Alice in the Land of Steam

Deep within the city of Suarez, a heavy, suffocating metallic grinding sound shattered the brief silence. It wasn't just one or two sounds, but a low roar comprised of hundreds, even thousands, of groans from corroded and twisted steel. The massive warehouse gates of the airship base at the city's rear burst open, and a colossal shadow slowly slid out, accompanied by the pungent smell of steam and stale grease.

Those were not brand-new, sharp war machines, but ghostly fleets forged of steel. They had soared over the skies of Grayhill, effortlessly traversing the insurmountable Ansers Mountains, delivering crucial personnel and supplies to the front lines. They had also been called upon in times of crisis, slicing through the sky like giant iron arrows during the height of civilian resistance, raining down deadly flames and shells upon the stubborn resisters. That shadow that shrouded the land was fearfully called "Dragon Wings" by the people of that time. Only by describing them as ancient behemoths with wings on their backs, sharp claws and horns, fire-breathing mouths, a thirst for gold and silver, and treasures, appearing in countless stories as destroyers and ravagers, could one truly vent their fear.

However, the glory days are over; today, only decay and vicissitudes remain. Among these old airships, the oldest can be traced back to the early days of the Axis powers, before the colonial wars had fully erupted. Perhaps, as it lay quietly in an abandoned warehouse, its hull and pods broken, its frame and tail fin snapped, awaiting rust and dust, it never imagined it would one day return to the battlefield. This is a good thing for the weapon; only now does it find its value. But for those struggling on the battlefield, friend or foe, it may not be so.

One after another, battered airships struggled to take off. Their hulls were covered in repair marks, rivets were exposed, and many joints had peeled off, revealing the rusty skeletons beneath. The airbags on either side, which served as balancing mechanisms, were no longer fully inflated; in some places, rough patches were visible, and they hissed in the wind as if leaking air. The old, overburdened magical engines emitted an unstable, asthmatic roar, spewing thick smoke, sparks, and murky magical energy from their exhaust pipes, clearly far from being at their best.

These troops, pieced together from decommissioned and retired ships, are like ghosts crawling out of a steel tomb, carrying an aura of decay and decline.

However, quantity compensated for a lack of quality. As they laboriously ascended, eventually obscuring a large portion of the sky above Suarez, they resembled a moving, porous, and rusty black cloud. Sunlight struggled to penetrate the gaps, casting dappled, swaying shadows across the ground. On the sides of the vessels, the old designations and insignia, hastily painted over, were still faintly discernible; the words "Fearless Airship of the Seventeenth Legion," written in Mindrias script, were long since rusted away and blurred beyond recognition.

They clumsily adjusted their formation, lacking the uniformity of elite troops, yet carrying a palpable and terrifying sense of oppression. They carried the Governor's Mansion's last, desperate counterattack force, slowly and heavily hurtling towards the battlefield. Only the most experienced pilots dared to operate these old machines, some even older than themselves, and similarly, only the bravest soldiers dared to disregard their own lives, crouching in the rickety suspension pods, laboriously maneuvering the makeshift gun emplacements, aiming the cannons at the distant Seventeenth Army Corps, especially at that concealed high ground that had just unleashed devastating flames.

In the sky, the mechs, having just endured an overwhelming magical attack, received new orders. They abandoned their rest and regrouped. Their dwindling numbers reduced the silvery-white flock to a tiny, dark shadow, appearing somewhat lonely and desolate. But regardless of the circumstances, carrying out a mission is a soldier's duty and mission. So, without time to mourn their fallen comrades, their engines spewed star-blue magical trails as they rapidly ascended to the same altitude as the airships, guarding the flanks of this massive yet fragile airship formation like loyal hounds.

The collective roar of the magic engines merged into a continuous, low rumble, drowning out the sporadic explosions and screams on the battlefield. They began their cumbersome but resolute advance towards the front lines, their massive bodies crushing across the still scorching sky, casting shadows like moving mountains that covered the charred earth. Sunlight was completely blocked, and the battlefield suddenly dimmed, as if daylight had ended prematurely. The bomb bay doors of varying sizes hanging directly beneath the airships slowly opened, revealing dark, menacing maws filled with hastily modified explosives.

……

Lin Ge had seen airships before, or more precisely, the combined airships of the Order. In the cold night city of Sorrowful Harbor, when the aged wolf Gandalf stirred up a riot in the darkness, causing panic among the city's inhabitants, it was those silvery-white arrows that descended from the sky like moonlight, piercing through canyons and bridges, bringing precious light. They were slender and agile, capable of astonishing maneuvers even in the narrow valley environment, like a group of the most nimble dolphins in the sea; in comparison, the airships before him resembled a group of wounded whales, massive, cumbersome, and unable to move nimbly, only able to move forward slowly, inch by inch.

This may be due to technical reasons. As developers of magical technology, the airship technology jointly mastered by the Order is naturally more advanced than the technology developed by individual countries. However, in terms of actual experience on the battlefield, the young people felt that the latter brought a far greater sense of oppression than the former. This is because being large means being unable to compete, while being slow brings psychological pressure. Worshipping the behemoth that brings destruction is one of the inherent traits of human civilization.

He had assumed that after General Franzand sacrificed a scorching fire mage regiment to severely cripple the enemy's mech forces, the battle was already decided, and all that remained was a long and tedious siege and defense. However, he was startled by a thunderous roar. Glancing up hastily, he saw through the window that a pod of wounded whales was emerging from the sea of ​​fire, drifting towards him. The young man, who was cleaning his scalpel and bandages, paused in his actions. Without thinking, he hurriedly told Medien, "I'll go check the situation," and left the field hospital, going outside.

As the war broke out, the number of wounded increased daily. Every day, every hour, every moment, even in the very second, people rushed into the hospital carrying stretchers or carried away the already lifeless dead. They were all placed in a makeshift morgue until the war ended, at which point a decision would be made on where to bury them. But the fate of many more was to melt into the battlefield, their bodies never to be recovered. The air was thick with the smells of medicine, alcohol, disinfectant, and the cries of the wounded. Medin and a few volunteers alone could not meet the frequent and concentrated demands for treatment. The young man, feeling there was nothing to do in the command tent, volunteered to help at the field hospital. Of course, one could also say he was escaping, but what exactly he was escaping from, even the young man himself didn't know.

But war is a relentless shadow, inescapable no matter where you hide. The young man, emerging from the field hospital, looked up and saw the group of wounded whales. They were dying, moving so slowly they seemed on the verge of disintegrating, yet they marched resolutely towards the battlefield, as if summoned by a sacred and powerful force, compelling them to submit to their life-or-death instincts. But is self-destruction the very meaning of human existence? The thought caught in his throat. He had no time to think; he witnessed the instant of destruction.

The massive swarm of airships, like a moving, rusted mountain range, finally arrived at the designated airspace. They slowly cruised over the battlefield, their enormous shadows completely swallowing the last glimmer of light in the soldiers' eyes, enveloping the entire battlefield in a depressing, apocalyptic atmosphere. The roar of the magic engines and the shrill whistles of leaking airbags intertwined, like the final gasps of a dying beast.

The bomb bay door opened coldly with the grinding of gears. There was no precise aiming, no tactical instructions, only the simplest, most primitive, and most brutal command—unleash firepower!

A series of heart-stopping, indistinct sounds of metallic scraping and chains snapping filled the air. Flames rained down from the sky, their power and scale rivaling the fire magic summoned by the Scorching Flame Mage Corps. Human magical technology now stood in stark contrast to the ancient, mysterious elemental spirits, and the inevitable result of such struggles was mutual destruction.

It wasn't a single explosion, but countless explosions that instantly merged into one, forming a relentlessly advancing wall of destruction composed of flames, shockwaves, and deadly shrapnel. A dense barrage of magical bombs, small gravity bombs, alchemical bombs, incendiary bombs, and even makeshift shells filled with rubble and iron filings, like the scythe of death, indiscriminately covered every inch of the land below.

The rebel soldiers, whether infantry charging into battle or cavalry on horseback, were instantly engulfed by this catastrophic disaster, even the soldiers of the Seventeenth Legion were no exception. The secondary explosion of the magic-powered vehicles expanded the blast radius, the flames merging into one, each flash representing the loss of dozens of lives. The shockwave swept across, tearing fragile bodies to pieces like dolls struck by a giant hammer, and even sturdy bunkers collapsed and shattered under the continuous bombardment. Incendiary bombs ignited everything flammable, the flames spreading like a tidal wave, devouring flesh, flags, and supplies, instantly filling the air with a nauseating smell of burning and gunpowder.

As far as the eye could see, there were only billowing columns of smoke, leaping flames, and severed limbs thrown into the air by the blast waves and crashing back down. Desperate screams briefly rang out after the initial explosions, only to be quickly drowned out by the even more violent blasts that followed. This was the power of war technology; it constantly pushed mortals toward more efficient slaughter. These old-fashioned airships weren't even designed for combat; they lacked specialized artillery and guidance systems. Even with the tireless repairs of the craftsmen, their flight capabilities had only been barely restored. Yet, a simple drop and detonation were enough to ignite the battlefield, bringing countless casualties.

Certainly, the airships themselves trembled violently under the intense bombardment. Each time a bomb detached from its rack, the already overburdened hull groaned in agony. The old structure twisted and deformed under the recoil, rivets flew off, the frame tore apart, and the leaking gasbags emitted even more piercing screams. Some airships, even before completing their bombing runs, had their magic engines billowing black smoke and even bursting out of control with sparks, slowly plummeting like broken-winged iron birds, dragging their skewed descent. Their massive wreckage, illuminated by fire and thick smoke, crashed onto the earth below, which was also engulfed in flames, triggering a new round of explosions and destruction.

No one would say their sacrifices were meaningful, but that's what Major General Andrei wanted to see. The essence of war is the exchange and consumption of resources. Since the insurgents lacked air superiority, the airship bombing tactics, which would normally only make them sitting ducks, could consume more of the enemy's resources and gain more advantages for themselves.

If sacrificing all these airships could delay the rebel offensive by a week, then Major General Andrei would not hesitate to put them all on the chessboard, just as he is doing now.

The earth burned fiercely, as if plowed by war chariots, while thick smoke billowed from the sky. Whales were constantly being left behind by the main force, whimpering as they headed towards their final death—a scene with a touch of dark humor. But the airship swarm continued its relentless advance towards the rebel army's positions. Its target was the enemy's high ground, which had already been exposed. The Scorching Flame Mage Corps, having cast their spells, had fallen into a brief state of incapacitation and were unable to retreat.

As the only air unit in the rebel army, the Mountain Falcon Knights fearlessly swooped down on the whale pod, attempting to intercept it outside the high ground. However, the remaining construct soldiers also fearlessly rushed forward to counter-intercept them. The two sides engaged in aerial guerrilla warfare, dogfights, firefights, and bombardments, like two schools of sardines, one green and one silver, flanking and devouring the whale pod.

In the command tent, General Franz Sand watched this scene and frowned deeply. Unlike his adjutant, who was angrily questioning the head of the intelligence department, "Didn't they say that the enemy's airship force had all been transferred to the central region? Why is there still one here?", he calmly accepted the facts and then made a decision: "Notify the Ice Curtain and Wind Howl mage regiments to prepare to cast spells on the air."

"General!?" The adjutant was shocked and tried to persuade him, saying that this was based on his position, not the actual situation. The three mage regiments were the backbone of the Earl of the North. One of the Scorching Flame Mage Regiments had already been half-destroyed for this war. If the remaining two mage regiments also suffered losses, he really didn't know how he would face the Earl's wrath when he returned to the North.

General Franz Sand merely glanced at him, but the oppressive force in his eyes made the adjutant's breath catch in his throat, and he dared not utter another word. Only now did he realize that the man before him was not a vassal of the Earl of the North, but a general of the kingdom. He had commanded the battle against the Axis forces, and in that battle, he had personally ordered the sacrifice of countless legions to win a victory that preserved the kingdom's dignity. The three mage legions that the Earl of the North cherished were perhaps nothing special to him; they were all worthy of sacrifice.

"Wait a minute, General!" someone suddenly exclaimed urgently, "Perhaps you should take a look at this!"

Everyone's attention, including General Franz Sander's, was drawn to the man's short and urgent tone. They all looked up in the direction of the battlefield, and then fell into a daze.

They saw a whale.

Another whale. (End of Chapter)