Page 122

Within the borders of the Lackman Duchy, Trow City.

This was once the fief of the legendary General Turner Lackman.

The city is also known as the "City of Valor," housing over ten thousand people. As a military stronghold defending Northwind Fortress in the northern part of the duchy, Trow City has long resisted invasions from the north. Its people are resilient and brave—in other words, full of "martial spirit." For centuries, they have endured invasions by frost giants, orcs, and even white dragons, yet none have crushed them.

These Scanlan people are like a nail, firmly rooted in the central northern part of Anzeta.

However, now, anxiety fills the city.

The dark, oppressive army of monsters has besieged this city for a full seven days. Traffic has been cut off; water, people, and food cannot move in or out of Trow City.

Yet, the shortage of supplies isn’t the most terrifying part—the greater fear stems from the unrest it incites in people's hearts.

The people of Trow, who haven’t faced war for decades, have grown somewhat lax. They seem to have forgotten the glory of their ancestors, immersed in this long-standing peace. Meanwhile, their enemies are the spirited and watchful Ember Scions.

Many of the elite forces of the allied army came from Trow City. After that battle, wails filled the city, and it could be said that Trow City’s backbone was broken.

Wyvern Knights roared overhead, dropping countless surrender leaflets under the horrified gazes of the residents.

"Will they massacre the city?"

"What should we do? Should we just surrender?"

"Even the elite allied forces were completely wiped out."

"How could we possibly defend against such an army?"

Such whispered conversations continued throughout the city.

However, the city's defense forces had already implemented martial law. The entire city was under strict military control; anyone who publicly expressed sentiments that could shake morale would be arrested by the city’s defense forces as a traitor.

The tall walls of Trow City have withstood the passage of time, bearing witness to centuries of glorious history.

The city defenders stood ready at their posts, but they could not launch attacks, for the monsters were too far away, even beyond the range of the city's ballistae.

The current lord, Count Dawson Viller, stood atop the wall, gazing down at the monsters surrounding the city with a heavy expression.

"My lord, we caught another group of traitors."

A captain of the defense forces reported hurriedly.

Dawson's tone was resolute: "Execute them all; don’t give these people any leeway."

The captain shuddered before quickly replying, "Yes, my lord!"

"Again, the same thing."

"Have they forgotten the glory of their ancestors?"

Dawson clenched his fist, muttering to himself.

He turned to look at the adjutant beside him and asked, "How long can the food and water inside the city last?"

The adjutant paused before responding,

"Three days, at most three days."

"Recently, some people have died of thirst, and their families brought the bodies to the square to cry, but our guards temporarily detained them. However, the situation is getting out of control; more people are causing trouble, and we're running out of troops in the city."

A heavy gloom settled over Dawson’s face—was surrender the only option?

No, surrender was absolutely unacceptable.

This was for his honor, for Trow's centuries of struggles, for the glory of their forefathers.

Thinking this, Count Dawson’s face hardened, and he said to his adjutant, "Go gather the citizens; I have something to say to them."

"Yes, my lord."

Soon, under the urging and herding of the defense forces, the hungry and thirsty, endlessly complaining citizens gathered below the city walls.

"I’m so hungry…"

"Is the Count going to offer relief?"

"These defense dogs—my family died of hunger, and they took the body away."

"Let this end soon…"

At that moment, a steady and powerful voice echoed from the city wall, causing the residents—or rather, the refugees—to look up.

They saw Count Dawson with a grim face, standing on the city tower, delivering a speech from on high.

"Citizens, Trow City is at a life-or-death moment, facing the greatest crisis in nearly a century!"

"But do not fear, do not retreat. Our ancestors lived here, in this magnificent city. Look at these towering walls that once repelled countless fearsome enemies—giants, orcs, dragons—and none could conquer us! This time will be no different!"

A refugee below gathered the courage to ask, "But what about food? And water?"

"My lord, with all due respect, our courage needs a material foundation."

Dawson's expression froze, but he continued firmly, "Courage and will are your sharpest spear and sword!"

"No food and water?"

"How could that be! Citizens, put on your armor, take up your weapons—they’re right outside the city, waiting for you to claim them with sword and shield!"

………

As Count Dawson delivered his impassioned speech, he was unaware that, hundreds of meters away in the outskirts, someone was secretly observing him.

"Boss, are you sure this mortar will work?"

"It looks so crude to me."

Battlefield Wheelchair pretended to calibrate it, saying to Iron Frenzy beside him.

Before them stood a two-meter-long metal smoothbore cannon, but it had no carriage and was held up by a tall, sturdy ogre sitting on the ground, using his shoulder as a makeshift gun carriage.

Iron Frenzy leaned in, whispering, "It should work, at least it shouldn’t blow up. The cannon mount budget went to the Gundam. But…do you really know how to use this thing?"

"Alright, then I’ll give it a try."

Battlefield Wheelchair focused his gaze on the distant city wall, where Count Dawson was delivering his rousing speech, and said excitedly, "Judging by his attire, he must be a big boss!"

"Big-Head, a bit to the left."

The ogre impatiently leaned left.

"Too much, back about… a steak’s distance."

Battlefield Wheelchair thought hard, coming up with a unit the ogre could understand.

"Wait, no, that’s too much!"

"Yes, right about there."

"Load the ammo—"

Another ogre picked up the heavy shell, clumsily loaded the fuse, and stood ready.

Battlefield Wheelchair had calibrated for so long without any clear idea, so he decided to leave it to chance and shouted:

"Ready—fire!"

"Boom!"

A thunderous cannon shot echoed across the field.

The shell arced high through the air but landed on the moat in front of the city walls, blasting a huge pit into the ground.

"Damn it, what’s going on?"

In the middle of his speech, Count Dawson suddenly felt the ground tremble. He staggered, mud splattering onto his ornate armor.

"Was that thunder?"

"Could it be the enemy attacking?"

"Run for your lives—"

The refugees panicked, a wave of chaos breaking out as they crowded and clamored to escape.

*************************************************