Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 713 - 400: Lament of the Old Era (Part 2)

Through the magnified lenses, the watchers witnessed the three thousand Black Steel Knights of Ackman being utterly annihilated by the tanks.

They observed Ackman himself being tossed aside like a mere plaything before his life was ultimately extinguished by three explosive rounds, leaving nothing but a mangled half-corpse.

What transpired was not a battle, but a brutal massacre.

Bartlett’s throat bobbed twice, his complexion turning ashen, whispering, "Something is gravely wrong. This is..."

In the very next instant, the man known infamously as the "Mad Dog" violently yanked his reins, spinning his mount around as if struck, fleeing with all his might!

He screamed while in panicked flight, "Retreat! Retreat, I say! I, Bartlett, saw absolutely nothing today! Who is this Ackman you speak of? I do not know him!! This was merely a drill!! A drill, understand?! Flee—!!"

The Personal Guard of the Seventh Legion could barely process the order, scrambling to follow in a chaotic stampede, resembling nothing more than a terrified herd of wild deer.

Sol stood, utterly bewildered.

He watched Bartlett's ignominious flight, the "Mad Dog" acting as if pursued by demons, leaving him momentarily stunned.

"That scoundrel... he actually fled without even taking the damn flag?!"

Then, in the subsequent second—Boom!! Boom!! Boom!!

Another volley from the tanks transformed the battlefield into a maelstrom of shrieks and the cacophony of shattering metal.

The intense heatwave even whipped Sol's cloak about him with savage force.

Nearly one hundred Black Steel Knights were reduced to molten slag, an unidentifiable, iron-red ruin that defied any attempt at reconstruction.

Sol felt a crushing weight descend upon his chest; the true reason for Bartlett's desperate flight finally dawned upon him.

His esophagus constricted, his lips quivered uncontrollably, and his curses tumbled out, choked with pure rage:

"Ackman, that absolute fool... he led us straight into a death trap!! This is no battle! It’s outright suicide!!! Who... who in their right mind could possibly contend with such monstrous abominations?! Damn it all—!!"

Finally, unable to maintain his composure any longer, he too yanked hard on his reins, causing his steed to buck and rear.

"Fourteenth Legion, execute an immediate retreat!! If you hesitate, not even bones will remain! Run! Make haste back to Gray Stone Fortress!! And if anyone dares to question our actions today, every single one of you will claim we were on patrol!! Understand? Patrol duty!!"

"RUN—!!!"

Under the urgency of his command, the knights of the Fourteenth Legion were wrenched from their harrowing ordeal, retreating in utter disarray, their armor clanking discordantly, all semblance of imperial heavy cavalry dignity utterly discarded.

Two converging streams of cavalry, forces once anticipated to pose the greatest menace to Frost Halberd City, now turned tail and fled in a panicked rout from both flanks of the highland, dissolving into the distance.

Like a flock of sheep fleeing a wildfire, their sole, overriding thought was to escape, to put as much distance between themselves and the horror as possible.

......

The thunderous din of the battlefield gradually receded, leaving behind only the persistent "hissing" of steam escaping the exhaust pipes of the formidable tanks, swirling into the biting cold wind.

The sound evoked not that of mere machinery, but rather the slow, deliberate breaths of some gargantuan, primeval beast.

Upon the North City Wall, an oppressive silence reigned, broken only by the gentle descent of snowflakes carried by the wind.

Count Albert remained perfectly still, his posture erect and unwavering, resembling an ancient, wind-battered pine tree clinging resolutely to a precipice.

Yet, the walking cane clutched tightly within his hand betrayed his outward calm.

The fine, sturdy wood emitted a faint "crack... crack..." as it strained under the immense pressure of his grip, a sound akin to a final, desperate struggle.

His gaze slowly traversed the desolate scene unfolding below the towering city walls.

It was a charnel house; the Empire's once-proud Seventeenth Legion now lay strewn across the snow-laden ground like a grotesque tableau of a horrific nightmare.

The distinctive Black Steel armor had been pulverized beyond recognition by the relentless treads of the machines; the warhorses, their spines snapped and limbs grotesquely mangled, were mere carcasses.

Amidst the viscous mire of blood, mud, and melting snow, the piteous cries of the wounded echoed, pleading for succor.

Countless other knights, beyond the capacity to even utter a scream, had their very forms flattened into dark, sticky pulp.

Albert recalled his youth, the arduous training of piercing some 800 times in the biting blizzard before the first hint of dawn, a ritual performed daily.

Day in and day out, year after relentless year, for a full decade without a single respite.

This was the embodiment of knightly honor, his profound understanding of true power.

Yet, in this very moment, these knights, who had dedicated decades to rigorous training and mastered the intricate art of Fighting Energy, were deemed utterly inadequate, unable even to approach those formidable "iron boxes."

Their defeat was not attributed to any deficiency in technique, nor a lack of courage, nor any failing in their command of Fighting Energy.

They had been defeated by the inexorable march of time.

A chilling gust of wind swept across the battlements, whipping Albert's cloak about him with fierce intensity.

Albert's Adam's apple bobbed, and he at last confronted a reality he had never remotely conceived:

"This is not merely a repudiation of our combat methodologies," he uttered, his voice filled with a profound, unshakeable emptiness, "but rather a symbolic interment of the very essence of our existence."

Standing behind him, a young nobleman's face contorted in sheer terror, his voice reduced to a trembling, incoherent stammer: "Count... could this be sorcery? Is it some form of forbidden hex? How... how could they possibly have achieved such a feat?"

Albert slowly turned his head, his expression devoid of any anger, any discernible emotion, replaced instead by a vast, insurmountable chasm of despair.

He deliberately relaxed his grip on the cane, which had been on the verge of splintering, and his voice, though raspy, resonated with an unnerving clarity: "This is not magic."

He gestured with a trembling finger towards the distant array of tanks, which were now gradually coming to a halt, wisps of steam escaping languidly from between their segmented pipes.

"From this day forth, the age of the knight... has drawn to its definitive conclusion."

Upon uttering these somber words, the elderly man, who had steadfastly refused to yield a single inch before any enemy, appeared to age a decade in mere moments.

His once-straight back seemed to subtly curve under an invisible weight.

The very air around them seemed to congeal, frozen in place for several agonizing seconds.

All gazes, as if guided, turned towards the city ramparts, fixing their attention on Louis Calvin.

He occupied a hastily erected wooden seat, a cloak enveloping him, as he casually blew away the froth from his teacup.

There was no trace of exhilaration, no sign of strain, and certainly no triumphant glee of a victor.

It was as if he were calmly appreciating the falling snow, accompanied by the serene strains of courtyard music.

Albert's pupils narrowed imperceptibly.

In that precise instant, Louis, in Albert's perception, transcended the image of a mere young lord, a newly wealthy individual, or a junior who had triumphed through cunning schemes.

Instead, he appeared as an ancient being, the very first to witness the dawn of fire...

Awe, dread, and an instinctual deference—emotions so profound and multifaceted they defied description—washed over Albert, leaving him feeling disoriented, yet he dared not avert his sight.