High above the Grand Arena safe within the confines of the spectator box, Ray Croft leaned his elbows on the railing.

Below him, the massive Scrying Panes displayed the simulated battlefield. Because it was a top-down, god’s-eye view for the audience, the tactical layout of both armies was perfectly clear.

Commander: “Look at the eastern deployment. It is a fractured command structure.”

The Grizzled Commander’s voice rumbled in Ray’s mind.

Through the magical display, Ray watched Bazba Bordon’s heavy infantry march aggressively toward the center of the city in a tight, massive column. Far behind him, Marie Isolde’s rangers were fanning out, forced to stretch their lines uncomfortably thin to cover Bazba’s reckless advance.

“Bazba is marching straight for the Central Keep. He’s going to take the highest point value on the board in the first twenty minutes. Is he actually going to win this?”

Cassian noted, tossing a piece of dried fruit into his mouth.

“He’s going to lose the war before he even draws his hammer.

Ray said softly, a dark, knowing smile playing on his lips.

“Why?”

Rina asked, leaning forward to look at the glowing map.

“If he takes the Keep, he gets three points.”

“Because he’s marching through the main thoroughfare without establishing a supply line or sending out outriders. Look at Luke and Eliza.”

Ray pointed out. He gestured to the western side of the map.

The contrast was staggering.

Eliza and Luke weren’t rushing. They were moving their combined army with agonizing, meticulous precision. Luke’s heavy cavalry was acting as a mobile screen, patrolling the flanks, while Eliza’s infantry and Warders moved block by block, securing ruined buildings and establishing overlapping fields of magical cover.

They bypassed a massive, exposed Medium Stronghold entirely, opting instead to heavily fortify two Small Strongholds that sat atop a sheer cliff face overlooking a narrow bridge.

Commander: “Textbook. The hammer strikes blind, while the shield fortifies. Herrington has realized that a fortress is only valuable if the enemy has to bleed to take it.”

“They are locking down the western choke points. If Bazba wants to cross the river, he will have to march uphill into an artillery barrage.”

Svane grunted in approval, his deep voice rumbling.

Ray sat back in his chair, immensely satisfied. Eliza had understood the warning perfectly. She wasn’t playing the game Bruce Doyle had announced; she was playing the hidden game underneath it.

Down in the arena, Bruce Doyle’s voice boomed over the crowd as the Scrying Panes zoomed in on Bazba’s vanguard approaching the heavily fortified doors of the Central Keep. The Keep was currently held by a neutral, garrison of hostile soldiers designed to bleed anyone who tried to take the objective.

“It looks like Commander Bordon is making the first major play folks!”

Bruce shouted, hyping the audience.

“He is preparing to breach the Central Keep! But with a garrison of two hundred defenders holding the walls, how much blood is he willing to spill for three points?!”

Bazba raised his Eldorian Siege Maul high into the air, a roar of pure adrenaline echoing from the scrying screens as he ordered his combat engineers to fire the ballistas.

Ray watched the trap spring shut. The Preservation Protocol was about to claim its first victim, and Bazba Bordon had absolutely no idea he was swinging the executioner’s axe on his own score.

The air in the Shattered Citadel tasted of ash and impending violence. The heavy fog clinging to the cobblestone streets did little to muffle the deafening, rhythmic thud of Bazba Bordon’s heavy infantry marching in lockstep toward the center of the ruined city.

Bazba stood at the vanguard, his half-plate rattling with every step, his massive Eldorian Siege Maul resting easily across his shoulders. Looming ahead of them, jutting out of the fog like a jagged iron tooth, was the Central Keep. The massive oak-and-iron doors were shut tight, and the high battlements bristled with the hostile silhouettes of the garrison.

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“Engineers!”

Bazba roared, his voice echoing off the ruined stonework.

“Bring up the ballistas! I want those doors reduced to splinters!”

Behind the vanguard, heavy wooden siege engines were wheeled into position. The combat engineers cranked the thick torsion springs, the groaning wood sounding like snapping bone.

“Fire!”

Two massive iron-tipped bolts shrieked through the air. They slammed into the Keep’s doors with a concussive boom that shook the ground. The reinforced oak splintered, the iron hinges groaning but holding.

On the battlements above, the defenders retaliated. A volley of heavy crossbow bolts rained down into the courtyard. Several of Bazba’s infantrymen took hits to their shoulders and thighs, crying out in alarm.

The Astral Immersion Conduit

simulated the reality of war perfectly. The wounded men bled bright crimson onto the gray cobblestones, their cries of pain echoing with horrifying realism.

Bazba didn’t flinch. He thrived in the chaos.

“Again!”

He bellowed.

A second volley from the ballistas struck the weakened doors. This time, the hinges sheared off completely, and the massive wooden slabs crashed inward in a choking cloud of pulverized stone and dust.

“Vanguard! With me!”

Bazba roared, his bloodshot eyes widening with adrenaline.

He didn’t wait for his men to form a protective shell. He sprinted directly into the breach. As the defending garrison rushed the choke point to plug the gap, Bazba’s energy flared to life. Volatile, amber-colored kinetic mana bled from his gauntlets, spiraling down the haft of his weapon and wreathing the massive iron head of his maul in a shimmering, distortion field of raw force.

He leaped into the threshold, bringing the maul down in a devastating overhead arc. He has used the skill Groundbreaker.

The iron head struck the cobblestones with the apocalyptic fury of a falling meteor. A localized kinetic shockwave detonated outward in a blinding ring of amber light. The courtyard floor didn’t just break; it liquefied into a jagged tidal wave of buckled stone and dirt, launching the entire front line of defenders ten feet into the air, their armor crumpling from the sheer concussive pressure.

“Push!”

Bazba commanded, his voice amplified by the mana thick in his throat. He stamped his boot, triggering his mana. He used his tactical maneuver, The Iron Tide!

A pulse of heavy mana washed backward from Bazba, washing over his heavy infantry. The soldiers visibly braced as the magical reinforcement locked into their armor and shields, connecting them like a solid iron chain. Bolstered by the mana, they surged into the breach behind him, no longer just a line of men, but a single, unstoppable tectonic plate.

But the Keep was a Large Stronghold for a reason. The defenders were heavily entrenched. As Bazba’s magically hardened men pushed into the main courtyard, the real nightmare began.

Cauldrons of boiling pitch were tipped from the interior balconies. The black, searing liquid rained down on the left flank of Bazba’s infantry. The Iron Tide could reinforce steel, but it couldn’t stop heat. The screams that followed were agonizing. Men dropped their weapons, tearing at their armor as the heat burned through to their skin.

It was a meat grinder. The clash of steel, the metallic scent of blood, and the terrifying press of bodies turned the courtyard into a slaughterhouse. Bazba swung his maul with terrifying momentum. Every strike that connected released a residual crack of kinetic energy, shattering breastplates, caving in shields, and blasting defenders backward. He was completely lost in the berserker’s rhythm of the fight, a walking siege engine of flesh and mana.

It took twenty agonizing minutes of brutal, close-quarters slaughter to finally break the garrison’s morale. As the last phantom defender fell, his chest caved in by a final, crackling backhand from Bazba’s maul, a hollow silence settled over the Central Keep, broken only by the groans of the dying.

Bazba leaned heavily on his weapon, his chest heaving, his half-plate painted in gore and his mana reserves smoking faintly from his skin. He had done it. He had secured the three points.

But as he looked around the courtyard, his triumphant grin faded slightly. The ground was carpeted with the broken bodies of his own men. He hadn’t just breached the Keep; he had bled his vanguard dry to do it. Over two hundred of his heavy infantrymen lay dead or incapacitated in the mud. He had spent a fifth of his entire army in a single, twenty-minute siege.

Miles away, in the winding alleys, Marie Isolde stood in the shadows of a ruined clocktower.

She was looking at a breathless outrider who had just galloped up on a lathered horse.

“Commander Isolde. The vanguard has breached the Central Keep. Commander Bordon has secured the objective.”

The scout gasped, saluting quickly.

Marie’s eyes remained cold.

“And the casualty report?”

The scout hesitated, swallowing hard.

“Heavy, ma’am. We estimate over two hundred dead in the courtyard alone. The left flank of the heavy infantry was utterly devastated by the boiling pitch. He is requesting the rangers move in to secure the perimeter.”

Marie’s jaw tightened. Two hundred lives thrown away for a single geographic location. Bazba was a strategic liability. If she tied her forces to his, his recklessness would drag them both down.

“Send word to Commander Bordon. Tell him the rangers are engaged in independent operations and cannot reinforce his position. He is to hold the Keep with his remaining forces.”

Marie said, her voice like ice.

The outrider nodded and spurred his horse back into the fog.

Marie turned to her lieutenants.

“We abandon the center. We focus entirely on the three watchtowers along the eastern wall.”

Three Small Strongholds. Three points total. The same mathematical value Bazba had just secured, but Marie intended to pay a vastly different price for them.

Approaching the first watchtower, Marie activated her Ocular Decryption skill. The battlefield unfolded before her eyes, stripping away the fog and shadows. She instantly spotted the hidden archers waiting in ambush along the low rooftops.

She didn’t order a charge. She raised her Cipher-String Recurve Bow and fired a single, invisible pulse of magic into the air.

Telemetry Mark.

“Targets painted, volley fire. Arc your shots over the rooftops. Do not let them see you.”

Marie whispered to her rangers.

A cloud of arrows hissed into the sky, guided perfectly by the arcane telemetry. The hidden archers on the roofs were wiped out before they even knew they were under attack. When the remaining defenders surged out of the watchtower to engage, Marie simply ordered her forces to fall back, firing over their shoulders. They kited the defenders through the narrow alleys, whittling them down to nothing without a single ranger taking a scratch.

Flawless execution. Three points secured. Zero casualties.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep