On the afternoon of the third day of the port battle, Albion's last army still had three thousand swordsmen and pikemen remaining; Toristine had two hundred archers and five hundred port staff left.
The road before the port ran red with blood and black with scorch marks. That short two-hundred-meter stretch, wide enough for ten men abreast, had claimed four thousand Albion lives and five hundred Toristine sappers.
The commander of Albion's final division led his force slowly toward the harbor.
The port workers, unarmed, dispersed silently to positions around the docks, watching the Albion troops with cold eyes.
After reaching the port at such terrible cost, the Albion commander felt no joy — only the weight of sacrifice. He ordered three hundred men to round up the staff, holding them at swordpoint to operate the port facilities. The remaining three thousand-plus patrolled and secured the perimeter.
When Angel arrived outside the port with his last two hundred archers, he faced a fortress bristling with blades. Albion's commander spotted him and dispatched the remaining four hundred fifty shieldmen, plus a thousand swordsmen and pikemen, to sally from the harbor.
Angel fell back into the city, positioning archers atop and within buildings to harass with arrows.
He and his three surviving mages — the most protected on the field — exchanged glances. They resolved to expend their last mana on [Earth Puppet] magic.
From cover, the four chanted in unison.
"Jerut Erth Erth (Erth·) Harem!" — [Earth Puppet].
The city ground heaved. Rock and soil molded into hulking shells: three five-meter puppets and one ten-meter giant rose above the rooftops.
Controlled by the mages, the four constructs lumbered across houses toward Albion's ranks.
The colossal magical beings sowed panic in Albion's lines.
The ten-meter puppet reared its right fist high, then smashed downward at the shieldmen below.
Shield-bearers saw only a massive fist eclipsing the sky — growing, crushing.
"Ahh!" one screamed in terror.
BOOM! The puppet's sheer mass delivered devastating force, pulping three shields flat. The shockwave bowled over five meters of surrounding troops. It swept left and right indiscriminately, wading into clusters and unleashing havoc. The smaller puppets, though less mighty, flung four or five men airborne with a swipe or trampled the slow.
Albion's advance ground to a halt against the four behemoths.
Earth puppets boasted immense physical durability but fragility to magic — a single one-meter fireball might shatter one irreparably. Albion's vanguard lacked such firepower, however, and could only endure the pounding.
As Albion thinned ranks to evade massed strikes, city archers struck from shadows — cold arrows claiming lives from building dead zones.
Albion faltered; casualties mounted.
From the elevated port, another thousand Albion held firm. Their commander easily spotted the four mages hiding behind a building right of the main road.
"Five hundred pikemen — with me!" He drew his longsword high.
"Yes!" "For Albion!"
A forest of five hundred spears rallied behind.
These pikemen charged downhill from the harbor, momentum building, ferocious.
Arrows whittled them en route, but five hundred spears leveled on the mages.
The mages yanked puppets back — too late.
Pikemen surged two hundred meters down the road, wheeled right, and spotted the four mages guarded by fifty soldiers. "Target mages! Charge!!"
"Oooh!!" "Kill!!"
Spears thrust flat; the twenty archer guards fell pierced before loosing more than a few shafts. Pikemen bore down on the exposed mages.
Bereft of guards, mana spent on puppets, the four faced five hundred. Angel's lead mage smiled defiantly: "For Her Majesty, for Toristine!" "For Toristine!" "For Toristine!"
Shunk-shunk-shunk-shunk!
Spears impaled flesh; blood fountained from wounds. Survival impossible.
Angel flashed a cunning grin, head lolling in death.
BOOM!! BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!
With final will, the mages detonated the puppets. Rock and earth erupted outward, shredding fifty Albion in the blast.
The commander eyed the impaled corpses and spat coldly: "Even in death, dragging more with you? Nothing but trouble."
Puppets gone, mages slain, the remaining two hundred archers could only kill what they could. As spearmen and swordsmen flooded the city, rooting them from corners, no escape remained — only blades or bolts.
Yet before dying, those archers loosed every arrow, inflicting heavy tolls.
Of the three thousand attacking Albion, fewer than two thousand survived.
The commander breathed easier. Toristine's garrison must be annihilated. With reinforcements, the port would serve as base to strike inland.
Port staff huddled under guard, unarmed, unmagic. Sentries relaxed, eyes drifting to the city fight.
But was victory so simple?
Soon, shadows flickered in distant clouds — airships.
At first dismissed as illusion, the shapes grew: Albion banners aloft.
The rearguard leader — merely a captain — blinked in confusion. Did command know we'd taken the port and send aid so promptly?
Red-and-blue flags semaphored from the lead ship.
Frowning, the captain seized a port worker.
"Translate — now!" He pressed steel to the middle-aged man's throat. "Or you all die."
The man peered, then bowed obsequiously: "My lord, they claim reinforcements — request port entry."
"Perfect!" The captain's eyes lit. "Let them in!"
A subordinate cautioned: "Wait for the general, sir."
"Nonsense — welcoming our own! He'll commend me."
To the worker: "Signal them — or die."
"Y-yes, mercy!" Terror feigned.
"Guiding needs seven or eight. Fetch helpers."
"Go — quickly!"
The man selected seven amid glares and curses: "Traitor!" "Albion dog!"
An agitator lunged — Albion blades forced him back. "Sit — or taste steel!"
Face downcast, the man led seven into the control room.
The great tree stirred: dozens of branches wove a vast net, tens of meters across.
Distant ships spotted it; the lead surged full throttle.
"Something's off," a soldier muttered. "Too eager."
Alerted, the captain bellowed: "Stop them!" A guard slashed the worker's throat — head rolled, smiling.
The ship struck from three hundred meters — over a minute at speed. Impact dazed all aboard. Vomiting aside, they drew blades, gripped spears, raised shields.
"For Toristine!" "For Her Majesty!" "Kill!!"
Troops leapt to the net, scaled the tree, stormed the room, spilled down trunk paths to clash with Albion guards.
"No — trap! Toristines!"
The captain shrieked: "Kill the infiltrators!"
A ship held five hundred; rearguard numbered five hundred. Repel them, deny the net — distant ships barred.
Albion abandoned posts, swarming the tree.
Four hundred fifty Albion against five hundred Toristine.
Melee choked the trunk base. Terrain limited to three or four dozen; no bows — early 40-40 split.
More disembarked. A blond youth in black cloak, red rose between teeth: "Albion dogs — Kisho arrives!" Pushed forward by comrades, he vaulted the net, drew wooden wands: "We are the Knights of the Water Elf!"
Black- and purple-cloaked youths followed from the ship.
Albion below paused, staring.
Kisho and allies chanted atop the net.
"Grando Erth Hammer!" — [Bronze Puppet].
"Yah Fell Albrook!" — [Fireball].
"Hash Wendy Lie!" — [Wind Blade].
"Inz Wendy Gluck!" — [Wind Hammer].
...and more.
Fireballs ignited singles; wind blades clove bodies; hammers hurled clusters of three or four. Bronze-armored golems erupted, charging Albion.
Stunned, then panic: "Mages!!"
Someone fled; then groups; soon most. In this age, mages embodied might. Commoners rarely glimpsed one — fifty? Unbearable. Albion routed from the port.
Workers rushed the tree, operating controls. Branches fanned wide, draping nets over cliffs.
Distant ships docked in succession: six total — three thousand troops, fifty mages. Albion broken — this force decisive.
Routed Albion met the returning three thousand. Their commander scowled, rallying remnants. Spotting the fleeing rearguard captain, he seized him.
Hearing the tale, fury boiled: he beheaded his lieutenant. "Idiot!"
Eying port hordes and cloaked mages above, despair settled.
"No fleeing — your families wait home! Die honorably: state raises widows, orphans, parents. Desert: they suffer." Sword high toward the harbor: "Men — follow!" He charged.
Six hundred pikemen led, surging upward.
Some routed fled; two thousand followed.
Toristine reinforcements spilled out: shield-swords-spears clashed downhill with uphill Albion. Steel rang endless.
Atop the port, fifty mages — pale, lips quivering — chanted anew.
Fireball, Wind Blade, Wind Hammer, Rock Spear, Bronze Golem...
Each spell's bloom felled clusters. These academy youths witnessed their magic reap lives.
A volley: squads crumpled.
Massacre: protected mages versus exposed infantry.
Albion's three thousand-plus littered the city-port road. Toristine paid four hundred dead, six hundred wounded — total extermination.
The fifty mages — prime killers — chanted mechanically, gulped potions, loosed again. Victory struck: some paled, begging ancestors' pardon; others vomited endlessly; fanatics flushed ecstatic.
Baptism in blood and death for fifty sheltered mages. They would anchor Toristine's future might.