The battle at Silverstone Cliff could no longer be called a battle; it was a unilateral massacre.
The Victorian defense lines were torn open, one breach after another. Leithanien tanks and the Sarkaz Royal Court Legions surged madly through the gaps, converging to segment, encircle, and crush the remaining pockets of resistance. Panic spread among the routed troops.
"Hold! For the glory of Victoria!" a minor noble shouted, waving his saber in an attempt to rally his already scattered unit.
His answer came in the form of a high-explosive shell fired from the barrel of a Tiger II tank. The shell exploded not far from him, the shockwave sending him flying, half his body blasted into charred ruin. His soldiers took one look and ran even faster. Glory? In the face of flames capable of melting steel, glory was worthless!
The Duke of Ashworth, a duke who had always kept a low profile and abstained from power struggles, displayed astonishing courage at this moment. He saw the southern defense line completely punctured by the Sanguinarch's blood-kin progeny, with countless monsters rushing toward the non-combatants and civilians in the rear.
"Follow me!" He drew his ancestral longsword and roared at the few dozen family guards remaining by his side. "For the people of Victoria!"
Like an enraged lion, he charged straight into that blood-colored tide. He was a traditional Victorian noble; perhaps he understood nothing of modern warfare. But he believed that a noble's duty was to stand before the people in times of peril. His guards were infected by his courage. Following close behind, they formed an assault formation and slammed violently into the ranks of the blood-kin progeny.
The Duke of Ashworth's swordsmanship was exquisite; his longsword danced, raising trails of cold light. He clove a progeny warrior in two from the head down, splattering himself with foul-smelling blood. But more progeny warriors swarmed around him.
He parried left and blocked right, soon covered in wounds. A flesh-and-blood tentacle wrapped around his left leg; he severed it with a backhanded slash, but another tentacle struck from behind, piercing his scapula. The intense pain drew a muffled groan from him, slowing his movements by a beat. That momentary delay decided his fate.
Four or five progeny warriors pounced simultaneously. The last image he saw was a collection of twisted, greedy faces, and countless blood-colored tentacles reaching toward him.
"No..."
The tearing agony drowned him. The Duke of Ashworth, KIA.
Not far away, Sanguinarch Duqare watched this scene with great interest.
"Truly touching bravery," he praised softly. "I will let my children savor this courage properly."
The death of the Duke of Ashworth extinguished the last spark of resistance in the hearts of many Victorians. If even a Duke could be torn to shreds like that, what could they, ordinary soldiers, possibly do? It was a total rout.
Meanwhile, on another side, the Duke of Abercorn, the Duke of Wellington's most loyal ally, was facing a different kind of despair. The command ship he was on had been locked onto by Leithanien long-range artillery and was immobilized. With the ground front completely collapsed, staying here meant only death.
"We must break out!" he screamed into the communicator. "Wellington! Do you hear me? We must rush out, go to Londinium, and regroup!"
Only a chaotic hiss of static came from the communicator. A look of finality flashed through the Duke of Abercorn's eyes. He glanced at a small high-speed reconnaissance plane parked on the warship's deck—one of the aid shipments from Columbia, the last air power the Dukes possessed.
"Prepare for takeoff! I will personally go to Londinium to request reinforcements!"
"But Your Grace, the sky..."
"No buts!" Abercorn shoved aside the adjutant trying to dissuade him and rushed toward the reconnaissance plane.
Minutes later, the reconnaissance plane forced a takeoff amidst a sea of fire, swaying unsteadily as it charged into the sky. The Duke of Abercorn gripped the control stick tightly; he was not a professional pilot, but at this moment, he had only one thought: break out, survive, and get the news out. He succeeded; he flew away from the hell on earth below.
But he had also delivered himself into another hell.
High in the sky, a Messerschmitt fighter jet bored out from the clouds. Inside the cockpit, Leithanien ace pilot Angelo was boredly clenching an unlit cigarette in his mouth.
"Oh? Look what we've found here? A lost little bird."
He pushed the control stick, and his plane carved an arc, effortlessly maneuvering behind the Duke of Abercorn's reconnaissance plane.
"Tower, this is 'Red Baron.' Found a Victorian warplane, coordinates XXX, XXX. Preparing to clear it."
"Copy that, Red Baron. Happy hunting."
The Duke of Abercorn spotted him as well. He frantically attempted evasive maneuvers in terror, but the clumsy reconnaissance plane had nowhere to hide before the agile Messerschmitt. Angelo was not even in a hurry to fire; instead, like a cat toying with a mouse, he played with his opponent. He would close in, then pull away, admiring the small plane tumbling wretchedly through the air.
"Alright, game over."
Feeling a bit bored, he gently pressed the cannon button. A long, deadly chain of rounds swept across the wing root of Abercorn's reconnaissance plane.
Boom!
The wing snapped in response, and the plane immediately lost control, spinning in the air as it dragged a long trail of black smoke and crashed toward the ground. In the final moments of his life, what the Duke of Abercorn saw was not the silhouette of Londinium, but the rapidly expanding, burning earth.
The spot where he crashed was exactly the area where the Duke of Ashworth had died in battle. A massive fireball rose into the sky, as if tolling the death knell for two Dukes simultaneously. The Duke of Abercorn, KIA.
Oliver, the young soldier who had fled all the way here from the Bachman Fortress, was currently hiding behind a rock. He saw the Duke of Fife's position reduced to ashes, and he saw the Duke of Abercorn's plane turn into a meteor. His body shook uncontrollably.
Beside him, a soldier even younger than he was had completely broken down. The boy was curled up on the ground, clutching his head and muttering repeatedly, "I want to go home... I don't want to die... Mama..."
Oliver did not mock him. Because he himself was about to reach his limit. His mind was a blank slate; Victoria, the Dukes, the enemy—everything had vanished. Only the most primal thought remained.
Survive.
He saw a Sarkaz squad searching in his direction, led by a shrouded deathsworn wielding a greatsword. Oliver's survival instinct overwhelmed everything else. He glanced at the companion beside him who was still weeping, and without the slightest hesitation, he kicked him out violently.
"Ah!"
The young soldier rolled into the open ground, his crying coming to an abrupt halt as he looked in terror at the approaching Sarkaz. The Sarkaz squad was immediately attracted to him.
Oliver seized this opportunity to scramble and crawl, fleeing in the opposite direction. He dared not look back; the screams coming from behind lashed at his nerves. He ran, and ran, not knowing how long he ran. Until he slammed into a steel wall.
He looked up and saw the scarred hull of the Gastrell. He was saved. No, he had merely escaped from one hell to another.
The defense line at Silverstone Cliff no longer existed. The remnant troops were piled up before the final barrier outside Londinium. Standing on the bridge of the Gastrell, the Duke of Wellington looked at this apocalyptic scene before him, his body swaying slightly.
The Duke of Gododdin's flagship had its keel broken and was grounded in the center of the pass; his whereabouts were unknown. The Duke of Windermere's Sword Guard was nearly wiped out, and she herself was wounded, her arm wrapped in thick bandages. The eight great Dukes—in the blink of an eye, only these few remained.
Victoria was truly falling.
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