Free Web NovelA fire crackled in the hearth, warmth slowly seeping through the stone walls of the tower while the wind remained barred by heavy window frames, leaving only the dull drumming of rain against the glass.
Kyle Remont stood at the French window, a thick fur cloak draped over his shoulders.
In his hand he held a glass of red wine, its deep hue glinting like slowly flowing blood in the firelight.
He pressed a high-powered telescope to his eye and gazed through the curtain of rain toward Blackstone Canyon several kilometres away.
It was a scene straight out of hell.
The mouth of the canyon was packed airtight; tens of thousands of refugees crammed into the narrow passage, bodies pressed together, squirming slowly through the mud.
The downpour washed away the filth; occasional screams and cries were shredded by wind and rain, reaching the ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) tower only as a low, constant white noise.
The corner of Kyle's mouth curved slightly upward.
To him, this was not chaos—it was a masterpiece nearing completion.
He pushed the telescope's view a little farther.
Beyond Blackstone Canyon, Louis Calvin's steel torrent had indeed ground to a halt.
Steam-tanks lined the valley mouth, their heavy steel silhouettes half-hidden by the rain like predators forced to stop in their tracks.
Before that barrier of flesh and blood, they remained motionless.
Kyle lowered the telescope and gently swirled his glass. “Look—what a perfect defence.”
A note of satisfaction coloured his voice.
“Not a single brick or stone needed—just a swarm of good-for-nothing mouths to blunt the sharpest fangs of the North.”
A knight stepped forward and offered a hot towel at Kyle's side.
“Young master...” He hesitated, voice still respectful but deliberately lowered. “Louis really is blocked. Only... those are still tens of thousands of civilians.”
The words were spoken so softly they were almost lost in the crackle of the hearth.
Kyle glanced sideways at him.
The knight immediately corrected himself, words flowing smoothly: “Of course, this is the very art of winning without fighting.
If he crushes them, his name is ruined; if he stops, those thousands of mouths will drag him down, to say nothing of our own army marching to relieve us.”
Kyle made no reply, only gave a soft snort.
Everyone in the tower smiled, yet for some the smile was forced—more an act of flattery and of gauging others' reactions.
Several knights exchanged glances; one opened his mouth, but in the end swallowed his words. This was not the place for questions.
The air held an intangible, delicate tension.
Kyle sensed it, but it did not concern him.
He strode to the map and tapped the spot marking Blackstone Canyon, his expression turning serious once more.
“Judging by what I know of Louis, he'll certainly try to save them,” Kyle said, lifting his gaze, calm and certain.
“Once he starts handing out food, his march slows ten-fold; winter will finish the rest. The Northern Army will either slink home or starve here.”
Of course, there was another possibility: Louis could tear off his benevolent mask and roll straight over the civilians.
For that eventuality Kyle had a contingency—but fearing a spy in his council, only a handful knew, and he would not speak of it.
Outside, the rain came down harder.
Sparse lights flickered across Louis's distant camp, blurred by the night.
Kle took them for campfires and paid them no mind.
He turned, raising his glass high. “Gentlemen— to this damnable rain, to these useful refugees, and to the lifeline we carve from desperation!”
“To the young master's brilliance!”
“Grey Rock Fortress stands unbreakable!”
A chorus answered through the tower, crystal goblets clinking.
Kyle's wine was still lifted, the toast poised on his tongue.
Several kilometres away, a brief, blinding flash bloomed in the Red Tide position.
It was the flare of heavy artillery firing.
An instant later, a deep, rolling boom travelled through the rain.
As though some colossal thing had been violently shoved, the air compressed, then sprang back.
Boom—!
The sound rolled along the ground, caroming between the peaks, striking the tower walls a heartbeat later.
The window frame shuddered; ripples danced across the wine.
Kyle's body snapped taut; he all but crashed into the window, snatching up the telescope.
Rain lashed the tower wall, water bursting against the glass and streaming down in sheets, carving the view into countless shifting, distorted shards.
He could see nothing clearly—only vague fires winking through the rain—but not where they landed.
Yet that scarcely mattered; in his mind there was ever only one answer.
“He fired?” His voice cracked. “He fired on the refugees?!”
Then a second blast followed.
Boom—!
Closer this time, heavier.
Now the people in the tower distinctly felt the flagstones beneath their feet quiver.
“Madman...” Kyle's breath came fast, his pitch rising.
“He's actually blasting tens of thousands of civilians out of his way?!”
In his place, Kyle would have opened fire on the refugees too.
So long as you press forward—so long as people die—the road will clear itself.
So he naturally assumed Louis Calvin would do the same.
But... Kyle's mind was racing.
Cherish your reputation, win hearts, never kill lightly.
All of it—fake?
Yet even as fury and shock surged, a dizzying thrill rose from the pit of his stomach.
The instant the first shell lands among the crowd, Louis's name is finished.
The benevolent Count of the Red Tide?
Hmph—just a thin coat of paint.
Besides, he can't enter the canyon and has no way back, while I still hold the final switch.
Kyle lowered the telescope, the corner of his mouth lifting in the smile of a man whose guess has just been proven right.
"Watch this." He lifted a hand toward the window, voice echoing through the tower. "Behold the true face of that hypocrite."
His thoughts had already leapt ahead.
Even if Louis loses his mind and charges regardless of reputation—five tons of Blackfire Magic Bombs are already buried.
The moment the vanguard reaches the middle stretch, the instant I pull the switch...
Tens of thousands, together with that tide of steel, will be entombed in the canyon.
And it will all be Louis's fault.
Besides, history won't remember the civilians—only victory and defeat...
Whsssh—!!
A drawn-out, razor-sharp whistle, like the shriek of some metallic beast skimming the night sky.
Faster than thunder, keener than rain.
In Blackstone Canyon, almost everyone realized at once: something was falling.
Fear didn't spread—it detonated.
The crowd collapsed inward; people clutched their heads by instinct; mouths opened without sound; bodies toppled into the mud, hands flung up only to be trodden back down.
Cries lasted an instant before being crushed into broken whimpers.
The stampede began—mud churned, shoes and luggage swallowed by mire, the fallen vanishing beneath the advancing wall.
Martha staggered as the human tide struck her; she hugged the child to her breast, pressing its face against her chest.
She shut her eyes and waited for the blade of judgment to fall.
The world seemed muted—yet the expected blast never came.
The shells, trailing orange-red tails, skimmed just above the crowd, so close the heat seemed to lift scalps.
The slipstream tore away rain, ripping open a vacuum as though some force deliberately cleared their path.
Boooom—!!
Not flesh-seeking Magic Bombs, but high-explosive shells meant to breach fortifications.
Direct hit.
Behind the Greyrock Supervising Officer's line, the camouflaged Mine No. 3 was flung sky-high in a bloom of fire.
The shockwave smashed defenses like an invisible fist, shredding the nets into tatters.
Mountains of flour sacks burst; cloth, rope, and crates hurled into the night.
Tons of food were lofted a hundred meters by the blast.
Incendiary flames lit them from within.
Dust ignited in a flash-fire; the night glared as a huge gold-red cloud rolled and swelled, battered by torrential rain.
Then, unburnt grain began to fall.
In the dark, rain-soaked night, Blackstone Canyon witnessed an eerie golden flour-shower.
The real killer wasn't the sight—it was the smell.
Heat scorched part of the wheat and ignited fat leaking from barrels of cured meat in the pit.
The scent of roasted grain, rich meat, and hot grease mingled in the post-blast heat.
Carried by a pre-calculated northwest wind, the aroma hooked into the canyon like an invisible claw.
It slipped into tens of thousands of nostrils empty for three days and nights.
The smell of survival!
At the head of the supervision line, the burly knight froze.
White flour coated his helm and pauldrons, smearing his face.
In that instant he came to his senses.
But the once-numb crowd was already stirring.
Countless green-glinting eyes fixed past him on the blazing granary behind.
"Hold!" The Supervising Officer slashed the air with his saber, voice cracking with fear. "That's army grain—one step and you die!"
Bang!
The answer was a crisp, clean crack.
From the Red Tide line, a magically modified heavy sniper-crossbow released.
The officer's torso exploded in the firelight like a watermelon hit by a sledgehammer—flesh and armor shards spraying.
His roar cut off mid-cry.
Then a second, a third—cracks rang out in succession. ƒreewebɳovel.com
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Red Tide skirmishers opened fire.
They didn't shoot panicked refugees or fleeing soldiers.
Only the knights still gripping swords, trying to keep order.
One supervising knight after another toppled in the fire-lit rain.
Like an unseen blade calmly, precisely, severing the chains binding these refugees—one by one.
