“All units, hear me! Segireneto, flank with our north-line commander and hit both side walls like twin hammers.”

“Full wall-climb! Don’t try the gate! They’re a spent bow; defeat’s sealed like frost on grass! Follow orders to the letter.”

“Hexclaw Legion, with me—frontal charge!”

“Breaker formation—unfold—”

Clive hit the field with storm-borne swagger; his mind was razor-clear, his command clean, but his map-sense lacked breadth. Harrison filled that gap like a spine under armor.

Erig heard, squeezed his mount’s flanks, and flew out like an arrow; a thousand Hexclaw troopers shadowed him in symbolic follow. The two armies wore near-identical armor, like twin rivers in the same skin; only their leaders’ aura split like sun and moon.

Behind Erig, thousands of Iron Cavalry Legion riders crouched low, their warhorses’ eyes glowing blood-red like embers, thundering for the gate. Flanking them, uncountable infantry carried spears and greatswords, torches held high and sweeping, carving bright wounds in the deep night.

By their firelight you could glimpse a “→” arrowhead; Iron Cavalry formed the tip, while an endless host covered the wings. It was an absolute attack array, a wolf-tooth wedge fit to smash; but it bled cavalry like rain through a torn cloak.

If both sides were equal, charging like this was giving yourself away, trading a thousand wounds for ten thousand of your own. But if the gap yawned wide, this became a formation of despair, a storm that broke only over the enemy.

At the main gate, Harrison and Manto held the rear command like anchors behind sails. Manto resented Erig being “sent” to the side gate; Erig ruled heavy cavalry like a storm, and only Medith truly checked him.

Any other commander, and Sia City’s defense line would crumble like wet clay under his first charge. Put that force on the main field, and its momentum could shatter already-low mercenary morale into sand.

Sending him to the flank dulled the blade; a waste of steel. But they were guests under another’s roof, bound by limits like ropes; the greatest credit would go to Harrison’s banner.

Hexclaw’s current Commander looked green, untempered; giving him a chance to face Medith head-on was its own trial by fire. Medith’s mood had exploded and collapsed; her body and mind felt spent like ash.

Only her first Magic Breaker strike needed care; that was unavoidable like lightning before rain. Since she commanded the main gate, the side field was hollow; let the Hexclaw Legion pay that price.

They had numbers; with a single shout, tens of thousands moved like grass in a gale. Manto couldn’t compare to that rolling tide.

He sighed, pitying his own kingdom, which had grown in silence for years yet mustered only fifty thousand troops, like a thin forest. Now Paris sat high; a random branch of a Royal Legion held ten thousand elites, steel packed like a mountain.

Manto’s edge had been sanded down; his view shifted like a compass. With his proud capital gone, he cared more for building strength than for revenge.

Yet he felt his king lacked any taste for revenge; the man soaked in ancient stacks, studying unknown things like roots underground. Strange for one of his rank to turn from blood debts.

As he thought, the far-off clash rose like surf and stole the rest of his breath.

“Don’t panic—their lead is green at siege work, like a foal on ice. Use that edge; squeeze two hundred percent from the wall, like stone fangs.”

“Stop them climbing, with everything you have, cut vines from the stone!”

“Gulo, ready the fire oil, black rain in waiting.”

“Lina, Rita, lock the corner points; ignore all else; your only prey is the siege ladder.”

“Iling, same for you; eyes on ladders, not the gate; with this advantage their overall won’t force the gate.”

“Sais, if they loose, you intercept the arrows, catch them like falling hail.”

“Dawnlight soldiers, fight for yourselves—no matter how deep and long this night, dawn will come like a blade of light.”

Medith snapped out assignments fast, and everyone took their posts along the wall like stones set in a spine. They fixed on the Hexclaw soldiers about to move, breaths held like winter birds.

On the flank, Gerald commanded in person, with Norris and other captains in support, and Milia and Pers beside them like twin shadows. Pers lived quiet, a book always in hand, tucked into dark corners like moss; even the women barely felt him there.

Gerald and the others would’ve sworn a rat had slipped in, if not for Milia’s patient words. Everyone urged Pers to stay off the field; it wasn’t his kind of work.

He insisted he had to witness this historic hour; only Medith and Milia knew why, a secret like a sealed lamp. Milia smiled with a meaning tucked away: don’t let Pers’s harmless face fool you; inside, he’s a demon who won’t spare foes.

“And he’s one of our secret weapons,” she added, a knife kept under cloth. Pers only smiled and bowed, humble as rain on stone. “Thank you for the praise.”

“Secret weapon?” Gerald frowned, ribs tight like a drawn bow; even now, they were playing at mysteries. It was useless to guess; at this point, Medith wouldn’t mislead them.

“All units, on guard, like wolves on a ridge! Our pressure here will be heavier like a storm front, but we outnumber the gate.”

“Medith holds the main with five hundred; we have a full one thousand.” “We also have me, Norris, Milia, Jegg, Caron—names you know, strengths you’ve seen, iron you trust.”

“They may outnumber us, but we have this unfallen wall; fifteen meters of stone is a height they’ll never conquer.” “Milia, if they fire Bonecrusher Arrows, I’m asking you to intercept; only your strongest Sprite team can stop that rain.”

Milia nodded; that was her main purpose, though it seemed unlikely, since three Blackblood War Chariots sat at the front.

“Set the ladders—”

“Archers ready—”

“Blackblood War Chariot ready—”

Clive reached the wall at the front; Medith had barely resisted along the way, seeing the flow like a river. Thinning their numbers meant nothing; blocking the climb was the only hope.

“Victory is right ahead; once the ladders stand, victory is ours. Full assault—” Clive couldn’t smother his restless heart; he rushed the order out like a horse breaking its reins.

Soon, silver-bright ladders flicked from the night and slammed the wall, stars turned to steel. The instant they touched stone, the ends spat a swarm of hooks that clamped down and bit.

Look close, and you’d see the force crack the nearby masonry into spiderweb veins. One mountain always has another higher; as wallcraft flew upward, siegecraft raced ahead faster.

Attack is the best defense. A shield can block a spear; a spear can pierce anything. One is an angel counting rules; the other a devil who doesn’t care; you know who wins.

Paris’s swelled ambition drove military craft forward, like spring flood pushing driftwood; he had the means ready.

“Thoom—”

“Thoom—”

One ladder, two, five, ten—more and more clasped the fifteen-meter crown, their method so fierce it stunned the line. Before Medith could shout, bows were drawn and loosed; bolts and spears flew like starlings.

Too hasty; the enemy hadn’t topped the wall, and shield-men lifted iron and smothered that volley like rain on slate. “Don’t be impulsive! If they like climbing, let them climb!”

Medith’s voice cut like cold water, and fear—boiling—settled back like snow. Clive lifted his eyes to Medith; up close, the wrongness deepened like a thorn under skin.

He felt Medith lacked something, yet the name wouldn’t come, like a lost word in smoke. The field turned in heartbeats; Clive refused to linger and split his forces into more than ten attack lines.

Inside a kilometer, he broke units into squads; if Medith used her Lawbreaking Ability, they’d raise shields and pull back at once. That kept damage beyond a kilometer at a minimum, since her range was limited like a circle of frost.

Spread out, and her threat dropped; at that distance, she wouldn’t use Magic Breaker unless she chose mutual ruin with Dawnlight Castle.

Orders in their ears, the defenders swallowed hard, tasting salt; Hexclaw troopers climbed like trained wolves, every move sharp. Fear rose like a tide; without Medith to steady them, they’d have dropped steel and begged mercy.

The ladders were smooth steel, with slits for friction, so iron boots could bite and hold. Each ladder was seventy-five centimeters wide, enough for two to race shoulder to shoulder.

Past the first stretch, Hexclaw soldiers bent low and almost ran up the wall, their will harsh as winter wind. At that sight, Medith sneered and flicked her hand; the Lina Sisters burst from the tower and shot.

Twang— Two cold-lit arrows cut the night and smashed into two ladders, heads biting and sticking like nails in oak. It held for two heartbeats; then—rumble— the ladders shook and threw every soldier midway, bodies falling and breaking like pots on stone.

The two had trained under the Nameless spear doctrine, a path of single-point penetration, and sharpened that thought for bows. With Nameless’s method and their own talent, months of grind had honed them like whetstone on steel.

Now even a casual shot matched a B-class Sprite’s full draw. Against a sea of men, it wasn’t overwhelming. Against key gear or a marked person, it was the perfect bane.

“Wind Sprite arrows can hit that hard?!” Clive stared, stunned. “That’s not in the report!”