Ember Dragon

Chapter 703: Blazing Sun Bastion

Northern Thrace, Isengard.The Red Dragon coiled atop the steel fortress, its massive body nearly enveloping the entire bastion. The metal in contact with its crimson scales turned red-hot, releasing plumes of steam.

Dolo, the dragonblood hobgoblin and Imperial Marshal, knelt before the fortress, head bowed. He spoke solemnly: "Your Majesty, the 3rd Mixed Division of the Western Army was annihilated by the Holy Guard. We have shamed you."

He observed the Red Dragon’s expression. Seeing no rage, he continued, "The eastern front is also looking grim.

In Saint Michael City, we encountered an ancient weapon of Holy Fadlan—the Blazing Sun Bastion. The Eastern Army has failed to breach it after several days. Duke Misha and Marquis Anthony have already gone to reinforce."

Cassius unfurled his wings and looked down at Dolo, his voice calm: "War is a game of wins and losses. It’s just that the Empire has rarely faced opponents of equal strength—years of victories have dulled our senses.

Our officers underestimated Thrace, treating it like the fragile Northern Kingdoms, daring to split forces while deep in enemy territory."

"Yes, Your Majesty. I will ensure they correct their approach. We’ll make this a cautionary tale within the military," Dolo promised.

The loss of over 15,000 men and hundreds of thousands in gold—while painful—was still bearable for the current Ember Empire. Cassius felt no fury, only the need to calm the public.

In his eyes, if such losses could curb the army’s reckless aggression, then even more sacrifices would be worth it.

Cassius exhaled sulfurous steam, then turned to the tiefling kneeling nearby and asked, "Medrolash, have you uncovered the origins of these so-called ’Holy Guard’?

With the Sun God dormant for years, how could they raise such a force—enough to devour an entire division of mine?"

Medrolash answered grimly: "Your Majesty, I had Nocturne and the Imperial Intelligence Bureau investigate in detail.

According to my findings, the Holy Guard first appeared three years ago. Their power doesn’t come from the dormant Sun God—but from the hells of Baator."

"Oh? The Hells?"

Cassius raised a brow. A glimmer flickered in his golden slit pupils, revealing genuine interest.

Medrolash produced a box of charred substance and replied, "Yes, Your Majesty. We took samples from Hill 103, where the ambush occurred, and found ash produced by hellfire.

That unit isn’t a Holy Guard, but a hellish legion wearing angelic skin. I suspect this is Zariel’s handiwork."

Cassius asked again: "But the Hells always demand equivalent exchange. What did Wilhelm offer to gain such a force?"

"Souls."

Medrolash replied without hesitation and produced pre-prepared intel.

"According to intelligence data, Thrace’s missing persons have increased yearly for the past three years. Even street beggars have vanished. The populace lives in fear."

He took out a memory stone. Magic projections hovered in the air—Thracian soldiers tossing unconscious civilians into subterranean tunnels.

The tunnel walls were covered in twisted arcane formations, like grotesque, snarling faces.

"We have reason to believe that, to secure his rule, the king has sacrificed over a hundred thousand—possibly more—souls to the Hells."

As a tiefling with devil blood, Medrolash harbored no fondness for these distant relatives—he longed to see them purged.

After all, the devils’ existence had brought centuries of suffering and humiliation to his kind.

Cassius sneered, "Descendants of the Sun God? Gleaming angels? Sacrificing their people’s souls to devils? Pathetic.

It seems our justification—that the Empire is liberating Thracians—is quite valid. At least we don’t feed them to fiends."

"Of course, Your Majesty. Under your great vision, all beings can attain true freedom and justice—that is real righteousness."

"Is it really Wilhelm? The second son of Aragon I? Once called the ’King of Angels’—how could he..."

Olivia, standing nearby, frowned, her silver eyes filled with disbelief.

For years, the silver dragon had traveled between the Melward Clan and the Empire, maintaining relations with the metallic dragons.

Though she understood Cassius’s "great blueprint," she still grieved the lives lost in war.

She had opposed the war with Thrace and even sought to submit a motion in the Imperial Assembly against it.

But the tide of war was unstoppable. Her voice was drowned out by cries of "Down with Thrace!" and "Take Auguste!"

And now, faced with clear evidence of Thrace’s pact with Hell, she was still incredulous.

This was Thrace—a successor of Holy Fadlan—revered among lawful and good-aligned beings.

Cassius scoffed, "That’s just the image they wanted you to see. Just like those Holy Guards—glorious on the outside, filth beneath."

Olivia stared at the projection, solemnly saying, "The Empire should expose their true face to the world. Only then—"

"Do you really think those so-called noble nations don’t already know?" Cassius let out a cold laugh.

"Then why..." Olivia looked up at the Red Dragon in confusion.

"They pretend not to see. To them, Thracian lives are meaningless compared to their own interests.

They’d rather drain themselves resisting the Abyss than confront Thrace’s hellish crimes."

Finally, the Red Dragon lowered his head and said slowly, "Haven’t you realized? Ideals and beliefs are just facades—it all boils down to self-interest."

"..."

Olivia stood in silence, conflicted.

Langpu clapped enthusiastically. "Well said, Master. You’ve cut to the heart of the matter. Only the Empire, under your great vision, can bring true peace and prosperity."

Cassius turned toward an ogre and ordered, "Langpu, issue more quests, raise the rewards, and rally Starfallers across the Empire to head to Thrace."

"Yes, Master."

Langpu gladly obeyed.

"Angel-bloods, Holy Crusaders, ancient weapons... Seems Thrace’s pulling out all the stops.

But the war’s outcome will still be decided in the City of Sunrise—Auguste."

The Red Dragon raised his head, gazing south. Fire flickered in his pale golden eyes as the steel bastion beneath him rumbled.

Kingdom of Thrace, Saint Michael City.

Named after the Archangel, it was known as the City of Angels. With a long history, it housed many relics of the ancient Sun God faith.

Its strategic location made it the eastern fortress of Thrace, guarding the pass through the Radiant Mountains and the only path to Auguste.

Now, the Ember Empire’s army had it surrounded. The skies teemed with airships, Wyverns, and Fire Drakes like black clouds.

On the ground were hill-sized steam tanks, armored vehicles, rows of heavy artillery, and nearly 100,000 infantry—a mottled wave north of Saint Michael.

The sky and earth outside the city were occupied by the Empire’s forces—like a looming tsunami. Any ordinary force would’ve surrendered long ago.

Yet the city had withstood days of Imperial assault and still stood tall.

The Imperial herald waved the war flag and shouted, "All forces—fire!"

"Boom!"

"Boom! Boom!"

Thunder roared as a thousand heavy cannons erupted in blinding flashes.

Hundreds of tank cannons locked onto the city walls, firing armor-piercing rounds.

Screams of tearing air echoed as shells arced through the sky, weaving a blazing net meant to level Saint Michael.

But a hemispherical light shield enveloped the entire city. Even armor-piercing rounds couldn’t breach it—only ripples shimmered across its surface. This was why the city still stood.

In front of white walls adorned with angelic carvings stood a towering bastion—the Blazing Sun Bastion, a relic from Holy Fadlan.

Said to be forged from Sunfall shards by ancient sun cults, it once vaporized an entire vampire army during the Blood Moon War.

Only those who passed the "Trial of Light" could wield it—Sun Priests marked with solar seals, even temporarily turning into beings of light.

Its core was a curved megashield of gold and white crystal, carved with the Sun God riding a chariot. Embedded at its center was the floating Eye of the Sun Core, beneath which sat the Holy Solar Urn.

Twelve folding arc-lens wings extended from its sides, resembling angel wings.

These lenses, guided by floating arrays, adjusted freely to refract core energy into various forms:

Focused into city-piercing beams, scattered into battlefield firestorms, or reflected into protective citywide barriers.

Now in reflection mode, the twelve lenses faced outward, projecting a 300-meter-wide dome that blocked both magic and physical attacks.

Undead and demons combusted on contact. Normal enemies suffered blindness, burns, and dehydration under continuous exposure.

"For Thrace!"

"Glory to Holy Fadlan! Saint Michael will never fall!"

Inside the Bastion, angel-blooded warriors hovered, wings flapping. They raised flaming swords, channeling solar energy into the Eye of the Sun.

An Imperial officer roared, "Attack! Smash their damn shell—for the Empire!"

"Boom—"

The earth quaked. Treads gouged deep furrows.

Dozens of steam tanks charged, main guns blazing—like a pack of raging beasts storming Saint Michael.

"Those dragon lackeys are coming! Prepare the Solar Flare Judgment!"

"Vmmm—"

Trumpets blared. Six Sun Priests poured divine gold dust into the Holy Solar Urn.

The liquid sunlight inside boiled violently. Ancient solar runes shimmered on its surface.

On the third trumpet call, the twelve lenses rotated. Blazing white light surged, refracted layer by layer into a flare hot enough to melt gold and split stone.

"For the Empire!"

Under covering fire, a dragonblood gnome rammed a tank into the wall, its steel battering ram smashing forward.

Behind him, Imperial infantry advanced quickly, coordinating with the charging tanks.

Suddenly, the paladins atop the walls removed their helmets and crouched—not surrendering, but shielding themselves from the blinding light.

"Praise the Sun! Glory to the Golden Radiance, the Eternal Light!"

The Chief Sun Priest slit his wrist, feeding gold-red blood into the urn. Sunlight burst into roaring dragons of light.

"Boom—"

The closest steam tank, thirty paces from the gate, exploded—a fireball engulfing it, its molten armor sinking into scorched earth.

"Cassius above!"

"That damn divine magic again! Magic shield team, now!"

Ogre-raised anti-magic shields cracked like glass under the beams. Even their bones glowed eerily red.

When the light finally faded, the outer battlefield was scarred with radial glassy trenches. Rising smoke shimmered into golden mist.

"Damn Thracians!"

From afar, Duke Drol peered through his scope at the unyielding bastion, slammed his table, and let out a furious roar.

The invincible Imperial army had, for the first time, met a truly equal adversary.