CH1450 · Rewrite
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Chapter 1450: Taquila Street Battle

Days later.

South of the Fertile Plains, Tower Station No. 10.

Balshan lay prone outside the turret, telescope raised, watching the silhouette of the ancient city shimmer in the distance. She had read the dispatches about the Northern Expedition — knew that what she was looking at had once been Taquila, the famous witch city, that the demons had thrown everything they had at it and been turned back by the First Army. History had a way of feeling abstract until you were lying flat on steel plate with cannon smoke in your lungs looking at the place yourself.

One minute. Thirty seconds. Ten seconds.

She covered her ears.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

The 152mm Longsong Cannons of the Artillery Squad opened up from behind the line — a sound that was less heard than felt, transmitting through the ground into the vehicle’s frame until her arms went faintly numb. There was no comparison to the short-barrel mounted on the tank. They were different instruments entirely.

“Team Leader, haven’t you gotten used to the cannon fire yet?”

Bay spoke from the front of the vehicle, cross-legged on the driver’s seat, a ration canister in his hand. The battlefield reeked of demonic beast rot and scorched stone. He ate as though he were seated at a table.

“That won’t do.” He shook his head with the authority of a man sharing wisdom. “You need to train your ears to filter out unimportant noise. That’s how you maintain focus.”

“Your hearing is just poor.” Balshan lowered the telescope without looking at him. The driver and cannoneer were veterans — that was beyond dispute — but the Vehicle Commander was the team leader, and in terms of years lived, she was almost certainly the senior person present. “The only thing I need to hear is anything abnormal from the Sigil of Screaming. Not cannon booms. Not you.”

“Team Leader.” Bay looked wounded. “That’s a little harsh. I always imagined witches would be more like Angel Nana—”

“Five years ago, witches were the devil’s minions.”

“Uh—” He paused. “People won’t warm to you if you keep talking like that.”

“I think Team Leader’s fine,” Shure said from the turret.

Both of them turned.

The cannoneer blinked at the attention. “She’s direct and capable. No military background, and she’s adapted to the battlefield in less time than most veterans. Best Vehicle Commander we could have asked for. What? Did I say something wrong?”

“No.” Balshan shrugged. “Though you missed nine out of ten shots during training, you’re not completely useless.”

Shure looked pleased.

“Alright, enough of this.” Bay switched topics with the practiced speed of a man who had learned when to retreat. “By the way — back at Tower Station No. 9, who was the person waiting outside the camp? He had a First Army uniform. A medal on his chest. Is he a friend of yours?”

“Why do you ask?”

“A medal isn’t easy to earn.” Bay was slightly embarrassed. “I thought he might be worth knowing.”

“I know him.” Her voice slowed. “He’s not as impressive as the medal suggests. Without me, he’d have been food for the beasts.”

“Wow. Your standards are—”

She covered her ears.

The salvo landed like a fist closing. Bay, unprepared, flinched visibly at the reverberations.

Three green flares arced into the sky.

Attack signal.

“Your focus doesn’t seem that focused either.” Balshan patted the steel plate beside the turret. “Convoy 12 — move out.”

Bay dropped the canister without ceremony and was in the driver’s seat before it hit the ground. Shure folded himself into the cramped turret and ran through his checks. Whatever they were in quieter moments, at the signal they became what they were built to be: no hesitation, no carelessness.

Balshan raised her telescope.

Through the lens, she could see the artillery’s work — demonic beasts spilling from the ruins, streaming north in broken lines. Behind the tanks, the First Army had fractured into dozens of small teams, advancing steadily along the armored tracks. The formation was not designed for hybrids. It had been redesigned for something harder.

The further they had pushed into the Fertile Plains, the more blade beasts they had found — once every two or three days at the edge of the advance, then several per day as they drove deeper. Invisible, patient, capable of coordinated ambush in ways that no demonic beast managed. Cannon fire scattered the beasts; it did not scare the blade beasts. Every stronghold along the railway line had taken work. After paying for the lesson, the First Army had rebuilt its doctrine around the armor: tanks forward, infantry following in the cleared ground, Sigil of Screaming and Sigil of Resonance doing the sensing work beyond the short-barrel’s effective range.

It had worked, mostly. But the Taquila ruins were something new. The most complicated ground they had fought over that was not open wilderness.

Half an hour later, Convoy 12 rolled into Taquila.

Convoy 9 and Convoy 17 flanked her on either side. Their assignment: clear the main avenue to the western square and retake the two First Army fortresses established there in the last campaign.

Balshan studied the city as they advanced and felt her scalp prickle. Stone buildings rose on every side — dense, close, full of angles and alcoves and floors stacked on floors. The Sigil of Screaming’s effective range was dramatically compressed by the mass of material around it. What she could do was listen for magic power signatures; what she could not do was pin their locations to a point on a mental map. The city swallowed sound and direction both.

“How did you take this place the first time?”

“Straightforward.” Shure’s voice echoed slightly in the turret. “Remove the Red Mist towers and the skeleton troops, and the demons withdrew on their own. Have you found the enemy?”

“Not yet. But they’re in here.” She signaled to the infantry trailing their tank: closer. The gesture created a gap between Convoy 12 and the other two vehicles, which could not be helped.

The gray cement fortress materialized at the far end of the avenue — the First Army had been forced to abandon it in the retreat, but solid construction was solid construction. The enemy had left it standing.

The Sigil of Screaming’s tone sharpened.

She frowned. The frequency was wrong for a blade beast. Too low, too sustained, like something large rather than something fast.

She glanced at Amy, commanding Convoy 9. Amy shook her head once: equally lost.

By the time they drew level with the fortress, the hum had grown loud enough that Bay looked up from his instruments.

Balshan made the decision quickly: she dismounted, activated the Sigil of Resonance, and moved ahead on foot. Whatever was generating this signature, she wanted to see where it pointed before she brought the other vehicles into range.

The glow appeared almost immediately — thin and clean, a directed light emerging from the Sigil’s stone and pointing to the middle of the square ahead.

There was nothing there.

She held still and looked again, more carefully.

The bricks. Several had been lifted — not broken, not shattered by impact, but pried, as though something had worked from below. Around the disturbance, black corrosion had seeped into the surrounding stone in branching patterns.

Underground.

The thought had barely finished forming when the soil beneath the displaced bricks heaved. The ground split, and from the rupture came a thing built of ribs and stretched flesh and blood, hauling itself upward into the square light — and as it emerged, it exhaled, vomiting a cascade of transparent bodies that spread and flattened and became nearly invisible against the pale stone, trailing only glistening mucus to mark where they moved.

The Sigil of Screaming screamed.

Blade beasts. All of them. Dozens of them, already spreading outward from the creature at the center.

She had found the enemy.

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