“Warning: altitude to ground is 2000 meters!”
The electronic voice alarm rang out in a shrill chorus with the sirens—a dire proclamation amid crisis. Arthas fought to suppress the disorienting effects of the overwhelming centrifugal force as he desperately worked to crack the labyrinthine code of the Empire’s war machine. Even so, the sheer complexity of its programming left him awestruck.
“Warning: altitude to ground is 1000 meters!” The alarm blared once more.
“No time to lose!” Arthas bellowed, his heart a maelstrom of anxiety, for no clear solution had yet emerged.
“Steady, Arthas—do what you can,” Breton urged in a calm, measured tone.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Arthas strove to block out the searing red flashes and the clamor of the alarms from his mind. With unwavering concentration, he pounded out lines of lengthy code upon the display. The fighter, spinning and plummeting, burst through a bank of clouds, revealing before them a towering, jagged peak.
“Warning: altitude to ground is 300 meters!”
As the altitude warning rang again, Breton could now discern the lush green crowns of trees clinging to the mountain ridge. Just as he braced himself to invoke his escape magic—a desperate gambit to evade certain doom—the fighter’s engine sputtered back to life. Yet, the recent overload had reduced its power to but a fraction of its former might.
“Brother, I’ve force-restarted the engine. However, these patches that mend the fatal faults may not hold for long—the engine could fail at any moment,” reported Arthas.
At these words, Breton wasted no time; he jerked the control stick, and the fighter’s belly skimmed perilously close to the treetops and craggy rock along the ridge.
Once the aircraft steadied into a semblance of controlled flight, Arthas patted the flickering display. Amid the incessant sizzle and crackle of the screen, images streamed in from reconnaissance drones: billowing smoke gradually dispersed to reveal that Sir Benjamin, Sir Famas, and the Blue Shield Knights had engaged their fusion abilities. Yet, like statues wrought by a master sculptor, they now stood frozen in time—petrified by the momentary power of the “Moment’s” stony art. Behind the Blue Shield Knights’ sixfold shield formation, Sir Famas had summoned a towering wall of molten lava; Sir Benjamin’s phalanx of Shura spears had clashed with the stony javelins in perfect counterbalance, though three of the Blue Shield Knights had been impaled by the relentless petrifying lances and were forever fixed in their final, tragic moment. Sir Benjamin’s contingent still fought with tenacity, and from a distant command post, over three thousand reinforcements—both knights and fusion wielders—had surged into the fray, with additional reserve support equipment gradually joining the desperate contest. Throughout it all, Chronos—the master of time—remained unhurried and inexhaustible, as the battlefield simmered in a state of anguished suspense and ever-mounting casualties.
Amid a cacophony of static and the crackle of interference, a grave, sonorous voice cut through the radio:
“Young scion of the Rolfi family, the command has devised a new battle plan requiring your cooperation. I shall transmit the details to your PDA.”
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Team A had long lurked beyond the main conflict, their keen eyes ever watchful for the enemy’s vulnerability, awaiting that moment to deliver a decisive, unexpected blow.
Soon, the auxiliary display flickered to life with the detailed operational plan sent by Cheng Wei—a report of such meticulous rigor that its very existence amid such chaos was nothing short of miraculous.
Arthas rapidly perused the analysis of Chronos, the Time Lord’s weaponry. The report detailed that the “black mirror” forged from Dark Jade could perpetually generate antimatter, consuming and annihilating any object that dared make contact, its size and quantity modulated at the whim of its master—from one to as many as four. Yet, the more formidable the annihilation, the greater the area required; indeed, an overabundance might cause adjacent mirrors to vanish in a confluent merge, their destructive capacity seemingly without bound.
Even as these mirrors absorbed prodigious amounts of high energy, their voracious speed would gradually diminish; however, their reaction to incoming threats remained nearly instantaneous. Only when continuously engulfing colossal energy might the defensive blind spots between them be breached—rendering both devastating thermal weapons and the astonishing abilities of fusion wielders woefully inadequate before such an insatiable force.
And yet, despite the overwhelming might of Dark Jade, it was not without its frailties. During Sir Benjamin’s vanguard operations with Team B, astute intelligence experts had discerned a critical breakthrough: when Dark Jade mounted a wide-ranging or multi-tiered defense, Chronos’s movement speed plummeted precipitously. They surmised that in the act of generating antimatter, the mirror’s mass surged so dramatically as to immobilize its controller.
The dossier further provided a series of ultra-high-frame-rate photographs captured during these defensive episodes. Although Chronos hovered above the ground, the sandy terrain beneath him was indented into a distinct circular depression—its perimeter delineating the range of his defense. Alas, amidst the cataclysmic energy collisions of the battlefield, such a phenomenon was nearly impossible to discern with the naked eye.
Moreover, the report offered an equally staggering analysis of the “Moment’s” petrifying arrows—those white, crystalline javelins. Time and again, in the crucible of battle, these fearsome weapons had demonstrated their capacity not only to transmute tangible matter into works of macabre artistry, but also to freeze even the most ethereal of forces—immobilizing energy trajectories as if they were solid ice, or transforming flames into delicate, frozen blossoms. Each photographic testament was meticulously arrayed within the report, attesting to a capability both offensive and defensive—a duality that rendered the enemy nearly invincible.
“Assuredly, you have been apprised of every known intelligence on the enemy,” came a hoarse voice over the radio from Miller. “In forty minutes, the operation shall commence.”
Hearing his father’s voice stirred both Arthas and Breton, their youthful hearts swelling with pride at having borne witness to battles of such epic proportions. After a brief respite, they pored over the operational plan with meticulous care—each aware that they were indispensable to this final, pivotal engagement.
“Due to the EMP interference, our coalition cannot deploy additional air support. Lieutenant Breton, Private Arthas, you shall be the sole pilots in the air. The Poseidon Spear system will be guided by your ‘Grass Python’ fighter,” came the measured voice of Cheng Wei over the radio.
“Indeed, the scions of the Rolfi family have proven themselves as warriors without equal. May fortune favor you both!”
The young Rolfi brothers exchanged glances of elation as the radio link fell silent and the countdown to battle appeared on the auxiliary screen.
“Arthas, the engine—having been forced into an overload restart—remains highly unstable. It cannot perform any extraordinary maneuvers or sustain aggressive flight, so the burden of defense falls entirely upon you,” Arthas wiped the sweat from his brow and responded resolutely to his brother.
Breton then resumed his meticulous inspection of the flight-control system. With most automatic systems offline, he had been compelled to disable every in-cockpit alarm. And yet, even with near-total manual control, the fighter maintained a remarkably steady course—a testament to his mastery as an ace pilot.
Glancing back at Arthas, Breton noted that the impish youth—once a notorious mischief-maker—was now wholly absorbed in recalibrating the weapons system beneath the diffuse glow of the red sunset seeping through the transparent canopy. A smile of quiet pride softened Breton’s features; he was convinced that all knights, imbued with an unyielding spirit akin to a burning flame, would vow to fight unto death and herald a new song of peace for mankind.
Meanwhile, at the distant command post, the knightly legion that had been withdrawn from the main battle along the coast of Bostea was rallying once more. In concert with the Church Mage Alliance, they were now advancing toward the fray in disciplined, staggered waves.
This operation embodied the final vestiges of the northern coalition’s strength; should they falter, the consequences would be beyond reckoning. Miller mused darkly—the field command had been entirely transferred to Guan Feng, supreme commander of the Qiántáng Empire’s forces. All he could do now was wait.
Outside the office’s window, the steady patter of relentless rain mingled with the gloom. There, before a luminous, milky-white statue of the Holy Lord Jesus, he stood motionless—eyes closed in solemn prayer, merging with the fragrant, ghostly mists redolent of osmanthus. In that moment, his only solace was to pray with utmost devotion, awaiting word from the front.