https://novelcool.info/chapter/Chapter-346-Orders-and-Armor-Classhievement/13676682/
Translated Chapter
347. Entering Stravburg
The bustling city of Stravburg, once alive with the hum of daily life, now lay in eerie silence. Its people had sealed their homes tight, huddled indoors, waiting in dread for news from the outside world.
Due to the Allied Forces’ earlier “Great Conscription,” the streets were littered with scattered belongings, shattered household goods, and patches of dried blood staining the ground.
“Curfew throughout the city—”
“No one may leave without official orders!”
The City Defense Force patrolled the streets in relentless waves, eyes sharp for any sign of invasion.
“Anyone harboring hidden supplies or outsiders—hanged!”
They occasionally knocked on doors, ostensibly to root out spies—though the real purpose was often just as convenient: extorting “contributions” for the city’s defense.
On the towering, weather-worn City Wall, Count Galod Pont—the de facto commander of the city’s defenders—stood atop the City Tower, gazing into the distant horizon with a heavy heart.
“This war will decide everything.”
“The Allied Forces will prevail, just as they always have after every disaster in Northern history.”
He repeated these words like a mantra.
Every moment of waiting was agony. Galod desperately hoped to see the arrival of messengers, the proud Lion Banner of the Bosk Family fluttering in the wind.
But he knew this war was unlike any before. Its scale, ferocity, and duration were unprecedented—there would be no swift conclusion in mere days.
The remaining eleven kingdoms of the Northern Regions had, for the first time in history, united their full strength, forging an Allied Force numbering over a hundred thousand, determined to stand against an enemy that had seemingly appeared from nowhere—a power so overwhelming it defied belief: the Kingdom of Ashen.
Even in the face of past calamities—such as the Frost Disaster or the Dragon Cataclysm—the Northern Kingdoms had never rallied with such unity.
For nobles across the lands understood: Frost Giants and White Dragons brought raids and death, yes—but they could also weaken rival nations, granting their own realms strategic advantage.
But the Kingdom of Ashen offered no such mercy. It would hang every noble without distinction, destroy everything they held dear, and leave no trace of their existence.
“No one can defeat a united Scandian.”
“Not even a Dragon.”
The Baron murmured these words, his voice hollow.
Then—footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, not urgent.
Instantly, on the towering wall, every officer, soldier, even civilian craftsmen, turned their eyes toward the horizon. Hearts pounded.
How?
Only thirteen days have passed… could the war really be over?
Galod’s face hardened. He stared intently at the distant skyline, his fingers gripping his sword so tightly that sweat beaded on his palm.
A dread crept into his chest, a suspicion he refused to acknowledge.
He paused, then turned to his adjutant.
“Send a scouting party to investigate. Remember—”
But he stopped mid-sentence.
There, on the horizon, a faint silhouette emerged.
The uniforms were unmistakable—yellowish-black, brownish military garb. He knew them well. The Bosk Family’s distinctive uniform, designed not only for camouflage but also to symbolize the golden lion’s pelt.
“It’s the Duchy’s army!”
“They’ve returned in victory!”
A cheer erupted from the City Tower. Soldiers raised their weapons high in jubilation.
Yet Galod, still frowning, lowered his head.
This… isn’t right.
If it were a decisive victory, messengers would have arrived days ago. Not a single one had come.
And in the vanguard, there should have been banners—dozens of them, the proud Lion Banners flying high. Not this quiet, subdued advance.
Then—suddenly—the cheers died.
Silence. Absolute.
Galod raised his head.
A storm of chaos, trembling and dark, surged from the horizon, swallowing the distant troops beneath its shadow.
No. Not a storm.
He blinked, disbelief freezing his breath. His lips trembled.
Two-headed Wyvern?
Could it be… the Kingdom of Ashen?
Above, the sky teemed with Wyverns, Chimeras, their wings pressed tightly together like a storm of living shadow, blotting out the sun.
On the ground, behind the broken ranks of captured soldiers, marched formations of Tieflings and Great Goblins, perfectly synchronized, their movements precise and merciless. And behind them—monstrous, earth-crawling Dragonbeasts, their hulking forms dwarfing even the tallest towers, each one as large as a small hill.
The gods…
Is this truly our enemy?
The Allied Forces… captured?
Officers and soldiers staggered back, dazed, their minds reeling. They could not comprehend what they saw—only fear, raw and unrelenting, escaped their throats in gasps and cries.
Then—suddenly—thousands of Wyverns scattered in the sky, parting like a curtain, revealing a vast, open path.
The sky turned crimson.
From the far edge of the horizon, the Red Dragon emerged.
Its immense wings unfurled, casting a shadow that stretched across the land.
A voice—calm, clear, utterly devoid of emotion—rang across the desolate plains, reaching every ear in Stravburg.
“The Northern Regions are fallen.”
“Ashen Endures.”
The words echoed.
“The Northern Regions are fallen. Ashen Endures!”
On the ground, the Ogres, Tieflings, and Great Goblins erupted into frenzied war cries, their eyes alight with bloodlust, welcoming their sovereign’s arrival.
Even the players among them shouted wildly—some stripped bare, running through the wasteland, howling with a sense of reckless freedom.
No…
The Northern Regions are gone.
Baron Galod collapsed to his knees on the City Tower. His gaze, once proud, now held only despair.
He had imagined the worst. But the reality—so sudden, so final—shattered his world instantly.
Galod Pont had been personally appointed Baron by Duke Leo himself, when the Duke marched out to war. The Duke had promised: “Hold Stravburg, and when the Allied Forces return in triumph, you shall be granted true Ducal lands. You shall rise among the elite of the Northern Nobility.”
But now—everything was lost.
His hand trembled as he gripped his sword.
Then—step by step, precise, unhurried—the vanguard of the Kingdom’s army entered the city.
Great Goblins and Tiefling infantry scaled the City Wall using ladders, securing every position with terrifying efficiency—no resistance, no challenge.
And in the tower’s upper chambers, they discovered a Northern noble—high-ranking, respected—dead by his own hand, a blade buried in his chest.
But the Kingdom cared little.
The City Defense Force within Stravburg was no elite force. Most were roughnecks, thugs, and conscripted brutes.
Against the might of the Kingdom of Ashen, against the sight of tens of thousands of captured Allied soldiers, they had no will to fight.
Even before the enemy reached within sight, someone raised a white flag.
“Don’t kill me!”
“I surrender! I surrender!”
The very soldiers who once swaggered through the streets, intimidating the citizens—now knelt, trembling in terror. Some even lost control of their bladders, overwhelmed by fear.
Stravburg—ancient, proud, the capital of the Bosk Duchy, famed as the “City of the Lion”—the city that had never fallen in nearly a thousand years—was now captured.
(End of Chapter)
Chapter end
Report
