Chapter 641 — The Receding Crisis

With artillery support extending from the Gorgon River, plus the high-ground fire points established by the ground forces, the Cecil legion cut into the battlefield at a slant like a searing saber. It tore through the crystal-cluster legions' positions and began to bleed this already-uncontrolled monster of destruction.

Wales noticed the subtle changes on the battlefield.

Faster than he had expected, the crystal-cluster legions' assault on the capital had weakened.

The soldiers fighting desperately might have no attention to spare for the overall changes on the battlefield, and the knights with limited abilities could only focus on the walls they were responsible for. But Wales, who was constantly monitoring every condition across the entire defense line, did not miss this subtle shift in the situation—the density of attacks from the crystal-cluster legions was decreasing. In some sections of the southern wall, the enchanted ramparts were no longer continuously crumbling, and had even entered a state of stalemate between repair and damage.

The monsters' numbers were dwindling, and their focus of attack was gradually shifting.

Wales cast his gaze toward the southern plains, but he still could not see the specific position of the Cecil legion—all he could see was still the continuous dust clouds and explosive flashes. Those explosive flashes were no longer too far from the city walls, but the ones launching the attacks remained beyond sight.

The only thing certain was that the power of those explosions was truly astonishing—mountains crumbling, earth shattering, no exaggeration at all.

Thus the Cecil people used their powerful long-range forces to carve up the battlefield, and judging from those signs of combat in the distance, they must have also carried out very bold maneuvers and advances in the process of executing this carving.

The reinforcements were indeed still far away, but their power had already crossed the barriers of space and been projected onto the capital's defense line.

Above the battlefield, the Cecilian armored griffins and giant eagles swept past for the third time, and the movements of those flying units were plainly bound up with the fighting on the ground.

A great deal of intelligence on the Southern Region surfaced in Welsh's mind—about the magical armaments they used, about the weapons the royal army had procured in the Southern Region, about certain details of that war of Southern unification.

Much of it could never be seen from reports alone; only by direct contact—even contact at a distance—could one come to realize the truth that lay behind such intelligence.

Welsh had long pondered everything concerning the Southern Region, yet the intelligence touching on military matters had always remained shrouded in mystery. He had done all he could, employing his gift for intelligence analysis to sketch out part of that legion's countenance, but a lack of crucial information had always kept him from completing the final synthesis. Now, at this moment, having seen certain things with his own eyes, the fog in his mind abruptly cleared.

"...So this is how they fight... superior ranged weapons, dense assaults, rapid displacement, long-distance penetration... and all of it requires the coordination of a great legion and the high-speed transmission of information... it can't be messaging sorcery, the requirements for that are too high... is it the 'arcane net communications' the Grand Duchess Victoria mentioned? And they must also have built a more efficient command system to control these vast numbers of units scattered across the whole battlefield... what could it be?"

Welsh gazed into the distance. He found that there were simply too many things he could not figure out. He could not figure out how the Cecilian could sustain long-range communications on such a scale; he could not figure out how their command system operated; he could not figure out how their logistics, their equipment, the caliber of their soldiers had been forged. And upon realizing that there were so many things he could not even begin to imagine, this new king of Ansu, instead, began to laugh.

The "factory reforms" carried out in the city of Holy Frost Rest had been, in the end, merely a clumsy imitation; the urban administration schemes trialed in the Western Region and the crown's direct fiefs had grasped only the surface. Last year's reform campaign, which had churned on with great fanfare for over half a year, had ultimately fizzled out into nothing. It was the flaws of the reformers themselves, together with the stubborn obstruction of the conservatives, that had brought about the miscarriage of it all—but in the end, the new era had still arrived.

"Your Majesty, the enemy's assault is weakening," came the somewhat weary voice of Duke Boyu Franklin from beside him. The Duke of the Western Region had bloodshot eyes, yet his tone remained steady and forceful. "The Cecilian have taken the high ground south of the eastern wall bastion; the attacks of those crystal-cluster monsters have been cut off."

Welsh nodded slightly. "Saint Sunil has survived."

"Yes, the royal capital has survived," said the Duke of the Western Region.

"I should make preparations to receive the Duke of Cecil."

Boyu Franklin watched Welsh quietly. In those bloodshot eyes there was no doubt; he seemed already to have guessed something from the new king's many actions over these past days, but in the end he said nothing more.

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