At Tywin's command, the giant crossbows and ordinary arrows shot toward Luke in a dense barrage.
Under great reward, there will always be brave n. The bounty of one hundred thousand gold dragons was enough to make many forget their fear.
The ballista operators gritted their teeth, drawing strings, loading bolts, aiming, and firing.
Even more archers joined this frenzied barrage. Arrows surged toward the sky from all directions, so thick it looked like soone had kicked over an entire beehive.
But the next second, screams erupted throughout the camp.
The arrows that had been shot out never touched Luke — they fell back down.
Unless shot straight upward, every arrow released from a bow would trace a perfect parabolic arc.
The arrows were too dense. The falling shafts struck far too many Westerlands soldiers. So were pierced through the shoulder, so pinned to the ground, so rolled on the earth clutching their eyes.
"Aaaahhh…"
Screams rose from every direction. A young soldier looked down at the arrow embedded in his thigh, the fletching still quivering slightly.
He recognized that arrow — it had just been shot by the man beside him.
"My eyes! My eyes…"
"Save ! Soone save !"
So tried to run and were struck in the back by stray arrows, collapsing. So knelt on the ground, hands covering their heads, bodies shaking.
Tents were pierced, banners were snapped, horses panicked and neighed, throwing their riders.
Luke hovered high above, watching the chaos below, and laughed loudly: "Hahahaha! Useless! You can't hurt !"
The laughter stopped abruptly.
His eyes turned cold. His wings flapped fiercely as he dove straight down. With a wave of his hand, spiritual power surged out like an invisible tide, seizing a large swath of the "arrow curtain."
The arrows still flying in the air suddenly halted, hovered for a mont, then reversed direction.
The next second, the arrows shot downward with terrifying force.
"Unforgivable!"
Luke's voice thundered across heaven and earth, filled with rage. Every word struck like thunder: "You dare raise your hands against the great Luke! This is a capital cri!"
"Aaaahhhh~"
Screams rang out without end.
The scene changed in an instant. Below beca a slaughterhouse.
Soldiers fled in all directions or knelt begging for rcy. Who still cared about their lord's orders?
So stepped on their comrades' stomachs, so tripped and were trampled by those behind them, so crawled and rolled desperately toward the edge of the camp.
The loudest shouter, Lord Crakehall, had his head pierced by a giant ballista bolt.
The long bolt slanted into the ground, its fletching still vibrating. Lord Crakehall did not fall imdiately. His body stiffened, forming a "human" shape with the bolt — like a banner nailed to the earth.
"Tywin!"
Luke hovered a dozen ters above the crowd, his eyes icy cold. The three pairs of burning wings behind him flapped slowly, sending waves of heat rolling toward the ground.
"I originally wanted to persuade you peacefully, but you have repeatedly shown contempt and even tried to kill !"
His voice beca solemn and majestic, like a priest delivering judgnt: "In the na of the Seven Gods, I sentence you to death!"
Tywin tried to flee under the protection of his attendants. The attendants clumsily supported him, running behind the tents.
The Westerlands noble lords scattered in panic. So dove into tents, so hid behind wagons, so lay flat on the ground, not daring to move.
The entire area around the central command tent descended into utter chaos.
"Look at the sky!"
Soone let out a shrill, distorted scream.
A massive "silver-and-gold" greatsword slowly appeared in the sky.
It was not an ordinary greatsword, but a colossal blade thirteen ters long, with a blade width of 0.36 ters. It looked more like a rectangular steel pillar with one end sharpened and edged.
Golden patterns were carved along the blade, gleaming blindingly in the sunlight.
It hovered directly above Tywin, slowly adjusting its angle until the tip pointed at the fleeing figure below.
Twenty thousand pairs of eyes widened, mouths agape, as if they could fit an egg inside.
In that instant, everyone's heart tightened violently. Because that giant sword plumted straight toward the earth.
A flash of insight struck Tywin Lannister. He looked up, his pupils dilated to their limit.
In that mont, countless images flashed before his eyes: his youth serving the Mad King in King's Landing, his return to the Westerlands to rebuild power, his inspections of the gold mines beneath Casterly Rock, the day he held newborn Jai, the day he watched Cersei in her wedding dress, the day he heard Joffrey had ascended the Iron Throne…
He had spent his entire life fighting for the glory of House Lannister.
He had thought he would die in bed, clutching the golden lion banner of House Lannister.
Schlick~~~
The next second, Tywin Lannister was split in half.
Under the force of gravity, the giant sword continued downward with undiminished power, sinking into the earth as smoothly as a blade cutting into a waterlon.
One-third of the blade embedded itself in the ground, standing upright in the empty space.
Thud.
Tywin's left half fell to the left.
Thud.
His right half fell to the right.
His internal organs and blood slid down along the blade, forming a dark red pool on the grey earth.
The attendant still gripping Tywin's right hand let out a horrified, blood-curdling scream — a sound like a chicken being strangled.
His hand was still in the supporting position, but now it held only half a shoulder and one arm. His face was splattered with blood, his eyes completely white.
"No! Father—"
Jai Lannister let out a grief-stricken cry, his voice cracking.
He fled desperately, seizing a warhorse beside a tent. His movents were fast and agile, but he still stumbled, tripping over sothing — perhaps a tent rope, perhaps a corpse lying on the ground.
Luke's voice once again echoed across heaven and earth, this ti carrying unquestionable judgnt: "Now I have changed my mind! You no longer have ti to think. Imdiately drop your weapons and kneel in submission!"
"Otherwise, Tywin Lannister's fate will be yours!"
He began flying at low altitude. The three pairs of burning wings swept over the crowd, the heat forcing people to retreat repeatedly. His voice ca from all directions at once, each word striking like a hamr against the heart.
"Everyone, drop your weapons imdiately! Do not think of escaping! The Seven Gods are watching you! Kneel! Submit to !"
"Traitor Tywin is dead! Those who surrender will not be killed!"
"Those who flee will be considered blasphers and sentenced to death!"
Plans could not keep up with changes.
Everyone was stunned.
Lord Tywin was dead — split in half by a sword that had fallen from the sky.
The man who had ruled the Westerlands for decades, the man feared throughout Westeros — Tywin Lannister — now lay in two halves on the muddy ground, together with the farrs he had exploited, the smallfolk he had slaughtered, and the ants he had viewed as beneath him… lying on the sa patch of earth.
"We surrender! Don't kill !"
No one knew who shouted first. Then ca the second, the third, the tenth, the hundredth. The voices rged into a wave, spreading outward from the center of the camp.
"God! He is a god! I surrender! I submit!"
"Don't kill ! I am a believer of the Seven Gods! Your Grace, forgive ! Forgive my ignorance!"
The Westerlands noble lords knelt on the ground, weeping bitterly.
Lord Leygood of Goldtooth lay prostrate, forehead pressed to the dirt, body shaking.
Lord Slynt of Silverhill knelt in a pool of blood — Tywin's blood — completely unaware.
Lord Swyft of Cornfield dropped to his knees with a heavy thud, his knees smashing against the ground. He crawled forward a few steps on hands and knees, then stopped abruptly. He saw half of Tywin's face staring at him, one eye still open.
Clatter— clatter—
One after another, they knelt.
More and more people dropped their weapons and began kneeling to beg for rcy.
The sound of weapons hitting the ground rose and fell — spears, longswords, shields, bows and arrows — clanging everywhere. Many who had just erged from tents, not understanding what was happening, were pulled down by those beside them and forced to kneel.
A wave of heat rolled over them.
Luke flew low over their heads. The heat from his three pairs of burning wings made their scalps tingle.
These "natives" felt an overwhelming urge to urinate… and it wasn't a joke. So had already wet their pants. Others were still clenching their teeth to hold it in, but their legs shook like sieves.
Luke descended near the central command tent.
The surviving Westerlands noble lords rushed over and knelt to beg for rcy, disheveled and filthy, bearing no resemblance to their previous dignified noble appearances.
So had lost their shoes, so had crooked helts, so had faces covered in blood and mud, and so had large wet patches on their trousers.
"Your Grace! I am Leygood of Goldtooth. I am willing to submit to Your Grace!" Lord Leygood knelt at the front, banging his forehead against the ground with audible thuds.
"Your Grace! I am Slynt of Silverhill. I am willing to submit to Your Grace!" Lord Slynt's voice still trembled.
"Your Grace! I am Swyft of Cornfield. I am willing to submit to Your Grace!" Lord Swyft lay prostrate, his voice high and thin.
Luke temporarily ignored them.
His gaze passed over the kneeling nobles and looked toward the edge of the camp… Jai Lannister had just mounted a horse and was charging out.
Jai's golden hair was especially striking in the sunlight. The warhorse galloped swiftly, hooves pounding, about to break out of the camp.
Bang.
One kiloter away, the Kingslayer Jai Lannister's head exploded.
Blood and brains sprayed like a waterlon being smashed. It was as if soone had planted a bomb in his brain and pressed the detonator.
The horse continued running a few more steps before his headless corpse tumbled from the saddle, rolling twice in the mud and lying still.
Those around him let out terrified screams. So covered their mouths and retched, so collapsed to the ground, so desperately backed away.
No one noticed that twenty ters above Luke's head, the muzzle of a "Barrett M82A1" was still smoking… He had used spiritual power to control the Barrett sniper rifle and executed the distant killing of the "Kingslayer" Jai Lannister!
Since Tywin was dead, there was no longer any need for House Lannister to exist… The seeds of hatred had already been sown, so it was ti to reap them!
Luke withdrew his gaze and turned to the surviving Westerlands nobles. The corners of his mouth curved upward slightly, revealing a faint smile: "I accept your fealty."
He walked toward the "giant crossbows," touching their rough fras, a mocking smile on his lips.
He had never understood the "scorpion ballista" or "dragon-slaying crossbow" setting in the original story.
Such mighty dragons could actually be killed by mortals using crossbows?
It was utterly ridiculous.
During World War II, before the invention of the VT fuze, the U.S. military needed an average of twelve thousand anti-aircraft shells to shoot down one Japanese plane. That was the result of a massive volu of anti-aircraft fire forming a high-speed interlocking net.
The maneuverability of dragons or "flying n" far exceeded that of WWII aircraft. Not to ntion instantaneous turns and sharp-angle maneuvers — even their vertical movent trajectories were dozens of tis harder to predict than planes. The firing rate, accuracy, and quantity of giant crossbows were laughable compared to WWII anti-aircraft guns.
Killing dragons with sharpshooters and giant crossbows? They must have drunk too much fake liquor.
He believed Martin had no rational understanding of the increased "complexity" of three-dinsional space, treating aerial combat like a 2D ga and placing aerial and ground units on the sa level.
But considering that "this world" was a "magical world," he would tentatively assu that "scorpion ballistae" might have magical bonuses, with 100% hit rate against dragons.
[Scorpion Ballista: Dragon Slayer, 100% hit rate against dragons]
Luke was equivalent to a "human-shaped dragon," but he did not believe these giant crossbows could kill him…
Several hours later, Luke's "National Defense Army" arrived.
After he had decided to kill, he imdiately used the "walkie-talkie" to notify the National Defense Army still stationed at Harrenhal.
In recent days, he had already set up a small "broadcast station" in Harrenhal, so Draco's radio network could now cover the entire God's Eye and surrounding areas.
Bronn led a troop of cavalry charging into the camp. Seeing the Westerlands soldiers kneeling everywhere, the giant sword still embedded in the ground, and Tywin's body split in two, he was completely stunned.
"Your Grace," he dismounted, his face full of confusion. "Didn't we agree to fight tomorrow?"
Luke sat on the high seat that had once belonged to Tywin and smiled faintly. "There was a small accident. I killed Tywin, so they all submitted to ."
Upon hearing this, the Westerlands nobles looked sowhat embarrassed. Lord Swyft of Cornfield stepped forward and said respectfully, "Your Grace, we have long wished to submit. During many previous etings, several of us lords tried to persuade the traitor Tywin Lannister to surrender, but he was obstinate. As vassals, we had no choice. Now that Tywin is dead, please accept the most sincere fealty of the Westerlands."
He knelt down, his voice rising: "Please, Your Grace, take charge of the Westerlands!"
"Please, Your Grace, take charge of the Westerlands!" The Westerlands nobles all knelt and shouted in unison.
Luke looked at them and spoke calmly: "Those who dare oppose will bring calamity upon themselves." (God help those who stand in my way!)
He paused, his voice becoming majestic: "All under heaven is the king's land; all within the borders are the king's subjects. It should be so. I accept your fealty!"
His deep, dark eyes flashed with a red light. His voice was cold as iron: "All who refuse to submit will share the fate of Tywin Lannister!"
At this mont, Lucas walked in and saluted: "Your Grace, all mbers of House Crakehall have been captured. Please decide their punishnt."
Luke nodded slightly. "Imprison them for now. We will deal with them after incorporating House Crakehall's army."
The tent fell silent. The kneeling Westerlands nobles barely dared to breathe. Only the occasional wind outside rustled the canvas of the tents with a soft flapping sound.
Luke leaned back in his chair, fingers lightly tapping the armrest.
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