Building an empire which the sun never set-Chapter 36: Wrath of Iron and Fire

The Pendralis fleet, a procession of steel leviathans, glided through the strait like a force of nature, their iron hulls gleaming under the dull, smoke-choked sky. The sea churned in their wake, the rhythmic pulse of their steam engines filling the air with an eerie mechanical growl. Coal-fed furnaces burned ceaselessly within the bowels of each warship, vomiting thick plumes of black smoke into the sky, darkening the horizon like an approaching storm. The fortress at The Neck stood defiant ahead, its ancient walls rising like jagged cliffs, a silent guardian of Aragonese dominance over the passage. For centuries, it had withstood every siege, every assault, and every invader that dared approach. But this was different. This was not a battle of men and stone. This was a war between ages—wood and iron, past and future.

Atop the fortress, an Aragonese watchman narrowed his eyes against the horizon. The morning mist had begun to lift, revealing the terrible truth lurking beyond the waves. He expected the familiar sight of enemy sails, fluttering banners, and towering masts. But instead, the sea bore giants of metal and fire.

His breath hitched. His stomach twisted.

"Enemy on the horizon!" he screamed, his voice breaking as panic clutched his throat.

Inside the fortress, Commander Ricardo spun toward the cry. His boots hammered against the stone as he rushed up the battlements, pushing aside trembling soldiers. When he laid eyes upon the sea, a wave of disbelief washed over him.

They were not damaged. They were not weakened.

The Pendralis fleet was untouched.

No signs of a hard-fought naval engagement. No crippled warships dragging their broken hulls across the water. Only power. Only steel.

Ricardo clenched his fists. Did they destroy our navy in a single engagement? The thought was insanity—but there was no other explanation. His heart pounded in his chest.

But no. He could not afford to show fear.

He turned sharply to his men. "To your positions! Hold the walls! Cavalry, stand by for a counterattack the moment they land!"

For centuries, the fortress had followed a simple, yet effective strategy: wear down the enemy, stall them, exhaust their strength, and crush them when the main army arrived. The Fasians had tried a hundred times to take the fortress and failed—because when their soldiers were weary from prolonged siege, the Aragonese army would arrive to deliver the final, merciless blow.

But Ricardo did not know the new war had begun.

As the fleet advanced, the mighty turrets of the Pendralis ironclads began to rotate.

On HMS Victory, Edward lowered his telescope. His tone was steady, though laced with cold satisfaction.

"Your Highness, more enemy soldiers are gathering on the seaward walls."

Arthur remained silent, his arms crossed. Watching. Calculating. Then, with a voice as sharp as steel, he spoke.

"Let them gather. The more, the better. Once their numbers peak, we will level those walls to the ground."

Minutes passed. The fortress teemed with movement as soldiers packed the walls, preparing for an onslaught that would never come the way they expected. When Ricardo saw the battlements full, he gritted his teeth and waited for the invasion force to land.

Arthur observed a moment longer—then lowered his telescope and turned to the chief gunner.

"Commence bombardment."

The gunnery officer snapped into action. He turned to his crew, his voice booming across the deck.

"Target distance: sixteen kilometers! Rotate turrets to twelve degrees! Elevation angle—22 degrees! Load high-explosive rounds!"

Across the fleet, massive turrets groaned, their enormous barrels rotating into position with mechanical precision.

"Load the shells!"

Men strained under the weight of 305mm high-explosive rounds, hoisting them into the giant barrels.

"Prime the charges!"

Gunpowder packs were carefully packed behind the enormous shells. The breech slammed shut with a metallic clank.

"Turrets locked in position! Guns ready!"

Edward turned to Arthur, standing tall against the howling wind. "Your Highness, all weapons are prepared to fire."

Arthur's expression remained unreadable. Then, he gave the order that would shatter history.

"Fire."

Edward raised his hand, then slammed it down like the hammer of a god.

"FIRE!"

The Pendralis fleet erupted in a symphony of destruction.

The sky trembled with the deafening roar of thunderous naval artillery, the force of the salvo shaking the very waters of the strait. A hurricane of fire vomited forth from the cannons, painting the sky in streaks of death.

Above the fortress, Ricardo heard it before he saw it—a distant scream, high-pitched and inhuman. His gut twisted.

Then, hell fell upon them.

The first shell struck the heart of the seaward wall, blasting it open in a storm of shattered stone and flying bodies. Soldiers were vaporized on impact, their remains scattering like dust into the wind.

Ricardo staggered backward, his ears ringing.

Antonio, a soldier standing near him, collapsed to his knees, his lips trembling as he muttered feverishly.

"God… forgive me… this is my punishment…"

Tears ran down his face. He had raided Pendralis ships, plundered their wealth, but that was not his greatest sin.

His mind dragged him back to the screams.

A Pendralis merchant and his daughter. Antonio and his crew had captured their vessel. The father had begged, offered everything.

Antonio had laughed in his face.

They had bound the man to the mast and forced him to watch as they defiled his daughter, again and again. Her screams haunted him still. When she lay broken and bleeding, the father had pleaded once more.

Antonio had slit his throat.

The girl was thrown into the cargo hold, to be sold as a slave—but she hanged herself before they reached shore.

And now—

The walls were falling. The earth was trembling. The sky itself was punishing them.

This was divine retribution.

Sobbing, Antonio bolted, screaming into the chaos.

"This is God's wrath! We are being punished!"

Ricardo saw him run.

Then—

A shell struck.

Antonio was torn apart, his body reduced to red mist, and as Ricardo stumbled backward, something thumped onto the ground before him.

A severed arm.

Ricardo could not move. Could not think. His ears screamed with the ringing of war.

Then—

The fortress walls collapsed.

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A final earth-shaking barrage tore through the remaining stone, sending thousands of tons of rock crashing down.

Soldiers screamed, crushed beneath the avalanche of their own walls.

From HMS Victory, Arthur watched the mighty fortress crumble into dust.

The time had come.

He turned to his men, his voice cold and decisive.

"Begin the ground assault."