Building an empire which the sun never set-Chapter 35: Naval battle 2

The Aragonese fleet had been patrolling the waters of the Maraz Strait for weeks, their wooden hulls creaking as they bobbed on the waves. It was just another day at sea, the same monotonous routine—until the lookouts spotted dark shapes emerging from the mist.

Aboard the flagship, Admiral Hernan Cortes stood on the quarterdeck, gripping his brass telescope with a steady hand. He had expected to see sails billowing in the wind, the familiar sight of enemy masts cutting through the sky. But what he saw made his breath catch in his throat.

The Pendralis fleet was unlike anything he had ever encountered.

There were no sails. No towering masts. No ropes fluttering in the wind. Instead, massive vessels of iron glided across the water, spewing thick black smoke from towering metal chimneys. Their hulls gleamed in the pale morning light, dark and menacing, like floating fortresses. These were not ships. They were leviathans, forged from steel and fire.

His officers and crew, hardened men of the sea, gasped in horror. One of them, a veteran of many battles, clutched his hat and whispered, "Dear God… what are those?"

Panic spread like wildfire across the deck. Murmurs of dark magic and devilry filled the air. Some clutched their swords and muttered prayers, as if calling upon the heavens could shield them from the nightmare looming before them.

Cortes snapped his telescope shut and roared, "Silence!" His voice was sharp as a blade, cutting through the rising fear. "If you want to live, get a hold of yourselves!"

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The men froze, eyes still wide with fear, but his commanding presence snapped them back to discipline. Cortes turned back toward the enemy fleet, forcing himself to analyze the situation.

They cannot be entirely made of iron, he thought, gripping the railing. No ship could stay afloat under such weight. Perhaps the hulls were merely reinforced with metal plating, a defensive measure rather than a complete construction of steel. If that were the case, then their cannons could still pierce the inner structure—but only with concentrated fire.

Yet, another disturbing thought gnawed at him. How are they moving without sails?

His mind raced. There was no wind pushing them forward, yet they sliced through the water with ease. Each ship had massive smokestacks, vomiting dark clouds into the sky. What kind of sorcery was this? What force could propel such massive vessels without wind or oars?

He turned back to his men and shouted, "They may have armor, but that does not mean they are invincible! Fire everything we have! We need to breach their hulls before they reach us!"

His words steadied the crew—for now. But even as he barked orders, he felt a chill crawl up his spine. Something was very, very wrong.

Then, something unexpected happened.

The Pendralis fleet came to a halt—five kilometers away. Cortes frowned. That was well beyond cannon range. Even the best Aragonese blacksmiths could only forge cannons that fired effectively at one kilometer. Why are they stopping?

Onboard HMS Victory, the gunnery officer swiftly began making the necessary calculations. He turned to his crew and gave the command: "Rotate the turrets to 15 degrees! Set the range to five kilometers. Elevation angle—12 degrees!" The massive gun turrets groaned as they adjusted their aim, shifting with mechanical precision. "Load the rounds!" Gunners heaved the massive shells into place, ramming them deep into the barrels. Powder charges were packed behind them, ready to unleash devastation.

"Ready!"

Captain Edward turned to Arthur. "All weapons are prepared to fire."

Arthur nodded, his expression calm but resolute. "Fire."

Edward relayed the command through the ship's intercom. "Fire!"

A moment later, the sky erupted with thunder.

Hundreds of cannons across the Pendralis fleet unleashed their fury in unison, sending massive shells screaming toward the enemy. The sheer force of the barrage rattled the air, the thunderous roar echoing across the sea.

Aboard the Aragonese flagship, Cortes saw it happen, but his mind refused to believe it.

They were firing.

From five kilometers away.

Impossible.

Then, the first explosion struck.

A ship to his left erupted in flames. The impact was deafening, a thunderclap that shook the sea itself. Jagged shards of wood and iron tore through the decks, impaling sailors where they stood. The crew aboard the doomed vessel barely had time to scream before they were hurled into the ocean, their bodies shattered by the blast.

Cortes staggered as a second explosion ripped through another ship. They have explosive rounds. Splintered wood and fire rained down upon the decks. Men who had survived the initial impact were now being shredded by flying debris, their screams swallowed by the infernal roar of battle.

But the Pendralis gunners did not pause.

With clockwork precision, they cleared their barrels, reloaded, and fired again. Within seconds, the second volley was in the air.

By the time the shells struck, the Aragonese fleet had not even fired a single shot in return.

Cortes turned his head, his heart pounding.

A nearby ship was ablaze, sailors leaping into the water as flames consumed their vessel. He saw a young soldier, his uniform burning, screaming as he desperately tried to smother the fire with his hands. The image would haunt Cortes for the rest of his life.

"My God…" he muttered.

Then, he forced himself to think. He had to escape.

The enemy had longer range. Their firepower was overwhelming. His own cannons were useless at this distance. The only way to fight back would be to charge straight into the ironclads.

But that would mean enduring another barrage.

They would be annihilated before they even got close.

His jaw tightened. This battle is lost.

"Retreat!" he shouted.

But his men did not move. They were too stunned, too broken by what they had just witnessed.

"Retreat, damn you!" Cortes bellowed again.

Slowly, the realization dawned on them. The mighty Aragonese fleet was fleeing. Orders were relayed across the surviving ships, and one by one, they turned away from the battlefield.

Back on HMS Victory, Arthur lowered his telescope. He had seen enough.

Edward turned to him. "Shall we pursue them?"

Arthur considered it. The enemy was already broken. Chasing after a few crippled ships would waste valuable time. His true objective lay ahead.

"No," he said. "The fortress is our priority. We take the strait now, before their land forces can react."

The Pendralis fleet advanced.

As they moved through the battlefield, their massive iron hulls crushed the wreckage of Aragon's shattered fleet beneath them. The sea was littered with debris—broken masts, burning hulls, and the bodies of fallen sailors.

Ahead, the fortress at the Maraz Strait loomed.

Inside, Aragonese soldiers laughed and drank, unaware of the horror that had just unfolded at sea.

They believed no fleet could break through.

They were wrong.

The iron beasts were coming.