Chapter 1007: Chapter 1006: The Bone-Grinding Machine

Palin Winterhold had come to the high terrace of the castle; from here he could gaze in a single glance toward the direction of the Inner City District barracks—the Empire’s Flags of black field and red sigil were flying high there, ferocious, battle-hungry Soldiers were moving about between the camps, and farther away one could see Mage towers rising within the Inner City District, the Eyes of the Mage atop those towers ceaselessly monitoring the entire region.

He lifted his head again and looked toward the distant west—yet today’s overcast sky and the thin mist in the air blocked his sight; he could no longer see Winterwolf Fortress, which was now in the hands of the Cecil Clan, and of course he could not see the even more distant Longwind Fortress.

Was Andresha still safe on the Cecil Clan’s territory?

Count Winterhold let out a soft sigh and temporarily set aside that meaningless worry, then he used Magic Power to commune with the several Mage towers set in the Inner City District, confirming that none of the Eyes of the Mage had discovered anything abnormal.

The primary task of those Eyes of the Mage was in fact not to keep watch on the outside of the fortress—the directions they truly watched were the stationing grounds of the pioneering knights inside the fortress and several additional camps that had been built outside the city.

Those camps were filled with Knights and Soldiers brimming with the will to fight, as well as Priests and Combat Priests whose devotion bordered on madness; they were the main force of this war—and also its greatest consumables. Since the outbreak of war, the forces in the Winterhold Area had already increased to more than six times their peacetime strength, and even now new Soldiers and priests were constantly rushing from the rear to the front lines each day, making this narrow battlefield ever more crowded, and ever more dangerous.

In Palin Winterhold’s eyes, what the Magic-guided Train brought from the rear each day were not armies, but fresh corpses.

And unlike ordinary "corpses," these "corpses" gathered in Winterhold were extremely prone to losing control; they were steeped in frenzied impulses of thought, their nervous systems and external perceptions had already mutated into something neither quite human nor entirely inhuman. On the surface they appeared to be ordinary human beings, yet within... they had long since become some twisted thing that even dark Spells could not fathom.

However, here on this foremost front line, there were still methods to control these dangerous, twisted contaminated ones—one only needed to constrain them strictly in accordance with the rules of war, let them vent the frenzied pressure in their spiritual worlds in a timely fashion, or administer large doses of sedative-type potions for the mind, and thus one could suppress their destructive impulses or slow the pace of their mutation, at least for the time being.

This was a dangerous state of balance, each day like walking on the edge of a blade, and Palin Winterhold’s task here was to maintain this fragile balance upon the blade, and within the threshold of losing control of the situation... to consume these fresh "corpses" with the highest efficiency and in the optimal manner.

He felt like a technical personnel controlling a combustion cauldron in a Pyrostone Acid Plant, calculating with precision each day the fuel and alchemical combustive aids thrown into the fire. Lives passed through his hands, subjected to cold calculations, ready at any moment to be cast into the raging flames of war when the furnace door next opened. Here he maintained the heat of those flames, thereby gradually cleansing the Empire’s contamination, sounding out and weakening the power of the Cecil Clan, gathering data from the battlefield, adjusting the balance of the scales...

He knew that everything he was doing carried great significance, yet he still felt that it was all nauseating.

War was never meant to be like this—and he himself was never meant to be doing such things.

"It’s even colder here than I imagined," a voice came from beside him, calling the somewhat absent-minded Count Winterhold back from his thoughts. "But it’s hard to say whether Aldernon or this place is more unbearable—the cold here is like a blade, hard and sharp, whereas the cold in Aldernon is like a mire, damp and suffocating."

Following the sound, Count Winterhold turned his head and nodded in greeting to the Earl Clement Darte who stood at his side—this aristocratic of Aldernon had arrived in Winterhold together with the troop transport train today. In name, he was the commander of that reinforcement force, whereas in reality... he, too, was one of the "consumables" brought by that Magic-guided Train.

"This winter is colder than any in previous years," Count Winterhold said. "Soldiers from the central and southern regions can hardly adapt here. But compared to the northern parts of the Dark Mountain Range held by the Cecil Clan, this place already counts as a mild environment."

"Soldiers..." Clement Darte softly repeated the word; his gaze turned to the distance, sweeping over those camps where the Empire’s Flags were flying. "Count Winterhold, these are all outstanding young men, truly outstanding... Originally they all ought to have had a bright future; they were never meant to die in this winter."

Palin Winterhold was silent for two seconds before slowly speaking: "Faced with the malice of the gods, mortal beings are this fragile. Our homeland needs to be reborn through fire, and what you are seeing... is the price exacted by the flames."

"All I see is meaningless attrition, an interminable tug-of-war, and no effective counterattack at all—whether against the Cecil Clan, or against the gods," Clement said in a low voice. "Tell me, is there truly any meaning in burying Soldiers and priests whose minds have been contaminated on this narrow battlefield, one wave after another? Is this bloodletting to purge poison, or merely squandering our vitality in vain?"

Count Winterhold looked into Clement’s eyes, and after a long moment he slowly nodded. "I choose to trust the King’s judgment."

"...What an excellent reason," Earl Clement gave a faint smile, drew in a deep breath of the cold air from the north, then turned around and slowly walked toward the exit of the terrace. "One way or another, I’m already standing here... Save me a good position."

Palin Winterhold watched as Clement walked away at an unhurried pace; he narrowed his eyes slightly, and in his mind he had already begun to calculate the value this "conservative opposition aristocratic" could generate here, and at what position the reinforcement force he had brought should be expended.

...

On the Winterwolf Fortress–Shadow Marsh defensive line, the cold wind was sweeping across the undulating hills and low woods scattered along the permafrost; loose drifts of snow were lifted by the wind, whirling as they struck the relay posts on either side of the railway. Within the barrier shimmering with faint light along the tracks, the heavily armored, imposing armored train Iron Throne - Mundane Python was moving forward along the rails at cruising speed.

The repulsion generators on both sides of the train gleamed with the light of magic symbols, the mechanical devices at the repulsion points and at the joints between cars making minute adjustments to their angles, slightly increasing the train’s speed. Snowflakes lifted from afar by the wind passed harmlessly through the barrier and were drawn beneath the roaring train, while on another stretch of parallel rail some distance from the train, an Iron Scepter Light Armored Train that had been assigned as escort ran abreast with the mortal world Serpent.

At the rear of the escort gun-carriage on the Iron Scepter, inside the engineering carriage responsible for track maintenance, a War Engineers had just finished adjusting the valves and screws on certain equipment. He lifted his head from his work and looked out through a narrow window set in the side of the carriage, toward the snow-covered plains outside, and muttered softly, "This damned snow has finally stopped... There haven’t been many clear days since the middle of the Fog Month."

"Clear skies aren’t necessarily a good thing either... those Typhon Empire people might end up even more active than before," another War Engineer beside him shook his head. "They’ve already come over to sabotage the railway more than once. Most of the time it didn’t really work... but I heard last time they almost managed to blow up Line 7."

The War Engineer who had spoken earlier curled his lip and did not continue the topic. He walked to the side of the carriage, pressed closer, and studied the snow‑white world outside with extra care—the military train, with its armor plating, narrow windows, and steel mesh covering every opening, naturally offered no decent viewing experience. All he could see was a single vertical, narrow strip of scenery. Within that strip, the listless little groves and snow‑whitened rolling hills sped past backwards, and in the farther sky, he could vaguely make out iron‑gray shadows drifting in the daylight.

That should be a sign of another snowfall—this damned winter.

"What is it?" his partner beside him asked casually. "What did you see?"

"Clouds on the horizon, and they’re not small. I’m afraid it’s going to snow again," the War Engineer muttered. "Judging by my experience, it’s probably a blizzard."

"You’re just a machine‑repair guy, and now you’ve got experience reading the sky?" his partner sneered, turning his head toward the window on the other side of the carriage—outside that narrow, thickened pane, the imposing bulk of the Iron Throne - Mundane Python lay coiled on the nearby tracks, rumbling forward.

...

In the tactical section of the mortal world Serpent, frontline Commander Maryland was standing before the command dais, focused intently on the many markers laid out across the map. On the tabletop at his side, communication devices, drafting tools, and neatly organized files were all in perfect order.

A moment later, Maryland suddenly raised his head and looked to the adjutant beside him. "How long until we reach the engagement zone?"

The adjutant replied at once, "We’ll enter the firing area in thirty minutes—leave the firing zone in forty."

Maryland nodded. "Mm, timing is just right... Notify the armory section to start pre‑loading coolant into the Rainbow Light Generators. Pre‑warm the power spine at both ends—we’ll very soon be within the Typhon Empire’s alert perimeter; their reaction speed has gotten much faster lately than before."

"Yes, sir."

Maryland’s attention returned to the map before him, and between those winding or straight lines, the control zones of Typhon and the Cecil Clan tangled together like interlocking teeth.

In thirty minutes, the Iron Throne · mortal world Serpent would enter a designated firing sector. Over about ten minutes of advance, the train would use its onboard Rainbow Light Main Cannon to deliver a powerful bombardment against a certain edge strongpoint on the Typhon side—but in truth the distance was a bit long. The rainbow beam would at most scorch some outer walls and auxiliary buildings, and there might not even be many casualties, yet that did not matter.

The sudden Rainbow Light strike would be enough to put every Typhon Soldier along that entire defensive line on high alert. They would carry out large‑scale redeployments in preparation for a possible follow‑up full assault; they would send out numerous reconnaissance units to try to determine the Iron Throne’s subsequent route and whether there were more armored trains and escort convoys nearby. Once they were all thoroughly busy... the Iron Throne - Mundane Python would return to the station in the Shadow Marsh, where Maryland would reward himself with a cup of rich coffee, and, if possible, a hot bath—while pondering when the next armored train would depart and from where the next genuine frontal strike should begin.

As for collecting and analyzing data on Typhon’s military responses during this process... he would handle it together with his staff team.

This was what he had been doing frequently in recent times, and it was one of the tactics he had devised together with General Philip—its core idea was to fully exploit the Cecil Legion’s mechanized corps’ mobility and their ability to deliver massive firepower in a short time. Relying on the multiple rail lines and hastily built forward railways in the Winterwolf Fortress–Shadow Marsh area, they used three armored trains—the Zero, the mortal world Serpent, and the newly commissioned War Citizen—as operational cores to carry out continuous harassment–advance–harassment–advance operations.

The new Rainbow Light Main Cannons mounted on the armored trains possessed tremendous power and ultra‑long range; with a suitable firing angle, they could deliver devastating strikes to enemies at extreme distances. Relying on this, the armored trains and their escort car groups patrolled back and forth along the rails, carrying out random raids against Typhon fixed strongpoints near the limit of their range. The enemy would thus be forced into frequent redeployments, exhausted by constant response and evasion; and if they simply abandoned those strongpoints and chose to maneuver across the plains while keeping their distance from the Iron Throne, then the tank squadrons carried aboard the Iron Throne would immediately enter the battlefield for mobile reaping—or simply pull out, draining the enemy’s energy.

If, during this process, the Typhon Empire forces conducted a general withdrawal of their line, then the Engineer Corps traveling with the armored trains would at once move into action—laying down "forward railways," further expanding the Iron Throne’s operating radius, and establishing temporary stations and energy relay points to provide chaotic magic resupply for tanks and infantry—if the Typhon Empire people turned a blind eye, then within a week the Cecil Legion could throw up a crisscrossing defensive net and solid fortifications throughout the new occupation zone.

And if the Typhon Empire did not want to sit and watch all this happen, then they could only counterattack the Cecil Clan occupation zones at a tremendous price.

At first, Maryland had still chosen to meet those fearless Typhon troops head‑on in battle, but after realizing that those ever‑steady, death‑defying, large‑scale Empire Corps of Transcendents could, once they went all out, inflict severe losses on the mechanized corps, he chose another plan: if the Typhon Empire counterattacked, then fight them for a while, and pull back as soon as any gains were made. On the rail lines, the movement speed of a mechanized corps was something regular infantry could only dream of; the Iron Throne and its attached formations executing "harassment–advance" could swiftly retreat back under the protective umbrella of the Cannon Positions and Everlasting Fortifications, and the only thing the enemy could do was destroy those unfinished works and the temporary "forward railways."

Such losses were almost negligible for the Cecil Engineer Corps.

This kind of advance could go on indefinitely—if not for orders from the imperial capital, Maryland believed that before the end of the Fog Month he could have used this improved "Steel Advancement" tactic to flatten the entire Bitter Winter Castle line step by step, perhaps even push all the way to Aldernon...

But the imperial capital had, in the end, issued its orders... At least for now, the Empire had no intention of assaulting Aldernon.

Maryland let out a light breath.

That was just as well; after all, that side was all pollution zones... The Shadow of the runaway gods shrouded Typhon’s land, and pushing too far in was not a good idea.

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