengard’s defenses.
Having long garrisoned the fortress and studied the North’s shifting tides, Hain had expected the Empire of Ashen’s southern advance—perhaps—but not now. Not so soon. He had anticipated it would be at least a year… maybe three or four.
His golden eyes flared with suppressed fury. “How dare these evil Dragon’s minions grow so bold? After years of endless war, they strike without warning, declaring war on Thrace Kingdom?”
Wings beat the air. Another Divine-Blooded noble soared into the sky from the turret—Eliot Evans, Viscount.
“Insolence! Do they truly believe Thrace is some weak kingdom to be crushed like a dry leaf?”
“You came,” Hain said, nodding. Then he spat. “Sacred Fedran may be gone, but its shadow still looms. This young, barbaric kingdom has never known the greatness of Fadalan. They should tremble in awe.”
Eliot echoed, “If not for the southern front’s relentless battles, the Empire of Ashen would have been wiped out long ago! Their greed is unmatched—they sell us their most advanced weapons for gold coins, yet lack any force capable of challenging Divine Offspring. How could they possibly breach our fortress?”
Hain gave a slight nod, but warned, “Still… we must not be complacent. If that Red Dragon intervenes personally, even our strength may not hold.”
A shiver ran through Eliot as he recalled the beast’s terror—but he forced himself to stand firm. “From all I’ve heard, that Dragon is arrogant. He rarely deigns to involve himself in battles.”
“I hope so,” Hain murmured, his gaze fixed on the distant North, as still and cold as a marble statue.
They both knew—this was mere bravado. Even they had no certainty of victory against the Empire of Ashen’s might.
But in Thrace Kingdom, any hint of fear in speech could be reported to His Majesty Wilhelm, a king prone to suspicion and rage. To him, such words were proof of cowardice… proof of surrenderists.
Clang—
The great bell of Isengard rang out, its deep chime echoing through the city, mingling with the solemn hymn of the sun. Thousands stirred from sleep, hearts pounding.
Under officers’ commands, soldiers marched in full formation, gathering beneath the towering cast-iron wall, forming a restless, mottled tide.
“Empire of Ashen declared war?”
“By Amanata!”
“Didn’t they just finish the High Mountain Kingdom? How can these beasts fight without fatigue?”
“Madmen!”
Whispers spread—fear, anxiety, dread. These men had had enough. They’d heard too many tales of once-great nations destroyed by the Empire of Ashen. In children’s stories across Northern Thrace, every soldier of the Empire was said to breathe fire.
Yet under the stern gaze of their commanders, no one dared speak of retreat or surrender.
Atop the city tower, Hain raised the radiant Sacred Sun Spear, its light blazing across the city.
“Loyal warriors! You have all heard the news—the Empire of Ashen has declared war upon us! They have shamelessly torn up the peace treaty, seeking to conquer our land, plunder our wealth, and turn our families and friends into slaves of the evil Dragon!”
His voice was passionate, but the soldiers did not stir with excitement. Their eyes were hollow, numb.
Many of them had been pulled from the Southern frontlines, having endured the brutal Tri-Emperor Confrontation, having witnessed comrades die before the gates of the Holy City. Such words meant nothing to them anymore.
Their minds often wandered: We are all of Fadalan blood. Why fight over a single city?
“All troops—listen!” Hain roared, his voice thunderous in the silence. “Today, there is no retreat. If this city falls, our homeland burns with it. No step backward—ever! Fight for Thrace! Fight for His Majesty Wilhelm! Fight for the glory of Fadalan!”
“Move!
Form up—hurry!
Bring the shells to the northern turret—two more boxes needed!”
Under officers’ orders, soldiers rushed to their posts, loading cannons, reloading firearms, hauling crates of ammunition.
Yet there was bitter irony: many of these weapons had been bought from the Empire of Ashen. Their bases bore the stamp: Imperial Manufacture. Now, they were turned against their former sellers.
“Where’s the Sun God’s Holy Arrow?”
“Where are the Arcane Army? Charge the Radiant Disc!”
“It’s too late! Wake the Steel Constructs!”
Then—thick smoke erupted from the valley below.
Dark, iron-gray clouds rolled over Isengard, like a vast black curtain descending upon the city.
Atop the tower, Hain’s expression hardened. “This valley shouldn’t have fog at this hour.”
He issued a sharp command. “Arcane Legion—dispel the smoke! Reveal what lies within!”
“Yes, Lord Baron!”
Five mages in crimson-gold robes rose into the air. Chanting, they raised their staves. Their eyes blazed with light, summoning gales that howled across the earth.
Whoosh—
The wind tore through the smoke.
But the mages’ faces paled. One screamed, “Danger! Incoming shells!”
“Enemy ambush!”
The smoke parted.
Above, the sky was now a net of interwoven artillery shells—dense, deadly, like a trap woven from death.
Hain roared, “Activate the Radiant Disc!”
Priests and mages began their incantations, trying to activate Isengard’s spell defense—but the shells were too fast. In an instant, they ripped through the air.
Boom!
Boom! Boom!
Hundreds of fireballs erupted across the cast-iron wall. Flames roared, blinding light tore through the sky.
The shells struck with terrifying precision—destroying cannons, shattering the Sun God’s trebuchets, and blowing apart thousands of soldiers in an instant.
“Ow! My leg! My leg!”
“Where are they? I can’t see a thing!”
Wounded soldiers writhed in the ruins, screaming in agony. Unprepared, unseen—massacred in panic and disbelief.
This was no random assault. It was a meticulously planned strike. The Empire’s intelligence agents had mapped Isengard’s defenses, striking with surgical precision.
Hain stood frozen, staring at the ravaged wall, disbelief in his voice. “How… how could they bombard us from thousands of meters away?”
Then his face twisted in rage. He trembled from head to toe. “Damn it! Those traitorous Empire scum! They sold us defective weapons!”
Whirr—
Multiple Radiant Discs spun into motion. A massive golden shield, etched with Amanata’s sigil, enveloped Isengard.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Hundreds more shells came—only to explode mid-air, their force deflected by the shield. The light flickered, strained, but held.
From afar, a deep, rumbling roar echoed—like thunder rolling across the earth. The hoofbeats of iron-clad war beasts, the crunch of war chariots crushing stone. An omen of doom.
Dust clouds and steam billowed across the land. The city wall trembled.
From the valley, a horde of iron beasts charged forward—the Empire’s armored army.
Thick beams of intense flame lanced from their cannons, striking the shield again and again. Each impact dimmed the light, pushing the barrier to its breaking point.
“Lord Baron! We feel a massive spatial disturbance!”
“It’s teleportation magic!”
“By Amanata… what—what is that?”
Mages stared in horror. Soldiers looked up, trembling.
The sky split open—ripped apart by enormous wounds.
From within, vast airships emerged—dozens, hundreds—swarming like a school of leviathans, blotting out the sun.
Wyverns flapped their wings erratically around the clusters, their hoarse cries filling the air.
Then—thousands of bombs poured from their bellies, raining down like a storm of fire.
Unending explosions. Sky ablaze. Light like divine punishment. The apocalypse had arrived.
Even the Radiant Disc—Sacred Fedran’s last bastion—could not withstand the barrage. Its glow dimmed, flickered… then shattered with a crack.
“Sacred Rifle! Destroy those leviathans!” Hain screamed, pointing his spear to the heavens.
At once, runes within the city flared. A surge of arcane energy surged from the ground. Golden light tore through the sky, piercing the clouds at ten kilometers altitude.
The Sacred Spear Defense System—a weapon of the old empire, drawing power from the sun—pierced the airships like spears through flesh.
One by one, the airships exploded midair, bursting into massive fireballs that crashed down upon the city, creating colossal detonations.
“Rend them! For Thrace! For Sacred Fedran!”
Hain beat his wings, leading a squadron of Angel Divine Offspring into the sky, charging toward the airships.
Roar!
A deafening cry split the heavens.
From a rift in the sky, a monstrous wyvern emerged—its wings vast, its body immense. From its maw, a torrent of searing dragon flame poured forth—Smaug, King of the Lonely Mountain.
One of the Angels, unprepared, was engulfed in the blast. In an instant, he turned into a fireball, plummeting to the earth.
The sky darkened with hundreds of wyverns—rising like a storm cloud, descending upon the Angelic forces.
They clashed, tangled, fought—bodies and limbs torn apart.
Golden blood of the Angels rained down.
Feathers blackened by flame.
The corpse of a two-headed dragon, fragmented and broken.
All falling—into the ruins of Isengard.
(End of Chapter)
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