Trenches, Guns, and Magic

From the admirals down to the common sailors, no one in the Gallic Navy within the port anticipated things reaching this point.

Until the Queen Elizabeth opened fire, most people even thought the Britannian fleet's arrival was merely an attempt to apply pressure through a "show of muscle"...

After all, the two nations nominally still maintained "friendly neutrality." Even a few months ago, naval officers from both sides were privately exchanging cigars and brandy.

Then, the new Britannian flagship fired without hesitation after the ultimatum expired, and immediately following, the Gallic flagship moored in the port exploded.

The vortex created by the severed aft section of the Courbet sinking to the bottom of the harbor dragged down a large number of sailors who had jumped into the water trying to escape nearby.

Various debris and burning oil slicks spread across the inner harbor's surface, and a thick black column of smoke shot up from the break into mid-air.

The Gallic sailors all over the port area watched their flagship break in two with their own eyes. The expressions on their faces shifted from astonishment when the other side first opened fire to disbelief, and from disbelief... to gnashing, hateful resentment.

"Those damn Britannian pigs——!"

As a soaking-wet Gallic sailor was hauled onto the dock by a comrade, the first mouthful of water he spat out was immediately followed by a national curse.

The Hundred Years' War.

This term occupied nearly a fifth of the history textbooks for the Gauls.

More than four hundred years ago, that protracted slaughter between the then-Kingdom of Gaul and the Kingdom of Britannia soaked the lands of western Europa with the blood of soldiers from both sides.

The Gauls had not forgotten; not for a single day.

It was just that over the past century, due to the shifting political winds across the continent of Europa, this hatred had been suppressed, covered up by interests and alliance treaties.

But at this moment, as Britannian 15-inch shells fell into their own naval port, blowing their own warships to pieces, that thin cover was completely ripped away.

The debts owed from the Hundred Years' War era, added to this new score today, synthesized in the hearts of the Gallic sailors into something that made them willing to risk their lives.

In the corridors of the Port Command, Vice Admiral Guépratte's adjutant had just returned from running his third message. His uniform was covered in dust and someone else's blood.

The three battlecruisers laid down suppressive fire on the shore defense personnel, concurrently destroying the communications center where the wired switchboards and heavy radios were deployed.

This nearly paralyzed the port's command structure, forcing them to rely on runners to transmit orders.

At the same time, the port tugboat Étampes, a small steam vessel without even bulletproof steel plating, surged out from a sheltered position behind the breakwater.

Her captain was Pierre Garnier, a senior harbor pilot who had worked in this port for nearly twenty years. His earliest days were spent catching sardines in the Gulf of Tunis.

In his sixties, he could have retired last year to bounce his grandchildren on his knee, but the port was severely short-handed after the war broke out, so the old man volunteered to stay on for another two years.

When the Courbet broke in two and sank to the bottom of the harbor, the old man pulled his pipe from his mouth, extinguished it, put it away, and gave the order: "Full speed ahead."

Thus, the little Étampes charged out from the shelter of the breakwater. Her miniature hull wove through the massive water pillars kicked up by the Britannians' main guns.

A secondary battery shell from a warship landed less than fifty meters off the tug's starboard side. The resulting water pillar crashed down over the boat, and the shockwave pushed the entire vessel laterally by more than half a boat's length.

The old captain gripped the ship's wheel tightly. The sailors on deck were knocked about by seawater and stray wooden splinters from who knows where, but not a single one ran into the cabin.

Just like this, the Étampes forcefully pulled alongside the Jean Bart amidst the artillery fire. Bloodied sailors secured the mooring lines amidst the roaring cannons.

Almost simultaneously, a second tugboat, the La Goulette, and more steam tugs behind her caught up. They pressed against the hull of the Jean Bart from the other side, beginning to assist in the tow.

These small boats, whose combined displacement wasn't even a fraction of a dreadnought's, towed this twenty-three-thousand-ton dreadnought, moving inch by inch through the dense barrage.

Water pillars rose and fell constantly within the harbor. Scree and shrapnel rained down continuously on the tugs' decks. Half of La Goulette's smokestack was sheared off by shrapnel, and a sailor fell on her deck, but no one flinched at this moment.

With the assistance of the tugs, this second ship of the Courbet-class was the first to leave her berth, her hull beginning to move toward the port exit.

By the time the tugs withdrew to a safe distance, the twin 305mm main guns of this second Courbet-class ship had already completed their traverse.

"Main gun fire control tower reporting! Ranging on target outside the port complete!"

Captain Duperré of the Jean Bart stood on the bridge. His military cap had been lost at some point, and the left shoulder of his uniform was sliced open by a stray piece of shrapnel, but he had no time to care about any of this.

"Target selected!"

The Chief Gunnery Officer shifted his binoculars away from the Queen Elizabeth at the forefront of the Britannian formation, locking onto the second battleship behind it.

Based on silhouette identification, it was a Lord Nelson-class.

Both the captain and the Gunnery Officer of the Jean Bart knew that in this situation of absolute disadvantage, picking the Queen Elizabeth to shoot at was simply wasting shells... The thickness of that super-dreadnought's armor belt was enough to make 305mm armor-piercing shells "show signs of difficulty" at most engagement distances.

But the Lord Nelson was a modified pre-dreadnought; its protection level was a whole era behind.

The firing parameters from the plotting room were quickly transmitted via mechanical linkage to the fire control console. The Chief Gunnery Officer pressed the sync button, and the pointers in all turrets began aligning with the firing data.

The hydraulic motor-driven turret rotation units hissed, and the twin 305mm main guns turned slowly.

The instant the turrets were in position, the long-waiting Chief Gunnery Officer finally roared the command.

"Turrets 1 and 2, fire!"

The forward two turrets of the Jean Bart fired a salvo simultaneously. Four 305mm armor-piercing shells left their muzzles in succession, the muzzle flashes glaringly bright amidst the thick smoke in the harbor.

This time, the Gallic Navy seemed to have divine assistance... The impact points of the first salvo made everyone witnessing the scene gasp.

Two of the four shells landed extremely close to the Lord Nelson. And at this distance, armor-piercing shells entering the water, relying on residual kinetic energy and specific ballistic stability, were sufficient to turn into lethal underwater shells.

A few seconds later, a slight but visibly discernable list began to appear on the hull of the Lord Nelson.

A brief cheer erupted on the bridge of the Jean Bart.

But this cheer lasted a very short time... because the Lord Nelson's list quickly stopped and began to recover. It was clear the opposing damage control teams reacted extremely fast and had not slacked off just because they were merely shooting "targets" in a port.

However, Captain Duperré didn't have much margin for disappointment; he was already urging the next round of attacks.

Following closely in the footsteps of the Jean Bart, the third ship, Paris, also left her berth with the assistance of tugs and joined the return fire.

The two dreadnoughts turned clumsily in the limited waters of the port, pouring ammunition at the Britannian battle line with every gun barrel that could bear outward.

But the cost was also rising rapidly.

During her turn, the Paris was struck sequentially by two 15-inch armor-piercing shells. The first hit the waterline armor belt but failed to penetrate, though the shockwave damaged the rotation mechanism of No. 3 turret, rendering it completely silent.

The second tore open a secondary battery casemate on the bow, detonating the secondary ammunition inside, and blowing the entire casemate away.

Outside the port, the Britannian battle line maintained a suffocating rhythm of attack from beginning to end. The six capital ships fired in sequence, while the three Invincible-class battlecruisers continuously adjusted their positions on the flanks with their greater agility.

There was no "fairness" in this battle from the start, nor did a so-called "balance" even exist.

Although the Courbet-class was the main battleship of the Gallic Navy, it was in fact a dreadnought already obsolete during its construction process.

305mm caliber main guns, a speed of less than twenty knots, weak horizontal armor...

In the pre-war equipment evaluations of both the Britannian and Saxon naval departments, these ships received surprisingly unanimous negative reviews. Meanwhile, the opposing Queen Elizabeth, just the broadside weight of its eight 15-inch main guns alone, was something no Gallic warship could endure.

Not to mention the Gallic fleet inside the harbor was hastily responding from a state of minimal combat readiness; more than half the ships didn't even have time to prep ammunition in advance.

Twenty minutes later, the capital ships of the Gallic Navy in the port had all sunk or listed severely.

By the time the final salvo from outside the port ended, all three Courbet-class dreadnoughts in Oran Port were resting on the bottom of the harbor.

Only the wreckage of their bridges and masts still protruded askew from the water surface, thick smoke and steam rising in the afternoon sun.

The Danton-class pre-dreadnoughts in the port didn't even have time to finish unmooring before suffering concentrated strikes. The three old ships were practically pummeled to pieces at their berths. One of them capsized directly after a sympathetic magazine detonation, its massive hull exposing its belly to the sky for all to see.

Smoke and steam converged into an ash-colored curtain blotting out the sky above Oran Port. Amidst several still-burning oil slicks, the light of fires danced on the water surface.

Vice Admiral Guépratte stood in the half-destroyed port defense command. The windows before him were shattered, and waves of heat and the smell of scorching rushed in.

His hands were trembling, but not out of fear.

"Write this down."

He said to the staff officer beside him, whose face was covered in soot and blood.

Outside the port, confirming all primary targets had lost combat capability, the Britannian Mediterranean Fleet also began to withdraw.

Vice Admiral John de Robeck, Fleet Commander on the Queen Elizabeth, stood on the bridge of the flagship, watching the broken waves parted by the bow rolling away on both sides through the forward viewing window.

The battle was over.

According to the operational plan approved by the Admiralty before departure, the entire "Operation Catapult" was divided into three phases.

Phase One: Utilize the [Mirage] generator to create illusion camouflage in Malta Port, covering up the fact that the main fleet had sortied in full force.

Phase Two: Use a high-circle mage's [Control Weather] to block Saxon armored airships from conducting reconnaissance toward Oran Port, then "disarm" the Gallic Navy at Oran Port.

Phase Three: After quickly resolving the battle, retrieve the mage and return to Malta Port.

So far, the first two phases had been completed. The Gauls' reaction was fiercer than expected, but the outcome was never in suspense.

The Lord Nelson and the Canopus took a few hits, but the damage wasn't severe and wouldn't affect ocean navigation.

And as the fleet sailed some distance, the captains of the Canopus-class pre-dreadnought Goliath, the Invincible-class battlecruiser Inflexible, the Edgar-class protected cruiser Edgar, the Arethusa-class light cruiser Phaeton, and three G-class destroyers, opened the sealed orders delivered by the flagship before the engagement, according to pre-battle instructions.

When the captains of these warships finished reading the sealed orders, they were all surprised by the unexpected mission location written upon them.

But surprise was just surprise; it wouldn't affect the efficiency of their executing orders.

Soon, these warships blew their whistles, flashed light signals, and detached from the formation, forming a small-scale flotilla heading northwest.

The urgent telegram sent by the L23 armored airship was transmitted outward through pre-deployed maritime relay ships even faster than the Britannians at Malta Port.

And the Allied Mediterranean Fleet of the Three Nations, dispersed across different anchorages, had long completed all preparations for a sortie. They began unmooring almost the exact moment they received the telegram.

In truth, this allied fleet had waited for this opportunity for far too long.

Ever since the Britannians, in coordination with ground forces, regained control of the Strait of Gibraltar, the allied fleet had been bottled up in the Mediterranean, watching the Britannians continuously bring in more warships.

But even so, the Britannian fleet in Malta Port only occasionally dispatched one or two cruisers for escort or harassment; the capital ships remained safely moored in port.

The Royal Navy occupied the excellent position of Malta. As long as the fleet holed up in port, protected by coastal defense batteries and anti-air magical devices, the allied fleet could do nothing against them.

Conversely, although the allied fleet didn't fall too far behind the opponent in total tonnage, the gap in individual ship quality was real. A monster like the Queen Elizabeth—no single capital ship in the allied fleet could engage her one-on-one.

More importantly, because the Britannians controlled the Strait of Gibraltar, the Saxon Empire Navy couldn't reinforce with more capital ships, only able to secretly sneak in more submarines...

So both sides were waiting, waiting for the other to make the first mistake.

But now, the Britannians, unable to wait any longer, had run out on their own.

Without a doubt, the capital ships of the Gallic Navy had become the most delicious bait, and the Britannians had indeed failed to resist this "temptation," sortieing the main force of the Mediterranean Fleet in full...

And having obtained this critical intelligence, the subsequent movements of this fleet were essentially equivalent to playing with an "open hand."

It was impossible for the Britannians to retreat from the Strait of Gibraltar and hand over the Mediterranean.

So the opponent had one and only one choice: return to Malta Port. After all, it was also their important naval port.

Especially under the circumstance where the opponent employed tactical deception, it further proved that the Britannians never intended to abandon it, but rather attempted to pull off this "job" unnoticed and return.

If it weren't for the captain of the L23 armored airship, whose close-in reconnaissance action could be called a stroke of genius, the Three Nations Allied Fleet might still be kept in the dark, perhaps only learning of it when the Britannian ships returned to port.

But now, when the subsequent course of the Britannian Mediterranean Fleet could already be anticipated, this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity was also placed before the Three Nations Allied Fleet.

Admiral Spee, Commander of the Saxon Empire Mediterranean Fleet, straightened up and scanned the officers on the bridge.

"Send signals to the commanders of the Papal State and Austro-Hungarian forces. All formations rendezvous at the third assembly point according to the scheduled plan, then deploy along intercept courses!"

His finger landed heavily on the nautical chart.

"Let's block them on their inevitable path back to Malta!"

Upon receiving the orders, the three fleets of the allied force departed from their respective temporary anchorages, assembling toward the predetermined interception waters in the central Mediterranean.

Because the main force needed to confront the Britannian Grand Fleet in the North Sea, and the Strait of Gibraltar was lost far too quickly, the High Seas Fleet couldn't send more capital ships over.

This also resulted in the entire Saxon Empire Mediterranean Squadron having only 2 battlecruisers, 2 armored cruisers, 4 light cruisers, 1 scout cruiser, 12 fleet torpedo boats (functionally equivalent to destroyers), and 22 U-boats.

The fleet of the Papal State dispatched 3 Apostle-class dreadnoughts. This class was an extremely standard dreadnought, with a full-load displacement of 25,500 tons, equipped with two twin-mount and three triple-mount 305mm main guns.

In addition to this, there were 6 pre-dreadnoughts, 4 armored cruisers, 11 destroyers, and 20 torpedo boats.

And these warships, which had received additional holy water blessing rituals in the Holy See's shipyards, were said to fire shells consecrated by clergy...

As for the Austro-Hungarian Empire, it dispatched 3 Tegetthoff-class dreadnoughts and 3 Radetzky-class pre-dreadnoughts.

Yes, all of them were capital ships; no auxiliary vessels were sent.

This was mainly because, compared to their decent capital ships, the cruisers and destroyers of the Austro-Hungarian Empire were truly somewhat embarrassing...

The three larger armored cruisers were all built between the late 19th and early 20th centuries. At the outbreak of the war, if not considered relatively backward, they were quite obsolete.

While the comprehensive data, such as hull structure, of the several new cruisers commissioned before the war caught up with world-advanced levels, their main guns were chosen to be an absurdly small 100mm...

Coupled with the need to keep an eye on the Ottoman Empire's navy, the Austro-Hungarian Empire was only asked to send its relatively combat-capable capital ships.

Calculated this way, the Three Nations Allied Fleet could assemble 6 dreadnoughts, 9 pre-dreadnoughts, 2 battlecruisers, and an even larger number of other combat vessels in the interception waters.

In terms of sheer number of ships, the allied fleet still held the advantage, though the quality aspect was harder to say.

But fortunately, the opponent had just fought a battle and expended a portion of their ammunition, while the allied fleet was more or less waiting at their leisure.

In the eyes of Admiral Spee and the fleet commanders of the other two nations, this would be an interception launched at the right time, in the right place, and with the right posture.

The same day, Kingdom of Romania, Bucharest.

A blood-red dome had completely covered the sky above this city.

Within the coverage of the dome, the sunlight was filtered into a dim, dark red hue and lost its feeling of warmth upon the skin.

To the surviving civilians of Bucharest, the blood-red sky overhead was explanation enough.

Even the dullest person generated the most primal fear under this eerie celestial phenomenon.

In the first two hours after the blood-red dome rose, all the main streets of Bucharest were jammed with people dragging their families trying to run out of the city.

Carriages, handcarts, old people carrying bundles, and women holding children converged into chaotic tides of humanity.

A middle-aged man who looked like a merchant drove a donkey cart, attempting to dash out from the south side of the city. But just as the wheels rolled over the flagstones near the city limits, three deathly pale figures darted out from deep within an alley.

A few seconds later, the donkey cart overturned on the stone steps at the city gate, and the donkey, breaking free from its reins, began running wildly down the street.

Those deathly pale figures dragged the merchant's corpse and disappeared into the darkness of the alley.

Similar scenes played out simultaneously in all directions of the city, and the number of Blood Servants surged after the "Blood River" was activated.

Those low-tier vampire creatures previously hiding in sewers and abandoned buildings were completely unhidden now. The dome formed by the "Blood River" became their best cover.

These vampire creatures appeared on the streets in hordes, driving... or rather, harvesting everyone attempting to flee.

The garrison troops at various barricades and strongholds within the city still attempted to maintain order in the first half hour.

At a position near University Square, a Romanian Army lieutenant led over thirty soldiers, repulsing the bold charges of two Blood Servants with rifles and grenades.

But when the second wave of attacks arrived, the number of Blood Servants increased fivefold.

Before the lieutenant could fire the last bullet from the pistol in his hand, this position was breached simultaneously from multiple directions.

This also became a microcosm of the large-scale collapse of the garrison's defense system within the city.

Some small-scale units... primarily platoon-level units, led by junior officers, chose to break out directly toward the outside of the city.

A portion of them did manage to charge out, mingling in the tide of refugees running toward the Saxon defense lines.

The rest who failed to break out were never heard from again.

By late night, a battalion-sized unit near the southeast direction of the city disintegrated entirely.

The battalion commander was knocked out by his own adjutant and dragged onto a carriage. The adjutant led dozens of soldiers and officers unwilling to stay any longer, disappearing into the night, men and horses alike, down the road leading out of the city.

In merely the better part of a day, order within Bucharest completely collapsed.

And Ferdinand I cared nothing for any of this.

No, accurately speaking, the entity standing at the forefront of the High-Tier Vampire ranks at this moment could hardly be called "Ferdinand I" anymore.

Ever since personally activating the "Blood River," the last remaining fragments of humanity peeled away from within him.

This King of Wallachia closed his eyes, feeling the vampire auras spread throughout the city surging in his consciousness.

Every birth of a new Blood Servant, he could perceive.

Every emotional fluctuation of a Blood Thrall was within his perceptual range.

This feeling... was the feeling of a true "ruler."

Not the kind of "ruler" who sits in a council chamber listening to subjects bicker, but total control, directly mastering every subject from the level of consciousness.

Just like this, Ferdinand I, leading Major General Van, and guided by Ceaușescu and other secret society members, passed through several hidden secret doors and underground passages, ultimately arriving at a secret warehouse within the city.

The entrance to the warehouse was hidden in the basement of an old noble mansion. As the concealed stone door slid open silently, a stale smell wafted out from within.

Torches were lit in sequence by society members. The dim yellow light extended down the long, narrow corridor, illuminating an unexpectedly large underground space at the end.

When Ferdinand I walked in, his footsteps paused for a moment.

The space deep inside the warehouse was far larger than he imagined. Four massive metallic remains lay neatly arranged on the floor.

The height of each exceeded five meters. Even lying on the ground in a state of wreckage, the skeletons composed of steel and magitech alloy still exuded a heavy, oppressive presence.

Ferdinand I walked a half-circle around the nearest wreckage.

The armor plates on the torso section were severely deformed. Dead center on the breastplate was a penetrating hole, the metal edges curled inward... This was clearly trauma caused by an armor-piercing weapon like a heavy mace.

The damage on the other three wrecks varied, but without exception, they were all missing critical components like the head or limbs.

The internal structure supporting the skeleton was exposed. Rusted mechanical structures and unrecognizable magitech muscle bundles were tangled together.

Major General Van's footsteps stopped. He stared fixedly at those remains for several seconds, then turned sharply to Ceaușescu.

"Are these four... the four 'Dietrich Mark IIs' destroyed during the Second Balkan War?"

Ceaușescu nodded slightly, tapping his cane on the floor once.

"Good memory, General."

Major General Van's fists clenched tight.

The Second Balkan War. At that time, the Kingdom of Romania, due to territorial disputes, participated in the encirclement of the Kingdom of Bulgaria.

And the entire Armored Knight force of the Kingdom of Romania at the time consisted of a mere six Dietrich Mark IIs imported from the Saxon Empire.

These Armored Knights, which emerged unscathed from the First Balkan War, had four of their number destroyed in combat with the Bulgarians. The wreckage was classified by the military as "irreparable scrap," only useful for providing spare parts for the remaining two.

"The military's scrap manifest clearly states that these four have already been dismantled and recycled..."

Major General Van turned to face Ceaușescu directly.

"You intercepted them?"

"It took quite some effort."

Ceaușescu leaned on his cane, his tone flat.

"Scrap documents can be forged. The military project managers can be bribed... Over the past few centuries, the Society has done things far more complex than this."

Major General Van did not press further, because his attention had already been drawn to another batch of items beside the wreckage.

They were some heavy armors that looked extremely ancient.

They were placed on independent display stands on both sides of the wreckage, numbering about a dozen suits.

The style of each suit of armor was even more archaic, modeled resembling medieval full plate armor, but the size was at least two sizes larger than plate armor worn by normal humans.

The surfaces of these dark red plate armors were covered with grooves visible to the naked eye. At the shoulders and chest, the same crest was cast—a coiling Wyvern with a bleeding heart in its mouth.

Ferdinand I walked up to one suit and stopped. He reached out his hand, his fingertips touching the armor surface.

Aside from the cold touch, another sensation originating from the bloodline also surfaced.

Ceaușescu walked to Ferdinand I's side. His face also displayed a kind of fanaticism that had been suppressed for a long time.

"Your Majesty... these armors are the final legacy left behind by the 'Blood Dragon Knights'."

"Blood Dragon Knights..."

Ferdinand I repeated the name. It was not unfamiliar in Romanian folklore.

The most elite guard under the command of Wallachian Voivode Vlad III, said to be composed of a group of immensely powerful knights, who achieved illustrious military merits in the Ottoman wars of the fifteenth century.

But that was just a legend. At least in the prior understanding of Major General Van and the others, it was merely a legend.

Ceaușescu waved his cane toward the direction of the ancient armors.

"In the era when the Progenitor still walked the earth, the 'Blood Dragon Knights' were the strongest military force defending Wallachia... Every knight was an elite among High-Tier Vampires. The armors themselves were forged with the Progenitor's blood, capable of resonating with the wearer's bloodline, bestowing power far exceeding the ordinary."

"But when the Progenitor departed, the Blood Dragon Knights lost their source of power... The knights fell, the armors slumbered. The Society preserved these remnants generation after generation, waiting for—"

"Waiting for the day the 'Blood River' is reawakened." Ferdinand I finished the sentence for him.

Ceaușescu dropped abruptly to his knees, taking the society members behind him down to prostrate on the ground as well.

"Your Majesty! The Blood River is activated. These ancient armors can be re-infused with power and worn by new Blood Thralls... Coupled with the wreckage of the Armored Knights... we can rebuild the 'Blood Dragon Knights'!"

The warehouse fell silent again.

Ferdinand I's hand remained resting on the chest of the ancient armor, feeling the pulsation resonating with the Blood River transmitted from beneath the plates.

Major General Van stood nearby. The rationality that once belonged to a professional soldier was repeatedly playing tug-of-war with the impulses generated after his bloodline conversion. He opened his mouth but ultimately said nothing.

After a long while, Ferdinand I withdrew his hand.

And a batch of Blood Thralls pre-selected by the "Bloodstone" Society walked up to the edge of the Armored Knight wreckage and the relic armors.

Immediately following, semi-coagulated blood seeped out from nowhere.

As if alive, they avoided the area where Ferdinand I and the others stood, directly engulfing the Blood Thralls who stepped forward, and began merging with the wreckage and armors...