Chapter 32: The Eastern Front – Part 1

Chapter 32: The Eastern Front – Part 1

POV: Duke Swan Ya Zar

The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and burning flesh. Duke Swan Ya Zar stood atop the northern ramparts of the Eastern Province's capital, his battle-worn armor splattered with the blood of both friend and foe. His sharp, piercing gaze swept across the battlefield—an ocean of torches, banners, and siege weapons stretching beyond the walls.

The Eastern Alliance Army had arrived in full force.

300,000 strong.

Eight nations had come together under a single cause—to erase the Eastern Province from the map and cripple the Empire's war production. This province, the blacksmith of the Empire, was its greatest weapon. If it fell, the Empire's ability to wage war would be shattered.

Swan Ya Zar knew this.

The Imperial Court had abandoned him. No reinforcements would arrive. No help was coming.

And yet, he refused to surrender.

30,000 men stood with him. A single city against an army.

If the Eastern Alliance wanted to take his land, they would have to drown in blood first.

His grip on his greatsword tightened, his body already aching from the endless fighting of the past weeks. His golden eyes burned with a warrior's resolve.

"This is where we make our last stand," Swan Ya Zar declared. "We will hold this city, or we will die on its walls!"

A resounding cheer erupted from his men, their voices hoarse yet filled with unshaken resolve.

At the stroke of midnight, the Eastern Alliance began its assault.

Trebuchets unleashed hell.

Enchanted fireballs and massive enchanted stones launched high into the night sky, their fiery trails illuminating the battlefield like meteors. The city's fortifications trembled, the walls quaking as the first barrage landed with devastating force.

BOOM!

The shockwaves sent rubble flying, crushing soldiers and igniting buildings within the city.

Swan Ya Zar stood firm, shouting orders.

"Counter-fire! Loose the ballistae!"

From the walls, the defenders retaliated. Massive iron bolts ripped through the sky, targeting enemy siege engines. The Eastern Alliance's war towers and battering rams inched closer, their reinforced plating shielding them from incoming projectiles.

"Light the oil pits!"

At his command, boiling oil was poured down the walls, coating the advancing siege towers and their crews in liquid fire. Screams of burning men filled the night as the first tower collapsed, crushing dozens beneath it.

But the enemy pressed forward.

With siege ladders and grappling hooks, the enemy swarmed the walls.

"To the walls! Hold the line!"

The clash of steel filled the night as Empire soldiers met the invaders in brutal melee combat. The narrow battlements turned into a slaughterhouse, where warriors fought with gritted teeth and desperation.

Swan Ya Zar led from the front, his greatsword carving through enemy ranks like a reaper of death.

A warrior twice his size, wielding a curved glaive, lunged at him. Swan Ya Zar parried, twisting his blade before severing the man's arm at the shoulder. The enemy howled, blood spraying against the stone.

Another foe charged with twin daggers, moving like a shadow. The Duke spun, kicking him off the wall, sending his body tumbling into the fires below.

Blood slicked the ground, turning the stone into a crimson battlefield.

"Push them back!" he roared. "This is our land! Make them pay for every step!"

The soldiers fought like demons, driving the Eastern invaders back.

While the defenders held the walls, the true death blow came from within.

A battalion of 1,000 elite assassins, trained in the deserts of Sultan Rashid's dominion, infiltrated the city under the cover of night. Moving silently as ghosts, they struck where it hurt the most—commanders and critical defenses.

One by one, the Empire's officers were slaughtered.

The Royal Army General, who had sworn to fight to the end, never saw his killer.

A blade slit his throat in the dark, his body falling lifeless to the floor.

Then, the eastern gates collapsed.

With the gates down, the Eastern Alliance poured into the city.

A tidal wave of destruction surged through the streets.

Civilians were cut down mercilessly, buildings were set ablaze, and the enemy forces swept through like a plague of war.

Swan Ya Zar, bloodied and exhausted, refused to fall back.

Instead, he led his forces into the narrow alleyways, where the larger enemy numbers meant nothing.

Using guerrilla tactics, his warriors set traps, collapsed buildings onto enemy forces, and struck from the shadows.

"Close the streets! Force them into the chokepoints!"

They fought with tooth and claw, but it was not enough.

For every enemy soldier that fell, two more took their place.

By dawn, only the central keep remained.

The remaining 5,000 defenders gathered for their final stand.

Outside, the Eastern Alliance surrounded them, preparing for the killing blow.

A warlord rode forward, his crimson cape flowing behind him.

"You have fought well, Duke Swan Ya Zar," he called out. "But your end is here. Surrender, and I will grant you an honorable death."

Swan Ya Zar, standing atop the blood-soaked steps of the keep, raised his sword.

"You will not take my life. If I must fall, I will take a thousand of you with me."

The Eastern forces charged.

Swan Ya Zar gritted his teeth.

This was it.

Just as the Eastern forces surged forward—

A war horn sounded.

A deep, resonating thunder that shook the battlefield.

POV: General Orlan de Firais (Eastern Alliance – Commander of the Assault on the Eastern Province)The Duchy of Ilsar had spent generations preparing for war against the Pagan Empire. Now, standing at the heart of a 300,000-strong army, General Orlan de Firais gazed upon the flaming capital of the Eastern Province with calculated satisfaction.

The blacksmiths of the Empire had finally met their end.

The city walls had withstood the first barrage of trebuchet fire, and the Empire's defenders had fought ferociously, but Orlan knew the truth of warfare—no matter how fierce, how skilled, or how disciplined an army was, they all crumbled before overwhelming numbers.

The moment the assassins breached the city, he had known the battle was won.

The Empire's defenders fought like cornered beasts, retreating through alleys and engaging in guerilla tactics—collapsing buildings, setting fire traps, and attacking supply lines. Their resistance was commendable.

But futile.

His forces pressed in from all sides, suffocating the last remnants of the Duke's army within the heart of the city.

This war was as good as over.

His lieutenant, Commander Hazar, a grizzled war veteran from the Sultanate of Qashir, stepped beside him, his armor stained with Imperial blood.

"The Duke fights like a mad dog, but his end is near," Hazar remarked, stroking his blood-soaked beard.

Orlan chuckled. "He is their last hope. Once he falls, the province is ours."

His eyes shifted toward the last Imperial stronghold—the central keep.

The remaining Empire forces had barricaded themselves inside, refusing to surrender.

He had seen this before.

Desperate warriors, backs against the wall, choosing to die rather than yield.

Admirable.

But meaningless.

He raised his gloved hand.

"Prepare for the final charge."

His officers spread the command—10000 Eastern troops formed ranks, preparing to storm the keep and eradicate the last Imperial resistance.

The siege engines moved into position once again, and a battalion of heavy cavalry formed at the rear to finish the slaughter.

Then, Orlan stepped forward.

Even though he had already won, there was one last thing left to do.

He wanted to see the Duke's eyes before the end.

He wanted to witness the moment his spirit broke.

Swan Ya Zar stood at the top of the central keep, his sword heavy in his hands, his body covered in blood, sweat, and exhaustion.

But his will did not waver.

The invaders gathered for their final assault.

Their commander stepped forward, his gleaming silver armor unmarred, untouched by battle.

A warrior who had not yet dirtied his own hands with blood.

Swan Ya Zar despised men like this.

"You have fought well, Duke Swan Ya Zar," the enemy commander called, his voice echoing across the battlefield.

"But your end is here. Surrender, and I will grant you an honorable death."

Swan Ya Zar spat blood onto the ground.

He took a step forward, greatsword in hand, and smirked.

"You want me to surrender?" he asked, voice hoarse but filled with unyielding fire.

"Come take my head yourself."

A murmur spread through the Eastern ranks.

The Duke's unbroken defiance sent a wave of unease through the enemy.

General Orlan de Firais' smirk faltered for the first time.

Then, he raised his hand.

"Kill them all."

The charge began.

Thousands of soldiers surged forward, their shields locked, their swords gleaming.

The last Imperial soldiers braced themselves, their expressions set in stone.

This was the final moment.

Then, something changed.

A sound ripped through the battlefield—

A low, deep horn blast.

It was a sound that shook the earth itself.

The entire battlefield froze.

Orlan's eyes snapped to the western horizon.

There—emerging from the rolling hills of the Empire's heartland, a cavalry force thundered forth, their lances glinting like silver fangs under the morning sun.

A red and gold banner flew above them.

The Imperial Peacock.

Orlan's blood ran cold.

Imperial reinforcements? But how? The Court abandoned them!

Then—he saw him.

At the lead, riding a black warhorse, his crimson cloak billowing in the wind, a warrior raised his sword to the sky.

A warrior who had been feared on every battlefield he ever set foot upon.

A monster of war.

General Thamain Zeya.

And he was charging directly at them.

"FOR THE EMPIRE!"

The thunder of hooves drowned out all else as the Elite Imperial Knights crashed into the Eastern ranks.

Lances pierced through armor, sending warriors flying into the air like ragdolls.

The Eastern formations buckled as the Imperial cavalry tore through their flanks.

The momentum of the battle shifted in an instant.

Orlan's heart pounded in his chest.

This was not supposed to happen.

He whirled toward his officers.

"Fall back! Regroup—"

But it was too late.

A black-clad warrior burst through the enemy ranks, his silver sword slicing through Eastern soldiers as if they were paper.

His eyes burned with righteous fury.

It was Swan Ya Zar.

Orlan barely had time to react as the Duke closed the distance.

A single stroke of the Duke's greatsword cleaved through his defenses, sending him crashing onto the bloodstained ground.

Orlan gasped, his armor shattered, blood spilling from the deep gash across his chest.

Swan Ya Zar stood over him, breathing heavily, yet unbroken.

"This city is not yours."

Orlan's vision darkened.

The last thing he saw was the Imperial Army rallying behind the Duke, the Eastern forces retreating in chaos.

And then—

Darkness.

The Eastern forces broke apart.

The arrival of General Thamain Zeya's army had shattered their ranks, sending them scattering into retreat.

Swan Ya Zar, barely able to stand, gripped his greatsword tightly and turned toward his men.

For the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to feel something other than rage.

Hope.

The battle was not over.

But the tide had turned.

The Eastern Alliance had made a mistake.

They had thought him alone.

They had thought the Empire weak.

They were wrong.

(Continue.....)