Flames, like a greedy beast, devoured everything, dyeing the night sky blood-red.
Under the illumination of the firelight the members of the Iron Spear Society twisted their faces in panic and fled toward the inner city.
Across the sea of fire and thick smoke one could see large numbers of demonkin moving in chaos toward the harbor district; their figures flickered in and out of sight amid the flames.
Yet the police force was already powerless to stop them, for other even more ferocious demonkin had chosen to advance toward the urban district of Kent; their roars and howls shook the heavens and the earth.
Relying on the gates of the containment zone, the police force had piled up roadblocks and cargo crates into a fragile defensive line.
Policemen without combat experience hid behind the line, hands trembling as they gripped their guns, randomly pouring bullets into the containment zone.
The police force’s mages had constructed a wall of fire in front of the line, temporarily holding back the flood from the darkness.
A giant nearly three meters tall charged out of the smoke; his eyes were like burning charcoal, filled with endless rage and hatred.
He suddenly leaped and seized a mounted policeman who was trying to head for the harbor—both man and horse.
The policeman did not even have time to scream before he was crushed to pieces by the giant’s steel-like fingers; blood and internal organs sprayed in all directions, staining the giant’s clothes red.
The giant then lifted the still-struggling horse high and hurled it with force, as effortlessly as tossing a bag of sand.
The horse traced a tragic arc through the air and smashed heavily onto several policemen who were firing their guns.
The tremendous impact sent those policemen flying instantly against a wall several meters away; then several corpses fell heavily from the wall and turned into a pulp of indistinct flesh and blood.
A harpy with eagle wings dived down amid a sharp shriek.
She suddenly seized a mage who was in the middle of chanting a spell and pressed him to the ground, using her sharp teeth to viciously tear at his throat.
Blood gushed out like a fountain, staining the harpy’s feathers red.
The son of the werewolf Byron—his eyes were now filled with hatred and pain.
Bones cracked and popped as if something inside him were awakening.
With an ear-splitting howl he suddenly transformed into a true werewolf, his entire body covered in dense black fur, eyes flashing with a ghostly green light.
He threw his head back and roared at the sky; the sound was filled with fury toward humans.
Old Dewitt quietly watched this scene that resembled a living hell.
There was not the slightest fear or panic on his face; instead it was filled with a kind of indescribable calm.
He had long known that a day like this would come.
He knew that these demonkin creatures would never change their nature—they were a pack of blood-sucking hybrid mongrels from the Demon Realm.
The mercy and compassion of Queen Christine could never alter their cruelty and savagery.
Dewitt’s father had been a veteran of the founding era, once an adventurer who had joined the independent legion under Queen Christine and been granted knighthood after the war.
When Dewitt was still a child, his father would always sit before the fireplace and tell him those stirring stories.
His father’s eyes shone with nostalgia and pride for the days of the past, filling young Dewitt with boundless yearning for that great heroic age.
When he took over the family affairs, however, he discovered that the glory of the United Kingdom was gradually dying under his very eyes.
The decline of Kent Harbor and the rise of the southern empire were like two sharp blades that had destroyed the glory of the United Kingdom in Dewitt’s heart.
Though the times were difficult to change, Dewitt knew deeply that he must shoulder the heavy responsibility of reviving his hometown.
Thus, in the capacity of a knight, he gathered the local adventurers who had lost their work and formed the Iron Spear Society.
The original purpose of the Iron Spear Society was to take over the functions once performed by the Adventurers’ Association—accepting commissions from the people, hunting monsters, or striking at crime.
Yet with the arrival of the mechanical age the expansion of cities had already exterminated the monsters in the wild, and the increasingly complete criminal code had also abolished the law-enforcement rights of civilian organizations.
Dewitt did not sit and wait for death.
He led the Iron Spear Society in gradually transforming into a gang of the gray zone, becoming the managers of the other side of Kent Harbor’s society.
They lowered the crime rate and also provided many forms of help to the people of the various districts, thereby winning extremely high prestige locally.
By a coincidence of fate the declining municipal hall sold the management rights of the demonkin containment zone to the Iron Spear Society.
In Dewitt’s view the containment-zone system was the sole stain on the glorious life of the great Queen Christine—the diseased root of the United Kingdom’s decline.
Those misshapen monsters—their very existence was a threat to humanity.
Even Azog, who attended him closely, was regarded by Dewitt as nothing more than a fawning green-skinned abomination; his entire race should have been slaughtered to the last seventy years earlier.
Under the management of the Iron Spear Society the oppression of the demonkin residents became even more severe, and Dewitt was quite happy to see it.
Therefore at this moment he felt no surprise at the revenge of these demonkin.
He knew that a decisive battle between these aliens and humanity was inevitable; he had simply not expected that this war would arrive so suddenly and so cruelly.
Although those frenzied demonkin were brave and terrifying, under the dense suppression of the police force’s barrage they fell one after another, powerless.
The police force’s bullets were coated with silver powder and white phosphorus; even giants of massive build and werewolves of extremely strong regenerative ability could not stand up again under such attacks.
The police force gradually regrouped and prepared to form ranks and advance to occupy the containment zone; the situation seemed temporarily under control.
Yet just then a policeman in front suddenly staggered back to the defensive line.
His face was deathly pale; his eyes were filled with terror; his mouth kept shouting “Iron Puppet.”
Immediately afterward more and more policemen retreated, throwing down their firearms and fleeing in panic; every one of them repeated the same words—“Iron Puppet.”
More than thirty policemen held their rifles and stood ready behind the defensive line; their nerves were stretched to the extreme.
Sweat slid down their cheeks, yet no one dared to wipe it away.
They did not know what kind of terrifying monster they were about to face, one that could make their colleagues lose all reason.
Heavy footsteps echoed through the thick smoke—the sound of steel trampling the earth.
Every step seemed to fall upon the tip of each person’s heart.
The moment the policemen heard the footsteps they almost simultaneously tightened their fingers on the triggers; their fingers had gone numb from excessive tension, as if a bullet might leave the chamber ahead of time at any moment.
“Ready! Ready! Ready!” the police chief raised his hand high and shouted himself hoarse, trying to stabilize the emotions of the ranks.
Yet the fear and despair that permeated the air pressed upon every person like a physical force.
The black giant god finally emerged from the smoke.
White steam billowed all around its body, as if it were a messenger from hell carrying endless rage and the aura of destruction.
The policemen stared dumbfounded at that set of steam armor—the collectible from Dewitt’s office, now standing before them like the god of death itself.
“Fire!” the captain finally gave the order.
More than thirty trajectories of bullets converged at the same instant, like a net of death enveloping the Black Knight.
The bullets struck the armor plates of the suit, sending up dense showers of sparks, yet failed to penetrate that layer of sturdy protection.
Some policemen thought the barrage had already suppressed the monster and risked poking their heads out from behind the line to shoot, only to see the Black Knight casually grip the streetlamp post beside him with both hands and wrench it free from its base with brute force.
He crouched slightly, then suddenly leaped; when he landed the streetlamp post had already pierced through the piled barriers of the defensive line and skewered a policeman’s chest.
The policemen finally realized that this monster simply could not be confronted by conventional means.
They threw down their guns and fled while crying out in alarm; the fragile defensive line collapsed instantly before fear.
Dewitt stood behind the defensive line and quietly watched the approaching Black Knight; his heart was unexpectedly calm.
He knew his time of death had arrived, yet at this moment he instead felt a kind of release.
Just then a clear whistle suddenly came from the watchtower of the iron gate.
Liz was standing there with a rifle raised; a provocative smile hung at the corners of her mouth, her long chestnut hair streaming in the wind like a bright spot of color on the battlefield.
The Black Knight was drawn by the whistle; its hollow mechanical eye sockets turned toward Liz.
Suddenly a gunshot rang out from the watchtower; a precise shot struck the faceplate, sending up a trail of sparks yet leaving only a dent on the faceplate.
The Black Knight seemed completely unmoved by the shot; it merely bent down, picked up a piece of rubble, and assumed a throwing stance.
Dewitt was still astonished by Liz’s suicidal attack when he suddenly noticed something flashing in and out of his field of vision.
Claire appeared silently behind the Black Knight like a ghost; her red eyes flashed with a cold light in the darkness.
The silver revolver instantly spat a tongue of flame; a single bullet precisely entered the valve at the nape of the steam armor’s neck.
A sound of bone and flesh shattering came from inside the armor; clearly this strike had inflicted a heavy wound on the Black Knight.
Dewitt finally understood—this was an assassination plan, and Liz’s shot had merely been an opportunity created for the true assassin.
The Black Knight turned and swung a fist, yet struck nothing; Claire used her ability and vanished from sight once more.
In the next instant, with a sharp gunshot, the brass pipes at the Black Knight’s lower back were shattered; uncontrolled steam poured out of the armor, forming a sheet of white mist.
The Black Knight no longer attempted to search for Claire’s figure; instead it charged forward like lightning.
Directly in front of it was a policeman who had collapsed to the ground, frozen with terror and unable to move.
The Black Knight stretched out a hand and pressed down on the top of the man’s head, looking down into his eyes from above.
Those terrified eyes clearly reflected the towering Steam Knight and Claire behind it—precisely those eyes that had exposed Claire’s position.
The metal giant hand slowly sank; there was a crisp crack as the policeman’s cervical vertebrae were mercilessly snapped.
Only then did the Black Knight turn around to face the silent Claire.
“Vampire… traitor to the demonkin… I will deliver heaven’s punishment upon you.”
From within the pitch-black steam armor came a broken, intermittent voice—that was Azog’s voice, no longer the meek and fawning tone of the past, but hoarse and vicious.
Premium Chapter
Login to buy access to this Chapter.