The boarding action on the left wing had been steeped in the scent of despair from the very beginning.
A few of the more courageous longships under Stannis's command barely managed to pull alongside a medium-sized warship on the periphery of the Targaryen Fleet.
As soon as the boarding planks were lowered, the Soldiers of the Baratheon Royal Fleet charged forward with a roar, attempting to overwhelm the enemy with superior numbers.
However, what greeted them was not the expected chaotic resistance, but a silent and efficient slaughter.
The Soldiers on the black warships wore dark red or grey-black cloaks, their armor glinting with a cold, hard luster under the gloomy sky.
They had no war cries, only short commands and the sharp whistle of weapons cutting through the air.
Their formation was tight as they covered one another, every slash and every thrust precise and lethal.
The courage of the Baratheon Soldiers quickly evaporated in the face of the absolute gap in skill and experience.
The deck was soon stained red with blood; amidst the screams, the Soldiers who had jumped over fell like wheat being harvested, their bodies kicked mercilessly into the sea.
In less than fifteen minutes, those few longships became floating coffins, either slowly sinking or being taken over by enemy sailors.
Such was the case for most of the left-wing vanguard Fleet.
"The right wing! Order the right wing to press forward! Support the gap on the left!" Stannis stood on the violently swaying bridge and roared hoarsely, his voice cracking with anger and anxiety.
However, the right wing... a Fleet composed of several Stormlands houses that had only recently surrendered...
...clearly hesitated.
Their banners fluttered uneasily in the sea breeze, their speed slowed, their formation grew loose, and several ships even began to slightly adjust their sails, as if making the difficult choice between advancing or retreating.
They had just abandoned Renly, and now they had to face this mysterious and powerful black Fleet; their loyalty and courage had long since been exhausted in the repeated acts of choosing sides.
"Damn it!" Stannis punched the railing, wood splinters piercing his palm and bringing a slight sting, but it was not even a fraction of the Fury in his heart.
He knew what these men were thinking, but he had no one else to use at this moment.
"Send the Sea Stag and the Lord Steffon to lead the center Fleet forward! Fill the gap on the right wing and force them forward! Order the ships of House Caron to harass the enemy vessels from the flank and relieve the pressure on the left!"
He gave the orders almost through gritted teeth.
These were nearly the last relatively reliable warships directly under his command.
If he sent them out, he would be left with only the 'Fury' and a few scarred escort ships by his side.
But he had no choice. The enemy had too many ships, and their lines were despairingly thick.
Every minute of delay meant the death of more Soldiers and the collapse of morale.
The herald stumbled away to deliver the orders.
Stannis watched as those few warships reluctantly detached from the main body and sailed toward that vortex of death, his heart turning cold.
A drop in the bucket. He knew it clearly.
Throwing this small amount of force into that black ocean wouldn't even cause a few ripples.
He suddenly turned his head, his bloodshot blue eyes staring fixedly at the eye-catching crimson beside him.
The sea breeze blew Melisandre's red robes tight against her body, outlining her thin silhouette; the gem at her throat shimmered with a faint light, reflecting her pale and calm face.
Stannis's voice was dry and raspy, carrying a desperate madness: "Your magic! Like how you killed Renly! Summon another shadow! Kill the commander on that flagship! Or... anything that can cause chaos!"
Melisandre slowly turned her head, her deep red eyes looking at Stannis; there were no ripples within them, only an all-seeing calmness and a trace of... almost imperceptible pity?
"Your Majesty," her voice remained low and soft, yet carried an unquestionable denial, "your body can no longer endure another sacrifice of that magnitude."
"If forced, the shadow would not even take shape before it first drained what little remains of your fire of life. That requires time, it requires focus, it requires..."
"And the battlefield at this moment," she looked toward the sea of tumultuous slaughter, "is not suitable for that kind of precise, single-target ritual; it cannot deal with an army of thousands."
Stannis's chest heaved violently, the last flicker of hope in his eyes wavering as if about to go out.
Could even this final unconventional means not work? Was he really to stay here and watch his Fleet be crushed?
"But..."
Melisandre's tone suddenly shifted. She took half a step forward to stand side-by-side with Stannis, looking toward the densest area of the Targaryen Fleet, the firelight and sail silhouettes in the distance reflected in her red eyes.
"Fire is the most generous gift from the lord of light, a sharp tool to cleanse all the impurities of the world. I might try... to beseech the true Lord to let the flames of retribution descend upon the enemy ships."
Stannis looked at her abruptly, his exhausted face tensing again, his lips pressed into a pale line—fire again, prophecies again, that same old rhetoric again.
But at this moment, did he have any other choice? Davos was not here, and there were no "pragmatic yet short-sighted"Admonition to interfere.
He had to believe; he had to grasp at anything that might turn the tide of battle, even if it was just a straw.
"Then do it!" He squeezed the words out from between his teeth.
Melisandre said no more. She closed her eyes, her hands forming a strange hand seal in front of her chest, her fingertips lightly touching that deep red gem.
She began to chant; her voice was low and muddled at first, but gradually became clear and high-pitched, carrying a certain inhuman rhythm and heat.
It was not the Common Tongue of Westeros, nor was it High Valyrian, but syllables that were older and closer to the essence of fire.
She chanted repeatedly, her tone growing more urgent and sharp, as if in intense communication with some invisible presence.
The sea breeze seemed to bypass her; with her as the center, the air began to unnaturally heat up and warp. The wooden planks of the deck beneath her feet made a slight crackling sound, as if being baked by an invisible fire.
The red gem at her throat glowed brighter and brighter, turning from deep red to bright red, until it finally looked as if a small piece of red-hot coal was embedded in her chest.
The Soldiers and sailors on the deck forgot the fighting and death around them, staring dumbfounded at this supernatural scene.
Stannis held his breath, his blue eyes staring unblinkingly at Melisandre, then glancing nervously at the enemy Fleet.
One second, two seconds... ten seconds...
Nothing happened.
There was only the howling of the sea breeze, the burning of warships, and the faint sounds of slaughter in the distance.
Stannis's heart sank bit by bit. As expected... once again...
Just then!
On the left wing of the enemy Fleet, a galley of the Narrow Sea Fleet that was turning in an attempt to outflank the scattering Baratheon right wing suddenly had a fist-sized, eerie flame ignite without warning on the upper-middle part of its main sail!
The flame was not large, but it was exceptionally conspicuous, dancing on the black sail and setting it alight.
Immediately after, as if by a chain reaction, a flame also flared up on the bowsprit of another slightly smaller vessel nearby!
At first, it was just two scattered sparks.
But Melisandre's chanting grew more hurried, almost like a shriek.
Her arms spread wide, as if she were about to sacrifice her entire chest to the fire.
The glow of the red gem was so hot that it was impossible to look at directly.
A third ship, a fourth... more and more warships of the Narrow Sea Fleet began to sprout fires! The locations varied—some on the sails, some on the masts, and some even on the hull planks!
The flames danced eldritchly against the backdrop of the gloomy sea and sky.
Although the scale at any single point was not large, the number was increasing, and those flames seemed extremely difficult to extinguish, instead spreading at an incredibly fast speed!
A slight but definite commotion appeared in the orderly formation of the Narrow Sea Fleet.
Some ships began to adjust, trying to move away from the fire points or organizing sailors to put them out.
"lord of light..." a Baratheon veteran murmured, kneeling down.
"It's a miracle! The true god has manifested!" More people followed with shouts, a morbid hope reigniting on their faces that had been on the verge of collapse.
Stannis's tense shoulders relaxed ever so slightly.
He let out a heavy, long exhale of the turbid air he had been holding for a long time.
Perhaps... perhaps this red-robed woman was right? Perhaps this lord of light really was the only true god in the world?
In this desperate situation, this sudden power that transcended common sense allowed his heart—chilled and hardened by responsibility and reality—to feel a trace of illusory warmth.
He looked at Melisandre; she still maintained her posture of prayer, her profile showing a sacred and eerie focus under the light of the red gem.
The fire seemed to still be expanding.
More and more flickering flames of strange colors danced on the black sails, growing from scattered accents toward a tendency to merge into one.
Between the sea and sky, against the backdrop of that gloomy black Fleet, a wash of ominous yet hope-bringing golden-red began to spread for Stannis.
However, that gold... seemed to be getting brighter and brighter, more and more... wrong.
Melisandre's chanting lowered at some unknown point.
She still had her eyes closed, but her brow furrowed slightly, as if she were listening to or discerning something.
That spreading golden-red light was not entirely the color of the flames she had triggered.
Mixed within it was a purer, more dazzling, and more... soul-unsettling gold.
It wasn't right.
Melisandre's eyes snapped open!
For the first time, her deep red pupils were filled with shock and uncertainty, as well as a rapidly expanding horror.
That golden light... did not belong to her fire! That aura...
She wanted to give a warning, wanted to interrupt the prayer, but it was already too late!
Voom——————
It did not come from the sense of hearing, but was a terrifying roar at the ultimate low frequency that acted directly on the depths of the soul, the bone marrow, and even every inch of flesh; without warning, it exploded simultaneously from the highest heavens and the deepest seas!
The sound was not loud, yet it instantly overwhelmed everything!
The sound of the sea breeze, the waves, the burning, the slaughter, the screams... all were swallowed by this prelude to the descent of absolute power!
Time on the battlefield seemed to be infinitely stretched and frozen.
All the burning flames, whether eerie or ordinary, were quietly extinguished in the same instant.
They were not put out, but rather seemed to be lightly wiped away by an invisible hand, leaving not even a wisp of smoke behind.
The wind stopped.
The waves ceased.
Even the ships that were tilting and sinking seemed to be frozen in their final moment.
An absolute, heart-stopping silence ruled Blackwater Bay.
Next came the light.
A pure, condensed, and brilliantly magnificent golden thunderbolt, containing the will to both create the world and end all things, fell vertically—silent yet seemingly echoing in the deepest parts of every living soul, piercing the gloomy sky and the ink-black sea!
Its target was not any single warship.
Rather, it was the elite Royal Fleet under Stannis's direct command just ahead of the Fury, which he had just sent out to prepare for a final struggle to support the left wing.
The pillar of light fell.
There was no explosion, no loud crash, and no debris flying everywhere.
There was only the most extreme annihilation.
At the surface where the pillar of light touched, the seawater was not pushed aside but was instantly sublimated by the terrifying high temperature into towering, blazing white steam, which was then ionized and decomposed by an even more powerful energy field in the next moment.
The several warships located at the core of the pillar of light did not even have time to let out a groan before they were wiped directly from the material world like ice and snow under the sun; there were no wrecks, no ashes, as if they had never existed.
The warships on the periphery had their hull structures instantly disintegrated and vaporized in the billions of degrees of heat and the indescribable shockwave.
Only a ring of destructive, blazing gold mixed with molten metal vapor expanded outward in a perfect sphere, tearing apart, igniting, and flinging away the ships further out like scraps of paper.
The entire process was silent, rapid, and beyond mortal understanding.
The light lasted for perhaps a second, or perhaps even less.
When that golden pillar of light piercing heaven and earth vanished, only a terrifying void remained on the sea, boiling with lava-like bubbles and blinding electrical light, followed by a giant vortex connecting sea and sky as the water rapidly rushed back to fill it.
A few scattered blocks of melted and distorted metal that could no longer be recognized bobbed in the boiling seawater, proving that something had once been there.
The fresh reinforcements Stannis had sent out at the last, the only reliable force remaining in his hands, the Fleet that carried his last hopes for a counterattack or retreat...
...was gone.
Completely, utterly, and cleanly gone.
The war of mortals had only just begun, but the judgment of the gods had already fallen.
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