"Let them hear the voice of steel."
Macthur swallowed the lump in his throat, his jaw tightening as he stared through the viewing slit. Sweat traced the edge of his temple. He drew a deep breath, his voice low but firm.
"Fire."
"Affirmative!" Suther replied.
He pulled the trigger. Inside the gun's breech, a chain of crude yet ingenious mechanisms came to life. In this world, the concept of a modern primer did not yet exist. Instead, a glowing firestone was embedded at the rear of the chamber, designed to heat and ignite the round. When Suther pulled the trigger, a small metal plate slid aside, exposing the shell to the firestone. He channeled his mana into the stone through his hand.
The crystal flared bright orange, heat surging across the metal. Then, a thunderous roar filled the compartment as the round ignited.
The 8.9-meter-long tank jolted backward violently, its heavy treads scraping over the cobblestone. A deep, booming explosion shattered the silence of the ruined town. Fire and smoke burst from the muzzle, the light briefly illuminating the surrounding ruins like lightning.
The 76mm iron round screamed through the air, slicing through dust and fog before colliding with the Cerus. The impact tore the night apart. The projectile slammed into the pangolin-like creature with brutal force, shattering chunks of its obsidian-like scales. The ground quaked as shards of crystal and flesh scattered outward.
The monster roared in fury, a sound that rippled through the streets and into the hearts of those who heard it.
Inside the St. Chamond tank, everything rattled. Dust fell from the rivets above. For a few seconds, only the grumbling of the engine and the hiss of venting smoke could be heard.
A crewman near the engine shouted, voice strained through the noise. "Did we hit it?"
No one answered immediately. Suther, Garlan, and Macthur exchanged glances, their faces pale under the dim glow of the control lamps. Finally, Macthur spoke, his tone heavy.
"Yes. We hit it."
Suther frowned, his voice low. "Then why do I still feel it?"
"That abomination still got fight left in it," Garlan muttered, his hand gripping the nearest handle for balance.
Through the narrow viewing slit, Macthur could see it. Azure liquid poured from the Cerus's torso, dripping like molten crystal. Beneath the shattered scales, the creature's glowing flesh pulsed with eerie blue light. But its eyes still burned. Sparks of purple lightning began crawling across its body.
Macthur's gut twisted. He knew what that meant.
"Turn right, now!" he shouted.
The two engines roared unevenly, one powering down while the other surged. The tank strained under its own bulk, turning painfully slow. The entire machine groaned as gears clanked and treads scraped stone. Macthur wanted to reverse, but there was no transmission system for it yet. All they had was raw force and desperate timing.
"Faster!" Suther yelled.
"It's too heavy!" Garlan answered.
The tank finally angled to two o'clock, but it was already too late.
The Cerus unleashed its rage.
"Brace for impact!" Macthur shouted.
He grabbed his greatsword and raised it before him, instinctively channeling mana into a faint shield of light. The crew barely had time to react.
A sharp, crystal-like projectile streaked through the air, glowing with violent azure light. It struck the frontal plate of the tank with a deafening crack.
The entire hull trembled. The impact threw the crew in every direction. The sound of twisting metal filled the compartment, followed by a shockwave that made their ears ring and heads spin.
Screams filled the smoke-choked air. The crew clutched their heads, the ringing in their ears drowning out all other sound. The St. Chamond shook violently, its steel body groaning under the immense pressure. The armor held, but it was cracked and warped.
Captain Macthur stood with the greatsword across his body, one hand on the hilt and the other braced against the flat of the blade. Bits of crystal glittered in his hair; a thin line of blood ran down his temple, but he did not bow. He had caught the blown shard on steel and flesh, and he felt every grain of it in his teeth. He spoke under his breath, more to himself than to the others, "If that Cerus had struck us full on while we were unarmored, it would have vaporized us all."
Around him men groaned and hauled themselves upright. The tank's interior still smelled of burning metal and crushed stone, but Old Man Garlan and Vice Captain Suther were already pushing through the smoke, shaking themselves free of debris. Boots pounded the turret roof as crewmen scrambled for the hatches.
"On your feet, men. We disembark now, quickly!" Macthur barked, voice hard as iron. One by one the men spilled out through assigned exits. Macthur hauled himself up and out of the top hatch into the cold night and the thin wind. He drove the point of his sword into the tank's battered flank as if to plant a stake, and with the back of his hand wiped the blood from his forehead. At his side Suther flexed his bow, string humming faintly with mana. Garlan hefted his iron-spiked mace, knuckles white around the haft. They stood like a short rampart in human form, waiting for the next order.
The Cerus fought to raise itself. Its leg trembled, tendon and crystal tearing as it tried to push up, a slick of blue ichor spilling from the rents in its plated hide. Each movement was agony. Even so, its eyes burned purple, unblinking and full of hunger. Those eyes did not scatter; they locked on the men as if measuring how many to swallow.
Suther spoke in a voice that steadied itself as he spoke yet could not hide the quake beneath. "Our shot shattered its armor. The plating took the worst of the blow."
Garlan spat, voice low and steady. "If the armor is broken, its resistance to mana is gone. It will feel every strike now."
Macthur said nothing at first. His face was carved in shadow and moonlight; his brows pulled tight, the lines of years sharpening. Memories uncoiled behind his eyes—the thunder of battles past, the cold weight of loss, the promise that had kept him standing. Horror, helplessness, and the stubborn ember of a hope he would not let die. Tiger's image flashed through him for a heartbeat, a ghost that had taught him monsters could fall.
He planted both boots, lifted his sword until both hands wrapped the haft, and pointed the blade at the wounded beast like a spearhead aimed through the night. His voice rang out, raw and clear. "Ten years I have waited for this. Tonight we show them what we are made of. These monsters are not gods. They die."
He let the words hang, then roared the order: "All who can fight, arm yourselves! We finish this nightmare now!"
Around him a single sound rose up, boots, the clink of gear, the snarled assent of soldiers. "Sir, yes, sir!" they replied, resolve hardening into action.
"Attack!"