Northreach Village Square. T-Minus 1 Day Before Departure.
That morning, a thick fog still blanketed the village at the foot of the castle, but the morning silence was already shattered by the hustle and bustle of hundreds of people.
Gone were the scenes of lazy farmers or the unemployed loitering at taverns. The threat of starvation and the enemy's blockade had transformed the village's atmosphere into one of desperation. Hundreds of refugees from the southern border villages—whose homes had been torched by Morvath's forces—now crowded the castle gates. Their faces were gaunt, their eyes sunken, and their clothes were nothing more than rags soiled by the dust of travel.
Duchess Aurelia stood atop a makeshift wooden stage in the center of the square. A cold wind whipped against her simple work dress, yet her posture remained upright and full of authority. Beside her stood Martha, the large-bodied head chef, and Grimm, the family's loyal steward.
"Mothers! Fathers! Citizens of Northreach!"
Aurelia's voice was loud, projected with a touch of wind magic so it reached even the back rows.
"Iron Hearth Castle opens its doors today. But listen closely: We do not accept beggars. We do not accept those who only wish to eat for free and then sleep."
Aurelia looked upon the sea of people with the stern gaze of a mother.
"We accept Family. And family must help one another."
She pointed toward the newly erected medical tents and soup kitchens.
"I need fifty strong women for the Logistics Division. Your task: cook for the soldiers, wash blood-soaked bandages, and help care for the wounded. Your payment: three meals a day, warm shelter inside the fortress, and a guarantee of safety for your children."
A moment of silence followed, then a low roar of agreement erupted. Hundreds of thin hands shot into the air. For them, the promise of "food" and "safety" was far more precious than gold or jewels right now.
"I will, My Lady! I can cook!"
"I'm a former village midwife! I can stitch wounds!"
While Aurelia was busy recruiting support units, on the other side of the square, the atmosphere was far harsher and more brutal.
Sir Riven and Captain Garrick stood before two hundred village youths. Riven no longer had his arm in a sling, though his movements were still slightly stiff. He stared at the trembling line of youths with the sharp eyes of a predator.
"Listen up!"
Riven's shout made the line flinch back. He paced back and forth in front of them, his heavy iron boots stomping into the muddy ground.
"I'm not looking for heroes. Heroes usually die young. I'm looking for madmen who are willing to die, yet refuse to let death take them!"
Riven stopped, locking eyes with a youth holding a pitchfork with trembling hands.
"Tomorrow, we break through the Southern blockade. Our enemies aren't petty bandits. They are foreign mercenaries carrying firearms. The chance of you coming home in one piece is only fifty percent. The rest? You might only return as a name on a list."
"Anyone afraid of death, GO HOME NOW! Return to your mother's embrace!"
Several people looked down, then slowly backed out of the line, their faces pale with fear. Riven did not stop them. War was no place for hesitation.
However, the majority stood firm. Their eyes radiated vengeance. They remembered the wheat fields that were burned. They remembered the livestock that were stolen.
"We're in, Commander!" shouted the youth with the pitchfork. "Morvath burned my house! I have nothing left but this life! Let me take at least one enemy head before I die!"
Riven offered a thin smile. A smile that was terrifying yet full of respect.
"Good. Garrick, give them spears and iron-plate vests. Drill them in basic formations until nightfall. Tomorrow at dawn, we hunt."
That day, House Sudrath was transformed. From a small noble family into an organized military force.
Southern Border Path – The Dead Zone. Midday – The Convoy Moves.
The sun sat directly overhead, scorching the barren, rocky road. This area was called the Dead Zone—a no-man's-land between the Northern and Southern territories.
The Sudrath logistics convoy moved through the silence of the stone desert. The sight was contrasting and intimidating.
In the lead, guiding the way like an alpha monster, was the TITAN MK-1.
The black boxy tank roared, crushing the rocky road without mercy. Faint blue mana smoke billowed from the exhaust at its rear. Its iron treads hummed with a KREK-KLANG-KREK sound, creating an industrial rhythm alien to this world.
Behind the Titan, ten large cargo wagons followed. Pulled by sturdy Shire horses, these wagons were empty upon departure, but their mission was to return carrying tons of Mithril and hundreds of refugees.
On the left and right flanks of the convoy, Lady Rhea led the Iron Mercs cavalry. She rode a black horse covered in light armor, her sharp eyes scanning every distant rocky hill for signs of an ambush.
Inside the hot and noisy cabin of the Titan...
Sir Riven sat in the driver's seat. Both hands gripped the hydraulic control levers. Sweat drenched his forehead, not from fear, but from the heat of the steam engine behind his back.
In the passenger seat beside him, Sir Rianor sat holding a map and binoculars. He had to shout to be heard over the roar of the engine.
"ENTERING THE RED ZONE, BROTHER!" Rianor shouted. "THIS IS MORVATH'S OPERATIONAL TERRITORY. THAT HILL UP AHEAD IS AN IDEAL AMBUSH POINT!"
"I'M READY!" Riven replied. He pressed a lever on the dashboard, increasing the engine's steam pressure. The indicator needle moved into the yellow zone.
Suddenly.
BANG!
A loud explosion echoed, different from the sound of magic. It was the dry, sharp crack of exploding gunpowder.
The ground in front of the Titan's path exploded, hurling gravel against the steel viewing slit.
"CONTACT FRONT!" Rianor shouted.
From behind the rocky hills on both sides of the road, dozens of soldiers in red-and-black uniforms appeared. They did not carry swords or bows.
They carried long iron tubes with smoke wafting from their muzzles.
Musketeers from the Iron Empire.
"Those are firearms..." Riven muttered, his eyes narrowing.
"FIRE!" the enemy Captain shouted from atop the hill.
DOR! DOR! DOR!
Dozens of lead bullets flew simultaneously.
The sound was deafening, shattering the desert's silence. The horses behind the Titan neighed in panic, nearly snapping their harnesses.
The bullets struck the Titan's body.
TANG! TANG! PING!
The sound of metal clashing against metal rang out loudly inside the cabin. Riven winced, reflexively closing his eyes for a moment.
But... nothing penetrated.
The round lead bullets flattened instantly upon hitting the Obsidian Crawler steel plates (a Mithril alloy) that armored the Titan.
Rianor laughed—the cold laugh of a scientist whose hypothesis had been proven.
"Their technology is primitive! Smoothbore muskets! Effective range is only fifty meters, and their penetration power is zero against Mithril steel!"
Rianor turned to Riven, his face flushed with adrenaline.
"BROTHER RIVEN! CRUSH THEM!"
Riven grinned savagely. His white teeth stood out against his oil-smudged face. His past trauma was gone, replaced by a primal instinct to destroy.
"YOU GOT IT, BOSS! HANG ON!"
Riven floored the gas pedal.
VRRROOOOM!
The Titan's engine roared in anger. Thick black smoke spewed from the exhaust. The thirty-ton vehicle surged forward. Its speed rose drastically, from 20 km/h to 60 km/h.
The Titan charged straight toward the wooden barricade the enemy had prepared in the middle of the road.
"WHAT IS THAT?! A MONSTERRR!" the enemy soldiers shouted in panic. They tried to fire again, but reloading a musket took thirty seconds. Too late.
"MOVE OR GET FLATTENED!" Riven bellowed.
CRUSH.
The Titan slammed into the wooden barricade, smashing it into splinters of sawdust. Wooden beams were hurled into the air. The enemy forces scattered in all directions to avoid the iron treads ready to pulp their bones.
From behind, Lady Rhea saw the gap in the chaos.
She drew her rapier.
"CAVALRY! CHARGE THE LEFT FLANK! DON'T LET THEM RELOAD!"
Rhea spurred her horse. She blurred like the wind amidst the gunpowder smoke.
With elegant yet deadly movements, she cut down the panicked enemies who were trying to pour gunpowder into their muskets.
"Forward! For Northreach!" shouted the new recruits behind Rhea.
Initially, they were terrified by the sound of explosions. But upon seeing Riven's bulletproof "Walking Fortress," their courage surged. They charged with spears.
Close-quarters combat ensued. And at close range, the enemy muskets were nothing more than heavy, useless iron sticks.
Fifteen minutes later.
The sound of gunfire ceased. The gunpowder smoke was slowly blown away by the desert wind.
The surviving enemy forces chose to surrender or flee frantically into the hills.
Riven brought the Titan to a stop in the middle of the battlefield. His breath was ragged.
He opened the top hatch of the cabin. Fresh air—mingled with the scent of gunpowder—entered his lungs.
"We won..." Riven whispered, patting his steel dashboard. "Our steel is harder."
Rianor climbed out, picking up one of the fallen enemy muskets. He examined the mechanism meticulously.
"Iron Empire design. Crude, heavy, but lethal against unarmored infantry," Rianor analyzed. "Luckily, we have the Titan."
Rianor stared at the long road stretching South.
"But Brother... this was just the outpost. Morvath surely has bigger toys at the port."
"Who cares," Riven wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His eyes stared straight ahead. "As long as these treads are turning, I'll deliver this convoy to its destination. Our people are waiting there."
The convoy moved once again.
Behind them, the ruins of the destroyed barricades stood as silent witnesses: The Era of the Sword-Wielding Knight was beginning to end. The Era of the War Machine had begun in the land of Aethelgard.