Chapter 189: THE GIANT’S NECK
Dawn had yet to break when Khulafa adjusted his scope for the umpteenth time.
From the rooftops of the ruined marketplace, he had a panoramic view of the battlefield—the monster beginning to falter, Leofric’s tanks retreating in a calculated withdrawal, and the ten specks on the southern hill that remained ominously still. The night wind whipped against his face, which was concealed by a black cloth, carrying the acrid stench of smoke and blood from the dying city. Beside him, his Gauss Rifle lay cold and heavy, its mana battery only half-filled.
Khulafa wasn’t the most senior member of the Ghost Squad, nor did he have the highest kill count. Borch had sent him to Torshavn for one specific reason: his patience. In a unit that prided itself on speed and precision, Khulafa was an anomaly—a marksman who could wait for hours without moving, without a sound, and without a single complaint.
Tonight, that patience was about to pay off.
Every time the monster roared—a sound that vibrated through bone and shattered the surrounding glass—the ice around its neck fractured. The cracks spread like a spiderweb, momentarily revealing what lay beneath. Was it flesh? Muscle? Khulafa couldn’t be certain. But he noted one crucial detail: while the cracks healed, the process was growing visibly slower.
"The neck," Khulafa whispered. "That’s the weak point."
On the adjacent roof, two other Ghost Squad members—Ruslan and Naya—confirmed his findings via Vibro-Comm. "I’m seeing the same pattern," Naya’s voice came through softly. "The fissures at the neck aren’t regenerating perfectly. It’s taking much longer than before."
The fourth member, Orva, was positioned on a lower roof closer to the front lines. Her task wasn’t to observe the monster, but to ensure no Highgarden knights attempted a stealthy infiltration. "No movement from the south," she reported. "They’re still on the hill. Still waiting."
Khulafa didn’t respond. He refocused his scope on the monster’s neck. The cracks were wider now. The creature roared again—this time weaker, shorter. It sounded as if it were running out of breath.
He pressed the crystal pager at his waist.
"Commander Leofric. Monster’s weak point identified: the neck. The ice regeneration is failing there. we can bring it down if—"
"Just shoot it!" Leofric interrupted, his voice gruff and impatient. The background was a cacophony of tank engines and shouting soldiers. "I don’t need a lecture! Where is the opening?!"
"The neck, Commander. But the ice must be shattered by tank fire first. Once it cracks, I’ll put a round through the gap before the ice can fuse back together."
A brief silence followed on the other end. Then, Leofric’s voice returned, more composed. "Are you sure you can hit it?"
Khulafa stared through the scope. The fractures were pulsing. "Yes."
"Fine. Wait for my signal."
Leofric lowered his pager and stared up at the titan.
Standing fifteen times the height of a man, it now looked like a glacier covered in cracks. Its movements were sluggish, its roars infrequent. But it was still upright. Still alive. Still lethal.
"Gideon."
"Sir?"
"How many tanks are still combat-ready?"
Gideon checked his crystal tablet. His voice was flat, but exhaustion lined his tone. "Eight units. Two are total losses—the Ironhide and the Glacier. The crew of the Ironhide
—three men—were killed instantly. The Glacier can be towed, but its main cannon is scrap metal." Leofric didn’t reply. He looked at the Ironhide, overturned near the gate. The tank was mangled, its treads torn, smoke billowing from the gaps in its armor. Three men—names he had memorized, faces he had trained himself—were gone.
He clenched his fist. There was no time for mourning.
"Eight tanks. Aim everything at the monster’s neck. Do not fire until I give the order."
"Understood."
The eight remaining Wolf-Tusks rotated their turrets. Hydraulic systems hissed and groaned as metal ground against metal. The tank crews—weary men who had been fighting for hours—stared ahead, waiting.
The monster roared again.
Its neck was exposed. The ice shattered wider than before, revealing a dark, pulsing crevice beneath. From his rooftop vantage point, Khulafa saw it with crystalline clarity. His finger was already on the trigger of the Gauss Rifle.
"NOW!" Leofric bellowed.
Eight 105mm cannons fired in unison. The shockwave rattled the earth, blowing out the last remaining windows in the vicinity. The projectiles slammed into the monster’s neck, precisely hitting the fractured zone.
The ice exploded into shards. The monster recoiled, a deafening shriek of agony erupting from its maw. Its neck was now wide open—dark, throbbing flesh was visible behind the ruined ice layers.
"KHULAFA! NOW!"
Khulafa took a breath. Held it. His finger squeezed the trigger.
Thwip.
The sound of the Gauss Rifle was barely audible amidst the chaos. But the magnetic projectile streaked out at three times the speed of sound, piercing the gap in the monster’s neck before the regeneration could even begin.
The monster froze.
Its roar died in its throat. Its eyes—two pale blue orbs without pupils—bulged. Fissures began to spread from its neck across its entire body, like glass struck by a sledgehammer.
Then, it toppled.
Backward. Away from the gate, away from the tanks, away from the fleeing citizens. The earth groaned as the massive weight hit the ground. A massive plume of dust rose, obscuring the view for several seconds.
Then, silence.
Leofric stood in his tank’s hatch, his breathing ragged. His hands were shaking—not from fear, but from an exhaustion that had reached its limit. He stared at the carcass. No movement. No breathing. Dead.
"We did it," he whispered.
There were no cheers. No shouts of victory. The remaining infantry simply collapsed among the rubble, their faces hollow, their hands still gripping nearly empty weapons. The Nightshades, led by Veyra, continued to usher citizens north, not even pausing to look back.
They were too tired to celebrate.
On the southern hill, Sir Romeni remained standing.
"The monster is down," Sir Alden said behind him. His voice sounded relieved, yet uneasy. "They succeeded."
Sir Romeni didn’t respond immediately. He observed the Sudrath tanks shutting down, the infantry slumped on the ground, and the Nightshades still occupied with the evacuation. There was no offensive movement. No new defensive formation.
They were spent.
"The Sudrath forces are at their breaking point," he finally said. "It is time."
He unsheathed the greatsword from his back. The sound of metal sliding against the scabbard rang clearly in the silence of the hill. The nine knights behind him followed suit—drawing swords, axes, and spears.
"We move in. Deliver Duke Alistair’s message."
"Orders, Sir?" Sir Alden asked.
Sir Romeni began to descend the hill. His steps were steady, unhurried. "Attack. Do not give them a moment to breathe."
The nine knights followed him. They didn’t run. They didn’t scream. They just walked—ten shadows descending the hill toward the ruined city gates.
Count Eddard saw them from the watchtower.
His hands, which had finally stopped shaking after receiving the order from Iron Hearth, began to tremble again. The ten dots were moving. Descending the hill. Heading for his city.
He lifted his crystal pager. "Leofric. Highgarden is moving. They’re entering the city."
Leofric’s voice came back hoarse. "I see them."
"What will you do?"
"There is only one thing I can do." A brief pause. "Hold the line, and kill them."
Count Eddard wanted to say something—perhaps a warning, perhaps a prayer—but the words caught in his throat. He simply turned off the pager and stared south.
Let them come, he thought. We are still standing.
At the East Gate, Leofric climbed down from his tank.
His boots landed on ground littered with rubble and spent shell casings. He stood tall, watching the ten Highgarden knights draw closer. They walked in a loose formation—no need for tight ranks, no need for complex tactics. Their arrogance alone was enough to announce their arrival.
"Commander," Gideon’s voice came from inside the tank. "Ammunition is nearly dry. Main cannons have less than ten shells per tank. We can’t—"
"I know."
Leofric gripped the small hatchet at his waist. It wasn’t his primary weapon—just a backup he rarely ever used. But tonight, he felt he would need it.
"All units, listen up." His voice broadcast over the radio to the entire force. "Highgarden is entering the city. Ten men. They are elite knights. But they are only ten."
He paused, looking at the faces of his men—the exhausted infantry, the tank crews peering from their hatches, the Nightshades who had briefly paused their evacuation to listen.
"We have fought a monster the size of a mountain. We have lost comrades. We have stared death in the face a dozen times tonight. And we are still standing."
He pointed toward the south, at the ten approaching figures.
"They think we are weak. They think we will run. They think we will surrender just because they arrived while we are tired."
Leofric raised his hatchet.
"They are wrong."
There were no cheers, no spirited battle cries. But the soldiers began to stand. The infantry gripped their Sudrath Spears. Tank crews returned to their stations. Veyra signaled her team—continue the evacuation, faster now.
They were ready.
Sir Romeni stepped through the ruined city gate.
Before him, the Wolf-Tusk tanks were lined up, cannons aimed south. The infantry stood in a loose formation, weapons raised. In the distance, he could see citizens still fleeing north—but that was not his concern.
He stopped. The nine knights behind him halted as well.
"Leofric of Sudrath," he said, his voice calm and icy. "I am Sir Romeni, envoy of Duke Alistair Solari."
Leofric didn’t answer. He just stared, hatchet in hand.
Sir Romeni raised his sword. A golden aura began to radiate from the blade—a light that pulsed like a heartbeat.
"I have come to deliver a message."
He brought his sword down.
"Attack."
The ten Highgarden knights surged forward.
In Iron Hearth, the night was still thick.
Roland sat in his study, staring at the crystal pager on the desk. The message from Khulafa had been received: Monster down. Highgarden moving into the city. Leofric standing ground.
He read the message twice.
"The Mirror Protocol is over," he murmured.
He stood up, walked to the window, and stared south. In the distance, there was only darkness. But he could imagine what was happening—Leofric standing before his tanks, his exhausted troops, and the ten Highgarden knights coming to kill.
His fists clenched.
"Hold on, Leofric," he whispered.
He grabbed his pager and began typing a message to Riven.
In Torshavn, Count Eddard still stood on the tower.
He watched as Highgarden charged. He watched as Leofric’s tanks began to fire. He watched as the infantry rose to fight again, even though their bodies were screaming for rest.
His hands were no longer shaking.
"We are still standing," he whispered to himself. "We are still standing."
Below, the battle began.
And that night, Torshavn did not fall.