On the battlefield, aside from a few top-tier warriors, very few noticed the shifting of the moon above. Some powerful Vampires sensed an unusual disturbance, causing them to turn instinctively toward the full moon high in the sky.
Dark race warriors quietly gathered, awaiting further orders while an unshakable unease swept through their ranks. Though their formation still appeared imposing with massive numbers, warriors started to feel something amiss—there were fewer officers in their midst, particularly the mightier fighters, and some squadrons contained barely any senior warriors.
Elites are the pillars of any military force—everyone understood well what might happen to cannon-follower battalions without adequate leaders at the front lines. As such an elite reduction shook the ranks’ resolve significantly.
Back towards the corpse-strewn Second Line, those few survivors retreating the front couldn’t help but ponder a chilling theory—*Could it be that all of them lay dead over there?*
Onboard the flagship, the Spider-Demon Viscount returned, though barely able to hobble this time, half his body smeared with blood. His voice emerged weak and hoarse. “My Lord, I’ve returned.”
“Victims status?” a colder tone asked.
“Our losses approach one third of the full strength. The humans likely numbered four thousand fallen soldiers from several engagements.”
“One division reduced at the cost of four thousand lives?!”
“With losses like this,” the Viscount explained, “many of whom were cannon-fodder units, higher rates shouldn’t alarm you.”
Lord Pratt merely hummed disdainfully, his sharp sight bearing down upon his reporting subordinate. Obediently lower-ranked and reverent, the viscount bowed deeply, too afraid for eye contact, lest arrogance spark further hostility within the commander-general.
Trained in diplomacy, even under humility Lord Pratt saw the subtle resentment buried just beneath that polished exterior. Toning his inner thoughts, Pratt replied coolly “Tell me then… your strategy moving forward?”
A deceptive inquiry, perhaps, yet with steeled resolve he answered after short reflection: “Casualties within fodder units matter naught, but we’ve suffered heavily—too great the loss upon bloodlines. *Elites constitute the framework of any real army.* Marque Redfang fell into grave. Save, perhaps, by none other than you yourself Lord… even Nightwalker might’ve proven unstoppable to Redfang.”
Pratt’s eyes tightened faintly, glancing skyward momentarily towards rising silver moon before returning decisively. “Under said circumstances—order retreat!”
“WHAT?!” shock rang clear within the noble ranker’s stunned breath.
With patience still in control Lord Pratt reeniterated calmly yet firmly — “Retract… Now.”
Yet still he argued. “You cannot withdraw! Such a decision hands all spoils towards House Romir. He certainly will charge you solely for early setbacks if the retreat proceeds unchallenged… We *do* maintain troops still at the frontline, merely maintain a symbolic offensive presence would serve our goals without outright loss should siege continue.”
Stating coldly, Lord Pratt closed off dialogue: “That decision, too, depends on success by House Romir.”
The Viscount recognized firmness entrenched behind the Lord’s voice, wisely stepping down, bearing orders back without protest.
Battle horns of retreat pierced cold night air, dark troops withdrawing en masse gradually as Whitecastle gates thundered open revealing over thousands, rapidly clearing the carnage field. Mercenaries remained on a tight schedule.
The hour of reprieve barely concluded when far horizons turned to darkening swarms of airborne warships.
A series of dark battleships formed a frontal row distant but opposed directly. They provided protective air dominance, facilitating arrival transports. Countless troopers stormed disembarked. A new conflict stirred upon wind like wildfire about to ignite.
From far corners, immense energy pressure stirred—like a leviathan’s shadow breaching cloud tops. The massive warship’s aesthetic revealed undeniable blood heritage—opulently ornamented prow carved with partially spilled chalice of red ichor at full spill’s threshold: unmistakably *Ducal-level.*
Its manifestation boosted soldiered spirits to cheer.
Nightwalker’s eyes narrowed contemplatively. “*Of all places to park your personal ship—are you intentionally seeking death*?
Massive airborne dreadnoughts remained restricted close to surfaces where even mid-level fighter movement became cumbersome, particularly amid active fronts where identification blurred friend from foe amidst chaotic engagements. Bombarding precision rather than pure power reigned essential. Even more so if geography imposed variable altitude considerations.
Though such titan vessels were primarily for psychological dominance and security, rarely involved combat head-first *unless total annihilation* was primary strategic goal—open engagement risked reciprocal retaliations, *enemy high tiers swarming ship decks* through boarding. Notably pressing, *Hallow Vault*, floated beyond atmosphere. Should Romir choose full confrontation, *Nightwalker could command Hallow Vault in a terminal charge down to claim that gift freely handed.*
Yet, the ship lingered unmoving a hundred meters above ground—an odd posture resembling nothing of aggression.
Ships, after vessels ferried infinite supplies steadily. Troop deployments grew into tides, yet the offensive wasn’t launched just yet—fortifications rose systematically, much akin to Zining Song’s siege pattern at Whitecastle’s very walls in prior assaults.
Soon, engineering titans poured forth next alongside a uniquely robust transport dropping directly into encampment: a small operational Power Tower—planted immediately.
WhiteCastle retaliated via distant bombardments in couple testing waves only for impact to fall impossibly short of enemy positions altogether. Yet instantly, responses surged forth from dark ranks—elite champions interdicted almost *every single round midair,* letting only those slip through harmlessly into contested zones beyond.
From sheer interception speed and scale became clear—an assault couldn’t even disrupt emplacement, forcing retreat into resource saving.
Their preparatory maneuvers sustained well throughout that long sleepless night when dawn broke—direct across from Castle walls—stood fortified encampment rivalling even their city’s defenses: endless barracks lined behind the new leviathan. Camp after camp of amassed armies.
Zining Song set aside optical scope at Whitecastle ramparts, face tightened with weight. “It’s Duke Mamon—one of the Twolved Ancient Clans… It seems war-avoidant nobility do finally engage us directly; hence the internal ceasefire whispers bear truth across Eternal factions.”
Nightwalker muttered, “I anticipated difficult odds. When reinforcements arrive?”
Song replied shaking negatively, “No matter when. Before anyone answers call *ourselves—we ride forward.*”
Nod.
“Standard as usual. Duke falls to me.”
Eyes flickered, caution tinged: “Nightwalker—this isn’t recklessness moment—surety matters now?”
“Blood is ready to transcend—without regrets, I can *shave the beast down* from edge even if his power dwarfs mine momentarily…”
“You haven’t reached that brink *entirely yet…* Wait it out for several fights. My traps are well-planned—should they intend devouring *my battlefield,* they better be prepared for losses. I’m simply curious how desperately will they feed?”
Back on Duke Romiral’s flagship seat—severely weakened stood two Wolf-lords flanking one blood-soaked wounded Arachnodemon Marques—both wounded, bleeding profusely beneath strained bindings, standing only through willpower’s thin grip as temporary peacekeepers for *Lord Platt’s handover.*
Romiral observed with hawk-like eyes, crimson depths smoldering in perpetual dusk: “Then Platt abandoned command? Abandoned *all?*”
“H-he suffered devastating damage,” hastily clarified Viscount: “his unit’s withdrawal served consolidation… Reinforce… fight anew…”
Romir interrupted with a mere click of pale fingers. A snapping sound silenced explanation mid-sentence. The Marquaed’s eyes bulged, gripping his own constricting neck—unable to scream. Transformed arachenid frame jerked—collapsing with final death-throes.
The blood dux redirected sharp gaze onto two remaining Wolf-lords: “Problem slaying deserters?”
None would oppose—not daring.
Though powerful figures in eternal society were high-tier nobility—one simply *does not* strike peers without cause among established pecking order. Today made battlefield exception—label one cowardly flee? Then silence becomes justice.
In reality Platt and Romiral’s strength remained roughly parallel before the disastrous campaign—his impetuously rushing offense *before Romiral* fully arrived *spelled ruin:* bleeding heavily, equipment utterly destroyed, and worst—his middle-ranker noble force decimated entirely. True structural damage beyond flesh.
His actions invited court charges even for tactical retreat—not full retreat. These nobility conflicts usually spared commoner nobles unless pulled into aristocratic tussles. Thus such small sacrifices made little difference.
Unaligned to Platt originally nor loyal, Wolf-dukes feared little. Seeing submission evident Romir’s voice softened somewhat, continuing his order: “Bring Pratt straightaway—irrespective location—mobilize all remnant forces. *That fool refuses facing reality with impending doom ahead… Should victory elude, none of you leave this ground alive!”*
Later inquiries came from one remaining senior bloodlord advisor once Wolf dukes removed, “Is the matter *truly* this dire?”
Romir faced the group. “Our orbital perimeter falls apart. Scattered机动fleets cowardly protect node anchors but dare battle the enemy fleet. Land campaigns worse: retreating at every engagement. Of the three enemy routes, two clearly target *this very point…* If those columns unite—it’s lost entirely and irrevocably. This region houses the greatest air-dock platform for this entire continent… Should our foothold break utterly, even a tenth evacuation qualifies ‘successful.’”
Another queried, “How did humans climb past our strength? Weren’t *they* previously the pressured, not the aggressive aggressor?”
“They redeployed many, *powerful,* new veterans directly to battlefield.”
Wisely someone inquired. “Wouldn’t such moves dangerously deplete inner territories if mass redeployed from origin?”
Ice dripped in voice responding.
“Our parliament holds responsibility for that *other theater.* That remains their battlefield—not ours,” Romir added. “Truth: the elite has *come* already—don’t let fantasy cloud fate.”
They turned to ask finally, hearts growing heavier:
“You said two advancing armies were led respectively by Lord Hemi and General Zhao?
Zhaos fame rang across continents. But at the higher echelons *Lady Hemi’s* mere mentioning sent visible waves through the audience.
Understanding slight tremor of resolve, reassurance attempted:
“The High Council dispatched Dukes Sein and Dohr to counter. Affairs remain tolerable.”
Yet that promise rang hollow even within delivery.
The senior lord dared: “Merely two dukes versus such threats seem unsteady odds. By standard Qin practices at-least ONE figure *on the doorstep of divine rank* would accompany Lady Hemi… Even long before Divinity, *her blood screamed like royalty*, hunting nobles across oceans like hounds on hares! Would the council not send forth additional deputies—or, another vice-duke?”
Sighing, Romerial replied candidly. “Council anticipated exactly this predicament… the difficulty lay elsewhere—who *would volunteer?*”
“Outside orbital space, with capital fleets gone? No duke ship escapes Imperial Hunter intercept… *No safe escape.*”
The assembled finally recognized—this perilous role *required expendable dukes*.
High nobles within Eternal factions followed strict, if invisible protocol. Ranks symbolized power only superficially; within same classes lay staggering variance based upon legacy or identity or political capital. This mission risk made common lords more acceptable.
Adding: “An unenvied warning spreads further—I caught hint… General Gaoyi may walk these floating lands too. We may very well meet her unannounced at dawn.”
Reaction was palpable—a far greater shake of morale followed the name than before.
Short-lived mortals kept limited number of divine-grade heroes. Among Qin elites—imperial line members stood rare except in wars—*rivaling prestige and fear with highest-tiered of Eternal’s Ancient clans.*
His command resonated powerfully across the bridge chamber.
“Thus—*unless you long exposure upon forward battle line*, this fight is non-negotiable we must conquer. Pass message—prepare formation! Commence attack!”
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