Count Jacob did not sit waiting for death. Relying on a warrior's agile reflexes and sharp kinetic vision, he darted through the artillery barrage, evading one shell after another.
Yet he knew this was far from the end.
Count Jacob looked into the distance, his eyes narrowing as his gaze seemed to pierce through the rolling smoke.
Over the past several months, through countless brutal positional engagements bought with tens of thousands of lives, he had thoroughly figured out the three-strike playbook of the Cinders army.
First, pound them with artillery; next, sweep with wyverns; and finally, mop up with ground forces like infantry and cavalry.
"Roaaar—"
Sure enough, a drawn-out draconic roar rang out.
A jagged line of dark silhouettes emerged on the horizon, rolling in like a bank of storm clouds and pressing toward the city of Fayol.
Count Jacob roared furiously:
"Wyverns! Watch the skies!"
Yet before the soldiers could even scramble out of their fortifications, the wyverns dove upon the city walls.
Flurries of shadows danced wildly as searing flames coiled across the battlements.
Soldiers unable to dodge were engulfed in flames, thrashing frantically until they turned into charred corpses.
Yet that was merely the first pass. After sweeping across the city, the wyverns climbed once more, banking in practiced turns to prepare for the next run.
"Disperse! Spread out!" Count Jacob shouted.
These surviving three thousand soldiers were his final reliance, the men most loyal to him and the Northern United Kingdom.
He had endured raids like this several times, and each one inflicted grievous casualties upon his army.
Yet even so, Count Jacob remained utterly powerless against it.
Every individual was bound by their birth, education, and era. Jacob Rosa was already among the finest generals in the Northlands, but against this epoch-spanning, combined land-and-air assault, he could find no counter.
He could only devise methods like constructing earthworks and dispersing troops to minimize casualties as much as possible, with virtually no strategy left for striking back.
And merely these few rounds of shelling and wyvern sweeps had cost him another precious five hundred men.
With nowhere to vent his mounting fury, Count Jacob held out his hand.
"Bring me a greatbow."
A soldier immediately rushed forward with a black greatbow over two meters long.
Count Jacob nocked an arrow with practiced ease.
The muscles in his arms swelled, veins bulging like cords.
Drawing upon his tempered physique and peerless might, he hauled the greatbow—a weapon even an orc could hardly bend—all the way to full draw.
"Monsters of the Kingdom of Cinders!"
"Die alongside my men!"
A piercing screech tore through the air.
Whoosh—
The sharp arrow punched straight through a wyvern and its rider together. The beast beat its wings feebly in struggle, wailing as it plunged to the wasteland below.
It even slammed into several wyverns behind it, throwing the sky into disarray.
Count Jacob roared, "Monsters! You will never defeat the Scanians!"
"Shoot them down!"
"Lord Count!"
Yet the wyverns were simply too numerous. Though the soldiers fired arrows in retaliation, hardly anyone possessed the might of a warrior like Count Jacob; the number of wyverns they managed to bring down was negligible.
Most arrows merely fluttered limply back down before reaching midway, while the torrents of flame spewed by the wyverns were enough to slaughter the archers where they stood.
It was an utterly unequal contest.
After several more diving sweeps, the walls were enwreathed in flames and strewn with bones and charred remains.
Watching the ramparts from afar, Duoluo glanced down at the watch on his wrist and issued a cold command:
"Notify the melee forces. Prepare to storm the walls."
"Yes, Marshal," the hobgoblin commander beside him hastily replied.
***
Snowflakes drifted down, settling upon the ramparts and casting a grim, somber chill over the scene.
The city walls were deathly silent.
Count Jacob looked toward the distant army of the Kingdom of Cinders, advancing like a solid wall, his gaze abruptly sharpening with resolute determination.
"Even if I must die... I shall die upon an honorable battlefield! Ready my horse!"
"Men... follow me out to attack!"
Boom!
The city gates slowly swung open.
Jacob Rosa held high a tattered banner, riding at the fore upon a white steed, with five hundred knights behind him.
He wished to perish in a glorious charge.
To become part of the Northlands' tragic epic, a legendary hero whose name—Jacob Rosa—would forever be bound to valor and loyalty.
The clatter of hooves rang out.
Facing the deluge of the kingdom's grand army, this cavalry force of under five hundred was like a trickle flowing into an ocean, looking pitifully frail.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Dense gunfire erupted.
The knights following Count Jacob dropped one after another, yet Jacob, clad in wondrous armor, continued charging forward as though nothing could halt his advance.
Soon, he was the only one left charging across the battlefield.
"That's the enemy commander!"
"Kill him, and we'll be ennobled!"
The soldiers of the Kingdom of Cinders roared feverishly, brandishing blades and spears as they surged toward him.
"Holy crap, that boss has purple gear!"
"Get him! Take him down!"
"Don't steal my kill, aaah!"
The players screamed excitedly, unleashing all manner of classed abilities—hurling spells, concealed weapons, and even assorted junk like it was dirt cheap.
Facing the tidal wave of enemies, Count Jacob sneered, his face contorting into a ferocious snarl.
"You cannot defeat me!"
"You will never force a true Scanian to yield!"
"Perhaps I die here today, but my unyielding soul shall wander this land! I will become—a nightmare you will never forget for the rest of your days!"
"Come on! Come—"
His voice abruptly hitched. His gaze grew sluggish, and a red glow flickered in his eyes.
Under everyone's watchful eyes, Count Jacob dismounted like a marionette. Then he raised his hands, and even took the initiative to strip off his armor.
He... surrendered?
"Screw everything else, grab the gear!"
The players scrambled forward in a frenzy, terrified that the wondrous treasures would be snatched away, plunging the scene into complete chaos.
Bang!
A sudden gunshot cracked out.
A bloody hole appeared on Count Jacob's forehead.
His expression instantly twisted in agony.
People whipped their heads around to find a gaunt human holding a steel musket. The barrel was faintly hot, and the hand gripping it still trembled—with the brand of a serf marked upon his neck.
Immediately after, more gunshots rang out, accompanied by an overwhelming barrage of spells that submerged the count.
At last, his resilient body, battered and torn, slowly collapsed backward.
The players swarmed over him like feral dogs fighting over scraps, and Jacob Rosa's wondrous relics became the center of a frenzied brawl.
"Dammit, an NPC stole the kill!"
"That guy again?"
"What damn good luck."
"Wait, hurry and grab the loot!!"
Thus died the last hero of the Northlands.
***
A ripple perturbed the fabric of space. Staff in hand, the expressionless ogre archmage Trump appeared beside the military scribe.
"L-Lord Trump?!"
"What... what are your orders?"
Confronted by this sudden distinguished visitor, the military scribe spoke with a trembling voice, his grip on the pen slackening so much it nearly fell to the floor.
"Record what I say."
"Year 1786 of the Third Age. Jacob Rosa, a remnant of the Northern United Kingdom, surrendered to the Kingdom, but was beaten to death by enraged serfs in the process."
"Y-Yes, my lord!"
"I will record it word for word as you say. Every word from your lips is absolute truth."
Jacob Rosa had been mistaken about one thing—
History has always been written by the victors.
Never by the fallen.
Chapter 369