Western Isles, Entry To The Exclusive Economic Zone Of The Western Isles, Somewhere In The Ocean, Tarxan Coalition Command Ship

1st Year of God, Wednesday, 4th Week, Month Of Moses

It was dark and hot inside the wheelhouse with the only source of light and ventilation coming from several tiny slits along the armored hull. The air was humid and stank of sweaty bodies as crew members were stripped down to their waist working the controls of the fat and ungainly ironclad, a beast of a vessel more at home in rivers than the open sea.

The noise inside was noisy as the churning of the boilers and the grinding of the paddlewheel mechanism made conversation impossible unless shouted, and even then, the engine's roar swallowed words.

Standing tall at the helm, the Lord Admiral of the Tarxan Coalition's Fifth Wave squinted through the direction with his enhanced Elven vision, cut through the murk and guided the ship's course as he barked orders at the sweat-soaked helmsman.

The ironclad he was riding on was terribly ungainly in the open sea, capable of making even the most hardened sailor seasick. The paddle wheels of the sharp dagger-like shape of the ironclad constantly spun and pushed the ship forward together with twenty of its sister ships following behind with dirty smoke puffing out of its sole funnel, surrounded by several dozen more wooden sailing ships as escort and support.

Already, one of the forty Tarxan vessels had broken down and crippled before they even came into contact with the enemy and a small force of sailing ships had to remain behind to provide cover for the floundering ships as it underwent urgent repairs.

Flying overhead of the Fifth Wave Fleet, were a dozen dragons that spread out over a great area, acting as pickets and scouts. One of the dragons and its rider suddenly spotted dark dots in the horizon and he leaned forward in his saddle as his dragon dove downwards to gather speed as they rushed over to investigate the sightings.

Word soon came back to the Coalition Fifth Fleet in the form of signal flags and flashing lights from the scouting dragon that a fleet of five ironclads had been sighted in the distance. The Fifth Fleet quickly shook itself into a battle formation as they turned their heading towards the Iron Kingdom's fleet.

The six operational ironclads took up the middle in a single file, while the rest of the sailing ships broke up into two squadrons at each flank. The ironclads made a beeline straight for the approaching ships and both sides readied themselves for the long wait before the ships came into combat range.

As the grains of the sand in the hourglass slowly tickled down, both fleets came closer to each other until the superior range offered by height advantage of the Iron Kingdom's ironclads fired first. White balls of clouds appeared around the Iron Kingdom's ironclads as their magic cannons erupted. Moments later, the shrill of projectiles screamed across the skies and crashed into the sea around the Coalition's lead ships, kicking up towering sprays of water skyward.

Cries of dragons answered the echoing cracks of the Iron Kingdom's magic cannons and the dragon riders of the Coalition dove straight down at the Iron Kingdom's ironclads. Massive balls of flames were launched down at the Iron Kingdom's ships' decks below from the dragon's breath while the Iron Kingdom retaliated by rapidly spatting anti-air fire at the dive bombing dragons in an attempt to take them out.

Steam mortars followed by blasting deadly shrapnel into the air like massive shotguns. swatting down several dragons from the sky and shredded their wings with each blast. Yet despite the losses, a portion of the dragon's attacks smashed across the decks of the ironclads and the fiery spheres burst into flames.

As the smoke cleared, bubbles of magical barriers flickered into view, wrapping the Iron Kingdom's ironclads in iridescent shields. Flames cascaded harmlessly off the glowing domes and dissipated into nothing. The surviving dragon riders broke off the attack as they retreated to land to lick their wounds, having unsuccessfully dealt any damage to penetrate the defenses. With their aerial assault thwarted, they placed their hopes on the ships of the Coalition's Fifth Fleet to carry the battle forward.

The Coalition's ironclads responded in kind. Black barrels slid from gun ports and tilted up high as the cannons could elevate. The ships wheeled into formation, presenting their broadsides to the Iron Kingdom's ironclads, which mirrored the maneuver.

Though battered by the Iron Kingdom's opening barrage, the Coalition's ships surprisingly held up against their projectiles, except their armor were dented but not pierced. Warped armor plating, snapped structural beams, and scalding steam burns had wounded many sailors, leaving them to writhe in agony as healers worked desperately to save as many as possible. But the ironclads suffered no critical damage to its fighting abilities.

Now, the newly-forged cannons of the Coalition thundered as the crews venting their fear, anger, and bloodlust with every shot. Cast-iron cannonballs streaked across the distance, becoming visible black dots as they slammed into the rainbow-hued shields of the enemy, sending ripples of color dancing across the magic barriers.

Both sides exchanged fire as the distance between the fleets closed up until they were just several ship lengths away from each other. Six ironclads of the Tarxan Coalition fighting against five Iron Kingdom's ironclads with both sides forming a battle line. Meanwhile, the remaining wooden ships of the Coalition had sped forward and attempted to encircle the ships, Their magic ballistas launched long, enchanted spears trailing fire as the sailors sought to break through the defenses and turn the tide of battle.

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In one of the Iron Kingdom's ironclads, a dwarven captain shook his head as he gazed through the viewports of the bridge. Ahead, the sluggish black ships of the Tarxan Coalition labored into formation. Their pitiful token of resistance were almost laughable as none of their weapons had so much as scratched the adamantite hull or the shimmering magical barriers protecting his vessel.

Yet, he could not fault them for their courage as he watched the slow unwieldy ironclads that formed a battle line to challenge his ironclads. He could only imagine how horrible conditions were onboard those fat tubby ships and if those ships could even survive rough weather out in the open sea.

"Switch to armor-piercing bolts!" he commanded, his voice rumbling through the bridge as he passed the order to the gunnery officer, who transmitted it through a speaking horn. "Put those poor bastards down!"

The tone of the magic cannons changed as they discharged piercing bolts instead of projectiles in the next volley. The bolts were fired with a sharper crack hiss instead of the duller bark of projectiles and the Dwarf captain tried to trace the trajectory of the bolts in the air.

Moments later, towering pillars of seawater erupted near the leading Tarxan ironclad, followed by the flicker of its magical barrier, a rainbow shimmer cracking under the impact.

"That Ironclad the Tarxan made seemed cruder compared to ours," the Dwarf Captain mused aloud, his eyes narrowing as he studied the battered Coalition vessels. "But they're surprisingly accurate, aren't they?"

An idea sparked in his mind, and he stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Maybe I should capture one of their ships and let Lord Copperstone have a look at it. See what makes them tick."

"That would require a boarding party, my Lord," an aide spoke up cautiously from his side. "Bringing the flagship in close would be... unwise."

"I know," the captain said with a wistful grin tugging at his lips. "But oh, how I'd love to ram those clunky ships with the Rammer's drill. Hahaha!"

The Rammer, like many of the Iron Kingdom's ironclads, was equipped with a massive power drill mounted on the prow, designed to tear through enemy hulls and open them up for boarding parties. It was a brutish weapon, new to the battlefield, and the Dwarf Captain was itching for an excuse to use it.

"Pass the order to the fleet," he commanded. "Target the first and second ships in the Coalition's battle line. For the last ship... launch the 'Assault Turtle.' I want it captured intact."

"And the sailing ships attempting to encircle us?" the aide asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Ignore them for now," the captain said dismissively. "They're no threat to us."

"Rock and stone!" The aide saluted with fervor before rushing off to relay the orders.

The Dwarf Captain chuckled at the youth's enthusiasm, then turned his attention back to the unfolding battle.

In recent weeks, several nations have fallen into the control of the Iron Kingdom, though without sufficient ground forces, they had only managed to occupy key cities and resource-rich areas, leaving much of the land untouched and ripe for future raids.

This marked the third major confrontation between the Iron Kingdom and the Tarxan Coalition, and he knew they couldn't afford a loss here, not with the eyes of the world watching. A defeat would embolden the locals, weaken morale, and give the Coalition leverage in future negotiations. No, they had to win decisively.

His grin grew wider as one of the Coalition's ships suddenly skewered out of formation, battered by the barrage of cannon fire. The Dwarf Captain thumped a fist against the ironclad's bulkhead in approval and roared out a battle cry of his people.

"Rock and stone! Rock and stone!"

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The underbelly of the Iron Kingdom's ironclads creaked open one by one, and barrel-shaped vehicles buzzed out from their holds and plunged into the dark waters below.

These "Turtles," as they were called, resembled giant barrels with two smaller, rotored barrels on either side. Umbrella-like rotors spun from these side barrels, providing lift, while a menacing drill protruded from the nose, ready for its brutal task.

Designed for both sea and subterranean travel, these Turtles were versatile machines. Their drills could not only pierce the ocean's depths but also burrow through the earth. Four submarines deployed from each ironclad and charged quickly toward the Coalition's last ship in the battle line.

Suddenly, the Tarxan ironclad swung inward, as if its Lord Admiral must have sensed the approaching boarding submarines. The ship's long barrels swiveled to track the incoming submarines, but the Turtles ignored the sudden gunfire and lined up directly towards the evading ironclad.

As the submarines neared, purple flames suddenly burst out from their rears and propelled them forward like giant rockets. With a mighty boom, several Turtles slammed into the ironclad's hull from below.

Some missed their mark or simply bouncing off the ironclad's magical barriers, while others struck true. Their ramming drills screeched as they bit into the metal hull, some submarines breaking off and floating in the surfaced like a barrel in the waves, while others dug deeper and anchored themselves like leeches. The sound of grinding steel echoed underwater as the drills twisted deeper into the ironclad's belly.

Thanks to the ship's regenerative magical shields, water did not flood the breach, but the damage was done.

Inside each boarding submarine had enough space for eight dwarves, one pilot, one engineer, and six shock troopers, were strapped tightly into their seats, held by restraint bars, belts, and neck braces. The impact of the collision was bone-rattling, and the dwarves bit down hard on thick leather strips to keep from biting through their tongues.

Once the daze of the impact faded, the engineer activated the boiler-driven drill to force their way through the hull until a hiss of steam marked their entry. As a final precaution, he vented the built-up steam through the drill head and blasted scalding vapor into the enemy ship to clear out any ambushers. Only then did he pop open the circular hatch, large enough for a fully armored dwarf to climb comfortably through.

The Iron Kingdom's shock troopers exited the submarine one by one, finding scattered dead bodies of the Coalition crew, some killed by the violent impact, others by the lethal blast of steam. The teams of shock troopees wasted no time in advancing through the narrow corridors with their magic-charged muskets or lance-like weapons held out at the ready before them.

Fighting in the tight confines of the ironclad was brutal. For the elves of the Tarxan Coalition, the cramped space was a nightmare. But for the dwarves, who are half their size and heavily armored, the corridors were perfect hunting grounds. Their Shock Lances, powered by hand-cranked spell runes, unleashed arcs of chain lightning that leaped from one enemy to another and fried Coalition sailors in twos and threes.

Despite their small numbers, the Iron Kingdom's shock troopers advanced relentlessly. The Coalition's defense were unable to fight them off, and slowly resistance faded deck by deck.

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The Lord Admiral was old and his health was failing, but neither time nor illness had drained the fire from his spirit or his love for his nation. Hence despite his weakened condition, he remained at the helm of the Tarxan Coalition's Fifth Fleet. When the Iron Kingdom launched their raids on his beloved homeland, he did not hesitate to take command, determined to defend the nations of the region.

To his surprise, the leaders of the Tarxan Coalition offered him command of the Kingdom of High Tarxan's seven newly built ironclads, vessels unlike anything he had seen in his long career. These ships, a gift from King Acheron of High Tarxan, were an imposing mix of mithril armor plating and magically enhanced wood, their design resembling that of a smaller, more compact island whale. From their sides, long muskets jutted out from all sides like spines, promising a formidable defense.

A complicated network of pipes and tanks recycled steam back into water to be reused, making the ships efficient, yet alien to the old admiral. At first, the old elf was unwilling at the idea of commanding such strange new vessels, uncomfortable with their untested nature and wary of their complex systems.

But in the end, the need for more ships to fight against the Iron Kingdom's ships outweighed his concerns and he accepted the ironclads into his command.

He made one of these ironclads his flagship, though he brought together on board with his own loyal crew to oversee its operation. They watched warily, unfamiliar with the ironclad's crew and their captain, and kept a close eye on every system and movement.

As the fleet sailed toward the Eastern Islands, the Lord Admiral threw himself into learning the ironclad's workings. He ran shipboard drills and fleet-wide exercises, determined to integrate these heavy, mechanized vessels with his more familiar sail-rigged ships.

But the ironclads proved perilous in open waters, where waves as tall as men crashed against their top-heavy hulls, and the low-riding gunwales barely skimmed the waterline, leaving the ships constantly soaked with sea spray. Many of the crew were wracked with seasickness from the rolling decks, and to make matters worse, one of the ironclads had broken down before they even encountered the enemy.

Having no choice but to leave a few of his wooden sailing ships behind to protect and tow the crippled ironclad, the Lord Admiral pushed onward, determined to reach the Eastern Islands' defenses. Now, witnessing the sheer might of the Iron Kingdom's ironclads firsthand, which neither traditional nor newly devised magic cannons had made a dent in their magic shields, he knew there was a low chance for he and his men to survive this battle.

The ironclads were too slow to escape, while the fragile sail-rigged ships wouldn't last more than a few direct hits. Despite outnumbering the enemy's five ironclads nearly eight to one, including the Coalition's own ironclads and their escort ships, even their best attempt at encirclement had failed to break through the enemy's formidable magical defenses.

The Lord Admiral slumped down on his seat as loud clunks riverbed throughout the entire ironclad. A short moment later, one of the sailors manning the communications console, a mess of over a dozen magical artifacts, turned around with a panicked look on his face.

"Lord Admiral! Captain! We're being boarded!"

"Repel boarders!" the captain snapped without hesitation. "All hands to repel boarders!"

"Aye, Captain!" The sailor turned back to the artifacts and shouted into each one with rising urgency, "ALL HANDS, REPEL BOARDERS!"

The Lord Admiral's frown deepened as he considered the desperate situation. His voice cut through the tense air with sudden authority. "Order the Fifth Fleet to break off the attack and rush to the Eastern Islands! Beach the ships, strip them of anything useful, and fortify the islands immediately!"

His words left the room in stunned silence. The captain, clearly puzzled, turned to him. "But, Lord Admiral, we've encircled the Iron Kingdom's ships! It's only a matter of time before we break their magic defenses down. Victory is within our grasp!"

The Lord Admiral shook his head slowly. "No. Our weapons lack the power to bring down their magic defenses, even if we had twenty more ironclads."

His gaze hardened. "Better to save the lives of my people by retreating now than sacrifice them to a hopeless fight. Our ships stand little chance against their ironclads at sea. But on land, those extra sailors might give the Eastern Islands a fighting chance."

The captain, seeing the wisdom in the decision, nodded in reluctant agreement before asking, "And what about us?"

"We will stay behind and act as bait," the Lord Admiral said. "We'll keep those ironclads busy so the others can escape."

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Grothem was an Iron Shock Trooper, hailing from the shadow of one of the seven mountain peaks of the Mithril Mountains. From a young age, he had been inspired to see the world outside, rather than confined within the ever darkness of the undercity's tunnels and mines. When the ironclads' recruiters descended from the surface in search of new blood, Grothem seized the chance and signed up the moment he came of age.

What followed was months of grueling training, and spon, he was granted his wish of seeing the world. Fights against Orcs, Sea monsters, Magic Beasts, and even with foreign armies soon taught Grothem the harsh reality of the world and turned him into a veteran.

Now, as the boarding submarine slammed into its target, the jarring impact rattled him to the bone. His clenched teeth dug deep into the leather bite piece, sparing him from a shattered jaw. Grothem spat the blood-streaked leather strip to the floor and unfastened the restraint bar that had kept him locked in place.

With a swift motion, he ripped off the neck brace and stood, joining the rest of his team as they readied themselves for the fight to come. Weapons were taken out from their Spatial Rings, and each Shock Trooper knew what was coming. The muffled screech of steam echoed outside the barge, followed by the soft hiss of a drill piercing through metal.

Grothem followed the battle brother before him, crawling through the now-open hatch and felt the warmth of seawater dripping down as he emerged on the other side. His boots, thick leather reinforced with iron strips, splashed in shallow puddles on the wooden deck. He swung his Shock Lance in a practiced arc, cranking arcane the weapon's handle until the gauge trembled in the blue, its magical core humming with deadly energy.

The Shock Lance was a marvel of Dwarven engineering, its arcane mechanisms designed solely for the Iron Shock Troopers, a weapon that pulsed with raw power. Only they had the strength and skill to wield it.

"Stay together!" barked the leader of the squad, his voice rough as stone. Around them, the deck was littered with bodies, enemy sailors, some curled in the fetal position, others still twitching from the steam that had scorched them alive. "Kill anyone who stands in our way! For Rock and Stone!"

"For Rock and Stone!" Grothem echoed with his brothers as they advanced down and stepped over the fallen.

The decks were dimly lit and suffocatingly hot, resembling some sort of cargo hold. Crates and barrels were stacked neatly all over the hold, while pipes of every size snaked along the walls and floor, hissing occasionally with the pressure of steam.

Grothem's heart raced, but his hands were steady. The weight of his Shock Lance was familiar, comforting even as they were deep within the enemy's belly now, and there would be no mercy.

Suddenly, the loud hurried patter of hurried footsteps could be heard over the sound of grinding gears, and from the far side of the hold, a group of armored elves appeared. The defenders seeing the short dwarves yelled out a war cry and they charged over, brandishing thick swords and axes.

"Kill them! Kill the damned savages!" the shock leader yelled and rallied the dwarves. The Iron Shock Troopers wheeled around to meet the defenders in a low stance and braced for impact. Arcs of lightning cracked from their shock lances and snapped through the air like living whips. The first line of elven attackers was scorched instantly as lightning bolts seared their half-armored bodies, leaving behind smoldering flesh and the acrid scent of burned skin.

Grothem squeezed the lever on his shock lance. The runes carved into the shaft glowed with a pulsing intensity, and with a loud crack, a snake-like arc of lightning lashed out. The bolt leapt toward the nearest elf, crawling along the air before exploding in a burst of energy that sent several attackers reeling backward, writhing in pain. Grothem glanced down at the gauge on his lance, with the needle having dropped to the middle.

'Two more charges left', he thought grimly.

Without hesitation, he released another burst of lightning, sending another group of defenders staggering away as their cries drowned out by the sizzle of magic in the air. Seeing an opening, Grothem vaulted over a stack of crates with a savage war cry, driving the pointed end of his shock lance deep into the belly of an elf who had charged too close. The elf's scream was short-lived as the lance pierced clean through before the tip bursted from his back.

"For Rock and Stone!"

With a mighty flick of his arms, he tossed the dying elf to the side before he rejoined the battle.

The battle raged on, but the narrow, confined spaces of the ship's hold worked to the dwarves' advantage. Though the elves had height and numbers on their side, Grothem and his battle-brothers were built for this kind of fight. Their stout frames made it easy to weave through the narrow gaps between crates, and their superior armor turned aside most blows. Combined with their shock lances, arcane weapons designed to tear through magic defenses and take down Orcs, the elves' charge was no match for the dwarven onslaught.

One by one, the defenders fell as Grothem's lance discharged its final burst of lightning and threw the last group of elves into disarray. Soon, the hold was empty of enemies, leaving only Grothem and his battle brothers standing in a sea of bodies . Bodies were strewn across the floor, lifeless elves lying among barrels and crates, their blood pooling and seeping through the wooden slats of the deck.

Grothem ripped off a dangling shoulder plate from his armor. The metal had taken a direct hit, likely a sword or axe strike, and while his armor had saved him from a serious wound, he could feel the deep ache of a developing bruise beneath it. He grunted, tossing the twisted plate to the floor with a dull thud, and rolled his sore shoulder to test its range.

"All right, lads! Keep moving!" the shock leader ordered as he stood over the body of one of their own, his expression hardened by grief he couldn't yet express. "We will grieve and remember him later! For now, we press on. We take this ship, or we die trying! Keep pushing!"

"For Rock and Stone!"

The Iron Shock Troopers cried out once more, they tightened their grip on their lance as they advanced deeper into the ship.

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The captain of the flagship grew visibly angrier with each passing minute as every report from the magical communication devices brought nothing but bad news. Worse still, some stations had gone completely silent, likely overrun or destroyed. The sailor manning the magical devices grew more anxious with each report as his voice rose in pitch as the situation deteriorated.

The Lord Admiral of the Fifth Fleet let out a long, deep sigh before standing from his chair. His hand reached instinctively to his Spatial Ring and two finely crafted hand axes that shimmered under the glow of their magical enchantments materialized in his hands.

"Command your ship, Captain. My retinue and I will handle this."

"But...!" the captain began to protest, only to be silenced by a firm shake of the admiral's head.

"Buy as much time for the rest of the Fleet to disengage, captain!" The admiral said calmly as his aides quickly helped him wear a set of light armor, designed to protect his vital areas. "I'll do the same."

Without another word, the Lord Admiral left the command cabin while his loyal men formed up behind him. They marched toward the location where enemy underwater vessels had been spotted, and a silent, determined phalanx surrounding their leader. The sounds of battle soon echoed down the narrow passageways, growing louder as they advanced. They arrived behind a group of sailors whose backs were to them and braced for the inevitable confrontation.

Ahead of them, a small but resolute shield wall of dwarves had formed. The passageway was littered with bodies, but the dwarves advanced forward with their shields locked and magical Shock Lances aimed forward. Despite their short stature, the Dwarves looked confident and wore heavy armor that left little exposed. Their eyes, visible only through the narrow slits of their full-face helmets, were sharp with determination. Even in the tight confines of the ship, they moved with disciplined precision.

"Back! Get back!" a frightened sailor cried out in fear as he swung his sword wildly at the approaching dwarven shield wall. "S-Stay away!"

"Hold your spirit, sailor!" A loud bellow came from behind the frightened sailors as the admiral came thundering forward. He stood tall and proud despite his ailing condition and he strolled forward with his retinue closely around him. "Stand and fight! Fight for your friends! Your brothers! Your sisters! For the Coalition!"

"FOR THE COALITION!"

The thunderous roar of Shock Lances echoed through the narrow passageways of the ironclad, deafening anyone within earshot. The Lord Admiral stood firmly with both feet apart as he held an enchanted orichalcum shield with both hands, blocking the magical bullets and crackling arcs of lightning that was being fired from the enemy lines as they struck it with force, but he held firm, shielding his crew from the barrage.

"[Quick Acceleration]!"

With the incantation spoken, the Lord Admiral rushed forward in a blur. In a blink of an eye, he vaulted over the heads of his men and closed the distance to the enemy shield wall. He slammed into the dwarves with his shield, sending several of them sprawling with their heavy armor clattering against the steel floor.

Before the disoriented dwarves could recover, the Lord Admiral switched seamlessly. His shield vanished into his spatial ring, replaced by his second axe before spinning at blinding speed, his enchanted twin axes moving at a blur and carved through mithril armor and flesh with ease.

In mere moments, half the dwarven shield wall was reduced to lifeless bodies.

Invigorated by the presence of the Lord Admiral, the crew erupted into a roar and charged forward with renewed fury, throwing themselves against the remaining tiny shield wall with a frenzy, and clashed against the remaining dwarves, who, moments ago, had stood firm and confident. Now, the once formidable shock troops reeled back from the charge and were overwhelmed by the sudden reversal of the situation. The dwarven line broke, and their retreat quickly turned into chaos as the table had turned.

The Lord Admiral advanced grimly behind his men with his axes flashing as he cut down any remaining dwarves caught in the melee. Soon, the passageway was littered with the dwarves dead and dying, and the battle over as quickly as it had begun. The crew, bloodied but victorious, set about tending to the wounded and securing their fallen comrades.

As the Lord Admiral organized the survivors, a panting runner approached and breathless.

"Lord Admiral! Report from the Bridge! Enemy forces have been sighted on the forward deck!"

Without hesitation, the Lord Admiral gave orders to the able-bodied to regroup. Fresh from their hard-earned victory, the crew quickly gathered their weapons with their adrenaline surging once more. With a nod, the Lord Admiral led them onward and advanced toward the next battle awaiting them aboard the ironclad.

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Grothem hissed in disgust as he yanked his shock lance free from a young elf. The boy, barely more than a child, whimpered and clutched his disemboweled belly in a futile effort to hold in his guts. Grothem stepped back and watched grimly as the boy slumped to the ground and the light in his eyes fading.

"Gods of the Mountains," Grothem spat as he broke open his shock lance to replace the spent magic crystal. With a snap, he locked it in place and wound the charging handle until it hummed with renewed energy. Satisfied, he rejoined his squad, who were finishing off the last pockets of resistance on their level. "This is bad business."

"Bad business?" his friend and battle-brother, Uthern, replied as his hands deftly rifled through the pockets of the dead and pocketed anything of value or interest into his own. "This is easy work! Good business, more like."

Grothem shook his head as he took a swig from his waterskin to wet his parched throat. "Killing a boy child? Beh! That's bad business, Uthern. No honor in that."

Uthern shrugged as he straightened up and jingled a small pouch he'd just looted. "They're barbarians. Who cares?"

Grothem frowned. "Weren't we called barbarians by the other civilizations as well?"

Uthern laughed dismissively. "Us? Barbarians? Nonsense! We're just unlucky enough to be stuck next to these backwater countries. It's why our rulers have been trying to separate the Iron Kingdom from the Third Civilization Zone for centuries to join the other civilizations, it would've been more easier if it weren't for those damn Orcs!"

"Still..." Grothem wanted to voice his displeasure but was cut short by the sharp bark of their squad leader.

"Form up, you louts!" the Shock Team leader shouted, waving them over.

Uthern grinned and winked as he tossed Grothem the pouch of coins. "Not gold, just silver," he said as they hurried to fall in line. "Low quality, too. But silver's still silver when you melt it down."

"You found it, you keep it," Grothem tried to protest, holding the pouch back.

"Come on, take it," Uthern insisted with a grin as he shoved the pouch into Grothem's hands. "Keep it for your younger siblings. They need you."

Grothem hesitated. "But-"

"Come on, battle-brother," Uthern cut him off with a grin. "You'll repay me someday."

Grothem sighed, tucking the pouch into his pocket. "Alright... I'll keep it, by the Gods. I will remember your kindness."

"Enough chatter, you curts!" the Shock Leader yelled again. "We've got a ship to capture!"

"Why the courtesy?" Uthern clapped Grothem on the shoulder as they moved out. "We'll always have each other's backs. We are battle brothers! That's how it's done."

Still feeling guilty, Grothem nodded and gripped his lance as they advanced, while his mind still lingered on the dead boy behind them.

The squad of shock troopers advanced steadily and moved in sync with the rhythmic, thunderous thumps reverberating through the ship. As they rounded a corner, they came upon a large, open deck teeming with enemy crew, who seemed too busy in operating their magical weapons to notice the approaching squad.

"Take them out!" The Shock Leader hissed as he made his way forward and stabbed his shock lance into the back of the nearest enemy. The crewman froze, staring down in confused horror at the metal jutting out of his chest before collapsing.

The rest of the squad spread out and moved swiftly from one enemy to the next, silently killing the crew as fast as they could without alerting the rest. A few crew members spotted the intruders and shouted warnings, but the deafening noise of the weaponry drowned their cries. For a brief moment, it seemed the squad might clear the deck unnoticed.

But their luck ran out when one of the crews saw them slaughtering their friends. Panic erupted as they fled and shouted frantically, prompting a cascading effect that soon alerted the remaining crew. Some of the crew held their ground as they grabbed whatever was at hand as weapons and rushed to defend the ship, while others ran to alert reinforcements.

Grothem braced himself as a wave of enemies charged, screaming as they hurdled across the cluttered deck. He and the other shock troopers raised their lances, and with a crackle of raw energy, unleashed a volley of lightning bolts. The air sizzled with electricity as sparks leaped across the long black barrels and struck down the attackers in bright, crackling arcs.

Suddenly, Grothem heard a massive roar that seemed as if the Gods themselves were shouting in his ear. Before he could react, the force hit him like a hammer, and he found himself flying backward before everything went dark, a deep, crushing emptiness swallowing him whole.

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The Lord Admiral and his ragtag force stumbled upon yet another group of Dwarven warriors blocking their path. The passageway was already littered with bodies, and by the time they had dispatched the last dwarf, his force had dwindled by a third. So far, they had the momentum and had managed to overwhelm the borders with their numbers and his own Level 8 strength to overpower the boarding dwarves. But at this rate of exchange, it was a losing game. Soon, there would be no one left to fight.

The Lord Admiral had enough mana to keep battling for hours, but his men were exhausted. Lightly armed and armored, they struggled against the heavily armored Dwarven warriors who seemed almost impenetrable. And his numbers were dwindling fast. He had no idea how many more dwarves still roamed the ironclad, and all he could do was chase after the reports of borders that came trickling in from his runners.

But he knew he couldn't stop. The stakes were too high. If the enemy takes over the ship's magic core that powered the ironclad, they'd be stranded and become a sitting target for the enemy to shoot at. He cursed softly under his breath as he leaned against the cold steel wall, taking a moment to take a good breather.

"Damn those fools," he muttered. "They still don't understand the power of the Iron Kingdom, yet they keep throwing our bodies like fodder. We should've seen this coming."

But then, with a weary sigh, the Lord Admiral shook his head. "It doesn't matter now. At least we have a plan B to kill every last one of these short bastards before they take this ship."

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The Dwarven fleet captain frowned deeply as he observed the sudden retreat of the sail-rigged ships that had been encircling them. The constant flicker of the Rammer's magical barrier eased as the weak volleys from the enemy's ballistas came to an abrupt halt. Pacing slowly around the bridge's viewports, he scanned the waters beneath the ironclad and his sharp eyes catched the subtle ripples of movement below.

"Are they retreating, my Lord?" an aide asked as he noticed the distant white sails of the enemy ships as they began to pull away.

"It appears so," the Dwarf captain replied with a grim nod. "Order the Crusher and the Digger to split up and pursue those ships. No survivors."

As the orders were relayed, his attention shifted back to the nearby enemy ironclads that were spewing out thick plumes of steam from their single funnel. The leading two ships looked battered, like iron-clad porcupines, as their armor were bristled with the Dwarven bolts lodged deep into their hulls. Steam hissed from ruptured lines, and their speed had dropped significantly as the once-ferocious fire from their weapons had slowed to a trickle.

The last ship, however, had not fared as well. It was swarmed by the Iron Kingdom's Assault Turtles, clinging to the ironclad's underbelly like bloated leeches feasting the blood from their prey. Just as the captain was about to give another order, a sudden flash caught his eye.

"What is thi-"

BOOOOOOOOMMMMM!!!

Without warning, the boarded ship suddenly erupted into a massive fireball as the explosion send shockwaves that expand across the waters. In a couple of heartbeats, there was only the searing brightness, and then came the deafening boom, rolling across the ocean like thunder.

"By the Mountain Gods..." the captain muttered in disbelief as he stared with incredulity at the spot where the enemy ship had been, now consumed by flames and wreckage. "They... blew themselves up?"

His disbelief soon turned to anger as the explosion had not only obliterated the enemy ship, but it had also taken the lives of over a hundred elite Iron shock troopers, veterans of countless battles.

Ever since the war with the nations of the Third Civilization Zone had begun, never had the Iron Kingdom suffered so many casualties in a single engagement.

"Barbarians! May the Gods of the Mountains curse you!" the Dwarf captain growled and clenched his fist as his eyes glittered with rage. "DESTROY THEM ALL! LEAVE NONE ALIVE!"

------------------------

A lone dragon, draped in the colors of the Tarxan Coalition, flew gracefully on the warm air currents high above the endless expanse of ocean. Its wide wings caught the breeze and glided effortlessly. The dragon's rider, an elven scout, scanned the horizon with sharp, focused eyes, searching for any sign of the Fifth Fleet that had vanished without a trace two days ago.

Suddenly, the dragon squawked as its superior eyesight spotting something far below. The rider leaned forward in the saddle, urging the dragon downward. With a powerful beat of its wings, the dragon dove toward the shimmering surface of the sea and cut through the sky like an arrow.

As they descended, the rider's heart quickened, what had his dragon seen?

The beast flared its wings and slowed to a glide just above the ocean waves, where the rider's breath caught in his throat.

The scene below was a graveyard of destruction, with ship wreckage floated as far as the eye could see, from splintered wood, barrels, crates, torn sailcloth, frayed ropes, and the lifeless bodies of sailors bobbing up and down with the swell of the waves. The once-mighty Fifth Fleet had been reduced to debris scattered across the water.

The rider urged the dragon lower and flew dangerously close to the surface. His eyes locked onto a particular piece of debris in the distance, and with a quick command, the dragon swept toward it. Leaning out of his saddle, the rider reached down and snatched up a piece of tattered cloth that floated by.

As the dragon soared upward again, the rider spread the cloth open with trembling hands. His eyes widened in horror as the burnt, torn fabric revealed the unmistakable crest and colors of the flagship of the Fifth Fleet.

"The flagship..." he whispered. Without hesitation, he wheeled the dragon around sharply and raced back toward the squadron he had left behind.

Moments later, the dragon landed with a heavy thud on the deck of the sole ironclad that remained, surrounded by its small escort of ships. The vessel had only just completed repairs and was trying to rejoin the Fifth Fleet, now, it was too late.

The rider dismounted and sprinted toward the bridge with the tattered flag held tightly in his hand. Bursting into the command room, he presented the grim token to the waiting commodore and his senior officers. Their faces paled as they beheld the flag, its scorched edges speaking volumes of the battle that had been lost.

"The Fifth Fleet..." the rider stammered in disbelief. "The Fifth Fleet is... gone! And the Fifth Lord Admiral's flagship... has been sunk!"

------------------------

Iron Kingdom, Underground City of Meikneoir, Grand Lord's Throne Room

1st Year of God, Friday, 4th Week, Month Of Moses

A large Dwarf's expression darkened as he listened intently to the aide's report in the council chamber. The gathered Lords of the Iron Kingdom sat in silence with hard and grimed faces, while some twisted with anger. The aide's voice echoed through the stone hall as he continued detailing the Dwarf Captain's battle with the Tarxan Coalition.

"112 dead," the aide read from the scroll. "The entire boarding party was totally wiped out when the Coalition ship exploded, Grand Lord Hammerfall."

A murmur rippled through the assembly, and one Lord could not contain his fury. "They'd rather kill themselves than face defeat? Savages, like they always are!"

Another Lord, older and seasoned, leaned forward with a steady gaze on the Grand Lord. "If they are willing to die with such conviction, Hammerfall, this means that they will not surrender easily, and this may turn out to be against our favor when these barbarians turned desperation into a weapon."

The large dwarf known as Grand Lord Hammerfall, the current ruler of the Iron Kingdom, nodded in silent agreement as the Lord continued with his words drawing the attention of every Dwarf present.

"This could work against us. They may not fear death, but we cannot afford to trade casualties like this. We are dwarves, strong, but fewer in number. The longer this war drags on, the more we risk being bled dry. We only have so many troops to spare."

Another Lord nodded gravely. "Compared to the dwarven population in the rest of the Third Civilization Zone, we are but a fraction. If they fight without fear of heavy losses, we will face defeat by attrition."

Grand Lord Hammerfall's massive hand gripped the armrest of his stone throne. His eyes, dark with thought, met those of the gathered Lords. He could sense their growing anxiety, but his voice remained calm, almost cold.

"Silence."

The room stilled as his deep voice reverberated off the stone walls.

"Yes, we may be outnumbered," Hammerfall acknowledged, "But we have something they do not, superior weapons, unmatched technology. We are the proud dwarves of the Iron Kingdom, the mightiest power in the Third Civilization. We will never see surrender, nor will we lower ourselves to negotiate peace with these barbarians."

His voice grew sharper and more resolute. "However, I agree we must be cautious. In war, even the weakest foe can adapt. We must anticipate their desperation and meet it with overwhelming force."

He turned to face the entire assembly. "From this moment forward, no more boarding actions. We will pound their ships and fortifications from afar. Let them burn before they even see the whites of our eyes."

The Lords exchanged looks, some nodding, others absorbing the weight of his words.

Hammerfall's fist slammed against the table and send out his final declaration. "Continue to fortify every captured nation. Watch the local population closely for signs of treachery. We cannot afford to let our guard down! The Gods of the Mountains shall protect us, but only if we remain vigilant."

He stood up and his voice thundered through the chamber as he shouted.

"For Rock and Stone!"

"FOR ROCK AND STONE!!" The Lords responded in unison, their voices filled with grim determination, but the tension in the room remained heavy.

The war with the Coalition had just taken a dangerous turn.

'I wanted to call my son to help with the war, but he seemed busy with the Orcs along with his three friends. I should wait.' The Dwarf King thought.