The moment the defense line collapsed, the world lost its sound, only to be filled the very next second by hysterical screaming.
The Victorian army, from generals down to the lowest soldiers, was completely reduced to a flock of sheep chased by wolves.
"Don't push me! Ah!"
"Mama... I want to go home..."
"Devils! They are devils!"
Soldiers cried for their fathers and mothers, shoving one another, trampling over fallen comrades, all just to run one step faster than the person next to them. Formations, discipline, glory—these concepts became a complete and utter joke after the two Sarkaz monarchs displayed their god-like might.
Oliver was running too. He threw away the long spear that he had only thrust once, threw away his helmet, threw away everything that might slow him down. His lungs burned like fire, but the instinct to survive drove his legs forward. He dared not look back. Behind him was the sickening crunch of Leithanien tanks crushing bone, the chewing sounds of Sarkaz monsters feasting on flesh, and the miserable screams of his compatriots before they died.
These sounds whipped at his nerves.
The coalition forces of Leithanien and Kazdel flooded every inch of Silverstone Cliff. The Leithanien tankers no longer needed to carefully seek cover; driving their Tiger II tanks, they brazenly strafed the routed Victorian troops with machine-gun fire. The Sarkaz warriors, meanwhile, enjoyed the hunt, competing to see who could sever more heads and collect more agonized wails.
Amidst this apocalyptic scene, a few reefs of stubborn resistance remained.
Sean Gododdin, the aristocratic republican who had led the execution of the King alongside the other Dukes, was now like a trapped beast. His flagship was completely paralyzed. Leading the last of his family guards, he constructed a final barrier at the pass using the wreckage of warships.
"For Victoria! No retreat!"
He waved his saber, his voice hoarse. The guards beside him, mostly of the Elafia race like himself, used their bodies and shields to withstand wave after wave of surging Sarkaz mercenaries.
A Leithanien mobile infantry commander spotted this stubborn strongpoint through his binoculars. He curled his lip and spoke into his communicator: "Coordinates XXX, XXX. Enemy commander located. Requesting artillery saturation."
"Copy that."
A lazy voice came from the communicator. Seconds later, a shrieking sound descended from the sky. The Duke of Gododdin looked up, only to see a black dot rapidly enlarging in his vision. He didn't even have time to react.
Boom—!
The violent explosion lifted the entire guard unit into the sky. The Duke of Gododdin and his final loyal guards, along with his vacillating political ideals, were instantly swallowed by flames and shockwaves.
The Duke of Gododdin, KIA.
The blast wave curled a tattered Victorian flag high into the air, tore it into fragments, and let them drift down like confetti. Elsewhere, around the Gastrell, the scene was equally grim.
The Duke of Wellington, the Iron Duke of Victoria, did not flee. His pride, his honor, would not allow him to turn his back on the enemy. He stood on the tilting deck of his flagship, surrounded by fewer than a hundred remaining Iron Guards.
"Iron Guards!"
He held high the saber that had accompanied him all his life; its blade was already full of notches. "Follow me! Charge!"
He knew this was suicide. But he had to die like a soldier, on the path of a charge.
"For the Lord Duke! For Victoria!"
The one hundred Iron Guards let out their final roar. Following their Duke, they launched a suicidal charge toward the tide-like Sarkaz Royal Court Legions. Wellington took the lead. He was advanced in years, his movements no longer as agile as in his youth, but every strike was still heavy and powerful. He cleaved a Sarkaz warrior in two, blade and man alike.
But more enemies swarmed around him. A long blade hacked at his shoulder pauldron, sending sparks flying. A spear pierced his thigh; he let out a muffled groan and backhanded a strike that took off the Sarkaz's head. He killed with bloodshot eyes, his stamina draining rapidly. He felt his arms growing heavier, his breathing more difficult.
In a trance, he seemed to see himself in his youth, sweeping across the battlefield vertically and horizontally. He saw the banners of the Gaul Empire falling before him.
"I... Wellington..." he muttered to himself.
A barbed blade pierced his chest from behind. His body went rigid. He looked down at the blade tip protruding from his chest, the final light in his eyes beginning to dissipate. Immediately after, swords, spears, and battle axes from all directions pierced his body simultaneously.
With a clang, the saber in his hand snapped.
The Iron Duke, who had guarded Victoria all his life, was pinned in place by countless weapons. Finally, he slowly sank to his knees, collapsing into a pool of blood. His eyes remained wide open, staring in the direction of Londinium.
The Duke of Wellington, KIA.
Not far away, Theresis watched this scene indifferently. "A worthy opponent," he commented softly. "Give him a proper burial."
The death of the Duke of Wellington completely declared the end of the old Victorian military aristocracy. Under the desperate protection of several Sword Guards, the Duke of Windermere cut a bloody path out. The bandages wrapped around her arm were already dyed red with blood, and her body bore several more wounds deep enough to show bone.
She looked back in the direction where Wellington had fallen, seeing the toppled banner of the Iron Duke, and a profound sorrow flashed through her eyes.
"Go! Move!" She pushed the few remaining subordinates beside her. "Retreat to Londinium! We cannot all die here!"
They merged into the fleeing crowd, retreating wretchedly toward the magnificent city. Along the way, they witnessed countless miseries. The corpse of the Duke of Ashworth had been gnawed by the Nachzehrer's monsters until only a skeleton remained. The wreckage of the Duke of Abercorn's reconnaissance plane was still billowing black smoke.
Fife, Cavendish, Stafford... The banners of those Dukes who had once argued endlessly in the Council Hall had now all turned to ash, scattered in the mud. The Dukes of Victoria, within a single day, were either dead, surrendered, or missing. An era had come to a close.
When the Duke of Windermere stumbled back to the city gates of Londinium with less than a thousand remnants of her troops, the sky had already turned dim. The soldiers guarding the city looked at these Ducal coalition forces—who had been so high-spirited just a short while ago, but were now like stray dogs—with eyes full of terror and pity.
Windermere looked back. In the direction of Silverstone Cliff, flames shot into the sky, dyeing half the night sky red. The steel torrent of Leithanien and the black tide of Kazdel had finished clearing the battlefield and were slowly moving toward Londinium, beginning to construct an encirclement.
A Leithanien military flag and a Kazdel military flag rose side by side outside the city of Londinium. In Windermere's eyes, only the ashen gray of death remained.
She had lost. Victoria had lost.
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