Two hundred years ago, Russell Gustave, riding the wave of the French Revolution and harboring ambitions to become emperor, completely drove the Solon dynasty out of Trier. When he delivered his historic speech, "Liberty Leads the People," under the emblem of the pantheon of the god of machines, did he feel even a little unease?
Did he already have the idea of replacing him at that time?
Did he already have second thoughts and plot to betray his Lord at that time?
Did he foresee that the industrial revolution and reforms he initiated would lead him to his downfall and death a few years later—even though the spark he ignited seemed so fragile and precarious at the time?
Perhaps out of confusion, perhaps out of remorse before the gallows, or perhaps because he was in a similar position and about to do something similar, Blind, who was on the front lines, was not ignited by the soldiers' high spirits, but instead felt fear and unease.
Dark clouds obscured the morning star. He tried to look up at the sky, searching in the darkness for the star that belonged to the god of steam and machinery. But no matter how hard he tried, that brilliance and splendor no longer shone for him.
God entrusted him with a mission, and the second "Son of Steam" brought him the key to knock on the gates of hell. In the end, his faith lost its light on the road ahead, leaving him only endless darkness to wander in.
What were Russell's true feelings as he stepped onto Caesar's Port to issue orders and plan the horrific massacre at the landing point?
Today, Blind clearly recognizes that no matter what perspective his predecessors had, he could never perfectly recreate the situation of that time.
Naturally, those achievements that have gone down in history could not serve as a reference for his further advancement.
But if Roselle could see, his soul was not taken by the devils of hell; the merciful god of machines ultimately protected him, allowing him to catch a glimpse of the human world during his atonement…
When he sees the tragedy he himself started, the Highlanders who were the protagonists of the tragedy, now nourished by evil, bearing the brunt of wickedness, reborn as demons a hundred times more powerful, wielding their butcher knives to slaughter his former people, will he feel any remorse as a sinner in history?
Two hundred years ago, we cheered when Russell opened the gates of the Highlands. Two hundred years from now, how will people view my actions today?
Will my actions bring about a false prosperity like Russell's, or will they be the right thing to do?
"God, forgive my sins..." Blind looked up to the sky and cried out, pressing the button in his hand.
...
"Long live Intis!"
With a roar like a tsunami, waves of red and white swept across the plains. Intis's eldest sons charged into the sea of fire, their gleaming bayonets cutting through everything in their path.
The booming sound of cannons pounded against the mountainside, the ground trembled slightly, and waves of mud occasionally exploded.
Temporary blasphemous rituals were erected around the outskirts of the town of Entres, with fresh flesh and blood constantly being thrown into them. The followers of the "Rose School" were infected by the rituals and their fighting spirit soared.
The humanoid beast honed its sharp claws and teeth. Its dark brown, hard fur and suddenly swollen body tore through its linen shirt, and a pitiful strip of dirty white cloth hung from the "werewolf's" shoulder. The monster, more than two meters tall, grinned and laughed, with beads of blood clinging to its sharp teeth.
The monster, having just tasted meat, ignored the bits of flesh and small bones stuck between its teeth. Its blood-red, fanatical eyes stared at the Intis army, whose charge was gradually slowing down, and it let out a low, gurgling growl.
He mumbled indistinctly in Du Tan language, and without even looking, casually picked up a piece of "fresh meat" from under his feet.
The light brown-skinned girl who was unfortunately chosen was in tears. She had witnessed the tragic deaths of her companions and was doing her best to resist her future fate.
"No...no...Sir..."
By the strip of cloth hanging from the "werewolf's" shoulder, the girl recognized the monster, who was tasting blood and feasting, as one of the creatures she had served just two days ago.
She tried her best to put on a pitiful expression, desperately trying to stop crying and prevent tears and snot from blurring her still pretty face, attempting to provoke another ugly desire in the monster besides killing.
Unfortunately, no matter how hard she tried, all she got in return was a sharp, contemptuous insult.
"You bitch bastard!"
The "werewolf" lifts the lighter-skinned girl above his head for his companions, who are also affected by the ritual and driven mad, to admire.
"Look, this thing mixed with the dirty blood of the white pigs of the Northern Continent, it can't even close its legs when it's about to die!"
A light drizzle began to fall, and the "werewolf" suddenly felt a warm sensation on his face.
He looked up and saw the cruel laughter becoming even more unrestrained.
"Hahaha, it's even leaking water!"
Tear!
The girl stopped crying, and her body became warmer, but the scarlet liquid from head to toe stained the "werewolf" a dark red, as if the blood had congealed.
The monster strode forward, swinging half of the girl in each hand. Like an innocent child, it pursed its lips and roughly brought its claws together, trying to piece the girl, who had been accidentally torn in two, back together.
His heightened intelligence prevented him from understanding death, so he could only reluctantly lower his hand, continue cursing, and assume the girl had simply fainted from fright.
"A lowly bastard mixed with the dirty blood of white pigs from the Northern Continent..."
The werewolf growled, his blood-blinded eyes growing increasingly agitated as he stared at the girl's corpse in his hands.
Finally, after countless angry curses, he could no longer hold back. He raised his body, intending to utterly crush the girl, just as he had swallowed other sacrificial offerings, to savor yet another fresh blood meal.
"Come, let me..."
Suddenly, the werewolf stopped moving.
It wasn't his long-lost conscience that awakened his reason, but rather something of greater value that attracted him.
He gazed at the artwork before him and suddenly realized that the clamor of war had long since faded from his memory.
It was too quiet around us.
The elaborate and luxurious black robes hung silently before the "werewolf's" filthy gaze, while the other "Rose School" believers responsible for maintaining the ritual stood like sculptures.
The beautiful, princess-like woman looked down at the filth below, never concealing the disgust and hatred rippling in the azure lake.
Sharon stared at the lifeless werewolf, then made a pulling motion with her hand. The girl's desecrated body immediately fell from the werewolf's claws, and the mangled corpse floated into the air.
She carefully manipulated the yin wind to lift the girl's body, sending the poor soul into the flames that appeared out of nowhere along with her.
"The Creator of all living things, the Great Lord who bestows life and breath upon mankind..."
"O Apocalypse, savior of human souls, we thank you, we praise you..."
"Your great love has never been stingy with the lambs that have returned to your embrace. Virtue and conscience have united us here to bid farewell to this sister..."
"May you, in your mercy and compassion, embrace her soul, so that her spirit may be freed from the lies fabricated by evil faith, escape the sea of suffering woven by blasphemy, and return to your kingdom after death, to be reborn under the blazing fire and the sun's rays."
"Grant her eternal rest, grant her a blissful next life, good."
A shepherd in a black robe knelt on the ground, with the altar of the sunken, shadowy, corrosive sea behind him.
He witnessed Sharon sending the girl's body into the flames leading to the afterlife, reciting a prayerful eulogy.
Jerry Zarathustra had no opinion on this and remained silent, simply assisting Klein in finishing up the work.
It wasn't until Mr. A's prayer ended and Sharon collected the girl's ashes and placed them in a small urn that Jerry Zarathustra, who was always perceived as rude and presumptuous, broke the tranquility that shouldn't have existed in this corner of the battlefield.
"Intis has dispatched an archbishop, the god of steam and machinery, who is currently engaged in a fierce battle with the 'Witch King' of the 'Rose School,' and it seems they are about to launch a full-scale attack."
"There are eight such blasphemous rituals near Entreles, and there's a large one under the house in town. Should we launch a full-scale attack?" Klein questioned while manipulating the newly acquired puppets. "Even if the Church of the God of Steam and Machines is willing to send the 'Heart of Machines' squad, it would still take at least eight squads carrying powerful sealing artifacts and ten to twenty minutes."
"Leaving aside whether Caesar Harbor can gather so many extraordinary individuals and sealed artifacts, do they really dare to drag this out?"
Jerry Zarathustra glanced at the altar, which was slowly dying out due to the lack of firewood, and shook his head.
"It's not that complicated. As long as there are no offerings to replenish the spiritual energy, the outer rituals will become ineffective even if left unattended."
"Once the outer rituals are no longer in place, the altar inside the Entreles won't pose much of a threat. It's just a 'Witch King,' and the Intis people have plenty of ways to deal with him."
"artillery."
Sharon suddenly spoke, drawing everyone's attention to the direction of her voice.
The young lady, who had lived in Trier for over a decade, had her two slender eyebrows drawn together at one point.
"Intis's artillery is very efficient."
"Yes, that's right. Intis's artillery battalion is arguably the most advanced, efficient and fast-firing," Jerry Zarathustra said. "I agree with the young lady's opinion. Intis is most likely to use the old tactics."
"Let the infantry lead the way, with the infantry artillery following behind. Once the distance is right, fire several salvos, and then the infantry and special squads go up to clean up. This process can shorten the time by half."
"At most ten minutes, including the effect of destroying the altar, the 'Rose School' positions outside Ontres will be completely lost."
"Should we avoid it?"
Klein gazed into the distance, estimating the distance between the Intis forces and them.
He worried that the impending barrage of artillery fire might also include them in the attack range.
"Not that far, the maximum range is only seven thousand meters."
Jerry Zarathustra was confident, after all, for safety reasons, they had deliberately chosen a ceremonial stronghold that was furthest from the Intis army.
Indeed, if they retreated now, they might be discovered by the "Witch King" in the city. His main target was still to use the identities of these few "Rose School" believers... Klein and his two remaining companions exchanged glances, abandoned their thoughts of leaving, and silently waited for the moment when Intis would sound the charge.
One minute passed, two minutes passed... five minutes passed.
Jerry Zarathustra was wrong; the Intis did not choose to charge.
Instead, their infantry stopped in a natural trench, and a large number of figures in red and white uniforms lay down on the spot and disappeared from Klein and the others' sight.
What's going on?
Before Klein could even be surprised, something else made its appearance.
Accompanied by the roar of infantry cannons, a rain of fire dominated the sky, appearing from nowhere... They were more like demons crawling out of hell than the "alien" creatures surrounding the blasphemous altar.
Burning, corroding, and toxic, endless flames fell from the sky, and dazzling pale horses galloped relentlessly along the horizon. In an instant, the southern continent beneath everyone's feet seemed to have returned to the desperate era when the "Underworld Emperor" raised his army and ravaged the world.
Thousands of fiery trees proliferated unchecked, shattering the night into fragmented islands, and countless stars lost their color. For the first time, the natural sky bowed down to the creations of humankind.
The deadly flames, reaching thousands of degrees Celsius, climbed up the ankles of every creature struck, advancing with unstoppable momentum. Neither extraordinary abilities nor physical means could halt their conquest.
Thermite, mixed with white phosphorus, severed the paths between the various ritual altars. The second wave of descent, accompanied by the shrill screams of the "Judges" pathway seals issuing decrees, amplified despair to its extreme.
Even at the very edge, Klein still heard the "Witch King's" roar, but it was too late.
Not to mention that the pursuit by the Archbishop of the God of Steam and Machinery left him unable to spare any attention, even if the "Witch King" wanted to spare some time to save the ritual he had painstakingly arranged, he was also helpless against the encirclement and expulsion of the "Law Master's" sealed artifacts.
Amidst the deafening silence and wailing, the Intis army, who had been hiding in the natural ravines and watching coldly, made way.
Dozens of metal golems trampled over the mountains and rivers. These absolute weapons, with lower bodies like spiders and upper bodies mimicking apes, wielded steam-fired weapons with long arms and were completely unafraid of the pale, raging flames that carbon-based creatures could not avoid.
They stormed into the altar shrouded in white smoke and began a one-sided massacre.
More bombs were dropped, the thermite and white phosphorus bombs gradually disappeared, and the altar strongholds scattered in the suburbs were no longer the targets of the bombs. With his superb eyesight, Klein caught a glimpse of the shadow that swept across thousands of meters and hurtled towards him.
It was a cheap, giant discarding sabot grenade. The tail fins were metal, but the casing was a transparent dark orange, revealing the ammunition inside...
"Holy water, highly concentrated holy water..."
Jerry Zarathustra murmured, his exceptional knowledge allowing him to understand what was about to happen the instant he saw the shell's exterior.
It was an airburst bomb. Judging from its height, it wouldn't have landed in the town of Entreles. Its target wasn't the altar, but something much higher, tens of meters above the ground.
What might be there?
The detonation height of a conventional airburst shell is generally between 5 and 10 meters, at most 15 meters. But this shell... if his eyesight is not impaired... it's a simple math problem. The destructive power of this shell will be unprecedented in the history of military equipment, something Jerry Zarathustra had never heard of before.
"Aerial evasive maneuvers are prohibited!"
That firm, cruel voice once again issued a decree through the seal of the "Law Master".
Above the town of Entres, the "Witch King," who was trembling at close range with the Archbishop of the Church of the God of Steam and Machinery, suddenly stiffened, and the wings that were flapping wildly behind him gradually became sluggish.
The craftsman saint, dressed in a cobalt blue robe, surrounded him with several floating cannons. His emerald green eyes were filled with the coldness of data, while the "Witch King" could only watch helplessly as the cannonballs flew over his head.
In the last half minute of his life, he saw the ammunition loaded under the transparent casing.
...
The sudden burst of white light in the night sky scorched everyone's eyes. The walls of Entreles were shaken by the shockwave. The followers of the "Rose School" who had no time to escape were engulfed in holy fire, their bodies covered in scalding blisters.
Looking down at the ugly, struggling figures below, which resembled torches, the Archbishop of the God of All Machines smirked coldly.
He opened his arms with malice and sneered.
"Praise be to the sun."