Translated Chapter
372. Siege and Song
Fayor City wasn’t a significant city—just a remote border town of the Svino Duchy. Yet it remained the last stronghold the Northern Kingdom still controlled. The Northern Regions had fallen completely.
Baron Jacob Rosa led his fearless Glory Legion of the Skandians, raising the banner of the Northern Kingdom high, gathering noble refugees and their personal armies from across the ravaged lands, expanding his forces to tens of thousands. He even recaptured several cities in swift, bold campaigns.
Suddenly, every hidden and open supporter of the Northern cause felt a surge of hope. They believed a miracle was coming—the legendary Hero was returning, destined to lead them to glory.
But this was merely the final flicker of a dying light.
The Marshal Dolo of the Kingdom of Ashen mobilized forces from every corner, launching a full-scale assault on the so-called "Glory Legion." For days on end, the thunder of artillery never ceased. The earth itself was carved down by three feet, and Baron Rosa’s army was pushed back relentlessly, suffering devastating losses.
In the end, Rosa retreated with his last three thousand shattered troops into Fayor City—now the last city standing in the Northern Regions.
…
Svino Duchy, Fayor City.
Wounded walls. Tattered flag. Dusty-faced soldiers.
Scarred earth, wasteland, howling wind.
In the distance, the Burnt Flame Army occupied the wilds.
On the cracked watchtower, Baron Jacob Rosa stood, sword in hand, silent and still, gazing at the distant, uneven tide of fire. His expression was heavy.
The man known as the Great Wall of the North wore heavy armor, its surface stained with blood, caked in dust from artillery fire, riddled with tiny bullet holes, and embedded with shrapnel from cannonballs. Yet he stood straight, unyielding—as rigid and enduring as a pine tree in a blizzard.
"Has the North truly fallen?"
He whispered, voice barely audible, as if even the wind might steal the words.
Jacob Rosa had been a prodigy—honors piled high, renown earned early, possessing every quality a warrior could desire. But now, facing the endless tide of burning troops encircling Fayor City, even his iron will trembled. Could such an army truly be defeated by men?
"Lord Baron," came the voice of his aide, cutting through his thoughts.
"The Kingdom of Ashen’s army is approaching. This time, it’s Dolo leading the main force, reinforced by some Stellarfallen. About twenty thousand in total."
"Good."
The reply was brief, sharp, and resolute.
The aide exhaled almost imperceptibly, then murmured again:
"Lord Baron… what do we do now?"
"Hold on."
Again, just those two words. But this time, Jacob climbed to the top of the city tower, the thousands of soldiers below watching as he swept his gaze across their weary faces—pale, grim, dust-streaked.
"Soldiers," he said, voice steady, "I have always thought of you as my children."
"Now I tell you—never surrender.
We are the last hope of the North.
We are the final hope of the Skandians.
We carry the thousand-year tradition of the Northern Regions.
We stand for true order. For justice."
"We may seem to fight alone—but our allies are everywhere.
If we live, Anzeta will rise in cheers.
If we die, the entire Feiansuo Continent will mourn."
Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he raised his sword.
"For the Northern Regions."
The words were not loud. But each one rang with iron certainty.
The weary soldiers stirred. From exhaustion and sorrow, a spark returned.
After so many days of war, against an enemy that seemed invincible, Jacob Rosa was no longer just their commander, no longer just their lord. He had become their spirit—symbol of knightly virtue, the very soul of the North. He was the reason they endured.
As long as Jacob Rosa stood, they believed in miracles.
And so, with hoarse throats and trembling voices, they roared back:
"For the Northern Regions! Victory!"
"For the Baron!"
Jacob’s eyes swept across their faces. A wave of solemn sorrow washed over him. He drew a deep breath, then slowly opened his mouth.
"I wander with the Northern Wind…
White Frost brings my death news…
Snow covers my corpse—my beloved cannot recognize my face."
It was the lament of the North. Yet in his voice, it became a song of triumph.
He sang the indomitable will of the Scandians.
He sang the resolve to die rather than surrender.
"But do not grieve for me—
For I die upon the Field of Glory."
The soldiers joined in, their voices cracked and low, weaving a long, mournful melody that echoed across the walls, thick with tragedy.
"I wander with the Northern Wind—
White Frost brings my death news—"
Then—suddenly—a new sound.
Loud. Unmistakable.
It cut through the sorrowful song like a blade, drowning out the soldiers’ voices, wrapping the entire city in its blast.
Everyone turned. Even Jacob frowned, startled.
How could it be?
How could the Kingdom of Ashen’s army be singing this?
The psychological wall within him cracked. Despair flickered—yes, the North was lost. All beyond Fayor City was in ruins. The old people of the North were prisoners now. Of course they would know the song.
But they didn’t know—
It was just some bored player who’d turned on a speaker, trying to steal their background music, even daring to remix it into a dance version.
"Good Luck Comes! Wishing you Good Luck Comes!"
"Good Luck Comes brings joy and love!"
The Ballad of the North was abruptly replaced by this jarring, cheerful tune—discordant, absurd, utterly out of place in a battlefield soaked in blood and ash.
Jacob stood frozen.
His carefully built resolve shattered.
He scowled, face darkening, then turned wordlessly and descended the tower, giving orders to his soldiers.
"They’re about to siege us. Prepare everything."
He said nothing more.
They had fought the Kingdom’s forces for days. They knew their enemies’ tactics too well.
And then—
The artillery screamed.
The wilderness trembled.
A high-pitched, spine-chilling whistle split the air.
Jacob barked, calm and commanding:
"Artillery barrage—get down!"
Before he finished, the soldiers reacted instinctively—scattering, diving behind fortifications, some diving into the wall’s interior.
They had survived countless barrages. They knew the terror of those metal storms.
Nearly all were elite survivors—those who had lived through the fire.
Those without instinct didn’t survive.
There was nothing they could do but pray for Tampas’s protection, hoping to be lucky enough to live through the storm.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Hundreds of catties of molten metal rained down.
Living men were torn apart, blasted into pieces.
Shrapnel tore through flesh like knives.
The Scythe of Death harvested lives without mercy.
Yet, after so much war, after so many deaths, even the generals and soldiers had grown numb.
Death had become routine.
No screams. No wails.
Only a brief, instinctive gasp—“Ah!”—before the explosion swallowed it whole.
Flesh and shattered stone sprayed through the air.
The walls crumbled to rubble.
Several protruding watchtowers collapsed with thunderous crashes.
(End of Chapter)
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