Northreach Town Square. One Day Before Departure.
That morning, a thick fog crept between the timber houses at the foot of the castle, but the dawn's peace had already been shattered by the bustle of hundreds of souls. There were no more idle farmers or youths leaning against tavern walls. The looming threat of famine and the enemy blockade had saturated the village air with a heavy, desperate urgency.
Refugees from the southern borders—those whose homes had been razed by Morvath's forces—now crowded the castle gates. Their faces were gaunt, their eyes hollow and vacant, and they wore nothing but rags dulled by the dust of a long, arduous journey.
Duchess Aurelia stood atop a makeshift wooden stage in the center of the square. A cold wind tugged at her hair, but her posture remained rigid, radiating an unshakable authority. Beside her, Martha—the stout head of the kitchen—and Grimm stood at the ready.
"Listen to me, citizens of Northreach!"
Aurelia's voice rang out, amplified by a subtle manipulation of wind magic to reach the very back of the crowd.
"The gates of Iron Hearth Castle are open today. But make no mistake: we are not accepting beggars. We have no room for those who only wish to eat their fill and sleep while others bleed."
Aurelia swept the sea of people with the stern gaze of a mother who brooked no nonsense. "We are a family. And in a family, every hand must pull its weight."
She gestured toward the rows of medical tents and field kitchens that had just been erected. "I need fifty strong women for the Logistics Division. Your task will be to cook for the soldiers, wash blood-soaked bandages, and tend to the wounded. The pay? Three meals a day, warm quarters inside the fortress, and a guarantee of safety for your children."
A brief silence blanketed the square before a thunderous roar of approval erupted. Hundreds of thin hands shot into the air with renewed hope. To them, the promise of "food" and "safety" shone far brighter than gold.
"Me, My Lady! I can cook!"
"I was a village midwife! I know how to stitch a wound!"
While Aurelia organized the support units, the atmosphere on the other side of the field was far grimmer. Sir Riven and Captain Garrick stood before two hundred village youths. Riven no longer wore a sling, though his movements remained occasionally stiff. He surveyed the trembling line of recruits with the eyes of a predator marking its prey.
"Listen up and listen well!"
Riven's shout made the front row flinch. He paced back and forth, his iron boots striking the muddy ground with heavy, deliberate thuds. Brak. Brak.
"I'm not looking for heroes. Heroes usually die young and end up under a headstone. I'm looking for madmen—men who are brave enough to die, but refuse to surrender to death!"
Riven stopped directly in front of a youth clutching a pitchfork with trembling hands. "Tomorrow, we break the Southern blockade. Our enemies aren't common bandits. They are foreign mercenaries carrying firearms. The chance of you returning in one piece is fifty-fifty at best. The rest of you? You'll just be names carved on a wooden cross."
"Anyone afraid to die, leave now! Go back to your mothers!"
A few lowered their heads and backed away with ashen faces. Riven didn't stop them; doubt was a poison on the battlefield. However, the majority stood their ground. Their eyes smoldered with a burning thirst for vengeance—they remembered the scorched wheat fields and the plundered livestock.
"We're with you, Commander!" the youth with the pitchfork shouted. "Morvath burned my home! I have nothing left but this life! Let me take at least one enemy head before I go!"
Riven offered a thin, terrifyingly respectful smirk. "Good. Garrick, give them spears and iron-plate vests. Drill them in basic formations until sundown. Tomorrow at dawn... we hunt."
The Southern Border – The Dead Zone. Midday.
The sun hung directly overhead, scorching the barren, rocky road. This region was known as the Dead Zone—a lawless no-man's-land between the North and South.
The Sudrath logistics convoy cut through the desert silence with an intimidating presence. At the vanguard, leading the way like an alpha predator, was the TITAN MK-1. The black, boxy tank roared, crushing the rocky path without mercy. Faint plumes of blue mana-smoke drifted from its rear exhaust. Its iron treads ground against the earth—KREK-KLANG-KREK—creating an industrial rhythm entirely foreign to this world.
Behind the Titan, ten large cargo wagons followed, pulled by muscular Shire horses. To the left and right of the convoy, Lady Rhea led the Iron Mercs cavalry. Her sharp eyes scanned every rocky outcrop for signs of an ambush.
Inside the hot, cramped cabin of the Titan, Sir Riven gripped the hydraulic control levers. Sweat beaded on his forehead—not from fear, but from the radiant heat of the mana-engine behind him. Rianor sat beside him, clutching a map and binoculars.
"WE'RE ENTERING THE RED ZONE, RIVEN!" Rianor shouted over the roar of the engine. "THIS IS MORVATH'S OPERATIONAL TERRITORY. THAT RIDGE UP AHEAD IS A PERFECT AMBUSH POINT!"
"I'M READY!" Riven yelled back, pushing a lever on the dashboard to increase the mana-steam pressure. The indicator needle surged into the yellow zone.
Suddenly... BANG!
A sharp, dry explosion shattered the silence. It wasn't the sound of magic, but the crack of gunpowder. The ground in front of the Titan erupted, spraying gravel against the steel observation slit.
"CONTACT FRONT!" Rianor barked.
From behind the rocky ridge, dozens of soldiers in red-and-black uniforms emerged. They carried long iron tubes with smoke drifting from the muzzles—Musketeers from the Iron Empire.
"So... those are their firearms," Riven murmured, narrowing his eyes.
"FIRE!" the enemy captain commanded from the ridge.
DOR! DOR! DOR!
Dozens of lead balls whistled through the air simultaneously. The noise was deafening. The horses behind the Titan neighed in panic, nearly snapping their reins. The bullets struck the Titan's hull with a sharp, metallic ring—TANG! TANG! PING!
Riven instinctively flinched for a split second. But nothing pierced the interior. The round lead balls simply flattened and crumpled upon impact with the Obsidian Crawler steel plating.
Rianor let out a cold laugh—the laugh of a scientist whose theory had just been proven. "Their technology is primitive! Smoothbore muskets with a pathetic effective range! Their penetration power is zero against our Mithril-alloy steel!"
Rianor turned to Riven, his eyes flashing with adrenaline. "RIVEN! CRUSH THEM!"
Riven offered a predatory grin, his white teeth stark against a face smudged with oil. His past trauma evaporated, replaced by a primal instinct to destroy.
"COPY THAT, BOSS! HANG ON!"
Riven floored the throttle. VRRROOOOM!
The Titan's engine roared in fury, belching thick black smoke. The thirty-ton vehicle lunged forward, hitting sixty kilometers per hour. It barreled straight toward the timber barricades the enemy had erected across the road.
"WHAT IS THAT?! A MONSTERRR!" the enemy troops screamed, paralyzed by panic. They tried to reload, but the musket-loading process was far too slow.
"MOVE OR BE MASHED!" Riven roared.
CRUSH.
The Titan smashed through the barricade as if it were made of matchsticks. Timber beams flew into the air while the enemy soldiers scrambled to avoid the iron treads that threatened to pulverize their bones.
Seeing the chaos, Lady Rhea drew her rapier. "CAVALRY! CHARGE THE LEFT FLANK! DON'T LET THEM RELOAD!"
Rhea spurred her horse, blurring like lightning through the gunpowder smoke. With elegant yet lethal strokes, she cut down the panicked musketeers as they fumbled with their powder horns.
"Advance! For Northreach!" the new recruits shouted, their courage ignited by the sight of Riven's bulletproof "Walking Fortress."
In fifteen minutes, the gunfire ceased. The gunpowder smoke drifted away on the desert wind, leaving an eerie silence. The surviving enemy forces chose to flee over the ridge.
Riven brought the Titan to a halt in the center of the battlefield. He popped the top hatch, inhaling the fresh air mixed with the scent of sulfur. "We won..." he whispered, patting the steel dashboard. "Our steel is harder."
Rianor climbed out, picking up one of the fallen enemy rifles. "Iron Empire design. Heavy and crude, but lethal against unarmored infantry," he analyzed briefly. "Lucky we had the Titan."
Rianor looked down the long road stretching South. "But Riven... this was just an outpost. Morvath will have 'bigger toys' waiting for us at the port."
"Who cares?" Riven wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "As long as these treads are turning, I'm getting this convoy to its destination. Our people are waiting."
The convoy moved out once more. Behind them, the wreckage of the barricade stood as a silent witness: the era of the sword-wielding knight had begun to fade, replaced by the roar of war machines on the soil of Aethelgard.