Chapter 352| We Are Guests Until Our Feet Touch Their Soil. And We Are Prisoners Right Up Until Their Military Authority Decides Whether Roland’s Diplomatic Letter Is Worth Reading.
Bzzzt... krrk!
Inside the NRS Orion’s main navigation room, the crystal radar screens flashed wildly.
Three solid red dots, previously faint on the northern horizon, had now fully manifested. They cut across the coordinate grid in a precise formation, radiating an aura of pure intimidation.
Captain Thorne stood rooted before the main console, his gray eyes locked onto the screen. The veteran officer’s face remained composed, though his jaw tightened with high alert.
"Hmm... an inverted V formation," Thorne muttered under his breath. "One ship taking the vanguard, the other two locking us down from the flanks."
The radar operator glanced back, swallowing hard. "Defensive countermeasures, Captain?"
"Not yet," Thorne ordered coldly. "Cut engine speed to a third! Lock both active mana-cannons in a neutral position."
He slammed a button on the console. "Ignite the civilian-diplomatic identification lights on the mainmast. Do it now."
Sshk.
The sliding door of the navigation room parted. Riven Sudrath stepped inside.
His gigantic frame instantly dominated the cramped space. The heavy black Wolf mantle billowed slightly behind him as the Grand General’s eyes locked onto the crystal display.
"Border patrol?" Riven asked, skipping any pleasantries.
"Yes, General." Thorne tapped the screen. "Standard Iron Empire interception pattern. They’re boxing us in."
Riven let out a low grunt. His hand rested casually on the pommel of the broadsword strapped to his hip.
"Tsk. They haven’t pulled the trigger yet, but they clearly aren’t here to welcome us with open arms," Riven muttered. "Hold the course, Captain. Don’t give them a single excuse to fire."
Thorne grabbed the Aero-Link on his belt. "All hands, stand to. It is strictly forbidden to aim any weapons at the northern contacts."
Down below the deck, the narrow corridor leading to the crew barracks felt incredibly stuffy and damp.
Emergency mana-lamps cast a dim, sickly yellow glow. The groaning of the ship’s steel hull blended with the heavy breaths of the infantrymen on standby.
Dalon sat at the edge of his folding cot. His left arm was still bound in a wooden splint and thick bandages. The young soldier’s face was pale, but his eyes remained wide open, refusing to blink.
A veteran soldier, Ram, sat cross-legged on the floor. The scruffy man was checking the mechanism of his rifle for the third time.
Dalon looked over. "Ram... are we gonna die out here?"
The older man stopped tinkering. He looked up at Dalon with a gaze that was strangely comforting.
"You felt the shaking last night? This ship took a beating from a giant sea monster, and we’re still floating." Ram slung his Sudrath Spear over his shoulder. "If we go down, don’t do it with a terrified look on your face, kid. Show those bastards that men of Northreach don’t weep."
Dalon swallowed hard. His good hand slowly curled into a fist on his lap.
Another soldier huddled in the corner muttered softly, "Damn it... I didn’t even get to say goodbye to my ma."
A few others chuckled nervously. Some offered silent prayers. Others obsessively checked their rifles. Yet, not a single one of them complained.
Over on the bridge of the lead patrol ship, the acrid smoke of cheap cigars blurred the yellow cabin lights.
Commander Varus, a pale-skinned man with a nasty burn scar crawling up the left side of his neck, glared straight at the approaching foreign vessel. His hand rested heavily on the hilt of his shortsword.
"They’ve raised a white flag," one of his officers muttered. "That’s not a standard warship."
Varus let out a low, guttural growl. "I don’t care if they’re waving the Goddess’s own flag." He pointed a finger out the thick glass window. "Look at that hull. Seamless steel. Not cobbled together from scrap iron. That ship didn’t come from the southern seas... it came from the North."
The officers on the bridge exchanged tense glances.
"Relay the order: hold your fire," Varus commanded, his voice turning deadly cold. "But if that vessel deviates its course by even a single degree... I’ll be the first to ignite the incendiary cannons."
A young officer piped up, "Why don’t we just sink them right now, Commander?"
Varus spun around. His eyes burned with restrained fury.
"Because I want to see their smug faces hanging from the gallows. Not sinking to the bottom of the sea."
Out on the foredeck, the freezing sea wind howled wildly.
Selene’s sea-blue Water Arcanum robes whipped fiercely in the gale. Her silver hair flowed freely, catching the pale rays of the morning sun. She stood perfectly still.
Right behind her, ten Luminara guard mages fanned out into a tight semi-circle formation.
Roland Sudrath stood at the absolute front line, right at the tip of the bow.
His gray eyes stared intently at the three dark silhouettes emerging from the mist. His uninjured right hand maintained an iron grip on a wooden pole bearing a stark white flag.
"They’re slowing down," Selene murmured, never breaking her gaze. "But the energy signature radiating from their hulls is chaotic. That isn’t mana... it’s pressurized thermal steam."
"Tsk, signature Iron Empire tech," Roland remarked coolly. He raised the wooden pole high into the air.
"Signal our peaceful intent! Three wide arcs!" Roland ordered.
An infantryman beside him immediately took the heavy pole. Swoosh... swoosh... The massive white fabric swept through the air rhythmically, cutting clearly across the line of sight of the intercepting fleet.
A suffocating tension gripped the air. The only sound left was the crashing of the waves against the NRS Orion’s steel hull.
Rianor dragged himself onto the rear side of the foredeck, his steps still wobbly. His mechanical arm hummed softly. Pushing his glasses up, he scanned the enemy vessels using the crystal lenses built into his Arcanotech Bracer.
"Their steam cannons suffer from terrible accuracy," Rianor reported deadpan. "But if they score a direct hit, the explosive yield is more than enough to tear our hull wide open from twenty meters out."
Selene glanced at him. "Down below their main deck, there’s a massive, short-barreled weapon. It’s designed purely for close-quarters devastation."
Rianor narrowed his eyes. "Which means they’re letting us get within point-blank range on purpose."
"Exactly," Selene whispered. "They want to guarantee we don’t have an inch of room to flee."
Out on the dreary aft deck, Rumina leaned against the severely warped railing—a grim reminder of the Kraken’s rampage. Creeeak...
Her meticulously tied bun had come undone again in the wind, with wet strands of black hair plastered against her pale temples.
Rianor stepped out from the passenger cabin. The architect’s face was still as pale as a corpse from his lingering seasickness. Yet, the adamantine circuits of his Arcanotech Bracer pulsed with a constant blue light, actively analyzing the threat.
Rumina didn’t turn her head. Her gaze remained locked on the gray warship flanking them.
"Brother Rianor..." Rumina murmured softly. "Logically speaking... are we currently being received as diplomatic guests, or are we being herded like prisoners of war?"
Rianor pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His eyes calculated the rust patterns, and his nose picked up the heavy scent of soot drifting from the enemy vessels.
"Hmm... technically, we occupy both variables, Rumina," Rianor answered clinically. "We are guests until our feet touch their soil. And we are prisoners... right up until their military authority decides whether Roland’s diplomatic letter is worth reading, or better off burned."
Rumina drew a long, heavy breath. The thick, polluted air laced with coal smoke began to clog her lungs, completely swallowing the ocean’s salty breeze.
Heavy footsteps approached. Riven stepped up, standing tall on Rumina’s right side, crossing his massive arms over his chest.
"You used to shake like a leaf the first time you presented a financial report to Father, too," Riven whispered softly.
Rumina finally looked up at him.
"But you didn’t run away then, either," Riven continued.
Rumina lowered her gaze. "I didn’t have a choice."
"Exactly." Riven stared dead ahead at the enemy guns. "True courage is forged when you’ve run out of options. And you are proving that right now."
Rumina didn’t argue back. But slowly, her white-knuckled grip on the steel railing began to loosen.
High up on the ship’s main mast, Borch crouched motionlessly like a stone gargoyle.
His Gauss Rifle remained slung across his back. Yet, the Ghost Squad Commander’s eagle eyes peered through a high-powered monocular, surgically mapping out every single blind spot on the enemy decks.
Just a few meters below him, Naya leaned casually against the wooden rigging. She didn’t draw her daggers. Instead, she lazily tapped her fingertips against the leather grips in a relaxed rhythm. Tap... tap... tap.
"They’re herding us like wolves into an iron cage," Borch reported deadpan through the encrypted short-range Aero-Link.
"Let them," Riven’s voice crackled back over the comms. "They’re on edge because they’re terrified. Do not give them an excuse to pull the trigger."
Borch didn’t reply. His crosshairs remained perfectly locked onto the port-side patrol vessel.
Naya tilted her head up. "Hey, Borch... do you ever think about what happens if we actually fail this mission?"
Silence.
Borch slowly lowered his monocular. His sharp eyes didn’t blink once.
"As long as I’ve got my finger on a trigger, the mission isn’t over."
Naya carved a thin, amused smirk. "You absolute maniac."
The escort formation was absolute.
The three Iron Empire warships boxed the NRS Orion in seamlessly, leaving a gap of barely fifty meters. The muzzles of the enemy’s steam cannons were trained on every single inch of the Northern vessel’s deck.
Riven stood tall on the upper aft deck. His piercing gaze locked onto a young enemy soldier on the adjacent ship, whose hands were visibly shaking while gripping his steam-rifle.
The NRS Orion’s propellers continued churning the sea. Slowly but surely, the heavy veil of the Sea of Mist lifted completely from the horizon.
Inside the navigation room, Captain Thorne’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief.
The curtain guarding the northern continent—hidden from the world for millennia—was finally torn away. But it wasn’t white sandy beaches or lush pine forests that greeted them. It was a jagged coastline of pitch-black stone cliffs.
Hundreds of colossal industrial smokestacks violently spewed thick, suffocating smog, choking the morning sky into a sickly, polluted gray. Its massive military docks were fortified by towering walls of spiked steel, heavily guarded by brutalist watchtowers sweeping the waters with massive searchlights.
It was a brutal, unyielding monument to a merciless industrial revolution.
"Attention all hands..." Thorne’s voice echoed through the ship’s comms. "We are now entering the Iron Empire’s capital port. Brace yourselves."
At the bow, Roland slowly lowered the white flag.
The acrid stench of burning coal stung his nostrils. Selene stepped up beside him, standing shoulder-to-shoulder as they stared down the terrifying steel fortress looming ahead.
"You successfully brought us across, Roland," Selene whispered softly. "Through the storm and the Kraken."
Roland carved a thin, heavily burdened smile. His nimble fingers meticulously folded the white fabric into a perfectly crisp square.
"Hah... we can’t call this a victory just yet, Selene," Roland murmured. His gray eyes stared unflinchingly into the blinding glare of a watchtower searchlight that had just swept across his face.
Roland tucked the folded flag away inside his coat.
"Getting this ship here was the easy part. Our real war... has only just begun."