Justinian was a fool. That was the only way to explain how he had gotten himself, but more importantly, all of those under his command, into this situation. He had personally read the reports from the Triad. He spoke to his father and heard his firsthand account of Basetown. And yet, the scale of what he was facing had never really set in.

Then again, even if he utterly understood the threat, it wouldn't have changed anything. It would have been his and Ironhold's duty to stand until relieved. That didn't make him feel any better. In fact, it only put a sour, bitter taste in his mouth, as he was confident the only ones coming to their rescue would be his father and anything he could pry away from the Triad.

What would that amount to? A few centuries? A cohort? No, that number of legionaries wouldn't make a difference here. What Ironhold needed was legions to have arrived days, preferably weeks, ago, and then perhaps, he could believe that they would have a chance to hold.

It was no exaggeration to say that beastkins were everywhere. Worse, they were preparing like any seasoned legion assaulting a manned fortress. For days now, the number of beastkins on the mountain slopes deeper into the range had increased daily. Every night, their campfires they had were multiplying at an exponential rate, and the trees on the hillsides were vanishing just as fast every morning.

And what could he do about the increasing number of beastkins? Nothing. It was only thanks to their sheer numbers and locust-like tendencies that he could discern they were even miles away on the sides of distant mountains. Whatever they were planning, assaulting the walls of the fortress directly wasn't it, as the high noble had yet to spot a single piece of siege equipment.

Still, he wanted to attack the camps, even though he knew it would amount to a minor inconvenience. Only the knowledge they he and whoever he brought would immediately be set upon once they stepped outside the gates, by the birds blocking out the sky, kept that impulse in check.

Speaking of the flyers, constantly having to worry about a creature swooping down and attacking was bad enough. A worry in the back of a legionary's mind that would eventually wear them down into exhaustion. Except, not a single one of the birdkin had done so. No, what they had decided to do was far worse.

A few were capable of throwing fireballs to scorch farms, granaries, and anything else flammable, but that was manageable. However, every one of the creatures was capable of dropping fist-sized stones from outside of bow range. Hundreds had already been killed, and when the fighting actually started, that number would spike, or they would quickly run out of psy attempting to block the attacks.

Justinian himself could go up to confront the birds, and he had on several occasions, but the results were mixed at best. The beasts would never confront him head-on. They would dive and swoop around him, the whole time sending out blasts of wind and fire. Inconsequential things… or so he thought at first.

Every attack sapped away more of his psy than it should have. Not only that, but the attacks directly disrupted the cohesion of his domain, something that he had never experienced or even heard of happening. The result was like standing in a windstorm and trying to swat the leaves of a tree out of the air.

One time, his anger and frustration had gotten the better of him. Before he realized what was happening, not only was he no longer preventing them from bombarding Ironhold, but he had also been lured to where more of the beasts could attack him from all sides. There was a genuine moment in that fight where he wasn't sure he would be able to return to the safety of the walls alive. The chilling realization was the final nail that forced Justinian to come to terms with the fact that he could only hide behind the walls and wait for the inevitable.

With no way to prevent it, all the Olimpians could do was suffer through the minor annoyances, their strength constantly being leeched away. Silently watching as thousands upon thousands of foes appeared outside their walls.

That wasn't to say they did nothing. No, by the second day that bands of beastkins were spotted on the distant mountain slopes, setting up large camps, even the most stubborn minds had come to the realization that they were in trouble. Everyone felt the need to support the defense, and Justinian had no qualms about putting them to work.

Under his personal supervision, Justinian had the road outside the walls destroyed for half a mile and deep trenches dug into the ground across the valley. Unused buildings inside the walls were dismantled and used to construct barricades. Once these were made, the remaining material was stockpiled as ammunition at the tops of the walls. Food and water were collected and stored, and anything and everything else people could think of was done, but it never felt like enough to the high noble.

Every day, his people worked until they collapsed into their beds in exhausted slumber, and then they rose to repeat the process. The only odd part was that no one complained about the work. Though maybe it wasn't that strange, as the growing fear and anxiety that was looming over the town was ever-present. The dark, cloying emotions wore the people down, causing them to become snippy and quick to lash out and berate those who made mistakes, because they could feel that their fate hung by a thread.

It didn't help morale that some decided to flee, climbing down the southern wall and disappearing into the night. Unsurprisingly, the former governor was one such coward, not that Justinian cared about the man. Having him disappear was actually a blessing, one less worry.

Regardless of how this turned out, the former petty noble would never regain his standing. Still, Justinian decided to send out a messenger, turning the fool into a wanted man who always had to look over his shoulder for the civic guard. A thought that put a vindictive smile on Justinian's face.

His action was an impulse decision to be sure, though perhaps some part of him was starting to realize the direction the wind was blowing, and he wanted to save someone… Justinian really didn't know for sure what his intentions were, as most of his attention was focused on ensuring no one else attempted to desert. However, that was a pointless concern.

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On the morning after the governor disappeared, screams sounded, and after a quick investigation, Justinian realized he had made a mistake. No, all of them made the assumption that the beastkins were humans. Well, maybe not humans, but definitely not beastkins either.

Justinian had subconsciously placed them in a middle ground where they possessed all the worst traits of both, yet the opposite was true. While all of their attention was focused north, the beastkins had sent groups through the nearly impassible mountainous terrain to encircle them.

Not that the beastkins weren't already on the southern side of the city with the flyers present, but having wolves on both sides of their walls… That was a psychological blow few could take without staggering. And even the most stoic were rocked as the heads of the deserters were dropped into the town squares. Some were even so distraught that they collapsed and could only rock back and forth, fear flowing off them.

Amongst all this, the beastkins on all sides continued to increase in number, until Justinian could no longer accurately count them. His best estimates put the… army, as while it wasn't a legion, it damn well wasn't a hoard either, of upwards of seventy thousand. A number that was only growing as more beastkin flooded into the area, showing no signs of slowing.

If one thing became clear, it was that this force was something capable of bringing Olimpia to her knees if it was allowed to run rampant. All that stopped it… No, that wasn't even true. Ironhold was not stopping the beastkin. They could go around at will. At most, it was slowing them down.

But again, it didn't matter. The beastkin clearly wanted this town. The reasons for their desire didn't matter. Their duty didn't matter at this point either. The beastkin have made no effort to offer peace or terms for surrender, although Justinian would have never considered it anyway. The inhabitants would fight to defend themselves because they saw no other path to life.

And hopefully, somebody would come to their aid… a hope that had burned in their hearts for days at this point. Now, however, that hope was sputtering out. The beastkins were preparing to do something, and their confidence in the results sent a shiver of anxiety down his spine, although he didn't let it show.

"Stand strong," Justinian called to those around him. "We have the walls, and they will break against it." The uneasy shuffling of the militia around him stopped at the words, as they were reminded that they were on a hundred-something-foot wall.

However, his words and feigned confidence could only do so much against the ranks upon ranks of beastkins stretching down the road a mile from the walls… That was it. They weren't positioned along the valley with siege towers, battering rams, or absurdly long and impractical ladders. The beastkins were standing along the road and looked to be impatient, if anything. Like a hundred-foot wall with thousands of defenders wasn't standing in their way.

Their confidence was staggering, and the reason for their strange belief had to lie with the wagons positioned at their front. Except wagons… was a small word to describe the number of wooden beds on wheels placed before the walls of Ironhold. A dozen caravans that had hundreds of carts within them would be hard-pressed to contain their numbers.

Small wagons on two wheels, large ones on four, a couple of carriages, and the kind of cart that traveling merchants used to show off their wares and live in. Every type of wagon was represented in the collection. They also had something else in common: their contents were covered. It appeared to the high noble that enough heavy fabric had been gathered to replace the sails of every ship within the Republic and still have some to spare.

It was disconcerting. What was worse than the mystery of what was being concealed was the shimmering dome of semi-translucent crimson light covering the wagons. A mysterious casting that was capable of deflecting boulders without missing a beat, a fact the noble personally tested. Needless to say, the morale of Justinian's troops was low.

In sharp contrast to the anxious Olimpians, the beastkins were stamping their feet and clapping their hands, and then Justinian felt the cold hand of fear clench his heart as he felt a ripple pass through him. It wasn't a wind, and it wasn't psy, but it was some kind of power.

It only took a moment to find its source. In the center of the thousands of carts, a dark light had blossomed. In the first moments, Justinian thought that it was black, which didn't make sense at all. How could a light be black? However, as the waves of power spread, the noble realized his mistake. It wasn't black, it was red so deep that it took on that tint.

As the concentration of power spread out, it assumed its proper form. It was the essence of blood. The lifeforce of his people.

Justinian's fear vanished at the realization, but he could not stop himself from silently watching the atrocity taking place. Rage had replaced his fear, but what he was witnessing was such a grand display of power and control that all he could do was watch.

An ocean of blood washed over the ground and crashed against the northern walls of Ironhold. The overwhelming smell of copper and iron filled the air, so much so that he could taste it on his tongue, and he could feel the deaths of tens of thousands pressing against his mind.

His people. Those he was meant to defend, while he partied and visited petty balls in the capital, drinking late into the darkness until the night abruptly became morning. It was shameful. It was a disgrace. Worse, the emotions imbued into the energy tore at his soul as he felt the pain, despair, and agony of their final moments. The countless conglomeration of voices called out to him and judged him for his actions, or the lack thereof.

That was only the first explosive second. Like the earth had split, and the very life essence of the world was pouring out, more blood energy appeared. It crashed and beat against the walls of Ironhold. With every surge, it went higher and higher, until, if he desired, Justinian could bend over and run his hands through the energy.

He didn't, not because he didn't feel the impulse, but because he felt that doing so would be a desecration of the dead. It might be a pebble being dropped onto a mountain at this point, meaningless in the grand scheme of things. However, a line needed to be drawn somewhere, and this was his.

All around him, he was not the only one repulsed. Up and down the wall, men were doubled over, hacking and heaving at the overwhelming scent of blood. Others were sobbing or screaming, whether in defiance or sorrow, Justinian did not know.

Seconds passed, and it seemed as if the churning energy would spill over the walls and sweep them away, but then it started to recede. Out in the center of the blood lake, a whirlpool had appeared as the energy was sucked down. As fast as it rose, the energy lowered, but before the ground was visible, a mass broke through the water's surface as an abomination stood to its full height.

In the center of the conflagration was a giant that took on a twisted mockery of a man. An amalgamation of exposed muscles, sinew, and bone exposed to the sun, mostly in the shape of a human.

As the creature, whose head was level with the top of the wall, threw back its head, it released a bellow that shook the ground. The air vibrated from the noise, and some were knocked off their feet by a shockwave. The waters still sloshing against its calves, the giant turned its head and stared at the wall, its eyes burning a deep crimson.

If one thing had become clear, Justinian should never have tried to hold the city. He was an utter fool. This was not a fight that he could win, and the beastkins knew it. They didn't even see him as an obstacle. If he had to guess, he was only a test subject for their newest weapon.

Enhancing his body and sending out a pulse, Justinian shouted, hoping that he could still save some of his people, "Retreat~!"

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