Red Skulls Mercenary Camp – Southern Plains of Northreach. 02:00 AM.
The world seemed to slumber beneath a heavy, suffocating shroud of darkness. The moon lurked behind a thick fortress of clouds, leaving the vast border plains in pitch-black ink. A soft night breeze drifted by, carrying the scent of dust and the parched remains of grass scorched by the midday sun.
In the heart of the gloom, thousands of small campfires flickered in the distance. The Red Skulls' camp stretched wide, a sprawling city of tents that seemed to have no end. Faint echoes of drunken laughter, coarse singing, and the rhythmic clink of beer bottles traveled on the wind. They were celebrating a victory they had yet to earn, convinced that by sunrise, their cannons would reduce Iron Hearth Castle to rubble within hours.
At the outermost posts, sentries nodded off, leaning their backs against timber barricades. They were completely off-guard. Why should they fear? Their enemy was a house of impoverished nobles leading a ragtag militia of peasants armed with pitchforks. No knight was insane enough to charge the Iron Empire's elite on open ground.
They were dead wrong.
Roughly a kilometer from the camp's perimeter, a gargantuan shadow was creeping closer. Strangely, despite its house-sized bulk, it moved with a ghostly silence.
"The enemy's magical detection system is down," Elara reported softly. A thin trail of blood leaked from her nostril—a sign that she was pushing her mana flow to its absolute limit. "I've scrambled their guardian crystal frequencies. On their radar, this massive tank is reading as nothing more than... a passing rabbit."
Riven smirked inside the cramped, dimly lit cockpit. "Good work, little mage. Now, let's wake them up."
The TITAN MK-1 (Iron Duke) glided over the knee-high grass. Its mana-steam engine was completely shut down. Its heavy iron treads no longer ground into the earth with a violent roar. To the left and right of the tank, Elara and four of Northreach's finest wind mages walked with tense expressions, their hands raised toward the Titan's hull. Cold sweat poured down their temples as they channeled Partial Levitation—not to fly the tank, but to negate ninety percent of its weight and muffle the screech of metal against earth.
Behind the tank, dozens of Iron Mercs manually pushed the steel beast forward. Their breath hitched in their throats; a single cough could blow the entire lethal operation.
Inside the pitch-black cockpit, Sir Riven gripped the cold steering levers. He could see nothing through the observation slits but the oppressive dark.
"Distance to target?" Riven whispered through the internal radio.
In the gunner's seat, Rianor observed a green sonar radar screen that pulsed with a weak glow—a masterpiece looted from the Underground City. "Five hundred meters," Rianor whispered back. "Entering the Kill Zone. Elara is at her breaking point. Riven, prepare to ignite the engine."
Meanwhile, atop the rocky ridges surrounding the valley, five motionless shadows lay prone. The Ghost Squad.
Borch peered through a primitive Night Vision scope that utilized light-gathering crystals. He saw the enemy artillery crews relaxing, playing cards beside the muzzles of their Howitzers.
"Targets locked," Borch reported via radio. "Five primary operators. Three field officers. Awaiting the signal."
Back inside the Titan, Rianor threw the capacitor switch. The power-gauge needle surged upward in the silence.
"Rumina, status on the Searchlight?" Rianor asked.
"Capacitors at max, Brother. The Xenon bulb is ready to incinerate their retinas," Rumina's voice came from the rear seat, her fingers busy ensuring every cable connection held firm.
Riven took a long, steadying breath. His heart hammered against his ribs. This was madness. They had brought a single tank and five marksmen against five thousand soldiers. But in modern warfare, numbers weren't everything.
"Alright," Riven whispered. "Let's give them a surprise."
"Three... two... one..."
"IGNITE THE SUN!" Rianor roared.
He slammed the massive red button on the control panel.
CLICK.
HUUUUMMMMM....
In the heart of the midnight gloom, a "star" was suddenly born atop the Titan's turret.
FLASH!
A beam of pure, brilliant white light erupted from the massive Xenon searchlight. The light was so intense, so violent, that it sliced through the night like a divine blade of radiance. The beam struck the very center of the enemy camp. Thousands of previously dark tents were instantly illuminated as if the sun itself had crashed into the earth.
"ARGHH!"
"WHAT IN THE HELL IS THAT?!"
"MY EYES! I'M BLIND!"
Thousands of mercenaries who had been fast asleep were jolted awake with hysterical screams. Those unfortunate enough to be staring in the direction of the light collapsed, clutching their eyes as if they had been scorched by fire. Total chaos erupted in seconds. Cavalry horses neighed in terror, snapping their reins and trampling their own masters as they fled the brilliance.
"GHOST SQUAD! FIRE AT WILL!" Riven commanded.
Atop the ridge, Borch and his team pressed their electronic triggers.
ZIIING! ZIIING! ZIIING!
There were no explosions. Only the sharp, tearing whistle of air being split asunder. A fraction of a second later, the heads of the enemy artillery operators began to explode like watermelons under a sledgehammer.
SPLAT.
The first operator fell, headless. The second, trying to flee, found a fist-sized hole punched through his chest. They died without ever knowing where the bullets came from. There were no muzzle flashes. Only invisible death arriving from the dark.
"ENGINE ON!" Riven shouted. He turned the ignition.
VRRROOOOM!
The Titan's Mana-Engine roared to life. Its growl thundered across the plains, rivaling the panicked screams of the enemy. Black smoke billowed from the dual exhausts.
"FLATTEN THEM!"
Riven floored the throttle. The Titan MK-1, now returning to its full thirty-ton weight, lurched forward. Its iron treads chewed into the earth with primal fury.
CRUSH!
The Titan barreled into the enemy's timber barricades, reducing them to splinters. The tank kept moving, grinding over tents, logistics wagons, and piles of discarded weapons.
"FIRE! FIRE AT THAT THING!" an officer of the Red Skulls shrieked.
DOR! DOR! DOR!
Hundreds of muskets barked, spitting hot lead at the Titan's hull.
TING! TING! PLAK!
The bullets bounced harmlessly off the Adamantite plating. It was like throwing pebbles at a fortress wall. Inside the cockpit, Riven let out a wild, manic laugh. "It tickles, little brother! It's just a tickle!"
Rianor swiveled the turret. He aimed for the enemy's ammunition depot—a cluster of gunpowder barrels in the center of the camp. "Such a pity," Rianor murmured coldly. "You brought gunpowder to a laser party."
He pulled the trigger of the Main Railgun.
KA-BOOM!
It wasn't an explosion of fire, but a sonic boom as the solid iron projectile was launched at hypersonic speed. The shell struck the pile of gunpowder barrels.
BLARRRRRRRR!
A cataclysmic explosion shook the earth. A gargantuan fireball rose into the air, painting the night sky crimson. The enemy's armory—their primary supply—vanished in the blink of an eye. The shockwave hurled dozens of tents and soldiers into the air like leaves in a storm.
The enemy troops no longer thought of fighting back. They believed this was a divine judgment. "RUN! IT'S A MONSTER!"
Amidst the flames and the blinding light, the Titan MK-1 stood firm as the new sovereign of the battlefield. Its searchlight continued to sweep, searching for the next target, while the Ghost Squad continued to harvest the lives of the officers.
That night, the legend of the "One-Eyed Iron Ghost" was born on the continent of Aethelgard.
However, amidst the panic, one figure did not flee. From a burning command tent, Colonel Varg emerged with half his face scorched. His eyes burned with pure, unadulterated hatred. He ran toward a massive machine behind his tent, still hidden under a thick tarpaulin.
An ancient steam-powered relic looted by the Iron Empire. A War Golem (Type: Juggernaut).
"You think you're the only ones with iron toys, hmm?" Varg growled as he climbed into the four-meter-tall steam robot.
HISS... CLANK...
The Golem lurched to its feet, superheated steam venting from its back. A gargantuan circular saw was mounted on its right arm, beginning to spin with a high-pitched whine. Varg steered the Golem directly toward Riven's Titan.
"COME HERE, YOU NORTHERN RAT! LET'S SEE WHO SHATTERS FIRST!"