CH1458 · Rewrite
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Chapter 1458: A Defense Line Held Single-handedly

The 20mm autocannons commanded the longest reach.

Their tracer rounds — Match Men stone compounds under high pressure — blazed brighter than standard ammunition, the light intensifying as the pressure increased. The rounds themselves were more compact, which meant fewer gaps between them along the trajectory. From a distance, the streams of fire looked nearly unbroken, like whips of light snapping across the sky.

Devilbeasts struck by the autocannons had no time to struggle. To be caught in a burst was to take multiple rounds at once — and even a burst that missed the body and caught a wing was enough to tear away the membrane in ragged sections. The flight muscle that followed was worse.

More often, the rounds landed on the torsos of diving Devilbeasts. Blood burst in quick dark flowers. Several rolled and dropped, their Mad Demon riders screaming as the ground came up — not fighters in that final moment, just falling weight.

The demons responded with competence. They broke into abrupt descents, using the speed of the dive to scatter in two directions, attempting to break free of the firing arcs. Against any conventional gun crew, the tactic would have bought time; it was standard doctrine for a reason. Tracking a fast-moving target through a rapid course change cost seconds, even for skilled gunners. Seconds were enough.

They were not fighting a gun crew.

They were fighting Eleanor.

The Devilbeasts’ new coordinates, new headings, new velocities were already calculated before the evasion completed. Polynomial equations resolved into trajectories. New trajectories resolved into new barrel angles. The curtain of light twisted — the tracers no longer drove straight but bent in sharp arcs as the guns pivoted, interweaving with each other into something that looked tangled and chaotic and was neither.

Every line of that apparent chaos arrived precisely where a Devilbeast was about to be.

Those watching from the command center fell silent.

Not the Devilbeasts chasing the bullets. The bullets meeting the Devilbeasts. The distinction felt important.

“I think Lady Eleanor must be very happy right now,” Phyllis said, quietly.

“Why?” Roland turned to her.

“When Taquila fell — the first thing to break our defenses was the Devilbeast assault. They struck from above, where we couldn’t easily reach. They identified weak points along the wall and hit them. The Holy City’s army ran to cover every position, and still couldn’t hold all of them. The crossbow machines and catapults were destroyed one by one.” She stopped for a moment. The memory was in her posture, in her hands. “At the end, Lady Eleanor was standing on the wall with blood on her, and no demon dared come within reach of her. But the city behind her was already burning.”

So that was what she meant. Four centuries of revenge. Not a figure of speech.

No individual — regardless of strength — could hold a perimeter alone. Eleanor had stood at Taquila’s wall and been precisely strong enough to watch everything behind her destroyed. This time, the island itself was her wall. She did not need to move.

And behind her stood the whole of humanity.

“They’re splitting up!” Morning Light Ferlin called out.

Through the projected image, the formation fractured. One group kept altitude, circling — probing for gaps in the coverage. The other angled downward, searching for the lower reaches of the autocannon arcs. The demons had concluded that maneuvering away from the fire was not working. They were trying to reach the surface and find cover.

Eleanor’s defense was not a single line.

The Mark I heavy machine guns activated next — the interior ring. Their turrets were compact, less than half a meter in height, optimized for fixed emplacements rather than mobility. The barrels were longer than standard, water-cooled for sustained fire, mounted on rotating platforms distributed across the runways, bridges, and control towers. They were positioned for exactly this: enemies that slipped through the outer arc.

The Mad Demons who reached the island’s surface didn’t find cover. They found a second screen of fire.

They fought back. Compound spears — not simple bone constructions but mixed materials, something new — struck the turret housing with explosive force, black-scorched impact points spreading across the stonework. Some of the Mad Demons discharged what appeared to be electric arcs, longer in range and faster to release than anything the Witch Cooperation Association had recorded. An elite formation, clearly. Against First Army infantry, they might have caused genuine chaos.

The turrets were not infantry.

They registered no fear. They did not flinch. They cycled their actions as long as power ran through them, and no number of explosions at neighboring positions broke their rhythm.

When two or three turrets misfired, the rest did not falter.

As a final layer: two 75mm cannons installed at diagonal positions on the island turned and began tracking target clusters. Their coverage extended across the full diameter of the runway. Together they were more than sufficient.

This is the firearms battle Pasha and the others described, Eleanor thought. She had studied the theory. She had not expected to find it so immediately absorbing.

She was the only combatant. She was fighting the entire Devilbeast assault wave without another soldier at a single position.

The demons had looked for a weak point in the perimeter. Every surface — sides, top, bottom — had coverage. Even the underside of the island carried four 20mm cannons and two Longsong Cannons positioned for exactly this approach.

Your choices end here.

She swung a pair of 75mm barrels to bear on a cluster of demons that had been suppressed near the center of the runway. One of them wore armor of a kind she had not seen on a common soldier. From the ornamentation, a higher ascendant.

She controlled the miniature core, drew the firing rope taut, and fired.


The explosion shook loose dust from the cave ceiling.

“Is that the First Army engaging? Are they alright?” Finkin swept grit from his hair and peered upward.

“The bombardment can only damage the runway surface — it won’t reach the hangars. And Miss Lotus is aboard; she can restore potholes easily.” The voice was calm, unhurried, belonging to someone who had thought through the question before Finkin asked it. They all turned.

The speaker was Manfeld — the newcomers’ standout, the one the veterans had already privately assessed as someone to watch.

“Hello, seniors.” He saluted.

“Your challenger’s here,” Finkin murmured to Good, nudging him.

Good responded with a look that declined comment. He nodded at Manfeld. “I think so too. Any idea when we move?”

“Soon.” Manfeld closed his eyes and listened. Several seconds. “The intervals between machine gun bursts are lengthening. That means the enemy is running out of options against our offensive. The command for counterattack should come shortly.”

“You can hear the machine guns through rock strata?” Good stared at him.

“If I concentrate. Yes.” Manfeld nodded.

Finkin mouthed at Hinds: He’s performing.

In that precise moment, Princess Tilly’s voice came through the hangar loudspeakers, cutting across everything.

“All Aerial Knights — board your planes. Prepare for battle.”

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