Alice in the Land of Steam

Even as darkness falls, the killing continues.

Night seemed to be soaked in a giant sap, instantly swallowing the last vestiges of light in Suarez. The morning light, the faint glow, the flickering firelight, even the brief flashes of light from magical weapons, were all completely erased by an invisible, overwhelming darkness. Only the thick, pungent stench of blood and gunpowder in the air, along with the sounds of clashing limbs, scraping metal, and dying cries, testified that life continued in the most brutal way this war raged.

Even though they lose their sight, they still have their instincts; even though they lose their way, they still have their intuition; even though swords rot, guns fail, and even cannons explode from the backlash of excessive energy, they still have claws to tear apart the flesh and bones of their enemies, to bite through their throats, and to drink their blood. As long as all of this exists, humans will fight tirelessly like wild beasts, robbing others of their right to live, or until they themselves are robbed of their right to live.

The defending troops, who saw hope of survival but refused to give up; the insurgents, who saw hope of victory but refused to give up; a trench that was in sight but could never be crossed; a low wall that was teetering on the brink of collapse but could never be pushed down; a corpse that was riddled with holes but stubbornly refused to fall; a piece of land that had been reduced to scorched earth but was irrigated with blood and sprouted strange life... The war continued.

"For the Empire! For His Majesty the Emperor! Slaughter all the rebels!!"

It's unclear who uttered this slogan—perhaps Major General Andrei, perhaps his adjutant Krisius, or perhaps simply the soldiers hovering between barricades and bunkers finding a reason to fight one last bloody battle. The great name they had been required to remember since joining the army became their sole source of strength; they told themselves, "If you don't know who you're fighting for, then fight for the Empire and His Majesty the Emperor."

They are not fighting for themselves.

Soldiers are not entitled to fight for themselves.

Along the collapsed city walls, behind the shattered barricades, and amidst the burning ruins, all the remaining soldiers surged forth like a flood bursting its banks, launching a frenzied, brutal, and irrational counterattack. Their figures, silhouetted against the absolute darkness, were merely deeper outlines, like ghosts crawling from the cracks of hell. They no longer obeyed their officers' orders, fighting solely on instinct and their inner fear. Swords were no longer used for precision, but for they slashed haphazardly, for in the shadows of the darkness, enemies were everywhere, and even a random swing could be fatal. Magic rifles were no longer aimed, but fired blindly in the direction of the retreating rebels, for in the darkness, with no visibility, it was better to leave their lives to fate, praying they too would not be wounded by stray bullets. Some even picked up stones from the ground as weapons, howling as they hurled them at every remaining standing figure in the darkness, not caring if they hit friendly fire, for in the absence of light, all savagery, malice, and bestiality were permitted.

For the rebels, this was an even more brutal stage.

Because the enemy's reinforcements, though alone, were more powerful than any god they had ever seen, heard, or imagined in their lives.

How can a mortal being contend with the power of a true god?

A burning soul crashes into the edge of darkness, its body dissolving and disintegrating the instant of contact. Weapons vanish, leaving only a frozen expression on its face—a mixture of fear and a final, desperate struggle—fleeting before disappearing completely. A young, innocent soul loses its way in the darkness, instantly overwhelmed by swords and bullets from all sides. Blood and flesh splatter across the narrow battlefield; those who fall don't even have time for a complete wail before being trampled by the surging tide of people behind them. A utterly desperate soul lets out a painful, unwilling roar in the darkness, dragging its hideous enemy down with it into hell before its death, unaware that what it takes with it is already a corpse…

Darkness surged across most of Suarez in a matter of minutes, like ink dripping into water, rapidly spreading and engulfing everything in its path. Towering clock towers, sturdy houses, and burning trees were all silently obliterated, merging into a chaotic void. The rebel lines were collapsing and shrinking at a visible pace, each contact accompanied by the instantaneous loss of countless lives. The tide of darkness, like a giant millstone, moved slowly but irresistibly forward, mercilessly devouring and assimilating everything it touched, whether flesh and blood or steel fortresses, leaving only a clear, insurmountable dividing line, like a bottomless chasm of death.

"This is truly... an unreasonable force..."

As a vampire, Countess Navel was one of the few who could maintain her sense of self in the darkness, but the darkness of Caraboss was clearly different from the darkness familiar to vampires, so her abilities were quite limited. The Countess led the remaining members of the unified force into a fortress that was still holding out in solitude. Then, she spread her jet-black bat wings, and a bright silver moon slowly rose from between them, barely illuminating a small, narrow area in the darkness, like an isolated island sheltering the few remaining lives.

Carson Borg, the Eagle of Grayhill, had joined the battle the moment the original God of Night, Roglia, fell. He failed to persuade General Franzand to retreat in time, nor could he prevent the arrival of the Dark Witch, Carabosse. Although everything stemmed from an unpredictable fate beyond human control, a deep sense of guilt and remorse still overwhelmed him, suffocating him to the point of near breathlessness. He frantically unleashed his magic, creating a pitch-black domain based on himself, attempting to fight darkness with darkness. But the source of all extraordinary paths is royal power; how can a created being fight against its creator? In the end, he was still defeated, helplessly watching his magic being submerged, devoured, and assimilated. Overdrawing his magic even caused his muscles and bones to atrophy, his skin to lose its luster at a visible speed, becoming dry and wrinkled, making him look decades older in an instant, a flickering candle in the wind.

For both the defending forces and the rebels, the appearance of the Dark Witch Caraboss did not bring an end to the war; instead, it dragged it into an even deeper abyss of despair. But the witch cared nothing for anything—neither for victory nor for the lives sacrificed. She never even glanced down, silently, resolutely, and unstoppably advancing, like a storm, a tsunami, or a volcanic eruption—it happened because it was destined to happen. When she arrived, you could not stop her; when she crushed you, you could not resist; and when she left, she would never look back at the weak ants swept away by her power. Utter darkness, utter indifference, and utter ruthlessness.

Such a primal and violent natural disaster could perhaps only be countered by another kind of natural disaster. Therefore, Caraboss slowly halted her advance. The darkness froze in place, like a surging wave suddenly frozen, its crest and peak lifelike. The Dark Witch stood atop the wave, above countless lives of killing and sacrifice, indifferently watching a whale descend from the clouds. The colossal creature pierced through the low-hanging, equally dark, thick clouds, like a deity parting a veil, fearlessly blocking her path.

The wind picked up.

At first, it was just a low whimper, swirling at the edge of the solidified darkness, like the gasp of a dying beast. But this wind was not formless or intangible; it was gathering, swirling, and manifesting at an astonishing speed, like a pair of giant hands creating something from nothing, completely outlining a concept never before seen in the history of life: Does wind have shape? Does gas have mass? And even further, do those air currents, dust, and ash possess self-awareness, like true life? At this moment, it will tell you the answer.

Beneath the massive, mountain-like body of the cloud whale, the air ceased to be a transparent medium, transforming into a tangible entity. Countless enormous, translucent vortices, shimmering with faint light, slowly emerged from the clouds and mist. Some walked on four legs, yet towered so high that even the clouds could not conceal their forms; others possessed wings on their backs, the sound of their flapping wings like the pulse of mountains… But these were not dust or impurities, but pure magic, in both quality and quantity, capable of rivaling that of the Dark Witch Carabosse. At their master's call, they seemed to truly come alive. Each slow, deep breath stirred the air currents across the entire sky, forming visible, layered, circular storms that spread in all directions, crashing against the frozen, dark waves, producing a muffled roar like the collision of ancient glaciers.

The winds, materialized—those enormous, translucent cyclones—moved forward silently and slowly, like ancient prehistoric behemoths. Amidst the deafening roar of their movement, a breathtaking, even miraculous, scene unfolded: countless abandoned weapons, shattered bricks, collapsed fortress ruins, toppled barricade beams, and even heavy iron blocks flung by the shockwaves, all broke free from the earth's grasp and danced in the air currents and storm.

How can inanimate objects possess life? Yet, in the eyes of mortals at this moment, an incredibly disciplined army was being reborn from those dead bodies. They followed the cyclone behemoth like a loyal guard, surrounding the greatest general in the world, launching a one-way charge against the darkness that living beings could not resist. Shattered bricks formed rotating barriers, blocking the retreating remnants of the rebel army from the dark tide; twisted metal hissed sharply in the wind, like countless tiny arrows, merging into the cyclone torrent that gnawed at the edge of darkness; heavy fortifications were lifted by the wind, like cold meteorites, carrying the heavy force of inertia, crashing heavily against the solidified dark ice peak. Each impact sent up tiny black ripples, like shards of ice scattering.

They cooperated seamlessly and in perfect order, yet everything was spontaneous, without any intervention from external consciousness. The cyclone behemoths were merely the embodiment of pure magic, lacking the intelligence to control or command; and their actual master was just an ordinary country girl, completely ignorant of profound war concepts: coordination, cover, infiltration, retreat... But the weapons knew what to do, just as a stream knows to flow to the sea, and a candle knows to burn itself, because they were born into this world, originally existing for this purpose.

This is the power of "liberal monarchy".

They were given true freedom, free to do whatever they wanted—sounds incredible, right? But in Carabosse's view, so-called freedom is nothing more than another form of constraint. Nothing in the world has ever existed completely unrestrained; people always move forward according to certain rules and laws, only in this way can they find peace of mind. So even if weapons are freed, they will still be wielded; even if armor is freed, it will still stand in front of soldiers… Without doing so, freedom is meaningless.

The colossal beast born from the storm collided with the surging dark tide, and roars and cries echoed between heaven and earth. But Carapos had no time to pay attention to the wild confrontation between these two natural disasters. For the first time, her indifferent gaze had a very subtle focus, falling on the colossal shadow that blotted out the sky, and one could feel its determination and resolve.

The whale poked its head out of the clouds, looking down at the tiny figure on the sea. It saw a cold smile slowly spread across her lips, vanishing in an instant without a trace, and it wondered if it was just its imagination. In its short lifespan, which could be described as its very birth, it had no deep memories, but it remembered this black-haired girl, remembered her chasing it in the dark and boundless universe, the power of stars creating and annihilating at her fingertips, countless lives lost as a result. Thus, she had become its master's greatest fear, one that it dared not even face in its dreams.

Someone like her, meeting on a battlefield like this, probably wouldn't have any other thoughts besides fighting, honor, disgrace, and life and death. How could she possibly laugh?
Or is it that witches also experience sadness?
When we're sad, we want to smile because tears are a symbol of weakness. But the whale doesn't see it that way. It knows its owner often cries, sometimes dreaming of the past, weeping silently. Warm tears sometimes drip onto its body, flowing through its veins and eventually into its dreams. Yet, in its heart, its owner remains the strongest person in the world.

Let's prove it with this battle.

With a long cry, the whale shattered the clouds and air currents, then plunged headlong into the dark ocean, like a giant sea monster falling into an abyss. (End of Chapter)