Gunmage-Chapter 43: Kindling the flames

The sailors moved with urgency, their boots resting against the wooden decks of the landing crafts as they pushed out into the Devil Sea.

They rowed hard, their muscles straining against the current, until they reached the looming wreck of an FSV-12.

It was the most battered of the warships, its hull pockmarked with scars of battle, its smokestacks crooked, and its iron plating rusted from prolonged exposure to salt and wind.

Yet, the heart of the beast still held promise.

Engines roared to life as fire flared in the ship's depths. The old boiler room, long dormant, was revived as engineers shoveled coal into its hungry maw.

Steam hissed through the pipes, and the ship groaned as it shuddered awake. Black smoke began to rise from its stack.

Slowly, then with increasing momentum, the warship began to move.

It wasn't a simple launch, it was a charge. The FSV-12 was not meant to return to sea. It was meant to deliver one final act of destruction.

The massive iron bow cut through the waves as the ship raced toward the shore, its engines stoked to the limit.

All sailors aboard barely held on as it picked up speed, the force of its movement threatening to tear apart its already fragile structure.

The shoreline approached rapidly, and still, the crew did not falter. They remained in the boiler room, shoveling fuel with reckless abandon.

Then came the impact.

With a thunderous roar, the FSV-12 slammed into the sandy shore. The earth trembled as the weight of the iron leviathan crushed rock and sediment beneath it.

Waves surged forward, then retreated in chaos, their patterns disturbed by the sheer force of the collision. The ship's hull split the land, embedding itself deep into the coast like a blade.

The reverberations from the crash could be felt miles away.

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The ship would never sail again—but that was the plan.

Townsfolk, engineers, and craftsmen swarmed the beached behemoth almost immediately, their tools in hand, ready to dismantle the war machine piece by piece.

Timber, steel plating, artillery components, every salvaged part was claimed and sorted for repurposing. Prince Lovainne had seized a rare opportunity, and he would not let it go to waste.

The warship was only the beginning.

Half of the remaining soldiers, alongside thousands of civilians, were pressed into service with shovels, pickaxes, and whatever tools could be scavenged.

The labor was immense, and the scope of the project was almost unthinkable. An artificial channel that would connect the Devil Sea to the Roch River.

Now that the spies were gone, Lovainne intended to carve a path wide and deep enough to allow their remaining ships to be transported inland, away from the cursed waters and into strategic positions.

The worksite became a living organism, moving in perfect, desperate rhythm. The clang of metal against stone, the grunts of laborers, and the barks of overseers filled the air.

Engineers marked the terrain, directing teams to the most efficient digging points. There were no breaks, no moments of stillness.

If they succeeded, the enemy would be blindsided.

The high ranking officers were initially skeptical, creating a channel wide and deep enough to transport their warships in under 2 months was plain impossible.

However, once the Prince explained the full details of his plan their worries evaporated into thin air.

Whilst the soldiers were hard at work, the mages didn't really have much to do.

Lugh was pulled from his thoughts as he stood in a building, being measured for a refitted officers uniform.

Not just him, Lyra, Xhi, and even Vaelith the elf were receiving the same treatment under the major general's orders.

It was an unexpected move, but Lovainne clearly intended to formalize their status within the Ashborn Corps.

When the fitting was complete, Lugh observed himself in the polished steel mirror. He now wore the coal-black uniform of an officer, its tailored fit exuding both authority and menace.

Crimson trimmings ran along the seams, a stark contrast to the dark fabric. His high-collared jacket bore the emblem of a burning war banner with its scorched edges, embroidered with alchemical threads that shimmered faintly under the light.

His gloves, lined with heat-resistant materials, had flame motifs etched into the knuckles, while his engraved belt bore a motto of the Ophris army, officially known as the Ashborn Corps.

"Fire without warmth, destruction without mercy"

The armband on his left bicep carried the burning rose, the proud insignia of Ophris. The outfit was completed with a black and red officer's cap.

Lyra, too, was clad in the striking uniform, her long hair and graceful posture making her look every bit the commanding officer she wasn't.

As for Xhi, seeing the priestess in such clothing was quite frankly... an entirely new experience.

At least she liked it.

Lovainne had already finished reorganizing the remnants of his forces.

Despite their losses in the Devil Sea, the Ashborn Corps remained a fearsome force. Training exercises resumed far from town, ensuring secrecy while maximizing efficiency.

Fires roared across the plains as squads drilled their signature tactics, refining the infamous 'Hellspawn' strategy.

Lugh, along with the others, had taken the opportunity to observe. What he saw left him speechless. The soldiers of Ophris moved like demons given form, their methods terrifyingly efficient.

Xhi, usually composed, frowned deeply.

"This is... concerning"

She murmured.

Lugh cast her a curious glance. Even Vaelith, who had seen many battles, seemed unsettled.

Lyra, however, only sighed in nostalgia. She had tried to reintegrate with the army, but her presence—combined with her beauty and mysterious aura—kept most at a respectful distance.

Even when higher-ranked officers approached her, they did so with rigid formality.

Lugh himself had other concerns. His name had begun spreading through the ranks. The rumors about his unnatural eye were evolving.

Some whispered that it was a birth defect, others claimed he had been wounded in battle. Some, however, believed darker tales. Thst he had been cursed by the sea, or that he was a monster in human skin.

Lugh paid the rumors no mind. His focus was elsewhere.

For three days now, his puppet, Riley—also known as The Fisherman—had been traveling on horseback toward the old capital city.

He would soon arrive.

It was time to give the soldiers of Heieg a taste of their own medicine.