NOVEL NEXT Chapter 421: Violence Is Our Only Language
The roar that broke from Death's army was less a cry of men and more like the bellow of beasts finally unleashed from their cages.
Thousands surged forward in an unbroken tide, their weapons flashing in the morning light, banners whipping violently in the rising wind.
Carthage's outermost soldiers, who were still scrambling to regroup after the earth had been torn apart and their layers pulled into the open, were caught unprepared.
The clash was immediate and violent. Death's warriors crashed into the front lines like a hammer through glass.
Carthage's soldiers fought valiantly, but the disarray was fatal. Screams echoed as weapons tore through flesh.
In the chaos, some of Death's vanguard broke away from the main lines, their eyes glinting with cruelty. They sprinted into the exposed districts where civilians cowered, and there the butchery began.
Children were ripped from their mother's arms. Doors were smashed open, homes defiled, streets running slick with blood.
Entire families were cut down before they could even flee. Fire blossomed where torches were thrown into houses, the smoke rising into the morning sky like a black banner.
Still, the soldiers of Carthage were not cowards. They threw themselves in front of the onslaught, shields raised, and weapons drawn.
They formed walls with their bodies, desperate to push back the tide and give the fleeing innocents time to run.
In places, they succeeded and the streets were turned into killing grounds where disciplined formations held Death's men at bay.
Yet for every street defended, another was overwhelmed. For every soldier that died buying time, ten civilians were lost in the slaughter.
High on a snow dusted hill overlooking it all, Death stood with his cloak snapping in the wind. His eyes were fixed on the city below, watching the carnage with hard eyes.
At his side, Luna stood with her arms folded, silver hair lifting in the breeze. Her expression was serene, though her purple eyes shimmered as she watched the horror taking place below.
Gaia, pale and exhausted, leaned heavily on a staff that had been procured for her, still recovering from the titanic effort it had taken to rip Carthage from the mountain.
Atreides stood like a statue of flame, his body radiating warmth, golden light spilling faintly from his skin.
They stood together, though away from Death's aura, watching as the trumpets sounded in triumph with each fresh breach their army made deeper into Carthage.
Death exhaled slowly, the corners of his mouth twitching into something between a grin and a grimace.
He knew what he was watching. Millions of innocents, both soldiers and civilians, condemned to die in this war. People who had done him no wrong.
But that was the reality of war. While his heart did not ache, something deep inside of him whispered that this was a line he had just crossed. A burden he had taken upon himself.
But it was necessary. All who were on this mountain range, including those who hadn't heard and couldn't be here, would be grateful for what he was doing today.
This was the price. The cost for release from the itch that had haunted them all right from the moment they'd ascended in power.
The itch that drove them all to seek the Primordial Flame, that maddening pull that had stolen his life, his peace, and his years with Luna.
The itch that had torn them away from Albion, dragged them into endless battles, and forced them to shed blood with their own hands for no good reason.
If millions had to die so that all who bore that burn might finally be free… then so be it.
His eyes roved the battlefield, searching for something. He didn't find it.
That meant the time to descend had not yet come. The Elders of Carthage were watching, waiting, just as he was. They would emerge soon, and then the true battle would begin.
Until then, this slaughter was nothing more than the opening act.
He turned slightly, his gaze falling to the man seated on the ground ways behind him. Tam.
The young man sat cross legged in the snow, his eyes closed. Water dripped constantly from his hair and cloak, hissing where it struck the snow, forming a growing ring of slush around him.
His breathing was even, but the air around him trembled faintly as if recoiling from something vast and unseen.
Death's lips curled into a smile. It was time to put pressure on Carthage. And so he spoke. "Release them."
Tam didn't open his eyes. His only reaction to show he heard Death was the lifting of one hand, his fingers curling in a single gesture.
The air thrummed. And then the ground screamed.
Iron claws burst from beneath the snow, tearing open the earth.
The battlefield shook as figures pulled themselves out of the ground. Hulking shapes of armor, empty within yet burning with unnatural life.
The Iron Legion.
Their helms glowed with faint red eyes as they crawled from the depths like a tide of steel ants, their bodies clanking, and blades gleaming as if freshly forged.
Carthage's soldiers froze, horror dawning on their faces. Where had the new army come from? If before they had confidence, their hope was slowly dying out. They were now outnumbered.
The Legion surged forward.
Their feet pounded the ground, the sound merging with the clash of battle. Their swords sang as they cut into soldiers, shields crumpled under impossible force, flesh ripped and blood sprayed across the cobblestones.
Even the disciplined formations of Carthage's soldiers wavered. It was like fighting the ocean itself. A relentless tide of armor that was both merciless and endless.
Death's army howled in savage joy, emboldened by their new allies. Powers erupted as Knights and soldiers unleashed their gifts in brutal collisions, explosions tearing through the streets.
Buildings exploded as they were hit by stray attacks, the civilians within gone before they could even scream.
Lightning flashed through the sky, and the clouds were quickly painted black from the smoke of all the fires raging through Carthage. The streets were thick with both smoke and dust, ruining visibility.
And all this together created an environment where violence was the only language that could be heard.
Death stood on his hill, watching as the city that had stood for centuries was torn apart before his eyes.