Chapter 64: The Magic Cannon’s First Battle

A thunderous roar echoed across the Silva Plains.
It was the sound of overwhelming, unreasonable violence—civilization’s newest instrument brought to the battlefield for the first time.

Under Zenon’s instruction, the twenty magic cannons continued to play their merciless melody of death, as calmly and precisely as if performing on finely crafted instruments.

The first volley was shrapnel rounds for wide-area suppression.
It plunged the enemy’s frontline infantry into panic, shattering their morale completely.

The second volley was armor-piercing rounds.
Their targets were the Empire’s heavy cavalry units.
Iron slugs fired at extreme velocity pierced the Empire’s proud steel armor as if it were paper, turning both horse and rider into indistinguishable mince.
Heavy knights—once the pride of the battlefield—could not demonstrate even a shred of their valor before becoming nothing more than twisted metal and mangled flesh.

And then came the third volley.
The target: the main camp where General Vargas had taken position.

The shells exploded into massive fireballs, obliterating the command tent entirely.
The blast and shockwave sent nearby soldiers flying like dry leaves.

“Guh… aaah…!”

General Vargas survived by sheer miracle—but only barely.
The blast flung him like a rag doll, battering his entire body.
One arm bent at an impossible angle; blood ran down his face.
His ears rang with an endless shrill tone—he could no longer hear the screams of his men.

(…What… what is happening…?)

His consciousness wavered.

Was this war?
He wasn’t even permitted to fight back.
All he could do was endure the iron rain pouring down from the heavens.
The pride of knights, the bravery of commanders—they meant nothing before this overwhelming force.

The kingdom soldiers advancing forward were equally stunned.
The Empire’s army—the same enemy they had struggled against for so long, losing so many comrades—

…was being annihilated like helpless children.

A terrifying certainty burned itself into their minds:

(…Our commander is not human.)
(…He is a god of war—no, a demon.)

What they felt toward Zenon was no longer mere fear.
It was becoming something more primitive—akin to religious worship toward a being beyond human understanding.

“…All batteries, cease fire.”

Zenon’s calm voice echoed in the ears of the artillery crew watching from within the forest.

“We move to the final phase.”

As the bombardment ceased, only corpses and the groans of the wounded remained on the plain.
The Imperial Army was no longer a functioning force.
No organized resistance remained—only terrified survivors fleeing in panic.

“To all units of the Kingdom Army,”

Zenon’s voice resonated again in every soldier’s mind.

“…We begin the mopping-up operation.
However, unnecessary killing is forbidden.
Any who drop their weapons and surrender are to be taken as prisoners.
Eliminate only those who resist.”

The soldiers hesitated.
These were the same enemies who had so brutally slaughtered their comrades.
Forgive them?

No—this was not mercy.
They quickly understood the true reasoning.
Prisoners were valuable labor and crucial bargaining chips for postwar diplomacy.
Zenon was already looking far beyond the battle—into the aftermath of the war itself.

“…Advance,”

General Gustav ordered with a trembling voice.
Any feelings of resentment or resistance he once held toward Zenon were gone.
All that remained was dread—dread of having glimpsed the abyss of this terrifying genius’s mind.

The kingdom’s fifteen thousand soldiers resumed their advance.
But this was no longer a battle.
It was work—simple, methodical work.
Disarming Imperial soldiers too broken to even resist.

Meanwhile in the rear:
Hector’s First Unit of the Arclight forces wiped out the Empire’s isolated supply corps.
And Zenon and Gray’s Second Unit completely sealed off the escape routes of the fleeing Imperial soldiers, trapping them like rats within the massive cage of the Silva Plains.

The encirclement was flawless.
Five thousand Imperial frontline troops were effectively annihilated that day—
while the Kingdom suffered only a few dozen casualties.
A result so unbelievable it would be remembered for generations.

The Battle of the Silva Plains—Later historians would name it:

“The Miracle of Berstein.”

But few truly understood what had happened behind the scenes— how everything had been orchestrated by the cold, meticulous calculations of a single rationalist.

That evening, as the sun set over the battlefield,
Zenon looked upon the scene from horseback.
Victorious soldiers celebrating.
Prisoners hanging their heads in defeat.
Not a single emotion stirred in his blue eyes.

(…Phase One, complete.)

His mind was already calculating the next steps.
The Empire’s main army was still intact.
This victory was only local—just the beginning.

The battle he never wanted had given him overwhelming victory—
and that victory was the very thing dragging him deeper into the inescapable swamp of war.

It was only the beginning.