"Fire!"
With the roaring command from the commander of Caepia's artillery corps, twenty-four "Julius" magic cannons fired in unison. Concentrated blasts of magical energy tore through the sky, their shrieking howls echoing like a grand overture to the symphony of war.
And then…
The concentrated beams of magic streaked downward, crashing into the ranks of the Achenio Grand Duchy's army.
They were the wrath of the Great Mage-King, unleashed in a moment of madness upon the Achenio soldiers. Dozens of thunderous explosions tore the heavens asunder in a brilliant yet deadly hue of violet. Armor, flesh, and bone were shredded in an instant, leaving behind mangled corpses and the anguished screams of those unfortunate enough to survive the first wave.
Thus began the historic battle—the Siege of Caepia—between the Mage Empire of Caepia and the Grand Duchy of Achenio. Azeri Achenio, the Iron Beast, faced the city's devastating magic artillery.
Despite the destructive might of the Julius cannons, Duke Azeri, mounted atop his steed, clad in jet-black armor worn from countless campaigns, remained steadfast. The scars on his war-weathered face tightened slightly as he frowned—a subtle sign of pain, perhaps, but more so of contemplation. As a seasoned strategist, he knew the strengths—and the fatal flaws—of Caepia's magic weaponry.
He murmured, eyes narrowing with cunning:
"Their greatest weakness… each Julius cannon requires two mages to sacrifice themselves, and 45 seconds of mana charging before each shot…"
According to scouting reports, the city had already lost a significant number of its magic forces in prior failed campaigns. Maintaining sustained fire from these cannons would be difficult. However, the city's infantry and riflemen remained elite and numerous, and their defensive structures were largely intact. Launching a head-on assault against such fortifications would be a fool's errand—sacrificing soldiers pointlessly. Yet dragging the battle into a prolonged stalemate risked demoralization and a reversal of the tides.
But Azeri was no fool.
With the sly intelligence of a seasoned fox, he issued his orders in a deep, gravelly voice:
"Advance the troops.
Authorize use of divine cannons for counter-bombardment. Rotate rifle squads to provide suppressing fire for our vanguard. Deploy the drake cavalry from both flanks to eliminate their defensive emplacements."
As the duke's orders echoed, his subordinate generals dispersed, returning to their battalions to carry them out.
Soon, as the smoke of battle cleared, the elite shock troops of Achenio advanced in formation—clad in obsidian armor, moving in thunderous unison. The ground trembled beneath their synchronized steps.
The Wilhelm divine cannons opened fire, launching Ezyl shells—blackened orbs packed with gunpowder—hurtling through the air. For the first time in over a century, Caepia's reinforced walls quaked. A section of wall, once fortified with Magium, crumbled under the blast. One shell struck a Julius team, annihilating two cannons and critically damaging a third.
Seizing the opportunity, the drake cavalry swooped from the sky, dodging magical barrages to tear through five Julius cannons and slaughter over 200 mages and countless other defenders.
This was a direct blow to Caepia's defensive core.
But Azeri still had one dark card left to play.
Meanwhile, within the city…
The defenders of Caepia—men and women alike—stood strong even as hope dwindled and enemies closed in on all sides. Before them stood Achenio's finest—elite soldiers and the terrifying drake cavalry who had ravaged countless armies. They faced the cunning of Azeri, a man who had toppled citadels thought impregnable.
But among Caepia's ranks were warriors trained precisely for moments like this. The best of the best. Their duty was to defend Caepia—and that duty had become their sacred vow before Mage-King Acadius. Now was their chance to fulfill it through courage, fierce resistance, honor, and unyielding loyalty.
More than anything, they fought for those still alive in the city—for family, blood, and the sacred purpose that kept them going.
The commander of Caepia, Marcus Flavius, had been entrusted with the city's defense by the late Mage-King Constantinus III, before the monarch's death in battle left the kingdom to his seven-year-old son, Acadius.
It was a heavy burden for a 60-year-old general.
But do not be fooled by his age—Marcus was a battlefield genius, appointed as commander at 40 after a string of astonishing victories, such as routing ten thousand barbarians with just one thousand militia.
After losing several precious Julius cannons, Marcus quickly regrouped and reorganized the city's defense. He ordered the spearmen to form tight formations, both shielding the mages and creating distance from the airborne cavalry. Through discipline and elite training, Caepia's soldiers began to push back, surround, and eliminate the drake riders who had fallen from the skies.
Marcus then had the engineers repair the damaged fortifications, while medics tended to the wounded.
The defenders worked seamlessly—holding the line, fending off attackers, and restoring their defenses all at once.
Every second was precious, and Marcus clung fiercely to the hope of victory. He believed that, soon, Achenio's forces would falter, and Caepia would endure.
But then…
Clack… clack…
The cold, mechanical sounds of something being activated echoed across the battlefield.
BOOM!
A massive tremor rocked the earth as every gaze turned toward its source.
To the astonishment of Caepia's defenders…
The Immortal Gate—the unbreakable stronghold made of ancient Magium, impervious to magic or artillery—was opening.
From the inside.
A stunned silence fell. The battle-hardened defenders, bloodied and bruised, froze in place.
Even Marcus—who had stood unshaken for decades—stared wide-eyed in disbelief. The Immortal Gate, symbol of their last line of defense, was being opened… from within.
The true enemy, it seemed, had not come from outside.
On the opposite side of the battlefield, Duke Azeri's scarred face twisted into a wicked grin.
THUD.
Before Marcus could react, a blade pierced his back. Cold steel seared through his flesh like molten iron.
Blood gushed down his tattered cloak as he turned with his last breath—to see a familiar face.
Brutes. His deputy.
A man of humble origins whom Marcus had taken in as a young prodigy, mentored, and raised as his own.
Now, this trusted student had plunged a dagger into his mentor's back, betraying a lifetime of loyalty in a single stroke.
"Brutes… you bastard…"
Marcus cursed with bitter fury, spitting blood onto the stone floor. He cursed, and cursed again… until his voice faded, his body cold and still, eyes wide open—staring into the hollow soul of a traitor.
Brutes merely wiped his blade clean and muttered coldly:
"Old man, I just didn't want to die here."
He turned to his fellow conspirators—soldiers who had traded their loyalty for survival.
"Brothers and sisters—kill anyone who resists. Raise the white flag."
A massacre ensued.
Soldiers who had fought valiantly mere moments ago were stabbed from behind, caught unaware by those they had called comrades. A bloodbath unfolded as treachery bled through the city's final defenses.
And so, Caepia—the soul of the Magician Empire—exhaled its final breath.
The blood of heroes and tyrants alike stained every stone. Its golden age was over, its legacy drowned in betrayal.
And beneath a grey, uncertain sky, only one thing was certain:
The sun had set on the once-glorious empire of Magicia.