The air above Tino City still trembled from the thunder of artillery. Smoke and dust rolled like storm clouds across the broken streets. But amid the chaos, General Yatiman's voice rose in a final command:
"Forward! For Nord!"
With that order, three hundred spear-and-shield soldiers advanced. Their heavy shields, tall as men, locked together. Their spears, gleaming in the light of the fires, pointed toward the small group of Ross soldiers blocking the street.
For a heartbeat, it looked like a charge that could break anything. But then—
"Heavy gunner, fire!" the Ross squad leader barked.
The machine gunner pulled the trigger of the MG42.
"CHUG-CHUG-CHUG!"
The sound ripped through the street like cloth being shredded. A spray of brass casings clattered onto the stone, bouncing among the rubble. The long belt of ammunition rattled as it fed into the weapon, each round unleashing a burst of pure destruction.
The front ranks of Nord's spear-and-shield soldiers staggered. Then, like wheat before a scythe, they fell.
The massive shields offered no salvation. The bullets punched through iron and oak, through mail and flesh, leaving wide, gaping holes in their bodies. Blood sprayed across the cobbles, and men collapsed screaming, their cries lost beneath the roar of the gun.
In mere moments, dozens of Nord soldiers lay dying.
"Demons!" one soldier shrieked, dropping his spear. "The Ross are demons!"
"They must be using black magic!" another cried, stumbling back in terror.
But no spell had been cast, no sorcery summoned. It was the raw, merciless power of modern firepower.
Within minutes, more than a hundred Nord soldiers were dead or writhing on the ground. Their formation fractured. Panic spread through the ranks like wildfire.
Those in the front turned and ran. Those in the rear, blind to what had happened, continued to press forward—only to crash into the bodies of their fleeing comrades.
The line collapsed in chaos.
Yatiman roared, his throat raw. "Hold the line! Do not flee! For Nord—hold!" His sword slashed down on one fleeing soldier, cutting him down where he stood. But even his fury could not stem the tide of terror.
The machine gun's relentless firepower chewed through discipline, through honor, through everything Nord had relied upon for a century.
---
The Collapse
The Ross machine gunner cursed as his belt ran dry. "Damn it! Less than a minute per chain!"
He slapped the overheated weapon, smoke rising from its barrel. If the logistics crews were here, they'd curse him back—each belt painstakingly assembled by hand, spent in seconds.
But the damage had already been done. Over three hundred Nord soldiers lay dead or wounded. The survivors broke completely, colliding with one another as they ran for their lives.
"Look at them scatter!" the Ross sergeant barked. He fired his Kar98k rifle, dropping another Nord soldier mid-sprint. "Forward, men! Push!"
The ten Ross soldiers advanced in skirmish formation, rifles raised, bayonets glinting. Their footsteps were steady, their faces hidden behind black iron masks.
"The Ross are coming! Run! Run or you'll die!"
The cry went up among the Nord troops, and panic surged again.
Yatiman and his few surviving knights fought to halt the rout, cutting down deserters with their own blades. But nothing could stop the tide. Seven or eight hundred Nord soldiers fled, trampling one another in their desperation to escape.
And in their place came only ten Ross soldiers—advancing as though they commanded an army.
Yatiman's heart broke. His lips trembled as he whispered to himself, "Only ten… there are only ten of them…"
He was the God of War of Nord. For decades, he had commanded armies, won victories, suffered defeats. His name had been enough to rally nations. But now, with a force one hundred times the size of his enemy, he had been beaten.
Not just beaten—shattered.
---
The Last Knights
He turned, glancing at the palace behind him. Its high towers rose above the flames, its blackbird flag still fluttering against the smoky sky. Only three knights remained at his side.
Thousands had once ridden under Nord's banner. Now, there were four—Yatiman, and three weary men who still called themselves knights.
A bitter smile tugged at his lips. "Once, the Kingdom of Nord had a thousand knights. Now, only three remain… and me."
His sword lowered, then rose again, trembling in his old but steady hand. His voice hardened.
"Knights… with me. One last charge."
The men straightened. Their armor was battered, their shields cracked, but their eyes burned with the same resolve as their general.
"CHARGE!"
They rushed forward together, armored boots pounding the ground. No horses carried them now—their steeds had been killed in the bombardment—but they charged nonetheless, swords flashing, shields raised.
This was the final charge of Nord's knights.
---
The End of Yatiman
The Ross soldiers raised their weapons.
"Bang! Bang!"
Two shots rang out. Two knights staggered, their shields shattered by bullets. They fell to the ground, lifeless before they even struck the stone.
Yatiman and one last knight pressed on, ignoring the storm of lead.
Another round of shots cracked across the street. The last knight fell, a bullet piercing clean through his helmet.
Now only Yatiman remained.
Bullets slammed into his armor, piercing his chest and shoulder, shattering his ribs. His armor cracked, blood soaking through the joints. Yet still he walked, his white beard stained crimson, his body trembling.
He planted his sword in the ground to keep himself upright. Each step was agony. But his eyes never dimmed.
"I am Nord's last knight…" he rasped. "I will fall only in battle."
He raised his sword once more, stumbling forward into the gunfire. His roar shook the burning streets:
"The last knight of Nord—CHARGE!"
The Ross rifles barked again. Bullets ripped through his chest, his legs, his arms.
At last, the great general fell.
Yatiman's sword clattered from his grasp. His body struck the stones, and the weight he had carried for decades—the burden of Nord's defense—was finally gone.
With his death, the Nord Kingdom itself seemed to collapse.
---
Aftermath
The Ross squad leader stood silently for a moment, staring at the fallen knight. His men lowered their weapons.
"Well," the sergeant muttered, his tone strangely solemn. "So ends the War God of Nord."
His eyes lingered on Yatiman's still form. "He died charging, sword in hand. A warrior's death. No man can ask for more."
He turned to his squad, voice firm once more. "Remember this. If needed, we will do the same—for our king, for our homeland. We charge until death claims us."
The soldiers nodded, their voices rising in unison:
"For His Majesty Gavin Ward! Forward!"
"For His Majesty, long may he reign!"
They stepped over the body of the old general, their black boots trampling the broken stones, advancing deeper into the city.
---
The Dragon Flag
Atop the palace, the blackbird flag of Nord still fluttered stubbornly against the sky. But soon, Ross soldiers reached the highest tower.
The blackbird banner was torn down.
In its place, a new flag rose—black background, red border, and at its center, a fearsome red dragon spreading its wings.
The Dragon Banner of Ross.
It snapped in the wind, glowing crimson in the smoke of burning Tino.
With its rise, the fall of the Nord Kingdom was complete. A nation that had stood for over a hundred years ceased to exist.
The palace, the capital, the army, even the symbol of the blackbird—all gone.
And the world would remember: Nord died not to a legion, but to the unstoppable force of progress, carried in the guns of Ross and under the banner of their king.
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