Chapter 190: THE FANGS OF HIGHGARDEN
The first sound to shatter the silence was the screech of rending steel.
Sir Romeni lunged, his greatsword carving through the barrel of the nearest tank—a Wolf-Tusk that had tried to lock onto him from twenty meters away. His blade, shrouded in a brilliant golden aura, sliced through the 105mm barrel as if it were soft butter. Inside, the crew screamed—not from terror, but from the violent backlash of their exploding hydraulic systems. The tank stalled. Dead.
"Stonewall is down!" Gideon’s voice crackled through the command tank’s radio, distorted by static. "The crew—all three—confirmed KIA!"
Leofric didn’t respond immediately. He stood beside his own tank, the Iron Will, which remained unscathed for now. His eyes burned as he stared at the mangled wreckage of the Stonewall. He remembered their names. Two veterans from Northveil, and a fresh recruit from Iron Hearth. Only hours ago, they were joking about breakfast. Now, they were nothing but acrid smoke and twisted metal.
Before he could mourn, a second Highgarden knight struck.
A massive man wielding a heavy war-axe leaped onto another tank—the Frostbite. He brought his axe down on the hatch. Once. Twice. The metal buckled inward. White smoke hissed from the gaps. The tank sputtered and died, its engine seizing. No one emerged from the wreck.
"Frostbite destroyed!" Gideon’s voice returned. "The crew is unresponsive!"
Leofric clenched his fists so hard his knuckles turned white beneath his leather gloves. He wanted to scream—to curse—to do something. But he was a commander. And a commander could never lose control.
A third knight—a spearman—thrust his weapon into the treads of the Ironhide, a tank that had been overturned during the monster attack. The vehicle was already out of commission, but the knight hacked at it anyway, ensuring it was beyond repair. It was a calculated insult.
A fourth knight—wielding dual short-swords—blurred toward the Glacier, whose cannon was already broken. He didn’t destroy it immediately. Instead, he perched atop it like a scavenger, scanning the area for his next target.
Leofric counted the seconds. Four tanks. Four tanks decimated in less than two minutes.
"Commander!" Gideon urged. "We have to—"
"I know." Leofric cut him off. His voice was low, but steady as stone. "All units, focus fire on the mobile knights. Do not let them approach the operational tanks. Infantry, suppressive fire! Pin them down!"
"Understood!"
The exhausted infantry scrambled to their feet. Sudrath Spears were leveled. Gunfire erupted—not as precise as usual, as hands trembled and eyes blurred with fatigue—but it was enough to restrict the knights’ freedom of movement.
From the rooftops, Khulafa watched.
He had tracked all four knights. He had calculated their speed, their attack patterns, and the rhythm of their movements. But he hadn’t fired yet. He was waiting for the perfect window.
"Khulafa," Ruslan’s voice came through the Vibro-Comm. "Target three. The spearman. He’s overextending."
"I see him."
"Target four too. The dual-wielder. He’s looking for us."
"I know."
"Do we wait?"
Khulafa regulated his breathing. The scope of his Gauss Rifle followed the spearman, who stood atop the ruins of the Ironhide, scanning the rooftops.
One second.
Thwip.
The spearman collapsed. His weapon clattered against the rubble. Blood seeped from the visor of his helm, staining his Highgarden green surcoat. He didn’t move again.
"One," Khulafa whispered.
The dual-wielder atop the Glacier saw his comrade fall. He didn’t panic. He leaped down, moving in a jagged zig-zag through the shadows. He was fast—terrifyingly so. But Naya already had a lock on him from the adjacent roof.
"Target four, three o’clock," Naya reported. "Heading for the lumber pile."
"I can’t get an angle," Ruslan cursed.
"Let him get closer," Khulafa said. "Orva, do you have him?"
Orva’s voice came from the lower roof: "He’s in my blind spot. But he’ll break cover near the Iron Will in five seconds."
Khulafa shifted his scope. She was right. The knight was closing in on Leofric’s tank. Perhaps he wanted the commander’s head, or perhaps he was just looking for cover. Either way, it was a fatal mistake.
The moment the knight leaped over the lumber, the flickering flames of a nearby burning building illuminated his silhouette. Khulafa pulled the trigger.
Thwip.
The knight stumbled. The Gauss round tore through his thigh—not a kill shot, but enough to bring him down. Before he could recover, Ruslan fired a second shot. This one took him in the head.
"Two," Ruslan whispered.
The third knight—the one with the massive axe—watched two of his brothers die in heartbeats. He didn’t seek cover. Instead, he let out a guttural roar of fury and charged straight for the Iron Will, where Leofric stood.
"Commander!" Gideon screamed.
Leofric had already anticipated the move. He climbed down from the tank. Not to hide—but to face the threat.
The knight swung his axe in a wide arc. Leofric rolled to the side. The axe struck the ground, shattering stone and leaving a crater in the street. Leofric didn’t draw the hatchet at his waist. Instead, he unbuckled it and let it fall to the dirt.
The knight frowned. "You surrender?"
Leofric didn’t answer. He clenched his fists. A pale blue mana aura began to radiate from his knuckles—not the blinding radiance of Sir Romeni, but a dense, heavy energy. Iron Fists. It was his old moniker, from the days before tanks, before the war, before everything.
"Come," Leofric said.
The knight surged forward.
Leofric was no longer a young man. His speed was not what it once was. But he didn’t need to be fast; he needed to be precise. He parried the axe’s haft with his left forearm—not with bare skin, but with a wrist braced by mana. The axe bounced off. The knight staggered.
In that split second, Khulafa saw the opening.
The knight was entirely focused on Leofric. He didn’t look up. His helm didn’t shift, but there was a gap in the armpit of his armor—where the steel plates failed to meet perfectly.
Thwip.
The third knight fell. His axe slipped from his fingers. Blood poured from the gap in his armor. He did not rise again.
"Three," Khulafa whispered.
Leofric stared at the corpse before him, then looked toward the roof where Khulafa was positioned. He didn’t smile. He didn’t offer thanks. Just a small, sharp nod—enough to be understood.
But the battle was far from over.
Sir Romeni watched three of his men die. His expression remained stoic, but his attacks grew more ferocious. He cleaved through a fourth tank—the Ironclad—with a single vertical strike that split the cannon and part of the hull. The tank didn’t explode, but the crew scrambled out in a panic, hands raised. Romeni cut them down instantly; there was no mercy on this battlefield.
"Commander Leofric of Sudrath!" his voice echoed. "If you are indeed a commander, face me!"
Leofric stepped forward.
"Commander!" Gideon shouted. "Don’t—"
Leofric reached up and clicked his radio off.
He walked into the center of the gate, amidst the wreckage of his fallen tanks. His military uniform—not armor, just heavy cloth with minimal plating—fluttered in the night wind. His hands remained wreathed in blue mana. His eyes locked onto Sir Romeni.
"I am here."
Sir Romeni offered a thin, cold smile. "You seek an honorable death."
"I only want you to stop killing my men."
They stared each other down. Then, Sir Romeni lunged.
His golden blade swept toward Leofric’s neck. Fast. Precise. Lethal. But Leofric had already read the arc. He ducked, letting the blade whistle over his head, and countered with a heavy right hook to Romeni’s midsection.
Romeni’s armor vibrated with the impact. The punch didn’t penetrate, but the sheer force forced the knight back a step.
"You are strong," Romeni murmured.
Leofric didn’t waste breath on words. He pressed the attack, unleashing a flurry of strikes—left, right, left—aiming for the joints in Romeni’s plate. But Romeni was no ordinary knight. He parried with his crossguard, his bracers, and his shoulders. Every punch was met with a counter-slash that forced Leofric to weave and dodge.
They danced amidst the ruins. Leofric with fists of blue iron, Romeni with a blade of gold. Neither gave an inch.
Around them, the skirmish continued. Sudrath infantry fired at the remaining Highgarden knights—now only six, including Sir Alden. The four functional tanks fired their cannons, but the knights were too elusive. One shell hit an abandoned building, bringing it down in a heap of bricks. Another nearly took Sir Alden, who leaped clear just in time.
One infantryman—too brave or perhaps too exhausted—tried to charge Sir Alden with a Sudrath Spear. Alden swept his blade, snapping the weapon in two. The soldier stumbled back, empty-handed. Alden didn’t kill him. He simply kicked the man into the dirt and moved on.
From the tower, Count Eddard watched it all. His hand gripped his crystal pager, but he didn’t use it. What could he report? That they were losing? That their tanks were scrap? That Leofric was fighting a different kind of monster?
He could only bear witness.
In the street below, the duel reached its climax.
Leofric was flagging. His breathing was labored, and his arms trembled from both exhaustion and injury. Romeni had managed to graze his left arm, blood soaking through his sleeve. But Leofric refused to stop.
He saw the opening.
Romeni swung his greatsword too wide—perhaps from fatigue, or perhaps from arrogance. Leofric stepped inside the guard, catching Romeni’s wrist with his left hand, and drove his right fist into the knight’s face.
The mana-infused blow struck Romeni’s cheek. His helm didn’t cover his entire face—only the forehead and temples. His cheek split. Blood sprayed.
Romeni recoiled two steps. He touched his bleeding face, staring at Leofric—not with anger, but with something else. Respect.
"You are truly strong," he said again.
Leofric didn’t answer. He was gasping for air, his hands shaking violently. But he remained standing.
Romeni sheathed his sword.
"Enough."
Leofric frowned. "What?"
"I did not come here to slaughter you all." Romeni looked around—at the broken tanks, the corpses of his three knights, and the battered but unbowed Sudrath soldiers. "I am here to deliver a message."
He spoke loudly, his voice echoing through the ruins: "Listen, Sudrath! I have not come to conquer this city today. I am here to deliver a message from Duke Alistair Solari."
Everything stopped. The infantry lowered their weapons—not out of command, but out of sheer curiosity. The tanks ceased fire. Even the night wind seemed to fall silent.
"In three months, Northreach will crumble. The Kingdom of Aethelgard, the Church, and the Solari will unite. Nothing will remain of the House of Sudrath. Nothing will remain of your city. Nothing will remain of your dreams for the future."
Romeni paused, his eyes locking onto Leofric’s.
"This is not a threat. It is a reality."
"Prepare yourselves. Build your weapons. It will change nothing. Three months."
He turned on his heel. The six remaining knights—including Sir Alden—gathered behind him. Alden looked at the bodies of his three comrades for a moment, then back at Leofric. There was no hatred in his gaze. Only weariness.
"We are leaving," Romeni commanded.
They walked out through the ruined gates of Torshavn. They didn’t run. They didn’t look back. They were just six shadows receding into the south, returning from whence they came.
Leofric watched them go. His face hardened—not with rage, but with a cold, terrifying resolve. His eyes held a fire that would not be extinguished. He didn’t shout. He didn’t threaten. He just watched.
Around him, Torshavn fell into a heavy silence.
The surviving infantry—perhaps only half of their original number—slumped amidst the rubble. Some wept. Others stared blankly at the sky. Some hugged their weapons as if they were the only things left in the world.
Veyra stood among the evacuated citizens. She had heard the message. Every word. Her fists clenched, and tears tracked through the grime on her cheeks—not from fear, but from a burning fury. Beside her, Kendrick, Sera, and Orin stood in grim silence.
Count Eddard remained on the tower. He stared south, where Highgarden had vanished. His face was pale, but his eyes were steady.
"Three months," he whispered. "Will the Duke be ready?"
At the gate, Leofric finally collapsed to his knees. Blood from his arm flowed freely, staining the rubble beneath him. Veyra and the Nightshade medics rushed toward him.
"Commander!" Veyra knelt by his side, beginning to bandage his arm. "You’re badly hurt. We need to—"
Leofric didn’t answer. His eyes were still fixed on the southern horizon.
Gideon climbed out of the Iron Will. He stood beside Leofric, crystal tablet in hand.
"I recorded it all," he said quietly. "The fight. The message. Everything."
Leofric finally spoke, his voice a gravelly rasp: "Save it. We’re going to need it."
He tried to stand. Veyra held him back. "Commander, your wounds—"
"It’s nothing." Leofric forced himself up. His legs shook, but he stood tall. He looked at his troops—those who remained, those who were wounded, those who were broken. "Did you hear that message?"
Some nodded. Others just watched.
"They think we’ll be afraid." Leofric’s voice was soft, yet it seemed to reach everyone. "They think we’ll surrender. They think that after tonight, we’ll run."
He looked at the corpses of the three Highgarden knights.
"They are wrong."
There were no cheers. No shouts. But one by one, the soldiers began to stand. Slowly. Painfully. They looked at Leofric, then they looked south.
That night, Torshavn did not fall.
And in the distance, Sir Romeni continued his march. He didn’t look back. Beside him, Sir Alden finally spoke: "They won’t surrender."
Sir Romeni didn’t answer.
"They will fight," Alden continued. "We’ll see in three months."
Sir Romeni kept walking. But at the corner of his mouth, there was something that almost looked like a smile.
"Yes," he said finally. "We shall see."