Inside the cold, stone walls of Dernholm, the atmosphere was one of suffocating disbelief. King Praetor sat upon his throne, his knuckles white as he gripped the armrests. Before him, a mud-stained scout trembled, describing the nightmare that had unfolded in the southern valley.
"They are not just men with tubes of fire anymore, Your Majesty," the scout stammered, his voice cracking. "They have... iron beasts. Massive chariots that roar like thunder and move without horses. One of them turned into a stationary tower of death, spitting shells faster than a master archer can draw a bow. Our knights were not fought; they were erased."
The King's court fell into a haunting silence. The nobles, who had spent their lives perfecting the art of the duel, realized they were facing a power that did not care for their lineage. Praetor looked toward his Court Mages, but even they looked pale. The report of the Executioner Tank and the RCV units suggested a level of mechanical mastery that defied the natural laws they relied upon.
"If we cannot break them in the field," Praetor hissed, his eyes gleaming with a desperate, dark light, "we will bleed them from within. Send the royal assassins. Tell the Molochean Hand to find the one who leads them. No blade can be stopped by a machine if it is held by a ghost in the dark."
******
Miles to the south, the Revolutionary Guard was already three steps ahead of the King's desperation. Alex had anticipated the shift from open warfare to covert sabotage. Under his direction, the landscape surrounding the laboratory-ship and the forward command camps had been transformed by the construction of Sniper Towers.
These were reinforced steel structures rising high above the treeline, equipped with 360-degree motion sensors and thermal imaging arrays. At the top of each tower sat a marksman in modern military apparel, cradling a high-caliber sniper rifle. These towers acted as an invisible shield, a total defense against any royalist assassins or covert attacks.
"Sector four is clear," a sniper whispered into his headset, his eye pressed against the high-magnification optics. "Thermal signature detected at three hundred yards. Small, fast. Target confirmed."
The silence of the woods was shattered by a heavy, metallic BANG.
The royalist assassin, hidden in what he thought was impenetrable shadow, was thrown backward as the high-velocity round found its mark. There was no chance for a counter-attack; the Sniper Towers provided a vantage point that rendered the Royalist's traditional stealth useless. Between the towers, the ground was a patchwork of landmines and vibration sensors that alerted the W800 sentinels to the slightest intrusion.
Alex watched the perimeter feed from his ship's bridge. He saw a heat signature wink out in an instant on the infrared spectrum.
"They still think this is a game of shadows and daggers," Alex murmured, his youthful face illuminated by the blue screens. "They don't realize that in a world of sensors and ballistics, there is nowhere left to hide."
******
The air around the revolutionary perimeter hummed with a different kind of energy as Alex oversaw the final layer of their static defense. These were the Gun Towers—massive, reinforced structures mounting large semi-automatic cannon turrets. These were not the rapid-fire miniguns used for infantry; these were heavy-caliber hunters designed to track and eliminate the largest threats the Crown could conjure.
Inside the fabrication bays, the craftsmen had reached a new milestone in infantry support. Under Alex's instruction, they had finished the first batches of Grenade Launchers. These shoulder-fired weapons allowed the Revolutionary Guard to project their explosive power across hundreds of yards with the simple pull of a trigger, far surpassing the range of any human arm.
From the direction of Dernholm, a shimmering, distorted horizon signaled the King's final magical gambit. The high-level Mages of the Court, desperate to counter the iron beasts of the south, had pooled their remaining essence to tear open the fabric of the ethereal planes. From the shimmering air emerged Elementals—towering beings of swirling earth, crackling lightning, and roaring fire. They moved with a slow, relentless grace, designed to smash through stone and steel alike.
"Targets acquired," the automated fire-control system announced in the command center.
The Gun Towers swiveled with a mechanical hiss. The heavy semi-automatic cannons barked in a rhythmic, deafening sequence. Each high-explosive shell struck the Elementals with the force of a falling star, shattering the cohesive magical fields that held the beings together. An Earth Elemental was reduced to mere gravel in seconds; a Fire Elemental was snuffed out by the sheer concussive force of the impacts.
The mages, standing on a distant ridge, watched in horror as their ancient summons were dismantled by cold, calculating geometry. They began a new chant, hoping to shield themselves, but they had forgotten the range of the new weaponry.
"Range set. Fire," a revolutionary sergeant commanded.
A volley of grenades was launched from the treeline, arcing high into the sky before screaming down toward the ridge. The mages didn't even have time to finish their incantations before the ground beneath them erupted. The grenade launchers allowed the revolutionaries to blast the sorcerers from a distance where their spells were useless. The ridge was transformed into a wasteland of smoke and fire, and the "divine" protection of the Court was silenced by the roar of high explosives.
Alex stood on the ramp of the laboratory-ship, his hands behind his back. The thermal sensors showed the magical signatures of the mages winking out one by one. To the world of Arcanum, it was a slaughter of the sacred; to Alex, it was simply the inevitable result of superior range and firepower.
"The Elementals are gone," Alex noted. "The path to the palace is no longer guarded by gods or ghosts. It is guarded only by a man in a crown."