Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

A chamber less than a meter wide, the stone walls as cold as solid ice.

Trembling gasps, a violently contracting heart, hot breath rebounded by the stone wall, endless darkness.

Roars, furious shouts, the metallic clang of weapons clashing, the screech of blades scraping against iron armor shriller than the wails of banshees.

Groans of pain, screams, flesh slapped onto the camel hair tapestry, the crisp snap of breaking bones.

Innumerable death knells intertwined, like invisible serpents pouring out of crevices and pipes, drilling en masse into Borso da Este's ears, nearly driving him insane.

Suddenly, all sounds vanished, and the world became silent, leaving only darkness.

A series of rapid and hurried footsteps.

A few barks of dogs.

Then a few knocks.

"Here!" someone shouted.

"Can't get in!"

"Bring the gunpowder, blow it up!"

All the blood in Borso's body rushed to his head, and he screamed in frenzy, "Don't use explosives! I'm coming out!" However, his vocal cords were rigid like rusty door hinges, freezing his shout within his chest.

"No need." A magnetic male voice sounded: "Found it."

The latch reset, and the secret door was violently pulled open. Chilly fresh air blew into the chamber, and Borso was dragged out.

The flames outside the window shone into the bedroom, reflecting the cold light off helmets and scimitars.

A corpse sprawled by the door, its appearance terrifying. Two ferocious wolves sat in front of Borso, staring straight at him.

Borso was petrified, slumping to the ground like muck, frantically looking around at the bedroom both familiar and strange.

Then he got slapped twice.

"Hey, wake up!" The one slapping had hands both heavy and swift, and yet his voice was that of an adolescent's cracking tone: "Are you dumbstruck?"

Seeing Borso still shaken, the one with the cracking voice impatiently raised a hand, threatening to slap him again.

Borso subconsciously raised his hand to protect his head.

"You still know to block? Then quit playing the fool. I have questions for you."

Borso looked up blankly, finally able to clearly see the newcomers—three unfamiliar Knights encased in iron armor, their cloaks bearing no crest, only the dark red stains of blood.

Heavy footsteps sounded as another Knight entered the bedroom.

Before Borso could take a proper look at the fourth Knight, his jaw was abruptly seized by a hand.

The hand maneuvered Borso's head from side to side, then after a while, the vice-like grip released, and a deep voice said, "He's unharmed."

Then a hand laid upon Borso's shoulder. For some reason, with that hand's support, Borso's heart no longer pounded wildly, and his mind cleared significantly.

"I'm still alive, I'm still useful to them," Borso thought. Leaning against the wall, he straightened his back, attempting to salvage some dignity: "I am..."

"You are Borso da Este." Again, that magnetic voice: "Flora's White Eagle."

Memories within Borso stirred at the sound of the man's voice. As the stranger removed his helmet, Borso's expression twisted from shock to rage. He trembled, pointing at the corpse by the door: "You, you! Why did you kill my men!"

"Don't jump to conclusions, My Lord Da Este. If I were you, I would take a good look before speaking. So now, I'm not sure whether to laugh at you or pity you." Winters gestured towards the body by the door: "Drag it here, let him take a good look."

The body at the door was dragged before Borso by Xial and another guard.

Even in the dim light, it was hard to confuse the corpse's fabric armor and pure black cape with Este family's sky-blue cloak embroidered with the White Eagle.

Borso crawled to the corpse, violently yanking off its face covering, revealing a stranger's face. He looked up at Winters in astonishment.

"Don't misunderstand, I indeed came to kill you." Winters casually set down his helmet and sword, walking towards the lampstand, speaking to himself: "But it seems... someone was more anxious than me."

Recognizing the strange Knight was Winters, Borso got emboldened. He got up with the wall's support, lifting his head high: "If you're here to kill me too, then what are you waiting for?"

Winters removed the lamp cover, pulled out the candle, and with a snap of his fingers, the wick spontaneously ignited: "I'm waiting for you to help me recognize someone."

"Who?" Borso struggled to maintain his composure.

Winters nodded slightly.

Understanding the sign, Xial turned and unhitched a pouch from his belt, pulling out an object and tossing it to Borso.

Borso instinctively caught it. The object was cold to the touch, seemingly wrapped in a tangled mess. He looked more closely, and by the faint candlelight, he saw eyes, a nose, and golden hair…

Borso fell to the ground in fright, casting away the object in his hand as if it was a red-hot branding iron—it was unmistakably a head, the marks of hacking on the severed neck still visibly clear.

Winters placed the candlestick beside Borso, then moved to the corner of the room to pick up the head.

"You can't really make out the eye color now." Winters placed the head into Borso's hands, forcing them to look eye to eye, and said earnestly: "But I can tell you, he had green eyes."

Winters took a few steps back, sitting on the four-poster bed with his sword on his lap, his voice bone-chilling: "Now, tell me, who is he? Don't lie; there are people here who can tell the truth from falsehood."

...

When old Schmid and the Sheriff of the North City arrived at the Este estate with all the help they could find, Winters was just walking out the front door.

The garden once the pride of the Este family had become an inferno, scorching heat waves palpable even from outside the walls. The main building hitherto hadn't caught fire, but whether it would survive the night depended on the latter half's wind direction.

Winters clamped his sword under his arm, giving it a swift tug; the blood on the blade wiped clean by his cloak.

Sheathing his sword, he noticed his cloak was stained with blood, so he simply took it off and tossed it into the fire, revealing his gleaming white armor.

To the incoming residents of the northern city, Winters appeared as if he had just strolled out from a raging inferno, nonchalantly wiping his bloodstained sword.

Everyone was so stunned for a moment that no one dared to step forward and ask.

Winters, too, noticed the residents gathered outside the estate, wearing a helmet with a face covering that left only his eyes visible, so he wasn't worried about being recognized for the time being.

The battle had long since concluded.

The assassins who raided the Este estate were dressed like the swordsmen ambushing Winters, in soft armor made of linen and cotton to avoid drawing unwarranted attention, carrying swords and short firearms that could be hidden beneath cloaks.

Against the likes of Winters and his men, clad in armor and wielding long knives atop swift horses, the perimeter-guarding assassins stood no chance of resistance.

A volley of gunfire, and before the gun smoke had cleared, the warhorses were already upon the assassins. Those who couldn't dodge in time were either cut down or trampled, leaving them either dead or injured. The warhorses kept up their speed, breaking through the enemy's formation, while the remaining assassins could only watch helplessly as Winters led his men into the estate.

Once Winters and his men stormed the mansion and were fighting at close quarters, the assassins fared even worse.

Unable to create distance and without heavy firearms, just Winters and Caman sliced through the opposition with unstoppable momentum, sending the assassins into a panicked retreat.

Winters had the intention of capturing a prisoner for interrogation, but things didn't go as he wished. First, because Caman was exceedingly cautious, sparing no one in his path; and second, because the assassins were extremely fierce, immediately resorting to suicide or poison upon losing all hope of escape, or even executing their comrades who had lost the ability to move.

Moreover, Winters brought too few men; they were sufficient for a siege, but not enough to encircle and completely eliminate the enemy. The assassins couldn't hold back his troops, and those who wanted to escape couldn't be stopped.

Seeing the northern city's militia arriving only after the dust had settled, Winters couldn't help but sigh. However, he had learned not to fret over things that could no longer be changed—the most crucial move was always the next one.

"Gentlemen," Winters climbed atop Longwind and surveyed everyone from the saddle: "Old City has fallen into chaos. By the order of Colonel Berny, from this moment on, you are all under my command. Who is the Sheriff? Step forward!"

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

The Sheriff of the northern city felt the gaze of everyone present focusing on him, and steeling his nerves, he stepped out of the crowd, removing his hat and holding it in his hand: "Uh... that's me."

"Ring the alarm bell," Winters ordered confidently: "Assemble all men capable of wielding a weapon—regardless of citizenship. Those who can ride, select them separately and have them bring their horses. This place is good, spacious enough, with plenty of light; we'll gather here."

Winters pointed out Old Schmid and another at random: "You two, follow the Sheriff to summon the militia; the rest of you, come with me. There are rioters who have infiltrated the northern city; let's move to purge them."

The Sheriff listened with a dumbfounded expression, taking a while to digest the orders before coming to his senses.

Under the laws of the Steel Fortress, in emergency situations, the militia of each city district is summoned and directed by the Sheriff, who takes orders directly from the Mayor.

Whether from a practical or legal standpoint, an army officer meddling in the command of the city's militia was overstepping the bounds.

Of course, the Sheriff of the northern district was not willing to simply hand over his authority, but the blood-covered armored men coming out of the estate were quite formidable.

The officer issuing the orders was also imposing, leaving no room for disregard.

As a result, the Sheriff of the northern district carefully asked: "Excuse me, Sir, may I ask who you are…?"

"Army Captain, Axel Bern," Winters replied calmly and casually, pointing towards Old Schmid: "He can vouch for my identity."

Now all eyes were on Old Schmid. Clearing his throat and retaining his composure, the old blacksmith nodded without showing any change in expression—it was too dark to tell if his face was flushed.

The Sheriff was still unconvinced and tentatively asked: "May I ask what happened to the Este estate…?"

Others pricked up their ears to listen.

Winters had already figured out everyone's thoughts; a stranger appearing out of nowhere and giving orders would make anyone discontent. But they didn't dare to publicly defy him, only hoping the Sheriff would stand up for them.

In other words, as long as he could control the Sheriff, the others would follow like a flock of sheep following the lead sheep.

Therefore, Winters replied succinctly and decisively: "It was plundered by rioters."

"Mister Este…"

"Has been rescued."

As he spoke, Xial was "supporting" the distraught Borso da Este out through the front door.

"Why have we never heard of you before…"

"Recently transferred."

"Could I see Colonel Berny's orders…"

"There's only the code word."

"Then, what is your relationship with Colonel Berny…"

As the Sheriff's tone grew softer, Winters sensed the timing was right. He braced his knees slightly, prompting Longwind to step forward with a snort, cornering the Sheriff.

Winters asked with a smile: "What Colonel Berny is to me is not important. Do you know what is most important right now?"

The Sheriff nodded and then shook his head.

"Time!" Winters bellowed furiously, his voice like a clap of thunder: "With every second you waste, the Steel Fortress is one step closer to hell! Go ring the alarm bell now! The rest of you, with me."

Having said that, Winters pulled on the reins and cantered off.

The crafty Xial cooperated by mounting his horse and herding the crowd, urging loudly: "What are you waiting for? Let's go!"

The residents of the northern city reluctantly began to move, one by one… and in the end, all followed suit.

The Sheriff wanted to say more, but Old Schmid held him back.

The two exchanged glances, both seeing the resigned 'let it be' in each other's eyes. With a sigh, the Sheriff put his hat back on and hastily went with Old Schmid and the other person randomly chosen by Winters to ring the alarm bell.

Almost no one realized that, from that moment, the military command of the northern city had been handed over to Winters Montagne.