Industrial Cthulhu: Starting as an Island Lord

Twenty men—no, more than thirty soldiers—were standing near the city gate.

All of them were clad in full armor, holding massive tower shields thick as doors, standing at attention and ready for battle.

Each of these soldiers was tall and sturdy, clearly chosen as elite troops. They had already spotted the Resistance Army and were quickly forming into battle lines.

Gwen turned to glance at her subordinates. Every one of them was panting, visibly exhausted—riding was indeed draining, especially for those unaccustomed to it. Controlling a horse demanded great strength.

It’s over.

There was no way they could break through.

If they couldn’t break through, they couldn’t take the inner city. And if they couldn’t take the inner city, retreat would be their only option—otherwise, they would be trapped like fish in a barrel.

But retreat meant entrusting their lives to the Winter Wolves, praying for luck—or mercy—from the other side.

Bone-White Raven, please have mercy on your children.

Gwen’s mouth was dry; cold sweat trickled down her back.

She didn’t know what to do—perhaps they could risk it; if Isaac was nearby, with his help they might have a sliver of hope. But if he wasn’t, it would be nothing but a death march.

Those shield-bearing soldiers hadn’t drawn weapons yet, but through the gaps in their shields, one could glimpse the muskets at their waists.

Gwen hesitated for only an instant before a command sounded from the opposing side:

“Soldiers, raise shields! Hold the gate!”

Should they charge? If she wanted to take the gamble, it had to be now. Once the enemy filled the gap and locked down the gate, the Resistance Army would lose all hope.

Gwen gritted her teeth, just about to give the order, when suddenly a voice came from the center of the enemy formation:

“Don’t go to the castle! There aren’t many guards inside—the castle can’t hold!”

The soldiers who had been preparing to advance halted mid-step.

“Quick! Protect me! Raise those shields and don’t you f*cking move! Don’t you see the guns aimed at us? Cover me!!”

Gwen’s eyes brightened. That voice belonged to someone of status—a noble, perhaps. The soldiers who had just received orders were now being countermanded, and the formation instantly fell into disarray. The raised shields blocked their own sightlines, leaving a slight gap at the gate once again.

“Resistance fighters! Charge with me! Our brothers are right behind us—just keep moving forward!” Gwen shouted, raising her musket and firing toward the direction of that voice without even aiming.

The soldiers behind her followed suit, shouting wildly as they fired and advanced, further throwing the enemy into chaos.

That voice cried out again, now filled with panic:

“Quick! Protect me and get me out through the west gate! Don’t argue with me—what if one of those shots hits me? Who’s the commander here—you or me? Do as I say! No firing! Retreat!”

The enemy commander’s face darkened as he watched Gwen and her troops storm into the castle. Gritting his teeth, he finally ordered a retreat.

Gwen’s heart pounded furiously; her back was drenched in cold sweat. She couldn’t believe it—they had actually scared the enemy into retreat!

She left half her men to guard the gate and led the rest forward, kicking open the castle doors.

Inside, just as the man had shouted, the defenses were sparse. Servants filled the halls, and only a handful of soldiers remained—most surrendered at the mere sight of the Resistance Army. A few servants, urged on by their butler, put up token resistance, but were quickly overwhelmed.

The main Resistance force arrived a bit later, having faced scattered guards along the way. Some surrendered, some fought to the death—but they were too few to matter.

As Gwen stood in the castle’s grand hall, watching her troops search room by room, disbelief filled her heart.

Had they really taken the castle this easily?

Was her luck truly this good?

And where was Isaac?

“My lord, we’re surrounded,” the commander said grimly.

He was one of Earl Bazel’s personal guards—a trusted man. Yet today, the Earl had refused to let him command, insisting on leading his own men to break through.

“Ignore them. Keep moving toward the gate.”

Bazel’s expression was unreadable, offering no explanation.

“My lord, they have muskets—they—”

“Raise shields!”

Bazel’s voice rang out, and the Frostsoil Guard immediately lifted their massive shields with both hands.

Such enormous tower shields greatly hindered the use of other weapons; thus, the Frostsoil Guards only carried pistols—no swords.

A scattered volley of gunfire erupted from the Resistance lines. Lead bullets struck the shields with sharp cracks.

Whatever material those shields were made from—it held firm. The interlocked shields left no gaps, and this volley caused no casualties.

“Brace shields—load powder!” Bazel barked. The soldiers lowered their shields and planted them into the ground, leaning against them as they began to load their short-barreled muskets.

They pulled small paper cartridges from their pouches, tore them open with their teeth, and poured the powder into the barrels.

Bazel paused briefly, then gave another order: “Pack tight—load ball!”

The soldiers pressed the muskets against the side of their shields, where an iron rod was attached—used both to hang equipment and to serve as a ramrod.

Once they finished loading the lead shot, Bazel shouted without hesitation: “Fire!”

The shields had a small firing recess; the soldiers braced their muskets within it and fired.

Smoke billowed. Several Resistance soldiers fell.

“Raise shields!”

Seeing that the enemy had finished reloading, Earl Bazel ordered again, and the shields were lifted to block the countervolley.

The two sides were close enough to see each other clearly.

The Resistance quickly realized—these men were walking fortresses. Their specialized shields could block musket fire, while the Resistance could only dodge and pray.

How could they even fight this?

After several futile exchanges, the Resistance grudgingly gave way. They noticed, too, that these enemies weren’t trying to hold the city—they only wanted to break out.

Soon, Bazel’s personal guard reached the city gate, opened it, and swiftly withdrew.

The Resistance soldiers hesitated, then abandoned pursuit.

Their priority now was clearing out the remaining defenders inside the castle, not throwing their lives away against these strange, retreating troops.

After leaving Sleddinburg, the commander of the Frostsoil Guard—Bazel’s lieutenant—could no longer hold back his words:

“My lord, we could’ve held the castle!”

Bazel gave him a faint, mocking smile. “And if we held it—what then?”

The lieutenant froze.

Bazel’s gaze turned toward the distant horizon. “We don’t need a peaceful Northlands. If the Resistance wants chaos, all the better. If they can’t manage it, I’ll help them. Go to Octavia’s territory.”

“The Lady Grand Duke?”

“Yes. Tell her my forces were defeated by the Resistance and that I seek her aid. Make sure the news spreads widely.”

The lieutenant scratched his head, puzzled. “Then you, my lord—are you returning to your manor to rally the troops?”

“No,” Bazel’s face darkened, his tone edged with malice. “I’m going to the woodlands of the Canary Mountains. If they can reach my castle, why shouldn’t I pay their camp a visit?”

He sneered faintly. “And perhaps I’ll see for myself whether the rumors about Lady Nora are true.”