He knew that this storm could no longer be stopped.
And what Perfikot wanted was never peace.
What she wanted was to eliminate any future threat.
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Under Perfikot's strategy, Valken's troops, after slaughtering three tribes that had tested the Empire, did not advance further but instead stayed at a predetermined battlefield.
It was a basin surrounded by wind-eroded stone columns, low-lying terrain with towering columns creating a natural defensive barrier.
Empire engineers quickly got to work, hamring heavy steel bases into the sandy ground, and with the roar of steam engines, a small mobile Energy Tower was erected.
Coal was fed into the furnace, and white steam started to spew from the top of the tower, while an invisible thermal barrier was unfurled, gradually forming a defense against the cold.
The cold wind was blocked outside, and the temperature inside slowly rose, with even so snow closest to the Energy Tower showing signs of lting—this was the power of Empire technology, enough to carve out a haven for survival in the bitterly cold end tis.
For the Empire army, having small mobile Energy Towers ant they didn't mind temporarily setting up camp in the desert.
The soldiers skillfully set up tents, and the logistics units began installing simple stoves, collecting snow to lt into freshwater.
The glow of the Energy Tower was particularly striking in the dusk, like a lighthouse announcing the Empire's presence across the desert.
And this was precisely what the Desert Tribe craved.
They needed this technology to gain the power to survive in this frigid apocalypse.
Without the Energy Tower's shelter, the nightly low temperatures would be fatal for an entire tribe; without a stable heat source, the oasis's water source would freeze overnight into hard ice.
The Empire's technology was the hope for survival.
However, so tribes chose to submit to the Empire in exchange for the Energy Tower, offering loyalty and resources, becoming vassals of the Empire, hoping to continue their lineage under the Empire's protection.
But another part of the tribe chose to resist, unwilling to bow, preferring to seize this power with swords and blood.
Deep in the sand sea covered by eternal cold nights, fate was weaving the most brutal chapter.
The howling extre cold wind stirred up millennia of yellow sand, like heavy sighs of the gods from the clouds, witnessing this mont destined to be soaked in blood.
Forrly people drinking from the sa clear spring now drew swords against each other before the choice of survival and dignity.
Those young boys who once chased sand foxes together, those brothers who blessed each other at coming-of-age ceremonies, now had only cold killing intent in their eyes.
Young warrior Amir gripped the ancestral scimitar, the leather wrapped around the hilt still carrying the warmth of his father's palm.
Just three months ago, he and his cousin from the opposing camp were still drinking sweet tea together in the sa tent, yet now they had to fight for life and death on this ancestor-resting dune.
Tears froze into ice on his cracked face, but he gripped the sword tighter—for the tribe's elders and children shivering in the cold night, he had no other choice.
On the other side of the battlefield, the old blacksmith Salih silently sharpened the last arrow.
His three sons had all chosen to swear allegiance to the Empire, now wearing brand-new Empire uniforms.
The old man's coarse fingers brushed the arrowhead, rembering his wife's dying exhortation: "Protect our children."
At this mont, he looked up at the sky, unsure which Divine forgiveness to pray for.
The ancient desert covenant crumbled under the Empire's technological glow, as fragile as thin ice on winter nights.
anwhile, the tribal kings were strategizing in their luxurious tents.
Unlike ordinary warriors, these noble kings had neither much hatred nor loyalty toward the Empire, only calculations of interests, pondering how to secure more benefits in this war.
So were gauging the timing to surrender, while others plotted post-war interest distribution, and so had already secretly sent people to contact the Empire's secret envoys.
When Perfikot's Floating Battleship cast a huge shadow, the ordinary warriors looked up at the steel giant, their eyes reflecting despair and determination.
The lonely horn sounded across the wilderness, more piercing than the cold wind, more chilling than death.
Amir glanced one last ti toward his holand, where his aged mother and his new wife were.
He knew this battle was not about honor, only survival.
When the war drums beat, countless ordinary people like him would pay the blood price for the kings' calculations, while history wouldn't rember their nas.
As the last tribal banner appeared on the horizon, the whole desert fell into an eerie silence.
Even the never-ceasing sandstorm seed to hold its breath.
The spears of the loyalists shone cold under the moonlight, while the scimitars of the resistance flickered with bloodthirsty glints in the dark.
The sound of cal bells no longer symbolized the joy of rchant travels but turned into a funeral dirge.
Suddenly, the sky was overshadowed by a massive shadow.
Perfikot's Floating Battleship pierced through the clouds like a sword of judgnt day, the flag of the Empire's Regent fluttering in the fierce wind.
At this mont, all the resisting warriors looked up, their wind-eroded faces etched with despair and determination, forming the most tragic totem.
They knew this might be their last ti to gaze upon this sky left by their ancestors.
The lonely horn echoed across the wilderness, more piercing than the cold wind, more chilling than death.
When the first arrow split the sky, it seed the ancient Prophet's prophecy resounded among the sand grains: On this cursed land, glory and betrayal are forever intertwined, like thorns and roses in the desert.
The hiss of arrows ripping through the air hadn't faded before an arrow shower blotted out the sky, casting the shadow of death in the morning light.
War unfolded after one day and night; when the second day's sun rose, both armies had already entered the battlefield and ford their array.
The Empire legion lined up in neat iron phalanxes, the Steam Knights' armor glistening cold under the sunlight, steam-driven war machines emitting low roars.
anwhile, the resistance scattered like a desert sandstorm, cavalry deftly shuttling between sand dunes, scimitars reflecting dazzling cold light.
Perfikot stayed above on the Floating Battleship, overlooking the battlefield, with no emotion evident on her stern face.
Beneath her feet, death was weaving bloody patterns on this golden sand sea.
Resistance kings occupied a sand dune, built a high platform to watch the battle.
They wore magnificent robes but no one noticed the struggling wounded on the sand, their eyes only yearning for victory and thirsting for power.
There was neither politeness nor a session of mutual persuasion to surrender; only one from each army made a pre-battle speech to rally morale for the last ti.
From the Empire's side, General Valken's voice spread across the battlefield through amplifiers: "For the glory of the Empire!"
In the resistance camp, an elderly Shaman raised a bone staff, calling out to the Ancestral Spirit with a hoarse voice: "For freedom and dignity!"
Then the two armies began fighting, drum sounds, horn sounds, and shouts instantly breaking the desert's silence.
The Empire's heavy infantry phalanx advanced like a moving steel wall, while the resistance's light cavalry encircled from the flanks like a tide.
Arrows, bullets, and spears wove a web of death in the air, every mont claiming lives within this net.
From the onset, this war entered the bloodiest state of lee, leaving no room for probing or hesitation.
The desert trembled, the sky burned, blood soaked into the golden sand grains, turning this battlefield into a massive slaughterhouse.
The Empire soldiers' steam battle-axes cleaved through the resistance's Shields, while the resistance's scimitars sought every gap in the armor.
Here, there's no rcy, no retreat, only the most primal instinct for slaughter.
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