"Anti-air fire!"
"All guns! Anti-air fire!"
The Duke of Wellington's roar exploded inside the bridge of the Gastrell, jolting the officers, who had been frozen in shock like wooden statues, awake from their despair.
The orders were conveyed rapidly.
The Victoria Coalition Fleet adjusted the elevation of every cannon.
Thousands of main guns, secondary guns, rapid-fire guns, and ballistae fired simultaneously, weaving a barrage net over the fleet that was even denser than the one the Kaest fleet had deployed.
The sound of exploding shells merged into a single, deafening roar.
However, the Leithanien pilots had learned their lesson from the Midland Corridor.
They no longer dove in single aircraft; instead, they moved in squads, covering each other alternatively, utilizing skilled techniques to weave through the barrage.
Boom!
A gunship on the periphery of the fleet was hit by several bombs simultaneously.
The massive hull was blasted sideways, tilting sharply as raging fire ignited, and soldiers on the deck were sent flying by the shockwave.
Boom! Kaboom!
The bridge of a dreadnought took a direct hit from a bomb.
Although the heavy armor was not completely penetrated, the violent tremor instantly disabled the internal command systems, turning the entire warship into an immobilized sitting duck.
Chaos. Utter chaos.
Soldiers ran futilely across the decks, while officers screamed contradictory orders.
With every second, warships were heavily damaged, and lives vanished within the flames.
"Wellington! We must retreat!"
The Duke of Windermere rushed to Wellington's side, her voice filled with urgency. "If we continue like this, we will all die here!"
"We cannot bury our last remaining assets in this damned place!"
The Duke of Wellington pressed his lips together tightly. He watched as the ammunition magazine of an assault ship was detonated, disintegrating within a massive fireball, and a look of pain surfaced in his eyes.
Retreat?
He, the Iron Duke Wellington, had fought countless battles in his life.
Facing the Emperor of Gaul, facing the late Emperor of Ursus, he had never taken a single step back.
But today, on this land he had sworn to protect, he had to issue the order to retreat.
This was a humiliation harder to accept than death.
But he knew Windermere was right.
To stay here meant total annihilation.
Only by retreating to Silverstone Cliff, utilizing the perilous terrain there, and leveraging the reinforcements within Londinium, would they have a sliver of a chance at survival.
Yes!
They still had reinforcements!
Inside Londinium, there was still the Empire's most elite Storm Assault Team!
And Victoria's ace combat force, which they had once loathed incomparably but now looked forward to incomparably—the Steam Knights!
"Order the entire fleet: provide alternating cover and retreat... toward Londinium!" The Duke of Wellington issued the retreat order.
Once the order to retreat was given, the fleet's order, already on the brink of collapse, disintegrated completely.
The so-called "alternating cover" could not be realized at all.
Warships in the rear, desperate to escape, charged forward recklessly, even colliding with friendly forces in front of them.
Some captains lost their reason in the panic, ordering their ships to fire blindly, their shells falling upon their own lines.
The entire retreat transformed into a rout more tragic than the battle itself.
Oliver, that young soldier who had escaped from the Bachman Fortress, was currently curled up in the corner of a gunship, using his helmet to guard his head tightly, his entire body shaking like a sieve.
The gunship he was on had luckily avoided the first round of bombing and was now sandwiched in the chaotic flow of ships, attempting to flee this land of death.
He saw a noble officer standing at the bow, cursing vilely because another warship had stolen his course. In the next second, a bomb fell, and that officer, along with the bow of the ship beneath his feet, vanished in a flash of fire.
He also saw countless civilians, swept up by this sudden great war, dragging their families and running alongside the routed fleet.
They cried and shouted, begging, hoping to board the warships, but all they received was the ruthless driving away by the soldiers.
An out-of-control fighter jet crashed into the crowd, the flames of the explosion devouring hundreds of people.
Oliver's faith was completely shattered in this moment.
What Duke, what glory, what Victoria—it was all a lie!
In the face of death, everything appeared so ridiculous.
At dusk, this air-ground great war finally brought down its curtain.
After five consecutive bombing waves, the Leithanien Air Force, having dropped all their bombs, had long since swaggered away.
The Victorian Ducal Coalition Army, a torrent of steel that had set out in such grandeur, now had less than half its strength remaining.
Of the eight dreadnoughts, three were destroyed and two heavily damaged; over one hundred gunships and assault ships had suffered losses exceeding fifty percent.
Of the army of one hundred and fifty thousand, the casualties and missing exceeded fifty thousand.
The remnant fleet, dragging bodies full of scars and thick smoke, arrived in a wretched state at the final defense line on the outskirts of Londinium—Silverstone Cliff.
This was a cliff stretching for dozens of kilometers, like a natural city wall, guarding the capital of Victoria.
Beneath the cliff was a narrow passage, easy to defend and hard to attack.
The defeated soldiers regrouped here, the atmosphere dead silent.
That night, inside the command room on the bridge of the Gastrell, the surviving Dukes gathered once more.
Fatigue, fear, and dazed confusion were written on everyone's face.
"How much... power do we have left?" The Duke of Gododdin's voice was hoarse.
"Fewer than eighty warships capable of combat, and soldiers... fewer than one hundred thousand."
A general reported with his head lowered, his voice filled with shame.
"One hundred thousand..." This number silenced everyone.
"Where are Leithanien's ground forces?" The Duke of Wellington asked.
"According to the latest reconnaissance report, their main armored divisions are less than twenty kilometers from here."
"And... and the Sarkaz vanguards in the south have also crossed Durham County and are moving toward us at high speed."
"We... we are about to be encircled."
The air in the conference room instantly solidified.
The Duke of Windermere looked around at the crowd. She tried to say something to boost morale, just as she used to do in the past.
But she opened her mouth only to find she could say nothing.
Her Sword Guard regiment had suffered heavy losses protecting her during the daytime air raid.
Those eyes of hers, which always sparkled with the light of confidence, were now covered with a layer of haze that could not be dissolved.
"Maybe... maybe we should negotiate peace?" The Duke of Fife spoke in a voice that was barely audible.
"Negotiate peace?"
The Duke of Wellington raised his head abruptly, terrifying anger shooting from his eyes.
"Have you forgotten how Kaest died? Forgotten the wretched state of Cornwall County?"
"Surrendering to the Leithaniens and the Sarkaz is sending all of Victoria, and all of our heads, to the guillotine!"
"Then what else can we do?!" The Duke of Gododdin finally broke down. He stood up and roared hysterically.
"Fight? What do we fight with?"
"Do we use the flesh and blood of our soldiers to clog their tank treads?"
"Or wait for the Sarkaz witchcraft to turn us all into stone statues?!"
"Enough!"
Wellington slammed his fist onto the table, the massive sound bringing the argument to an abrupt halt.
"We have no retreat left." The old man's voice returned to calm—a heart-palpitating calm.
"Silverstone Cliff is our final position."
"Pass the order down. Deploy all warships that can still move at the mountain pass."
"Move all usable artillery up the cliff."
"Tell all the soldiers: behind them is Londinium."
"In this battle, there is death and no life."
He stood up and walked slowly to the porthole, looking at the dark horizon in the distance.
There, he seemed to be able to see the torrent of steel of the Leithanien armored divisions approaching.
And under the night curtain of the south, the devil legions of Kazdel also revealed their fangs.
An encirclement net was slowly tightening.
Silverstone Cliff would become the final stage for Victoria's old aristocratic system, and also the graveyard where they would collectively march toward destruction.
The Duke of Wellington looked at his weary face reflected in the glass, and the corners of his mouth suddenly pulled into a bitter smile.
"Lacey... you win," he said softly.
"But if you want to see me kneel, you'll have to prepare an extra coffin."
________________________________________
Get rewarded for helping with our community goals!
🎯 Reward for all: +1 bonus chapter at 50 Powerstones.
🚀 Tier Reward: Help us reach 20 members for +5 chapters on all stories!
🔥 20% CODE: MEDUSA2
👻 Join the crew by searching Ms. Medusa on (P). You know the spot! 😉