Liberi Reader

Another altar of Sarkaz witchcraft.

Climb, pull up, leap, bring down the hammer.

As the war rages on, they've become more and more familiar with these war machines resembling the devils' eyes.

They've become more and more familiar with war itself.

Vina often feels as if Indra, Morgan, and Dagda have changed somewhat. She trusts that the very same changes can be seen in her.

Is it a change for the better? Or a change that came far too late?

The devil's crimson eye stares at her.

The hammer comes down hard, and the altar begins to collapse before Siege even reaches the ground.

There's no end to them.

Siege tightly grips her hammer.

They are adapting. But not quickly enough.

The hammer falls, and a portion of the Nachzehrer warrior's body is caved in.

But he continues to advance.

A second swing. Then a third.

Dagda leaps back, splitting his waist with her metal claws.

The Trilby Asher's flaming blade pierces his chest.

Strange noises can be heard in all directions.

They are distinct from the sounds of Originium crystal clusters piercing the ground. They are not omens to the explosion of Originium dust.

Raise the shield, fire the cannon. Repeat, ad infinitum.

Victoria possesses the strongest weapons in all of Terra. One shell can easily blow apart a Sarkaz's armor.

Just as quickly, two more Sarkaz rush forth at the same time to take the place. Then three.

The artillery fire unleashes its fury, but it cannot stem the surging tide.

There's no end to the enemies.

She can hardly tell how many Sarkaz are on the ground in front of her; some standing, some lying.

The number of fallen Victorians is perhaps even greater.

She can hear Bagpipe's shouts and the whistling of her spear. From those she finds utmost solace, and that's enough to keep her fighting on.

A plume of firelight suddenly springs up not too far away.

Oh, Hill.

That same face again. The same face that appears in her nightmares every now and then, reminding her of how tragically her teammates died... The face of that traitor.

The man clad in the uniform of Wellington's forces staggers towards them.

He lifts the blade in his hands, and slashes at the Sarkaz in front of Horn.

The armor is too thick, and the recoil pushes his hands away. His arms contort strangely and he strikes a second time, then a third.

That familiar visage is getting closer and closer to them–

In the midst of the dead silent gray, only a tiny speck of purple dances.

'I lay down now my soldier's honor here, so that in time the soil of Tara need no longer be soaked in carmine blood, and Draco cross no swords with Draco kin.'

'Be that unless a day comes, whereupon Red Dragon's flame should lead all those that fell, our fighters from the forge to be reborn.'

The spark of life gradually fades.

And in its place burns a deathly purple flame, leaping across the body of the slain Sarkaz warrior just as it dances in Eblana's eyes.

The Nachzehrer King turns his gaze towards a certain part of the battlefield.

Behind the Red Dragon's smoke and flames, a huge shadow is rushing toward them at an unexpected speed.

'All parameters set!'

'Loading complete!'

'Firing interference shells!'

'Target locked on–'

'Main guns, first salvo!'

The naval guns roar.

Wellington is well-acquainted with his most loyal subject – the oldest gun aboard the ship, that which assisted him in blowing open the gates of Lingones.

He killed the mightiest nomadic city on Terra. He pulled the spine from its corpse and made it a part of his warship.

Afterwards, he took the Gastrell to many lands, and conquered many foes.

The Arts orbs of Leithanian casters, the shields of Ursine vanguards, the golden blades of Sargonian assassins – he collected and modified the most valuable components of his enemies, and placed them upon his flagship.

But not for the sake of commemoration. Only those who have become weak and frail through the passage of time need to rely on these vestiges to remember the past.

The Gastrell must step over the bones of its enemies, assimilating their power so that it may become stronger.

Only this way can the two of them defeat even stronger enemies together.

Wave after wave of cannonfire pours down onto the sea of Originium.

Golden fragments crack and split apart, revealing a gap within those congealed waves.

A thick haze envelops the battleship.

Countless Nachzehrer warriors land on its deck, the entire vessel enveloped in the glow of witchcraft.

Rend, dismantle, corrode.

The cadence of gunfire gradually slows.

The hard, steel hull is being digested, just like all other prey that has fallen into the Nachzehrers' Arts circles.

He lifts his scepter.

Branches grow rapidly from beneath the throne, blocking the front of the Nachzehrer warriors.

A shell lodges within the branches.

A few seconds later, the shell explodes, tearing the branches asunder.

For the first time since the battle began, the Nachzehrer's throne shakes.

From the thick haze of corruption, the warship slowly comes into view.

Its outer layer flayed off by the corruption, almost half its main and secondary guns disabled due to the bombardment of witchcraft shells, only the steel frame remains shining.

Yet she is nevertheless still Gastrell, the mightiest warship in the land.

And her master–

The Sarkaz atop the throne lowers his head, noticing a faint shadow among the crystal clusters.

A salvo of artillery fire.

Only a few tiny twigs fall from the smoke and dust.

The force that was enough to shatter those crystalline waves cannot even shake the figure floating in the air.

The Nachzehrer King casts his gaze down upon the commander at the center of the army. Not far behind the old Feline, the bloodthirsty warship is waiting, eager to tear at his rotting flesh.

Wellington draws his sword and points it at the Sarkaz in midair.

Behind him, all the guns on his ship are pointed in the same direction.