The thunder of war continued to roar across Tino City.
"BOOM!"
A violent explosion tore through the cobblestones near General Yatiman. The blast ripped the air apart, hurling him and several of his knights backward as though they were nothing more than dry leaves in a storm.
His body struck the ground with a heavy crash, the weight of his armor nearly crushing the breath from his chest. Gravel and fragments of stone hammered against his plate, bouncing harmlessly off but leaving his body aching. His ears rang with a maddening buzz, drowning out all other sound.
When Yatiman staggered to his feet, blinking through the haze, the sight that met him made his stomach lurch.
The street was nothing but a shattered depression in the earth. Blood and torn armor lay scattered across the crater, the remains of soldiers who only moments ago had stood beside him. One knight still clung desperately to life. He writhed on the broken ground, armor twisted and torn apart, his face pale with agony.
Several comrades rushed forward to pull him free. But when they hauled his body upward, only half of him emerged—the entire lower half of his body had been obliterated, leaving only exposed entrails and mangled flesh.
The air filled with his last, inhuman scream.
Yatiman's mind reeled. His vision blurred, his body trembled as if struck by a fever. He could scarcely believe what he was seeing. Around him lay dozens of broken corpses. Some men twitched in agony, others lay still, their blood soaking into the dust. Houses had collapsed, fires blazed, smoke choked the streets.
The proud capital of Nord had been turned into a furnace of death.
And in that moment, Yatiman's confidence—built up over sixty years of campaigns—collapsed with the walls of the city.
"What… what kind of demons are we fighting?!" he cried in anguish, his voice raw and desperate.
---
The Attack Resumes
Beyond the walls, Ross commander Rotis watched calmly. The bombardment had done its work. Now came the next phase.
"Cease shelling," he commanded coldly. His eyes gleamed like ice. "Infantry forward. Attack!"
Like a tide, two thousand Ross soldiers surged toward the breached wall.
---
Rally at the Gap
Inside the city, Yatiman shook his head, forcing clarity back into his mind. The explosions had ended. Silence—broken only by screams—crept across the battlefield.
The general drew a deep breath. No… it isn't over. If there is even the smallest chance, I must hold the line.
His booming voice cut through the panic of his men. "Stand firm! Hold the breach!"
His words carried weight. The Nord soldiers, though bloodied and broken, obeyed. Hundreds of survivors gathered at the gaping hole where the wall had fallen. Eyes red with fury, they raised bows and crossbows, trembling but determined.
The memories of their slain comrades burned in their hearts. Their grief twisted into hatred so sharp it felt like fire in their veins. If the Ross dared show their faces, they would be torn apart by a storm of arrows.
The tension grew unbearable. Every heartbeat felt like an eternity.
Then—
A steel helmet cautiously peeked from the gap.
"Loose!" someone cried.
A rain of arrows whistled through the air.
The Ross soldier's head jerked back immediately. He ducked, arrows clattering harmlessly against the ruined stone. He gestured sharply to the man beside him.
The second Ross soldier, his face hidden by a black iron mask beneath the helmet, gave a silent nod. With calm precision, he swung forward a weapon unlike anything the Nord had ever seen.
An MG42 general-purpose machine gun.
The tripod discarded, the weapon was braced against rubble, the barrel glinting ominously in the light. Behind him, another soldier dragged a heavy ammunition belt into position.
The Nord defenders, still shaking with rage, raised their bows again. They waited, eyes locked on the dark opening.
Then the weapon roared.
"CHUG-CHUG-CHUG!"
The sound was like tearing cloth, sharp and relentless. Flames spat from the muzzle as the weapon screamed its deadly song.
Dozens of bullets shredded the first ranks of Nord soldiers. Their armor offered no protection; the projectiles tore through iron as though it were parchment. Men jerked, twisted, and fell in heaps.
"Ahhh! What is this devilry?!" one soldier shrieked before collapsing.
The men in the rear froze in terror, then turned to flee, dropping their bows in desperation. But bullets outran them with ease. Bodies crumpled one after another, torn apart by unseen steel fangs.
When the machine gun finally paused, the breach was silent—nothing but bodies sprawled in pools of blood.
The Nord line had been erased in less than a minute.
Black boots crunched over the rubble. Ross soldiers advanced, rifles in hand, bayonets gleaming. With chilling efficiency, they pressed into the city, sweeping the streets as though this were no more than a drill.
---
The Last Stand
Deeper in Tino, General Yatiman had rallied what remained of his disciplined troops.
Behind him loomed the grand palace of Nord, its towers casting long shadows over the burning city. This was the last redoubt, the final shield between the invaders and the royal family.
Yatiman's surviving thousand soldiers stood arrayed in grim silence. Two hundred heavy spear-and-shield troops formed the front, shields tall as a man and spears nearly three meters long. Behind them waited five hundred sword-and-shield infantry, while three hundred archers lingered in the rear.
This was all that remained of the once-mighty garrison.
Their eyes burned with desperation. Many shook with fear, yet none dared retreat. For behind them stood not only the palace, but their families, their honor, their kingdom itself.
Yatiman's face was set like stone. His voice thundered: "This is our last stand! If we fall here, Nord falls with us. If we triumph, history will remember our names!"
His men roared in answer, though their voices trembled.
Moments later, a cry rang out from the forward scouts.
"The Ross are here!"
---
First Clash
At the far end of the street, a small squad of Ross soldiers emerged. Ten men only.
They paused, glancing about the ruined city.
"Damn it," muttered their sergeant. "Looks like we got cut off from the main force."
The men adjusted their gear calmly. Their iron masks betrayed no expression, only the gleam of cold steel.
Then they saw the Nord formation—archers, spearmen, swordsmen, a thousand strong.
The sergeant's eyes narrowed. "Well, lads… looks like we've stumbled on something special. Keep sharp."
Yatiman's voice thundered: "Archers! Loose!"
Three hundred arrows filled the sky.
"Take cover!" the Ross sergeant barked. Instantly, his men dove behind rubble and broken carts. Only one soldier cried out, an arrow grazing his arm.
The sergeant's lips curled in a thin smile. "Machine gunner—set up! The rest, give covering fire. We'll make history today."
The MG42 was planted firmly on the ground. Ammunition clinked into place.
On the Nord side, the front ranks faltered.
"Hold fast!" Yatiman roared. "They are only ten men! Ten against a thousand! Crush them!"
His fury blazed. How dare his men hesitate before such a pitiful force?
But hesitation turned to terror as the MG42 roared again.
Bullets ripped through the massive shields as though they were cloth. Spears and armor provided no defense. Men toppled in heaps, screaming as blood sprayed across the cobblestones.
The Nord line wavered. Some soldiers dropped their shields and began to flee.
Yatiman's heart sank. He had staked everything on this last stand. Now his men were breaking before his eyes.
"Hold the line!" he bellowed, sword raised high. His voice cracked with rage and desperation. "They are only ten! Kill them all!"
But the machine gun kept singing, and the Ross soldiers advanced step by step, their black boots echoing like drums of doom.
And thus, the fate of Tino balanced on a knife's edge—between the pride of a general and the terrifying reality of modern war.
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