Chapter 980 — Dusk

The smoke was blown apart by the wind, and the Cecilians' steel legion reappeared—that force which had come on so fiercely now looked utterly bedraggled. After being baptized in the rain of high-energy beams, nearly a third of their war machines had been reduced to wreckage, and a great many more vehicles, gravely damaged and stripped of power, lay scattered across the battlefield. The survivors, using that wreckage as cover, were now bombarding the walls of Winterwolf Fortress.

Bedraggled as they were, the momentum of their assault was still astonishing.

At the same time, An Luo noticed that other enemies had appeared behind those vehicles—soldiers carrying strange equipment who had survived the earlier strike. Under cover of their own vehicles and the battlefield wreckage, they were spreading across the position, seemingly searching carefully for something.

They were destroying the arcane reactive field generators buried underground.

Count Winterfort's face was taut. This was the first time he had seen a legion of "ordinary people" that, under a strategic spell strike from the Black Flag Mage Corps, had not been annihilated outright but had retained a measure of combat strength. He was astonished not only at the fighting power and survivability those ordinary people displayed with the aid of their equipment, but even more at their courage in the face of such a massive magical bombardment.

Just then, the voice of a messaging spell reached An Luo and the Count; the magical watch posts set high on Winterwolf Fortress brought word of more enemies approaching—

"Enemy tanks observed to the northwest!" "Magical reactions observed to the southwest!" "Second enemy assault wave observed directly ahead of the line!"

"You were right," An Luo said, looking at Count Winterfort and speaking slowly. "What comes next is a contest of raw strength..."

...

Behind the main advance force, the former Covenant Fortress had been temporarily converted into the First Legion's forward command post. Every kind of magic-conduction equipment transferred from the rear filled the great hall on the ground floor, and a great many command, communications, and coordination personnel hurried to and fro through the hall, giving the place an air of extraordinary bustle.

It was Philip himself who sat here directing the front-line offensive.

A subordinate stood before him, reporting the situation just sent back from the front: "The advance force's operation west of Winterwolf Fortress has stalled. The lead units came under a legion-level spell strike from the Typhons and cannot push further; they can only wear down the enemy shield slowly from extreme range. The second, third, and fourth echelons are attempting attacks from various directions, but all have met with powerful cluster magical bombardment, and they have run into some kind of trap capable of disrupting the operation of magic-net devices."

"It seems the Black Flag Mage Corps has already reached Winterwolf Fortress," Philip concluded swiftly, frowning. "That kind of trap didn't appear in any earlier intelligence... it seems the Typhons have some fresh tricks even we haven't seen before."

"General, shall we commit the reserve echelon to the battlefield?" the subordinate asked. "The Black Flag Mage Corps has already entered Winterwolf Fortress ahead of schedule, and the ground forces are advancing slowly now..."

Philip raised his head and glanced at the magic-net terminal not far away.

"No," he shook his head. "Have the advance force keep a safe distance and continue wearing down Winterwolf Fortress's shield from outside the range of the strategic spells. Slower is fine—so long as we keep the Black Flag Mage Corps occupied, we must not give those mages any gap to rest and readjust their deployment."

"Yes, General."

After his subordinate had left, Philip exhaled softly. He returned to the tactical map and once again confirmed the terrain around Winterwolf Fortress and the enemy troop dispositions verified during the last reconnaissance.

Winterwolf Fortress was currently on the passive defensive. The combat strength it displayed was formidable, yet not beyond expectation. But troops mustered from every corner of Typhon's territory were surely converging on the Winterwolf defense line in an unending stream. As time went on, the fortress's defenses would become utterly solid—it might even launch attacks of its own.

Yet he issued no order to commit additional echelons or to alter the advance troops' plan of attack.

Still, staring at the tactical map before him and weighing the current battlefield situation, certain voices suddenly rose in his mind all the same—

"Should we try a more aggressive assault? Let several frontline echelons drive a massive massed charge straight into Winterwolf Fortress's defensive fire. With that many tanks and multi-purpose fighting vehicles spread across the open field, attacking from every direction at once, even the Black Flag Mage Corps' strategic spells couldn't blanket the entire battlefield...

"Mages of flesh and blood have their limits. Strategic spells on such a vast scale must have a cooldown cycle...

"Compared with the other, more prudent plan, the advance troops might suffer heavier casualties, but they could achieve results far sooner—and in that case the merit would belong entirely to the First Legion, with no need to share the honor with anyone else...

"This is a battlefield. Sometimes necessary sacrifice is the price of necessary merit..."

Beside Philip, Malm Dunite wore a gentle, kindly smile, waiting with endless patience for the young Cecil general to reach his decision.

Philip lifted his head. He turned to look in Malm Dunite's direction—and suddenly smiled as well.

Malm Dunite's gentle, kindly smile froze in an instant. He seemed to be seized by enormous astonishment, and involuntarily opened his mouth: "How did you..."

"I once devoutly believed in the God of War—and even now, I suspect that faith still influences my words and deeds, shapes my way of thinking, even quietly seeps into my soul. Not everyone has the strength of will to break a mind-brand," Philip said, unhurried. "So—did you really think that after learning of Typhon's god-calamity risk, Cecil's soldiers would take no precautions at all?"

As he spoke, he raised his left hand. A pale golden chain dangled down, and a small device resembling a pocket watch slid from his sleeve. But when its "dial" opened, what emerged from within was a cluster of faintly glowing runes—intricate, sinuous symbols that called to mind creatures of the deep sea.

The instant Malm Dunite saw those runes, dizziness washed over him. His body at once grew unstable, flickering violently as though its energy were about to be cut off!

The next second, the figure of the former War God's pontiff dimmed rapidly, as if he meant to flee this place through some escape spell. But before he could act, Philip had already swiftly pressed a button on the nearby magic-net terminal—

A low-frequency oscillation inaudible to human ears, freighted with tremendous power, instantly "resounded" through the entire room. Like a requiem, it bore Malm Dunite's spirit form down on the spot and expelled it from the dimension he had sought to escape into.

The officers and civilian staff nearby heard a shriek that was not human. They saw a figure appear out of thin air near the general and go flying backward in utter disgrace, and cries of alarm broke out on every side.

Malm Dunite felt a piercing, bone-deep agony. Since becoming a spirit form, he had assumed such sensations were forever beyond him—yet some unseen force was tearing at the "divine power" that sustained him, as though his very soul were about to split apart. This relentless succession of blows finally enraged the fanatic soul. He wrenched his body upright and raised the scepter high in his hand—

A strand of spider silk caught his wrist.