Rewrite That Witch
CH621 · Rewrite
☕ Support

Chapter 621: Sleepless Night

“This is simply… God’s Punishment.” Iron Axe sighed. “They can’t even see the shadow of their opponents. There’s no way the ordinary enemy completes the mountain path with gunfire raining on their heads.”

Having witnessed howitzer fire collapse into a densely packed marching column, the First Army’s commander understood the effect precisely. The first shell had landed five kilometers ahead of the battlefield. At that range, an enemy formation had three choices: exhaust itself sprinting before the fighting even began; push forward bravely with a shattered platoon; or dissolve into rout. The most likely outcome was the third.

“Unfortunately, not all the enemies we face are ordinary,” Roland said, “and we have a limited supply of shells. Otherwise two Longsong Cannons alone could finish this.”

At full rate of fire, each Longsong Cannon could loose eight rounds per minute—a speed that bordered on insanity for this era. Production of double-base propellant had been climbing steadily since the alchemists from King’s City arrived in Neverwinter with their apprentices, but shells remained the ceiling. The fuze mechanism was so precisely machined that only Anna could manufacture them; her hours were finite, and she reserved a portion of each day for the Artillery Battalion’s test rounds.

“Your Majesty, all twenty cannons have completed their firing runs,” Van’er reported after the last volley. “Six valid targeting points recorded, most clustered in the back half of the mountain road.”

“Good. That’s enough for today.” Roland nodded.

The test rounds required custom fabrication. Although they used solid shot rather than explosive filler, their shape and balance exactly replicated a fuze-equipped grenade—the kind of tolerances only Anna could hold. She set aside time each day to produce a fixed number, and the Artillery Battalion ran their calculations accordingly.

“Shall we inspect anywhere else?” Iron Axe asked.

Roland considered, then shook his head. “No. I’ll return to camp. Continue the training.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Back in camp, Roland sank into the couch and exhaled slowly. He had done what could be done. The rest belonged to fate.

Five days ago the church had finally moved. According to Maggie’s reconnaissance, the gates of the Holy City had swung open and an army had poured out—heading for Coldwind Ridge in precise formation. From altitude, their silver armor looked like a river of shimmering light threading through the Impassable Mountain Range. Spies stationed around the Hermes highlands confirmed it: an unprecedented mobilization. Activity inside the city had fallen to almost nothing. Every capable body had marched out.

The enemy was coming in full force.

Roland had rushed to the front the moment he received word. His presence had lifted the First Army’s morale to its highest pitch, and the war that would decide both their futures was now imminent.

He had more than four thousand elite soldiers. A cavalry detachment from the Duke of the Northern Region; the reconnaissance team led by Lightning and Maggie; Sylvie’s targeting eye, which never missed; combat witches scattered through the encampment. The church’s movements had unfolded almost precisely according to the Adviser Department’s planning, and the civilians of Coldwind Ridge had been evacuated. Even if the enemy resorted to Berserk Pills, the only victims would be their own believers or conscripted soldiers from another kingdom.

The opening, by any measure, was clean.

Yet Roland was uneasy.

He worried about the pure witches.

He still did not know in what form they would appear, or how they planned to enter the battle.

To prevent casualties from ambush, the witches at the front had spent the past few days gathered under one roof. Sylvie and Nightingale rotated shifts on night watch, and Echo’s alarm stood ready to rouse the entire camp the moment a magic reaction was detected.

The church, for its part, had done nothing but occupy Coldwind Ridge. Not a single pure witch had shown herself.

Roland could not decide which was worse: that they were holding something terrible in reserve, or that they simply planned to crush him on the open field.

All he could do was wait.

He had gone to bed early after supper, but sleep would not come. Moonlight crept through the window slit and fell across his pillow before he finally gave up, dressed, and walked outside. Nightingale materialized from shadow before he reached the second step.

“Something wrong? Can’t sleep?”

“Slightly.” Roland rubbed the back of his neck and pulled a strand of wheat from his collar. “The straw beneath the mattress. Like sleeping on a bed of needles.”

“I feel the same,” Andrea agreed from her post nearby. “We couldn’t bring a proper bed, fine. But two extra silk pads wouldn’t have killed anyone. The Duke of the Northern Region is remarkably parsimonious.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ashes said, her voice edged with impatience, “we are at war, not on holiday. Having a roof overhead is already generous. Try to be less demanding.”

“Of course. It makes no difference to someone with the hide of a boar.”

“Better that than being soft and easily broken.”

“When the church is finished, we’ll settle which of us is soft.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Hold on—” Shavi raised her hand. “Can I place a wager?”

Nightingale drew Roland aside. “Pay them no attention. It’s a nightly ritual.”

“I wouldn’t have put them on the same team if I’d known,” he said, smiling.

The logic had been sound enough at the time. Nightingale’s detection radius was narrower than Sylvie’s, so Nightingale’s shift was anchored by the three—Ashes, Andrea, Shavi—who formed the camp’s most concentrated offensive force. The late shift held a different composition: Agatha, Breeze, Iffy. Defense-weighted, and capable of absorbing or blocking almost any threat.

“What about the others?” he asked. “Are they managing?”

“The sisters from the Witch Cooperation Association aren’t particular the way you are.” Nightingale’s eyes glinted. “They spent years sleeping in forests and empty warehouses. For them, straw is luxury.”

“So I’m the most impatient person here.” Roland sat on the step and looked up. Stars burned cold and clear over the mountain ridgeline. After a long silence: “What happens when all this is over?”

Nightingale settled beside him. “You’re nervous.”

He touched his nose. “Just thinking.” He did not finish the question, but it expanded in him anyway—Would Neverwinter survive? Would the kingdom dissolve back into noble fiefdoms, or would the church swallow it whole? And Anna, and the others—would the Sleeping Islands be far enough? He had built something real here, brick by brick, year by year, and the weight of possibly losing it was something he had not accounted for.

“Don’t worry.” Nightingale found his hand in the dark and held it. “I told you before. As long as I’m alive, nothing will hurt you.” She paused. “Besides—our story has only just begun.”

Discussion

Suggest a change