Chapter 372: The Siege and the Song
Fayol City was not an important city, merely a border town of the Sweno Principality, but it was the last city under the control of the Northern Kingdom.
The North had entirely fallen.
Count Jacob led his brave and fearless "Skanian Glory Legion" across the land, raising the flag of the Northern Kingdom, gathering exiled nobles and their private armies, expanding the legion to tens of thousands, and even reclaiming several cities.
The covert and overt supporters of the North were greatly emboldened. They believed that a miracle was on the verge of happening, that the legendary hero would return to lead them to a glorious victory.
Yet, this was merely the North's final flicker of hope.
Marshal Dolo of the Ember Kingdom mobilized armies from all regions to launch a full-scale siege against the so-called "Glory Legion."
It was said that for several days and nights, the sound of cannon fire never ceased, shaving three feet off the ground. Count Jacob and his troops were forced to retreat step by step, suffering devastating losses.
Finally, Count Jacob led his last 3,000 remnants into Fayol City, taking refuge there—this, the North's last city.
...…
Sweno Principality, Fayol City.
Scarred walls, tattered banners, soldiers with Ember faces.
Devastated lands, howling winds, and the Ember army encamped in the distant wilderness.
Atop a cracked city tower, Count Jacob stood with his sword in hand, gazing silently at the mottled tide of enemies in the distance, his expression heavy.
The "Northern Bastion" wore heavy armor stained with blood, smeared with the dust of battle, riddled with small holes from projectiles, and embedded with fragments of shells.
Yet he stood upright, like a steadfast pine tree braving the storm.
"Is the North truly doomed?"
He muttered in a voice only he could hear.
Jacob Rosa's will was unyielding. He had risen to fame at a young age, earning countless merits. He embodied every quality of a warrior.
Yet, faced with the tide of Ember troops encircling Fayol City, even someone as resolute as him could not help but doubt the possibility of victory.
Could such an army truly be defeated by humans?
"My lord, Count."
The voice of his adjutant interrupted his thoughts.
"The Ember Kingdom's army is nearing. This time, Marshal Dolo is leading the main force, accompanied by some Starfallers, numbering about 20,000."
"Good."
The response was brief but firm.
The adjutant sighed almost imperceptibly before quietly asking again:
"My lord, Count, what shall we do next?"
"Hold the line."
Another concise and resolute answer.
This time, Count Jacob climbed to the top of the city tower. In full view of thousands of soldiers, he surveyed the area, his gaze sweeping over their tired and dust-covered faces.
"Soldiers, I have always regarded you as my children…"
"And now, I must tell you—never give up."
"We are the North's last hope, the final bastion of the Skanian people. We represent a millennium of Northern traditions, true order, and justice..."
"We may seem alone, but we have countless allies. If we survive, all of Anzeta will cheer for us. If we fall, all of Feianso will mourn our loss."
Finally, Count Jacob raised his sword high.
"For the North."
His voice was not loud but carried unwavering conviction.
The battered soldiers regained a sliver of morale, pulling themselves out of exhaustion and despair.
After enduring such a prolonged war and facing an almost invincible foe, Jacob Rosa had become more than their commander or liege. He was their spiritual pillar, the embodiment of Northern chivalry.
He was the foundation of their will to survive.
As long as Count Jacob stood tall, people believed miracles were still possible.
Thus, with hoarse voices, the soldiers shouted with all their might.
"For the North! Victory!"
"Fight for the Count!"
Seeing the soldiers' faces, Jacob felt a surge of sorrowful determination. He took a deep breath and slowly began to sing.
"I wandered with the North Wind..."
"The frost carried news of my death..."
"Snow covered my corpse, my beloved could not recognize my face..."
This was the Northern dirge, but in his voice, it sounded like a song of triumph.
He sang of the Skanians' unyielding will, their determination to fight to the death.
"But do not grieve for me, for I died on a glorious battlefield..."
The soldiers were deeply moved, their hoarse voices joining the familiar song, long and mournful. The somber melody echoed across the wilderness, infusing the city walls with a tragic spirit.
"I wandered with the North Wind—"
"The frost carried news of my death—"
Suddenly, an unexpected voice joined, resonating loudly.
It easily drowned out the soldiers' singing, enveloping the entire city. Everyone turned to look beyond the walls, even Jacob, startled, turned his head in disbelief.
How could this be?
How could the Ember Kingdom's army know this song?
Jacob's psychological defenses were shattered, and despair seeped into his heart.
Indeed, the entire North had fallen except for Fayol City. The Northern people, now captives, knowing the song was not surprising.
—Yet, they didn't know it was a bored player blasting music through speakers, trying to hijack their BGM and remix it into a DJ version.
"Good fortune come, I wish you good fortune!"
"Good fortune bring joy and love!"
The Northern dirge abruptly stopped, replaced by the celebratory "Good Fortune," jarringly out of place on the battlefield.
"..."
Count Jacob's carefully built atmosphere crumbled into chaos.
His brow furrowed, his expression darkened, and he silently descended the city tower, instructing the soldiers:
"They are about to attack. Prepare for battle."
Jacob said little more. After days of fighting the Kingdom's army, they were all too familiar with the enemy's tactics.
Sure enough, the sound of cannon fire roared.
The wilderness trembled.
The sky was pierced by the shrill whistling of projectiles.
Count Jacob calmly shouted:
"It's an artillery strike—get down!"
Before he finished, the soldiers instinctively scattered, taking cover behind defensive structures or retreating inside the walls.
Having endured numerous bombardments, they were well aware of the deadly weapon's power, and most were survivors of previous strikes.
Those without such instincts had long perished.
All they could do was pray for Tempus's protection, hoping to survive the onslaught.
"Boom! Boom! Boom!"
Hundreds of pounds of metal shells rained down, tearing people to pieces, their fragments enough to pierce flesh.
Death's scythe reaped lives without mercy.
Yet, after enduring the horrors of war, neither commanders nor soldiers were fazed. Death had become routine.
They no longer screamed or wailed. At most, a short cry of "Ah!" escaped before an explosion consumed them, their voices drowned out by the blasts.
Blood and rubble sprayed everywhere. The walls, ravaged by cannon fire, crumbled into ruins, with several prominent towers collapsing entirely.