The battlefield thundered once more as 115 MG42 general-purpose machine guns and nearly two thousand 98K rifles unleashed a storm of fire. The roar of the weapons shook the heavens, drowning the plains in a metallic hurricane of destruction.
Ragnar, astride his warhorse, felt the earth quiver beneath the fusillade. His once-confident face twisted in horror.
"Impossible!" he roared. "Didn't they have no magic power left?! How can they still be attacking?!"
A knight rode frantically up beside him. "Your Highness, we must retreat! The army is collapsing—we cannot withstand this!"
But Ragnar's madness had not yet burned out. His eyes blazed, and he growled: "No! We haven't lost! I will not retreat!"
The knight opened his mouth to argue, desperation written on his face. "Your Highness, please—look around you—"
He never finished. A single bullet pierced his helmet clean through, bursting out the other side of his skull. His body went limp, crashing from the saddle into the dirt.
Ragnar froze, his vision tunneling. The thunder of gunfire mingled with the screams of his soldiers. Panic tore through his ranks.
"Ahhh!"
"Help us!"
"Their magicians are still firing!"
"Run! Run away!"
Fear spread faster than fire in dry grass.
The bullets formed an invisible wall of death. Nord soldiers at the front collapsed in heaps, torn apart by the merciless storm. Those behind stumbled in terror, trampling one another in their desperation to escape.
A soldier's leg exploded beneath the impact of a bullet, shattered like glass under a hammer. He screamed on the ground, blood spurting. Beside him, another's head detonated like a crushed melon, painting the grass crimson.
One after another, the men of Nord fell. Blood and bodies piled across the battlefield like harvested crops.
The twenty thousand strong who had charged with zeal moments earlier now broke. Their voices twisted into wails of despair.
"Run away! Save yourselves!"
"Gods, help me!"
The great army of Nord, once proud, collapsed in a single instant.
---
On the Kiswell side, Gavin Ward drew his long sword and gave the order:
"Forward! Advance, soldiers of Kiswell!"
His two thousand black-clad troops surged ahead in unison. Their polished boots stomped against the ground in perfect rhythm, 98K rifles raised and blazing. To the eyes of the fleeing Nord army, they looked less like men and more like an army of grim reapers.
Ragnar's world caved in. His lips moved as though trying to form words, but only broken whispers escaped.
"How… how could this happen? We had so many… how could we lose?"
Memories crashed over him—the bold invasion of the Kiswell Kingdom, his triumphant boast that he would crush Gavin Ward, the exultant moment he believed victory was certain. And now… all shattered, in less than a day.
His twelve senior commanders—dead.
His cavalry—thirty thousand strong—annihilated.
The allied Loth Kingdom—retreated, abandoning him.
His proud Nord infantry—torn apart like lambs before wolves.
The crown prince of Nord, once destined for glory, now tasted despair for the first time.
"Bang! Bang!"
Two bullets slammed into his shimmering magical shields. The first layer broke instantly. The second cracked and held—but then more bullets struck. The second layer shattered like glass, leaving Ragnar exposed.
A burning pain ripped through his chest. He gasped as the world slowed. Blood poured down his armor in warm rivulets.
"Wha…?" he croaked, looking down. His hand pressed against the wound, coming away drenched in crimson. He could not understand it—no arrows, no spells, just this unstoppable storm of fire and lead.
His horse screamed, and Ragnar toppled from the saddle. He hit the blood-soaked earth with a heavy crash. His armor split apart, his vision blurred.
Above him, the sky remained impossibly blue. An eagle soared, its wings wide and proud.
Was this death?
---
Dark shapes loomed above him. Kiswell soldiers in pitch-black uniforms, iron masks covering their faces, advanced slowly across the field. Their boots pressed over corpses without hesitation.
They stopped around Ragnar's fallen body. Their silent gazes locked, then they nodded. Raising their 98Ks, bayonets gleaming in the sun, they plunged the blades into Ragnar's chest.
Steel tore through flesh and broken armor. Blood gushed.
Ragnar's eyes, once burning with pride, dulled to lifeless gray. His gaze fixed on the eagle high above, and then dimmed forever.
The Prince of Nord was no more.
---
Across the battlefield, two thousand Kiswell soldiers advanced through the grasslands, bayonets affixed to their rifles.
Every Nord soldier still twitching, still breathing, received a swift and merciful thrust of the blade. Groans were silenced. The wounded found no salvation, only the cold kiss of steel.
The fields were covered with more than ten thousand Nord corpses. Not a single Kiswell soldier had fallen.
The battle was over. The Nord Kingdom's proud army had been annihilated. The Kiswell Kingdom stood untouched.
Overhead, the eagle wheeled once more, then soared away into the endless sky, as though carrying the tale of this massacre to the heavens.
---
Far away, on a winding road, a carriage rolled slowly along. Within it sat a young noblewoman, her beauty delicate, her eyes calm.
"Ya'er," she called softly to the elf girl driving the carriage. "The battle up ahead… it should be over by now, shouldn't it?"
The elven driver froze, eyes wide with shock, her lips parted. She had sent her scouts ahead, and the news had nearly stolen her breath away.
"Ya'er?" the noblewoman repeated, louder this time.
The elf jerked as though waking from a trance. "Ah! Y-Yes, Your Highness…"
"The battle—did it end?"
"It did," the elf said slowly, voice dazed. "They… they won."
The noblewoman gave a small sigh. "Of course. With tens of thousands against only a few thousand, how could they possibly lose? Such slaughter is inevitable." She closed her eyes, whispering softly, "Let us pray for the dead. When will this continent see an end to endless killing?"
But the elf's hands gripped the reins tightly. Her voice trembled with disbelief. "Your Highness… you don't understand. The side with fewer men… they won."
The noblewoman's eyes snapped open. "What nonsense is this? I heard you clearly, but—what did you just say?"
"I said…" The elf swallowed hard. "The Kiswell Kingdom's two thousand soldiers defeated over one hundred thousand enemies. Not a single one of theirs fell. The Nord army lies in ruin, their prince dead. The Loth Kingdom fled the field."
She shivered, as though even speaking it out loud was blasphemy. "And stranger still… none of my eagle scouts detected any magic from Kiswell's side. No sorcery at all. The only magic came faintly from Ragnar's forces. But from Kiswell? Nothing."
The noblewoman pulled aside the carriage curtain in shock. Her face, flawless as carved jade, was frozen in disbelief.
"What? How could this be? No magic… and yet they slaughtered a hundred thousand?"
The elf whispered the truth once more: "Yes, Your Highness. The side with fewer men won. Completely. Utterly."
The carriage rolled on, but silence pressed inside it. For the first time, the noblewoman realized—something terrifying had changed in the balance of this world.
---
Key Highlights
115 MG42s and 2000 rifles unleashed a storm that obliterated Nord's morale.
The Nord army of 20,000 collapsed instantly, turning into a chaotic rout.
Prince Ragnar was slain on the battlefield, his shields shattered, his body pierced by bayonets.
Over ten thousand Nord soldiers lay dead, while Kiswell suffered zero casualties.
Witnesses confirmed no magic was used, a revelation that shocked all who heard it.
The noblewoman and her elf scout realized: the rules of war on this continent had changed forever.
The age of swords and sorcery was ending. The age of fire and steel had begun.
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