The Tanks Arrive
Then, a deep, resonant rumble shook the ground.
A low, guttural roar that rose above the sounds of battle, growing louder and louder with each passing second. The Drakonian warriors paused, confused, their eyes darting around for the source of the sound.
Ogren, his face streaked with dirt and blood, glanced back over his shoulder and felt a savage grin split his face. The time had come.
From behind the hills, the first of Aropia’s tanks appeared—massive iron behemoths rolling forward on enchanted wheels, their hulls painted in the dark colors of the Aropian banner.
Smoke and steam billowed from their engines, the faint, pulsing glow of magic energy visible through armored vents. The sight was unlike anything the Drakonians had ever seen; the tanks, powered by magic fuel, gleamed like ancient war machines brought to life.
Ogren got inside one of the lead tanks and felt the vibrations of the engine in his bones.
He took over the controls, his hands steady and sure, his face set in a grim mask of determination. He saw the confusion on the faces of the Beastfolk, their arrogance turning to disbelief, and then to panic.
“Fire!” he roared, and the tanks opened up with a thunderous roar, their cannons belching fire and smoke.
The explosions ripped through the Drakonian ranks, sending bodies flying, shattering their momentum in an instant. Their mages tried summoning barrier spells but they were no match for the human machines.
The Counterattack
The tanks plowed forward, cutting through the enemy’s ranks like a scythe through wheat. The Drakonians, caught between the once seemingly retreating Aropian forces and the sudden, devastating assault from tanks, faltered.
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Their once-unbreakable formation began to crumble, their lines disintegrating under the relentless barrage. Ogren’s tank rolled over the broken ground, the turret swiveling to pick off pockets of resistance with pinpoint precision.
The Beastfolk, realizing too late that they had walked into a trap, tried to regroup. They fought back with a desperate fury, but it was useless.
The Aropians, emboldened by the arrival of the tanks, rallied and turned, launching a ferocious counterattack. Ogren’s voice echoed through his ranks, steady and commanding. “Push them back! Don’t give them an inch!”
The battlefield became a chaotic swirl of magic-fueled machinery and Beastfolk rage.
The Aropian tanks, powerful and nearly unstoppable, moved with deadly efficiency, their cannons firing in unison. The earth shook with each blast, and the ground was soon littered with the bodies of the fallen.
The tide had turned. What had seemed like certain defeat was now a stunning reversal. The Drakonians began to retreat, the battle-hardened warriors abandoning their positions and fleeing back toward the border.
Victory for Aropia, once so distant, was now within reach.
Victory and Uncertainty
The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over a battlefield littered with debris and the remnants of the Drakonian assault.
Smoke rose from the craters where cannon fire had struck, and the air was thick with the smell of blood and burnt earth. Ogren emerged from the tank, his face a mask of exhaustion and triumph, his armor battered and splattered with grime.
His chest heaved as he surveyed the battlefield, the sound of human cheers rising all around him—a roar of triumph that seemed to shake the very earth.
Yet even as his soldiers celebrated, Ogren’s brow furrowed.
There was something wrong—something missing. Prince Crimson had not shown himself during the battle. He had expected to see the Drakonian leader at the forefront of the charge, yet he had been nowhere to be found.
Ogren’s grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, a shadow of doubt passing through his mind. Was this truly the end? Or had the prince of Drakonia been planning something else all along?
His eyes narrowed as he scanned the distant horizon, searching for a sign of the elusive enemy leader, but there was nothing. Only the sound of the wind over the broken land and the jubilant cries of his soldiers.