City of Sunrise

On the eastern front, Saint Michael fell in just a few days. Leading the main force across the Radiant Mountains, Imperial Marshal Dror, Commander-in-Chief of the Eastern Front Army, thrust like a sharp blade straight into the heart of the Kingdom of Thrace, advancing toward Auguste with unimaginable speed. Meanwhile, the Western Front Army had likewise assembled, rampaging across the vast plains and ruthlessly tearing Thrace's defensive lines to shreds, leaving the scattered cities to the Starfallen Legion to handle. In a mere seven days, under the Empire's lightning offensive, the Kingdom of Thrace's defense lines collapsed, and the legions deployed across its territories were virtually annihilated. Immediately afterward, under Wilhelm's "Supreme Order," military forces from all across Thrace—be they the Holy Guard, the Golem Legion, the Arcane Legion, or the angelic godblood—surged toward Auguste in massive waves. Now, the full might of both sides had converged upon Auguste, the capital of Thrace, known as the "City of Sunrise." ... Auguste, Kingdom of Thrace. The Sun God Tower pierced the clouds at the center of the city, its surface flowing with patterns like liquid sunlight, while the solar wheel emblem at its summit radiated halos of light day and night. It was both a symbol of faith and the core of the energy barrier blanketing the entire city; the stele surfaces etched with solar runes constantly converted sunlight into a ward against assault. Commanded by Duchess Tirena, the angelic godblood stood guard around the tower. Their wings were as if forged from molten gold, and wielding their Blades of Judgment, they patrolled the sky. Tirena swung her sword and roared to the angelic godblood, "The fate of Feanso shall be decided by us! We are the warriors chosen by the Sun God—for Thrace, for Holy Fadlan, and for great Amaunator, we must never let Auguste fall! We will not let this sacred land, bathed in the light of the sun, fall into enemy hands!" At the peak of the tower stood three hundred crusader warriors. They, too, possessed wings on their backs, yet their flawless faces were utterly devoid of expression, like sacred statues. "Feathers of heaven sear the sight, radiant blades cleave through armor; holy hymns brand the brow, divine gaze burns bright as a torch..." Surrounding the solar disc atop the tower, the Choir of Sacred Precepts chanted holy hymns, channeling their power to continuously reinforce the barrier. The fortification system merged the dual might of arcane and divine magic. The outer layer was an ash-white runic rampart dozens of meters high, its stonework embedded with costly alchemical matrices that automatically raised composite defensive arrays when struck, dispersing physical shock deep underground while absorbing thirty percent of magical energy to feed the Arcane Legion. The inner wall bristled with fifty-yard-high prism towers, their summit crystal prisms operated by grand arcanists capable of transmuting absorbed energy into beams of annihilation or wide-area energy shields. Behind the wall's battlements stood thousands of golems in silence. Nearly ten meters tall, their frames were cast from meteoric iron, their cores alchemical vessels imprisoning souls; the moment war erupted, these golems would transform into killing machines heedless of pain. Through the city streets, officers and soldiers hurried back and forth, herding panicked civilians in every direction into shelters to prevent anyone from fleeing. "Move! You at the back, keep up! Crawling so slow—do you want the whip?" barked a Thracian officer mounted on a tall steed, cursing viciously at the refugees. A ragged woman clutching a child mustered the courage to whisper, "My lord, my child hasn't eaten in days. Truly, we..." *Crack!* The whip lashed across her back, drawing a faint whimper. The officer didn't spare her a glance, only barking furiously, "Shut your mouth! Would you rather stand by and watch Auguste fall? Do you want to become dragon fodder? If anyone else steps out of line, I'll brand them a traitor and have their head!" In the woman's arms, the small child clung to her gaunt frame and sobbed, "Mama, I'm not hungry anymore. We don't need food, we won't eat..." Under Wilhelm's decree, all food and private residences in Auguste had been requisitioned to sustain the armies converging from across the realm. Watching this scene, Dayev, who had just entered the city, let out a deep sigh and murmured, "I never imagined... the situation in the city had deteriorated to this point, that the people can't even get a bite to eat." At the thought, he fished a piece of black bread from his robes and tossed it to the weeping child. "Thank you, sir," the child sobbed. Hearing the voice, the officer on horseback turned around in fury, but upon seeing Dayev's official robes embroidered with the holy crest, he bit his tongue and said nothing, merely cracking his whip again to drive the refugees along. Dayev walked along the street, preparing to head for the kingdom's intelligence department to report on military conditions across the regions. Looking at the soldiers marching back and forth and the corpses of refugees discarded heedlessly along the roadside, a heavy sorrow filled his chest. How could this once holy, radiant city have fallen into such a state? Ever since his diplomatic mission to Isdalia, Dayev had harbored a premonition: the Cinder Empire would bring cataclysmic upheaval to the kingdom, and indeed to the entire continent. Yet never had he imagined that this day would arrive so swiftly. In just a few short years, the Cinder Empire had marched its armies to the gates of Auguste. "Amaunator above..." "Oh gods..." "Look, it's His Majesty Wilhelm! What a divine sight!" "His Majesty Wilhelm will surely lead us to break the siege and march toward a bright future!" Dayev could not help but look up. Brilliant rays of light cascaded from the Sun God Tower as Wilhelm rose slowly, appearing at the very pinnacle of the spire. Bathed in boundless radiance, divine runes covered his tall, burly frame. Six blazing wings beat slowly, and within his pupils burned distinct golden solar wheels—he looked every bit like a god descended upon the mortal realm. In his grasp rested the spiraled spear known as Final Judgment. Its shaft was formed from seven entwined chains of holy light, and at its tip hovered a miniature sun, continuously collapsing and reforming. Even Dayev could not help muttering, "His Majesty Wilhelm... he seems even more powerful now." Since the Sun God had fallen into slumber, the power of godbloods across the realm had steadily waned, yet His Majesty Wilhelm alone remained peerlessly mighty, like the sun in the heavens that never fell. "Long live His Majesty Wilhelm!" "Long live Thrace!" The Thracian soldiers roared in fanatical cheers. With an imposing gaze, Wilhelm swept his eyes over the crowd before speaking in a resonant voice: "My subjects, children bathed in the radiance of Amaunator—the hour of greatest peril is upon us! "The evil dragon from the north and its minions have crossed the Radiant Mountains and are descending upon Auguste, seeking to claim Thrace as its domain. "It seeks to enslave the people of the Sun God, to drain our blood and souls dry, to turn this sacred land into a den of sin steeped in slaughter and gore!" At once, an uproar swept through the soldiers. Vicious curses and spittle flew freely; they wished nothing more than to sever the dragon's head, snap its wings, and present them as offerings to the Sun God. "Reckless beast!" "Damn that monster!" "Gods above!" "Fear not, Wilhelm will lead us to slay it!" Wilhelm's expression sharpened, commanding authority without wrath, his voice ringing like iron: "Yet I will teach that evil dragon that its ambitions are nothing but delusional folly! "I will make them understand that great Amaunator cannot be profaned, and the people of the Sun God will never bow to such cruel, tyrannical savages! "Long live Thrace! Long live Holy Fadlan!" Grasping the spiraled spear in both hands, Wilhelm triggered a soaring pillar of light from its tip. Across the golden sky, an enormous holy crest of the sun blazed into existence. Instantly, an overwhelming roar of thunderous acclaim erupted across Auguste. "Long live Thrace!" "Long live Holy Fadlan!" "For the Supreme Lord of Eternal Radiance!" Be it the angelic godblood circling the sacred tower, the Holy Guard flanking Wilhelm, or the Arcane Legion along the ramparts, all shouted with every ounce of their strength. Even the pegasi neighed shrilly, and the golems gave low, rumbling roars, as if giving voice to their ravenous thirst for victory. The people of Thrace had always regarded Wilhelm as the successor to the old emperor, and their veneration of him was beyond question. Yet Dayev had once witnessed with his own eyes His Majesty Wilhelm covered in cracks from head to toe. In just a few short years, how had this sovereign become utterly flawless? Coupled with the continuous disappearances plaguing Auguste over recent years, Dayev's scalp often prickled with dread, though he dared not pry deeper. Suddenly, a courier riding a winged steed appeared in the sky, waving toward him: "Lord Dayev! Lord Carlyle is looking for you. As an extraordinary fighter, you have been assigned to the Third Defense Sector..." "Understood," Dayev answered in a deep voice. Drawing the longsword at his back, he strode steadily in the direction the courier indicated. Regardless of everything, as a subject of the Kingdom of Thrace, he had to give everything to protect this nation and the city behind him. Pushing through the crowded throng, Dayev soon reached the inner wall and climbed the stairs to the gate tower, where General Carlyle—whom he knew well—stood leaning on his sword. "General Carlyle..." Dayev greeted him promptly. "Dayev, I've been waiting for you." As if anticipating his arrival, Carlyle turned, gave him a glance, and walked into the tower chambers. "Follow me." "Is something the matter?" Dayev asked, puzzled that the general would invite him for a private talk at such a critical moment of war preparation. Still, he followed inside, instinctively locking the door behind him. Carlyle sat in a chair, watching Dayev, and whispered, "I know you were once a kingdom diplomat and traveled to the Empire's homeland. Is it truly like the propaganda claims—a hellish cage?" At the word "hell," Carlyle's throat trembled slightly, as though recalling something harrowing. Dayev hesitated for a moment, then shook his head and answered in a low voice, "No. It is indeed a prosperous, fertile place. In some respects... it rivals even Auguste." Carlyle shook his head with a bitter smile. "Haven't you seen the scenes along the streets? How could today's Auguste ever be called prosperous? It is no longer the glorious 'City of Sunrise' it once was. "The Auguste of today is merely a giant bled dry by war. Perhaps it was once robust and healthy, but that is ancient history, buried in dust." "..." Dayev fell silent, awaiting Carlyle's next words. Sure enough, Carlyle fixed him with deeply somber eyes and asked word by word, "If the one you swore allegiance to became a terrifying monster... would you still follow him?" "Could it be..." Dayev shuddered all over, nearly crying out in shock as the horrific suspicion in his heart found confirmation. All Thracians claimed that Lord Amaunator had awakened, and that His Majesty Wilhelm had received his favor, allowing him to retain his immense might and forge the Holy Guard. Yet what if... the Sun God was still asleep? Where, then, did Wilhelm's power truly come from? Despair flickered in Carlyle's eyes, and he lamented in a grief-stricken tone, "Dayev, the Kingdom of Thrace is no longer the realm following light and honoring justice that you swore to serve. "Over the past few years, I have watched with my own eyes the god I worshipped get desecrated by fiends; I have watched the land I guarded turn into a pit of sin; I have watched the sovereign I swore fealty to be seduced by darkness, yet I had no way to change a thing..." The general turned his head wearily, giving Dayev a deep, piercing look. "Dayev, I know you are not like them. Years ago, you were driven out of Auguste because you refused to tolerate the nobility's atrocities. "Surely... you wouldn't stand by and watch this place become a den of devils?" "You mean..." Dayev's pupils dilated in shock as his thoughts leaped to an act that the Kingdom of Thrace would never tolerate. Carlyle said nothing. He simply pressed an iron token into Dayev's hand, then turned crisply, pushed open the door, and walked out. "Amaunator above, forgive my sins..." Dayev stood frozen in place. Only after a long while did he open his hand. Sure enough, resting quietly in his palm was an emblem bearing a vertical pupil and flames—the crest of the Cinder Empire. *Wuuu—* Astride the gatehouse, twenty-four horns carved with relief-sculpted angels were sounded, sending out deep, lingering blasts. Dayev pushed open the door and stepped out, looking beyond the city walls, only to behold a sight he would remember for the rest of his life: In the distant sky, massive airships sailed in vast formations, with all manner of wyverns beating their wings across the air, resembling dense storm clouds stretching for a hundred li, almost blotting out the sun. Across the earth, billows of dust rolled forward, the ground shaking ceaselessly. The treads of steam tanks crushed the wasteland underfoot, while armored vehicles towing heavy artillery dashed swiftly ahead. Heavy mechs strode forward with ponderous steps, casting imposing silhouettes along the horizon. And farther away, countless spatial portals unfolded in midair, leading to various planes across the multiverse. Fire elemental legions, shade legions, and infernal pact legions poured forth from the portals one after another...