Chapter 140: The Year of the Iron Lances’ March
In the Third Age, 1684, the Year of the Iron Lances’ March.
This year was vividly chronicled in subsequent historical texts. At the beginning of the year, an independence uprising erupted in the northern regions of the centuries-old Western Wind Kingdom and rapidly spread throughout the nation.
The Frost Rose was established in Rourna, initiating centralized rule. That same year, one of the Snowflower Seven, the Vergha Commercial Alliance, split apart. Part of it joined the Frost Rose, while another part allied with the Young Moon Council in the south, seceding from the Snowflower Union and declaring independence.
As summer waned, the rebel army of the Western Wind Kingdom defeated the Duke of the Rocky Wall in the north and advanced southward in large numbers. Early autumn saw them clash with the legendary Lightning Knights on the Windfall Plain. Celestial lights descended, and the Lightning Knights were completely annihilated. The rebels achieved a narrow victory, with only a third of their original core elite remaining.
The royal family of the Western Wind Kingdom summoned 50,000 warriors from the White Horse Clan and hired 20,000 Halberd Iron Guards from the Black Rock Duchy. With the Imperial Capital’s 100,000 garrison troops and 200,000 conscripted soldiers, they amassed a total force of approximately 400,000 to confront the 200,000-strong army of Clancia at Solander City.
On the eve of battle, a small group of elite forces, aided by inside accomplices, opened the eastern river gates, allowing ships laden with dry branches and grass to enter the city and set it ablaze, causing chaos. The city’s defenders hurriedly dispatched reinforcements. Meanwhile, the rebels launched a night assault on the western side, the drumbeats echoing across the land.
Inside the Imperial Capital, confusion reigned. Prince Flick, who was in charge of defending the city, immediately made a decisive move, leaving a small contingent to fend off the infiltrating enemy forces on the east side before leading the main defense forces to the west.
After the siege began, the rebels pushed forward with ladders and battering rams. The dark plains were lit up by countless torches, instilling great psychological pressure on the defenders. However, this lasted for only two rounds before the attacking forces withdrew. Subsequently, explosive-laden fire ships from upstream broke through the eastern river gate.
It was then that the defenders finally snapped out of their daze, redirecting most of their elite troops back to the east. But as soon as most of the forces had been redeployed, the western side launched another attack. Now caught between two fronts, the city was engulfed in flames, and panic spread among the populace. The king of the Western Wind ordered his troops to divide their forces, each defending the east and west sides, no longer exhausting themselves and their strength.
By now, it was deep into the night. The northern gate of the Imperial Capital was opened amidst the chaos by people organized from within, allowing Clancia’s massive army to pour in. They swiftly seized control of large areas and began street fighting with the defenders.
Although the garrison was numerous, due to previous constant reassignments, their formations had become disorganized, and their physical strength had been greatly depleted. Moreover, the additional 200,000 hastily conscripted soldiers, mostly farmers with no military training or combat will, fled in droves, defected, or surrendered during the chaos. The defeat was swift and overwhelming.
At this time, the White Horse tribe, which had been stationed outside the city guarding each other, also launched an attack. The White Horse banners fluttered, but unfortunately, it was dark, limiting visibility, which was disadvantageous for cavalry. They were impeded by traps and trenches prepared in advance by Clancia’s forces. Only after defeating the rebels who had delayed the rear outside the city did they slowly arrive at the northern outskirts of the Imperial Capital.
With the light from the fires on the city walls, these warriors from the grasslands engaged in fierce combat with the rebels guarding the city gates. Soon, the few remaining rebels who were left behind were pierced through by the charge, and the White Horse tribe’s warriors began to reseal the city gates, preparing to trap the rebels inside like fish in a barrel as dawn approached.
On a hill, another white flag appeared, facing the rising sun. The pure white banner bore a black sun, and they were clad entirely in steel armor. Their lances gleamed faintly golden in the morning light. Although their numbers were small, they possessed an unyielding spirit.
The pure white battle flag flapped fiercely in the morning wind, and the fine steel lances gradually took on a golden hue. Despite being outnumbered by tens to one, they began their charge.
It seemed as if what lay ahead was not a battlefield filled with death, but a glorious stage where they could vent thousands of years of humiliation. The slightly cool air in the morning, taken deep into their lungs, caused their chests to heave violently like bellows. A fire burned within their hearts, so intense, so fierce, so impatient.
From childhood to adulthood, from books, from others’ mouths, from the sighs of elders, they had always heard stories of their clan’s disgrace. But who would enjoy such feelings? Everyone had come into this world with their parents’ beautiful expectations and blessings, and they harbored suppressed pride and unwillingness in their hearts.
This pride and desire burned intensely in their chests, overwhelming all unease and fear.
The charging knights were like sharp blades piercing the enemy ranks, stirring up countless sprays of blood. The blazing golden lances shattered iron and armor, piercing through one enemy after another. They did not grow tired, did not retreat, and did not regret facing the enemies’ bows and long knives.
They suffered heavy casualties, but they also took down more than ten times their number.
At noon,
The fragments of flesh slid off the armor, and the originally white banner was stained with messy dark red. Kanda was riddled with arrows, standing on a hill made of corpses. A large gash had been cut across his ear, dark red blood slowly trickling down. His knight helmet had long been torn off by the enemy and rolled away somewhere unknown.
The longsword equipped had been broken in the melee, leaving only the lance with numerous notches still clutched in his hand, propped up against the bodies of the enemies.
Pulling out the sturdy lance, a small stream of blood followed. He staggered backward a few steps before slowly steadying himself. Looking around, he saw no living enemies or standing comrades.
On the distant castle, a blue banner with golden stars gradually rose. Inside the city, thunderous cheers echoed.
He grinned, but his blood-streaked face made it impossible to see his smile. Then he tilted his head back and fell.
“Old man, you said something to me back then, and I did everything you asked. You won’t blame me anymore now, right?”
At noon, the sky was bright, and the dazzling sunlight from the sun blurred his vision. The wounds on his body seemed to stop hurting, and his limbs began to slowly numb.
Was this where it would end? Kanda thought, but unlike before, he felt no agitation. Instead, there was a sense of peace and contentment.
His former weakness, the racial destiny, his father’s instructions—all these past events, like crumpled fabric, had been suppressed deep within his heart. But today, they were smoothed out one by one by a scorching iron. There were no regrets left; death seemed acceptable, no longer so detested and feared.
He slowly closed his eyes, quietly waiting for the final moment.
In the year of the Iron Lance’s march, late autumn, the orc rabbit-ear tribe joined Clancia. This race, once considered weak and insignificant, shone brightly on the battlefield. The white steel cavalry shattered the last hopes of the West Wind, extinguishing the nobility’s final expectations. In the chaos, the rebel army breached the West Wind’s palace, ending its rule of several hundred years.
The name Clancia officially entered history, beginning to write its glorious and moving epic.
A pair of hands covered Kanda’s eyes, blocking the blinding sunlight. Then, warm magic began to flow through his body, and a gentle voice whispered in his ear.
“Now is not the time to rest, Mr. Commander.”
Thank you, Liang and Fengmian, for your generous donations.
(End of Chapter)