Chapter 167: CHECKMATE
07:00 AM. Dawn began to break on the eastern horizon.
In Northveil, smoke and dust still choked the battlefield. The four commanders of the Iron Empire were in their respective positions, their thousands of cyborgs pressing from every direction. Leofric’s tanks were running dry on ammunition. Thorne and Elian’s infantry held their lines with desperate tenacity.
In the eastern sector, Martin remained entrenched behind a barricade of ruins.
His steam armor hissed, and his massive hammer was slick with gore. Yet, he couldn’t advance. Every time he tried to make a move, a sniper’s bullet forced him back. Three of his field commanders were already dead, and his forces were spiraling into disarray.
Thorne, watching from a distance, sensed the stalemate. He couldn’t see Martin through the sea of cyborgs, but he knew exactly where the giant was.
"Borch." Thorne keyed his radio. "Martin is behind the barricades. I can’t get a visual, but I know you can."
Borch’s voice came through, calm as a mountain lake. "High difficulty."
"But you can do it."
Borch didn’t reply. He simply adjusted his scope with glacial precision.
Atop the skyscraper, Borch held his breath. Hundreds of cyborgs swarmed below him, filling every gap in the ruins. Martin was hiding somewhere—among the metal legion, behind a pile of rubble, or sheltered by iron barricades.
Dom, beside him, whispered, "I see movement at the central barricade. Might be him."
Borch shifted his scope. Negative. Only a standard cyborg.
"Not there."
He continued his hunt. One minute. Two. Three.
His breathing grew shallow. His heart rate slowed to a crawl. The world around him vanished—there was only the crosshair and the target yet to be found.
Five minutes. Ten minutes.
The cyborgs shifted constantly. Martin might have relocated, or burrowed deeper into cover.
But Borch did not yield. He was the embodiment of patience. He waited.
Finally, he caught it.
A massive silhouette, larger than any standard cyborg, shifted behind a narrow gap in the barricade. Steam armor. A colossal hammer. Martin.
"Target acquired," Borch whispered.
He adjusted his aim slightly. Factoring for the wind. Calculating the drop. Waiting for the perfect rhythm between heartbeats.
Thud.
The Gauss Rifle barely made a sound—only a faint, magnetic hiss.
The projectile streaked through the air, threading through hundreds of cyborgs, passing through a hairline fracture in the rubble, and burying itself directly in Martin’s head.
THUD.
Martin collapsed. He didn’t move again.
The surrounding cyborgs froze for a moment, confused. Their commander—down? Dead?
The silence lasted only seconds before they resumed their mindless assault, now without command, without direction.
Borch tapped his mic twice. Target eliminated.
Thorne, receiving the signal, clenched his fist.
"Martin is dead," he murmured. "Now, it’s our turn."
In the sky, Arctus drifted near the clouds.
His pilot jacket whipped in the freezing wind. Behind him, thousands of Air-Bombers stood ready. Each dirigible carried a steam cannon—not a standard piece, but a specialized weapon Rudigor had prepared long ago.
"Arctus," Rudigor’s voice crackled over the radio. "The dragons will appear. Are you ready?"
"Of course." Arctus smirked. "Let them come. I’ll pluck them from the sky one by one."
From his vantage point, he could see the entire theater of war. To the south, Drayk was pushing hard with his Breaker Units and Heavy Cyborgs. To the north, Rudigor and Varkon held firm. To the east, Martin’s forces were faltering—though Arctus did not yet know that Martin was a corpse.
Below, the Sky-Hunters were still relentlessly harassing Drayk’s vanguard. Every time a Breaker Unit tried to lunge forward, the helicopters would swarm them.
Drayk snarled in frustration. "General, these Sky-Hunters are a nuisance. I can’t maintain the pace."
"Patience. They will retreat."
And as predicted, they did.
Kaelen received Rianor’s command: "Withdraw. Pull all units back."
Thamrin, in his cockpit, glanced back. "Withdraw? But we can still—"
"It’s an order." Kaelen’s voice was flat. "Pull back."
The Sky-Hunters peeled away, one by one, abandoning the field.
Drayk watched them go, his suspicion flaring—why would they retreat now? There were no signs of defeat, no major losses. They were just... leaving.
But the primal urge to conquer overrode his caution.
"ADVANCE! CRUSH THEM!"
The Breaker Units broke into a run. Heavy Cyborgs fired without pause. Junk Cyborgs flooded the southern battlefield like a rising tide.
Leofric, inside his tank, roared, "HOLD! THEY’RE CHARGING!"
Gideon checked the munitions. "Low. Enough for maybe half an hour. After that..."
"After that, we die," Leofric cut in. "But we hold until the next order."
On the front lines, Elian was overwhelmed. His soldiers were falling. One was struck by a heavy cyborg’s shell, collapsing instantly. Another was pulverized by a Breaker Unit’s fist.
Yet Elian held. He fired, retreated, and fired again.
"Thorne!" Elian shouted over the radio. "We can’t hold much longer! Drayk is moving too fast! We need support!"
Thorne heard the desperation. He opened a line to Rianor. "Rianor, emergency status. Drayk is breaking through. Elian is flagging. Leofric too. We need something now."
At the command hill, Rianor received the report. His face remained a mask of calm. His fingers drummed a slow beat on the table.
"Hold just a moment longer," he replied. "Just a moment."
Three hours earlier. Command Hill.
Rianor stood before the Dragon Commanders. Zoldrak and Seraphina stood tall, their expressions grim. Outside, the battle had reached a brief lull—only the sound of the wind and distant explosions.
"Zoldrak." Rianor pointed to the map. "Take 250 dragons to the south. Take a wide arc, stay undetected. When Drayk is busy advancing, strike from his rear."
Zoldrak studied the map. "The Breaker Units and Heavy Cyborgs?"
"Obliterate them. Don’t let them retreat. Once you strike, they will descend into chaos."
"Understood."
Rianor turned to Seraphina. "Take 250 dragons to the northeast. Fly high, above Arctus’s effective range. When Zoldrak begins his assault, dive fast. Target Arctus and his Air-Bombers."
Seraphina smiled—a predatory grin she hadn’t worn in a long time. "Finally. I’ve been waiting for this since we set foot in Northveil."
"But remember." Rianor’s gaze was piercing. "You must fly fast. Extremely fast. Never stop. Don’t brake. The moment you slow down, they will lock on. Keep moving, or you fall."
Seraphina nodded. "Fast. No stopping. I understand."
Zoldrak added, "We move as soon as the Sky-Hunters withdraw. That’s the signal."
Rianor nodded. "Wait for that moment. Do not move early. Let them believe they have won."
Back on the Battlefield.
As the Sky-Hunters withdrew and Drayk surged forward, Zoldrak and his 250 dragons had already been on the move for half an hour.
They had taken a massive detour, flying low over the southern ruins, invisible to an enemy obsessed with the advance. Before them, the Breaker Units and Heavy Cyborgs were joyfully tearing into Elian and Leofric, blissfully unaware that death was approaching from behind.
Zoldrak raised his claw. His ancient eyes—which had witnessed 1,200 years of war—flashed with power.
"ATTACK!"
Two hundred and fifty dragons descended like a storm from the southern sky.
Fire erupted. Breaker Units were slagged, the gorilla-like robots melting into molten steel. Heavy Cyborgs spun around in shock, but it was too late. Dragon claws rent their armor. Fire incinerated the rear ranks.
In seconds, dozens of Breaker Units were junk. Hundreds of Heavy Cyborgs were ash.
Drayk, at the front, heard the roar behind him. He looked back—and his eyes went wide.
"WHAT?!"
His Breaker Units—gone. His Heavy Cyborgs—burning. His Junk Cyborgs—scattering in a blind panic.
"The Dragons!" he roared in fury. "You bastards!"
But Zoldrak had already pulled up, climbing fast, giving Drayk no chance to retaliate. He knew the rule—keep moving, never stop.
In the sky, Arctus was equally stunned.
While his focus had been occupied by the retreating Sky-Hunters, 250 dragons suddenly materialized from the northeast—flying at terminal velocity. They dove, struck, and ascended. They were never still.
Seraphina led the charge, her eyes glowing red. "ATTACK! DON’T STOP! KEEP MOVING!"
The Air-Bombers began to fire. Their steam cannons boomed—massive shots designed to disrupt a dragon’s energy.
One dragon was struck in the wing. It shrieked, spiraling down, and exploded before it even hit the ground.
Two more were hit in the torso. They fell like stones.
Seraphina saw it. Her eyes narrowed, suppressed rage bubbling within.
"KEEP MOVING! DON’T BE A TARGET!"
The dragons continued their hit-and-run tactics—diving, breathing fire, and vanishing. The Air-Bomber fleet fell into chaos—some exploded, some crashed, others tried to retreat.
But the bombers kept firing. And dragons kept falling.
Seraphina watched as her kin were plucked from the sky one by one. Dozens were dead. Perhaps a hundred. But she couldn’t stop. She had to keep the momentum.
Arctus tried to reorganize his formation, but the dragons were too fast. They came from every vector, struck, and were gone. He couldn’t get a solid lock.
"Arctus!" Rudigor barked over the radio. "Report!"
"We... we’re under attack! Dragons! From the rear! From above! They’re everywhere!"
Rudigor went silent. His eyes narrowed.
At that same moment, another report came in. From the east.
"My Lord! Martin... Martin is dead!"
Rudigor clenched his fist. Steam hissed violently from his armor vents.
Martin was dead. Drayk was being decimated from the rear. Arctus was overwhelmed.
His perfect plan—pinning the Sudrath from four sides—was disintegrating.
Varkon, beside him, began a rapid recalculation. "My Lord, if we withdraw now, we can still—"
"I know." Rudigor cut him off. His voice was cold, but there was a tremor there—an unfamiliar vibration. "But we haven’t lost yet."
To the south, Zoldrak continued the slaughter.
The Breaker Units were nearly extinct. The Heavy Cyborgs were down to half their strength. Drayk himself was wounded—his claw snapped, the cannon on his shoulder a ruin of metal.
"RETREAT!" Drayk screamed. "PULL BACK!"
But it was too late. The dragons were relentless.
In the sky, Seraphina held on.
The 250 dragons were now down to 150. But Arctus’s Air-Bomber fleet had also shrunk drastically—from thousands to perhaps half that number.
Arctus himself was flagging. His dirigible’s steam envelope was leaking. He had to land.
"Arctus!" Rudigor roared. "Do not retreat!"
But Arctus had no choice. He began a slow descent, searching for a safe zone.
At the command hill, the reports flooded in.
"Martin dead—Borch confirms."
"Drayk retreating—Breaker Units destroyed, Heavy Cyborgs at half."
"Arctus descending—Air-Bomber fleet in chaos."
Hektor read the reports with glittering eyes. "Rianor... are we winning?"
Rianor didn’t answer. He simply stared at the map. Four red dots—one extinguished (Martin). One retreating (Drayk). One overwhelmed (Arctus). One still standing, but wavering (Rudigor).
He offered a thin smile. Not a smile of arrogance, but of satisfaction—because his strategy was absolute.
"Check," he murmured.
In the sky, the battle raged. Seraphina continued her assault despite the losses. Kaelen and the Sky-Hunters returned, flanking the survivors.
To the south, Zoldrak wiped out the remnants of Drayk’s army.
To the east, Thorne and Borch began their advance, clearing the disorganized survivors of Martin’s unit.
Rudigor still stood in the north. But for the first time, he felt it—the looming shadow of defeat.
08:30 AM. The sun climbed higher.
In Northveil, the battle continued, but the tide had turned irrevocably.
Rianor stared at the map. Four red dots—one dead, two in retreat, one holding on.
He picked up the radio. His voice was steady. No rush.
"All units, advance. Eliminate them one by one."
In the sky, Seraphina heard the order. She smiled through her exhaustion.
To the south, Zoldrak heard it. He roared, leading his remaining dragons in a final charge.
To the east, Thorne heard it. He raised his weapon and charged.
To the west, Leofric heard it. He laughed.
"FORWARD! WE HAVE WON!"
Rudigor, from the center of the chaos, saw it all. His army was breaking. His commanders were falling one by one.
He clenched his fist. Steam hissed with a deafening roar.
"You..." he whispered. "You truly are a genius."
09:00 AM. The sun was high.
The battle was not over, but a new Chapter had begun.
Rianor remained on the command hill. His face calm. His eyes on the map.
"Checkmate," he whispered once more.
And on the battlefield, Rudigor still stood.
But his steps were beginning to falter.