Глава 14

'Target locked on–'

'Main guns, first salvo!'

Confirmed hit!

General, we've swept the obstacles away.

Good.

Gastrell, all ahead full.

Our objective – the Nachzehrer's throne.

The naval guns roar.

Wellington is well-acquainted with his most loyal subject – the oldest gun aboard the ship, that which assisted him in blowing open the gates of Lingones.

He killed the mightiest nomadic city on Terra. He pulled the spine from its corpse and made it a part of his warship.

Afterwards, he took the Gastrell to many lands, and conquered many foes.

The Arts orbs of Leithanian casters, the shields of Ursine vanguards, the golden blades of Sargonian assassins – he collected and modified the most valuable components of his enemies, and placed them upon his flagship.

But not for the sake of commemoration. Only those who have become weak and frail through the passage of time need to rely on these vestiges to remember the past.

The Gastrell must step over the bones of its enemies, assimilating their power so that it may become stronger.

Only this way can the two of them defeat even stronger enemies together.

Intercept them!

The crystal barrier... has been shattered.

The enemy continues to advance.

How they must long for death, using artillery fire to cleave a path.

Wave after wave of cannonfire pours down onto the sea of Originium.

Golden fragments crack and split apart, revealing a gap within those congealed waves.

How dare they... approach us––

A thick haze envelops the battleship.

Countless Nachzehrer warriors land on its deck, the entire vessel enveloped in the glow of witchcraft.

Rend, dismantle, corrode.

The cadence of gunfire gradually slows.

The hard, steel hull is being digested, just like all other prey that has fallen into the Nachzehrers' Arts circles.

Capture... complete...

Not yet.

He lifts his scepter.

Branches grow rapidly from beneath the throne, blocking the front of the Nachzehrer warriors.

A shell lodges within the branches.

A few seconds later, the shell explodes, tearing the branches asunder.

For the first time since the battle began, the Nachzehrer's throne shakes.

My Patriarch!

It matters not.

From the thick haze of corruption, the warship slowly comes into view.

Its outer layer flayed off by the corruption, almost half its main and secondary guns disabled due to the bombardment of witchcraft shells, only the steel frame remains shining.

Yet she is nevertheless still Gastrell, the mightiest warship in the land.

And her master–

The Sarkaz atop the throne lowers his head, noticing a faint shadow among the crystal clusters.

General, the Gastrell has successfully drawn the attention of the main Sarkaz force!

They didn't even notice that we were transferred from the main ship–

Wait, something's coming in fast!

Guardsmen, tighten your formation!

A salvo of artillery fire.

Only a few tiny twigs fall from the smoke and dust.

The force that was enough to shatter those crystalline waves cannot even shake the figure floating in the air.

The Nachzehrer King casts his gaze down upon the commander at the center of the army. Not far behind the old Feline, the bloodthirsty warship is waiting, eager to tear at his rotting flesh.

Duke... of Victoria.

We have devoured many Victorians. General, Duke. Whatever the title, they all tasted the same.

Conspirators. Merchants. But none of their warriors.

They saw the battlefield as little more than a sandbox atop a table. The soldiers, mere chess pieces; war itself, only a tool for power and profit. How frivolous war was to them.

But, you are different. Your ship has also feasted on many enemies.

Ursine. Leithanian. Gaulish... And, Sarkaz. I can smell their flesh.

They have also been absorbed by the Nachzehrers.

Sarkaz... I've read plenty of records about you.

The ancient Nachzehrers, with a tenth of the Victorian Army's numbers, were able to halt their advance on Kazdel.

A feat of war that defies all reason, one that cannot be taught in military academies or replicated.

Are you here to take revenge?

Haha. My only regret is that I hadn't been born two hundred years ago.

They apparently call you the 'God of War'?

No. There are no gods when it comes to war.

There only exists... the moment of victory or defeat.

Wellington draws his sword and points it at the Sarkaz in midair.

Behind him, all the guns on his ship are pointed in the same direction.

Nezzsalem, I will defeat you.

Just like all the other mighty foes that have fallen at my hands.