Chapter 7

The Fortress of the Western Reach.

Will, the Blood Demon Grand Duke, hovered in the iron-grey sky, his gaze fixed on the steel tide assembling on the distant horizon. His eyes, usually burning with the fervor of battle, now held the cold, heavy weight of inevitability.

Under normal circumstances, a defensive array powered by a Ninth-Rank core could withstand the charge of a standard Knight Order led by a Ninth-Rank commander. The Fortress of the Western Reach was even stronger; it possessed three interlocking Great Arrays, bolstered by the presence of two Grand Dukes—himself and Allen. At their peak, they could theoretically hold off seven or eight enemies of the same rank.

But the math of war had turned against them.

Standing outside the city were ten Ninth-Rank powerhouses.

A new reinforcement had arrived from the Magdeburg Line—a standard thousand-man Knight Order spearheaded by yet another Ninth-Rank Knight.

Below, six Ninth-Rank Knights, each at the head of their own heavy cavalry Order, were readying their lances. Above them, four Ninth-Rank Grand Magi floated in the air, their robes billowing in mana-winds that did not exist in the natural world. They stared at Will across the battlefield like vultures circling a dying beast.

The formal siege had not yet begun. What was happening now was merely the prelude—a bloody, logistical cleanup operation launched by the minor nobles to uproot the demon defensive positions outside the walls, clearing the runway for the ultimate charge of the Knight Orders.

BOOM!!!

The eighteen-pounder cannons roared in unison, sending iron death arcing over the battlefield to smash into demon positions three kilometers away. Further ahead, twelve-pounders fired grape-shot, spraying the trenches to provide cover for the advancing waves of "infantry."

"Viscount Charlo, this weapon of yours is truly... convenient."

In the rear, Viscount Simon watched with undisguised envy as the artillerymen methodically swabbed, loaded, and primed the barrels with clockwork precision.

"Having a battery of these is like having a Fourth-Rank mage attached to the army permanently! The attack speed is plodding, certainly, but at least you don't have to cater to a prima donna. As long as you have ammunition, it fires. Unlike those mages, who cast spells entirely based on their digestion or the phase of the moon."

"You praise it too highly, Viscount Simon. In reality, it is inferior to a Fourth-Rank mage," Charlo explained, his tone modest, masking the pride of an engineer. "Its attack method is, as you can see, very monotonous. Pure kinetic impact. In terms of tactical flexibility, it cannot compare to a mage who can blink across the field or alter the terrain."

"True, it lacks artistry. But I assume the manufacturing cost cannot possibly equal the extortionate fees of hiring a Fourth-Rank mage, can it?" Simon nodded, watching the standardized reloading drill with calculation in his eyes.

"It is... not that expensive," Charlo replied carefully. "The manufacturing cost of a single eighteen-pounder cannon is... roughly three Large Silver Coins."

"Three Large Silver Coins..." Simon frowned, his fingers drumming against his saddle as he performed the mental conversion. "That is still somewhat steep. Hiring a Fourth-Rank mage costs only one Large Silver and twenty Small Silvers a month. Could it be cheaper?"

Charlo watched Simon calculate, noting the man’s obsession with the convoluted currency of the Rodinia Continent. It was a chaotic mess that drove Charlo’s accountant soul to madness. Not only did every Empire have its own system, but powerful Dukes with minting rights also issued their own debased coins.

In international trade, pure bullion was the standard. Pure gold was pegged to an equal weight of standard elemental mana stones. Pure silver was valued at 1/24th the value of gold.

But domestic trade was a nightmare. In the Morris Empire, both Imperial "Large Coins" (high purity) and Ducal "Small Coins" (mixed alloy) circulated simultaneously.

"My apologies, Lord Simon. These cannons require specific metallurgy, and the cost is hard to lower," Charlo said, feigning a troubled sigh. "You know how it is. Negotiating prices with supernatural artisans is never easy. They charge for the 'art,' not the labor."

Three Large Silver Coins was, of course, a heavily inflated price. Charlo wasn't about to tell Simon that thanks to his blast furnaces, assembly lines, and non-magical labor force, the real cost was a mere one Large Silver and sixty Small Silvers.

"Hmm... let me consider it. We can discuss trade after the battle," Simon decided after a moment, his frown deepening. He clearly didn't like the ROI.

"Very well." Charlo didn't push. The eighteen-pounder was his proprietary technology; selling current-generation weapons to potential political rivals was bad business strategy anyway.

A short while later, Charlo watched the battlefield with a grim expression.

Through the haze of black powder smoke, he saw the waves of slaves finally reach the demon positions. They were poorly armed, unarmored, and terrified. In an instant, they were torn apart by the desperate defenders.

"Viscount Simon," Charlo said, his voice tight. "I believe the enemy positions are exposed. It is time to send in the knights."

"It is not yet time, Viscount Charlo," Simon replied calmly, his voice devoid of any emotion other than boredom. "I will send two more waves of slaves. Only by thoroughly exhausting the enemy's strength—draining their mana and stamina—can we minimize the risk to our precious knights."

Charlo remained silent, his gloved hands gripping his reins tight enough to creak.

Previously, the Demon Army’s lightning-fast offensive had forced the Empire to deploy all-supernatural legions. Against a race where every individual possessed supernatural strength, only supernatural human troops could react fast enough.

But now that the battle had devolved into static trench warfare, the Empire brought its cruelest advantage to bear: sheer biomass.

The nobles had begun "conscripting" slaves and commoners to form massive mortal armies. These unfortunates were sent to the front lines not to win, but to be slaughtered. The logic was simple and cold: let the enemy kill until their arms were tired, then send in the knights to mop up.

It was the hallmark tactic of minor nobles who lacked high-rank powerhouses. To them, a Mid-Rank knight was an investment of time and gold. If sacrificing a thousand slaves saved one knight, the ledger remained balanced.

Usually, this wouldn't work against High-Rank entities who could ignore numbers. But the Demon Lord had taken the elite forces south. The defenders left in the trenches were mostly Low-Rank demons.

This made the meat grinder effective.

Charlo watched another batch of slaves being whipped forward into the kill zone. He had no relation to them; they weren't his subjects. Yet, a distinctly modern rage simmered in his chest.

It wasn't just about morality; it was about the waste. He hated these cruel, inefficient rules. He hated these nobles who saw human beings as disposable inventory.

But he was a Viscount, not a god. The only thing he could do was order his artillery to fire faster, hoping that more shells would mean fewer slaughtered slaves.

After nearly exhausting his supply of eighteen-pounder shells, the signal finally came.

Charlo mounted his warhorse. He led his special assault team—all supernatural soldiers equipped with his custom firearms—and joined Viscount Simon’s knights in the charge.

Over the scorched earth plowed by cannon fire and carpeted with the bodies of slaves, they met little resistance. The "meat grinder" had done its terrible work. The demons were exhausted, their mana drained, their weapons dull.

The only trouble came from a Fifth-Rank Tiger Demon who refused to fall. However, under the combined assault of Charlo’s rifled muskets and Simon’s lance, the beast was quickly put down.

After that, the battle was out of their hands. Ultimately, both he and Simon were merely small Viscounts, insignificant specks in a war of this scale. The outcome would be decided by the titans.

Several Days Later.

The demonic positions outside the Fortress of the Western Reach had been thoroughly purged.

From a safe distance, Charlo watched the finale begin.

Six Supernatural Knight Orders, led by six Ninth-Rank powerhouses, began their acceleration four kilometers away from the walls. The earth trembled rhythmically, a drumbeat of doom.

As they picked up speed, the formations began to glow.

Six massive, conical energy fields enveloped the charging knights, transforming thousands of individuals into six colossal, incandescent drills of light.

They crossed the four-kilometer gap with unstoppable momentum, the air screaming as they passed, slamming into the Fortress of the Western Reach with world-shaking force.

CRACK.

The sound was not of stone breaking, but of the sky itself shattering.