Battle of Northtoi: The Evil Wind Dooms the Alliance
The seas off Northtoi had never been soaked in such blood and smoke before. As four hundred thousand Yuan warships formed their lines at dawn, a massive fleet of the combined Fontaine and Sumeru armies loomed on the horizon—seven hundred thousand vessels like moving mountains. The emblems of water waves and lotuses fluttered in the wind on their sails, the metal of their soldiers' armor glinted coldly on the decks, and their gun barrels pointed straight at the Yuan fleet.
On board the Yuan flagship, Wave-Breaker, Yuan Shang gripped his hilt, staring at the dense alliance fleet in the distance until his knuckles turned white. "Seven hundred thousand versus four hundred thousand," whispered Guo Tu, his advisor beside him. "The alliance's ships are taller than ours, and the range of Fontaine's steam cannons extends a hundred zhang further. A direct assault is impossible." Han Xing, standing on the other side, clutched a bronze bell etched with strange runes, a shadow crossing his eyes. "Have no fear, my lord. The Crimson Observation Platform in Chenyu Valley is ready. Once the time comes, we will call upon the 'Wind and Rain' to help us break through the enemy."
The Third Hour of the Chen—The alliance struck first. The steam cannons of the Fontaine fleet roared deafeningly, and iron balls streaked across the sea, reducing the front-row Yuan ships to splinters. Several small fast crafts were blown to pieces instantly, and the falling soldiers struggled in the frigid water, only to be swallowed by the waves. The Sumeru fleet unleashed a rain of arrows, so dense that they darkened the sky. Though the Yuan soldiers raised their shields, many still fell, their screams mingling with the waves as a prelude of despair.
"Advance the entire army!" shouted Montaigne, the Fontine Navy Admiral and alliance commander. Seven hundred thousand warships surged forward like a tide. The dull crash of rams, the sharp clink of blades, and the roars of soldiers filled the air. Although the Yuan army fought bravely, their inferior numbers and equipment forced their line to compress. Many ships were surrounded, and brutal hand-to-hand combat erupted on the decks, blood streaming down the hulls to dye the blue sea dark red.
"The time has come." On the Crimson Observation Platform in Chenyu Valley, Guo Tu and Han Xing stood side by side. The cliff-top platform was covered with rune-carved stone pillars, and the central altar was prepared with animal sacrifices. Their blood flowed along grooves to form a massive formation on the ground. Han Xing shook the bronze bell; its sharp, piercing sound seemed to cut through the clouds. Guo Tu waved a peachwood sword, chanting an obscure incantation. As he sang, the runes around the altar began to glow with a faint green light.
At first, the alliance soldiers paid little heed to the strange winds brushing their faces. But moments later, a violent storm erupted, the wind direction abruptly reversing. What had been a tailwind for the alliance became a headwind, tossing their tall ships unsteadily. The sound of tearing sails filled the air. Dark clouds then converged from all directions, plunging the sky into the darkness of dusk. Raindrops the size of beans fell heavily, soon becoming a downpour.
"What's happening?" Montaigne stood on the bow of his flagship, caught off guard by the sudden storm. Driven by the gale, the waves turned savage, colliding with the alliance ships. Many anchor chains snapped, sending the vessels drifting helplessly toward the reef areas. The Fontaine steam cannons, flooded with rainwater, exploded one after another. The gunners scrambled to cover the muzzles, but it was too late to stop the spreading fire.
The Sumeru archlers suffered the most. The rain blurred their vision, and the soaked bowstrings were hard to pull. The once-dense arrow rain became sparse and weak. Meanwhile, though the Yuan ships were also buffeted by the storm, their smaller size and greater agility allowed them to counterattack. The Yuan soldiers roared in the rain, climbing the alliance ships as blades flashed through the downpour. The tide of battle, which had been against them, suddenly reversed.
On the Observation Platform, Guo Tu and Han Xing paled, covered in cold sweat. Summoning such a massive storm had taken a great toll. Guo Tu's peachwood sword had cracked, and Han Xing's bell emitted a harsh static sound. Yet, as they watched the alliance fleet in disarray—ships capsizing, soldiers drowning, fires flickering in the rain—a look of ferocity crossed their eyes. "Push harder," Guo Tu rasped, "destroy their formation completely!"
The wind grew fiercer, generating enormous waves like the gaping mouths of a beast, devouring one alliance ship after another. The Fontaine steam propulsion system was completely crippled by the rain and waves, turning their massive vessels into sitting ducks, struck repeatedly by Yuan rockets and rams. Most Sumeru soldiers were unaccustomed to naval warfare and were quickly swept away by the waves, their cries for help drowned by the storm.
Montaigne watched the carnage of his fleet, his command sword hanging limply. He had fought countless battles, yet he had never witnessed something so eerie—a sudden storm had trapped seven hundred thousand elite troops in despair. As a Yuan ship collided with his flagship, he stared at the churning clouds, as if beholding an irresistible force of terror.
The Third Hour of the Wu—The rain gradually subsided. The sea was covered with the wreckage of ships, the bodies of soldiers, and debris, the water turned a murky reddish-brown. The Yuan soldiers stood on their decks, cheering wearily but excitedly. In this battle, the combined Fontaine and Sumeru navy suffered catastrophic losses: over fifty thousand soldiers died, were drowned, or captured, leaving fewer than twenty thousand troops to flee in disgrace.
Yuan Shang stood on the deck of the Wave-Breaker, gazing at the devastated sea and the direction of Chenyu Valley, his expression complex. Although the dark arts of Guo Tu and Han Xing had won him the victory, they had also cast a strange veil over it. The sea breeze blew, carrying the thick stench of blood, as if whispering of the victory's cost and tragedy. From then on, the seas off Northtoi became a legend of a violent storm and fifty thousand lost souls, and the enmity between the Yuan and alliance forces was sown deeper into this bloody sea.