The march to Mount Vash was not a journey; it was an imposition.
Carillon moved at the head of his contingent—less than forty black-armored veterans and every step felt like the earth itself was protesting. The **Titanblood Physique ({T.P.}) ** was not built for human endurance; it was built for seismic, sustained annihilation. Each muscle contraction was an event, a surge of latent, destructive energy. He was perpetually on the edge of a monstrous sprint, forced to modulate his speed to the pace of his human followers.
The surviving commander, Relius (a name now etched into Carillon's mind through the W.R. skill), marched ten paces behind him, his boots squelching in the mud, his eyes fixed on the Warlord's back. Relius was hardened, but his fear was a dense, almost visible fog. It was not the fear of a subordinate for a cruel master, but the primal dread of a mortal for something that had worn the skin of the divine.
This was the chilling effect of the \text{D-Aura} married to the **Sovereign's Commandment ({S.C.}) **. Carillon hadn't needed to threaten them; he simply was the threat. The boy was dead, and what remained was a terrible, calculating clarity.
Carillon's new knowledge the amalgamation of General Kael's lifetime of strategic insight and the raw battle instincts of the Titanblood essence was overwhelming the remaining consciousness of the boy. Where the teenager saw mud and trees, the Warlord saw terrain. Where the boy felt exhaustion, the Warlord felt a growing, addictive hunger for conflict.
"The Fenshire Capital garrison is weak, but Mount Vash is strong. They rely on the Iron Gate and the natural choke points of the Ascent Road. Conventional siege is a three-week endeavor. We do not have three weeks. The {C.E.} requires acceleration."
The strategic imperatives of the Warlord Protocol were flawless, but the methods were utterly brutal. The former gamer wanted a clean, efficient solution. The Warlord demanded absolute tactical dominance.
Carillon paused at a shallow, icy river crossing. The veterans immediately stopped, freezing in place.
"Relius," Carillon rumbled, his voice cutting through the damp forest air. "The Iron Gate is protected by three layers of defensive magic. Kael's siege engine complement was destroyed in the rout. What armaments remain?"
Relius, startled to be addressed directly, snapped to attention. "W-Warlord, only our standard field complement. Axes, blades, and three thunder-lances. No siege-grade weaponry. We must wait for reinforcements from the Northern Legions."
Wait. The word was anathema to the Crimson Evolution. It was a term of weakness that carried the flavor of Carillon's old life waiting for the bullies to finish, waiting for classes to end, waiting for oblivion.
"Unacceptable," Carillon stated, the single word carrying the weight of a decree.
He walked to the edge of the clearing. He had to bridge the gap between Kael's knowledge (which taught him how to use a siege engine) and the Titanblood Physique (which allowed him to manifest one). The System called this the **Warlord's Armory ({W.A.}) **.
He closed his eyes, focusing the terrible, simmering energy the red smoke that continually seeped from the armor-like plating of his body not outward in a blast, but inward, channeling it through the System's mental interface.
I need a focused weapon. Something that ignores the Iron Gate's magic.
The raw essence of the {T.P.} obeyed, tearing a momentary fissure in the very fabric of the air before him. The red smoke intensified, coalescing, not as magic or fire, but as solid, brutal materiel. The smell of ozone and hot metal filled the clearing.
Where there was once empty air, there now rested a weapon of impossible scale: The Blood-Forged Batterer.
It was a monstrous, two-handed great-hammer. Its head was the size of a small boulder, wrought from a matte-black alloy etched with glowing crimson sigils. The handle, thick as a tree trunk, was wrapped in leather made from something impossibly durable. It weighed, Carillon estimated instantly, about two thousand pounds.
The veterans gasped, some crossing themselves, their awe now eclipsing their fear. This was not the weapon of a mortal man, but a gift from the Prime Sovereign.
Carillon casually reached out, gripping the colossal handle. His hands, even sheathed in the {T.P.} armor, strained slightly, but the hammer felt right. It was the true weight of his new power.
"This is our siege engine," Carillon declared, the hammer's head casting a dark shadow over the frightened ranks. "It bypasses the need for weeks of delay."
He looked at Relius, whose awe was now pure, unquestioning devotion. "We march now. The **Conqueror's Dominion ({C.D.}) ** begins at Mount Vash. And you, Relius, will be the first to fight under its banner."
They crossed the stream. The march was agonizingly slow, but now Carillon had the hammer, his focus sharpened. The knowledge from Kael flowed, now intertwined with the W.R.: Mount Vash was commanded by a defensive mage, Archon Lyra. She was arrogant and relied on her magical defenses.
She expects a siege line. She will receive a battering ram.
As the twilight deepened, Carillon led his small force out of the forest canopy. Before them, silhouetted against the dark sky, Mount Vash loomed a brutal fortress perched atop a narrow, rocky spire, its main weakness being the sheer arrogance of its defenders. The Iron Gate gleamed faintly with defensive glyphs.
Carillon felt the familiar surge of the Battlefield Devourer hunger. He shifted the Blood-Forged Batterer to his shoulder. It was heavy, but so was the guilt of his former life. This hammer, this war, felt lighter.
He looked at the mountain and smiled a terrifying, crimson smile that belonged only to the Warlord.