Industrial Cthulhu: Starting as an Island Lord

“Gwen, we held the line.”

Several soldiers collapsed to the ground, covered in dust and grime, too exhausted to move a muscle—yet smiles still bloomed on their faces.

Gwen leaned on her longsword, standing atop the castle wall, gazing downward.

The allied army of the Three Grand Dukes had finally retreated, leaving behind a field of corpses and a fortress riddled with wounds.

How many assaults had there been this month? Seven? Ten?

Gwen could no longer remember.

She numbly directed her subordinates to treat the wounded and gather supplies, yet her heart was sinking deeper with each passing moment.

“Big Sister Gwen, will we always be guarding this place?”

Gwen turned around and looked down at the boy standing before her.

He had grown taller over the past half year—though still a bit short.

Grisha shifted his crutch. His left pant leg hung empty, and when his right foot touched the ground, it made a crisp, metallic sound.

That was the result of the allied forces’ assault four months ago. Back then, they had even breached the outer walls. The Resistance had clung to the castle until nightfall, only reclaiming the outer district under the cover of darkness.

Grisha had shot down three enemies with his bow before the fourth caught up to him. One slash—and he became a head shorter.

Gwen had bandaged his wounds and carved him a wooden prosthetic. Grisha loved it. Gwen only felt heartbreak.

She tried to squat down, but after standing on the wall for so long, her legs had no strength left. She simply fell onto the ground.

The girl did not care. Her clothes were covered in dust and dried blood—hard to tell whether she or the ground was dirtier.

“Grisha, do you miss home?”

The boy shook his head. “I lost my home long ago. I can’t go back to White Raven. Wherever the Resistance goes, I’ll go too.”

But the Resistance could go nowhere.

Gwen gave a bitter smile and shook her head, swallowing the words in her heart.

Over the past half year, the Resistance had fought too many battles.

Earl Bazel had been gravely wounded in the battle of the Woodlands. The other three ambitious Grand Dukes immediately formed a coalition, claiming to aid Bazel in wiping out the Resistance—while secretly intending to seize his territory.

The coalition focused their main forces on Bazel’s other lands, not in a rush to take Sleddinburg. Their attacks were little more than performances.

But what was “pretending to fight” for the allied army required every ounce of strength for the Resistance to withstand.

Had the Grand Dukes truly gone all out—or even stopped deliberately holding back—this fortress would have long been reduced to rubble.

Gwen’s gaze moved past Grisha, peering through a gap in the battlements toward the enemy camp outside the castle.

Endless rows of tents stretched across the plains, each flying a different banner. Though nominally allied, the three factions were clearly divided.

Gwen knew these soldiers were not guarding against them. The Northlands had already fallen into chaos, with battles raging everywhere. Most of the encampments didn’t even face their direction.

But for Sleddinburg, that was still an impassable chasm.

The Resistance was trapped within the fortress—with no way out.

Taking a deep breath, forcing down her unease, Gwen rose to her feet.

It was not yet time to rest.

She ordered the soldiers to move aside the rubble, rescue the trapped wounded, count the fallen, tally the broken weapons and spent ammunition.

From the walls to the courtyard, then to the barracks,

  Gwen worked until the world spun around her.

“Big Sister Gwen… Big Sister Gwen?”

The call came several times before Gwen came back to herself. “I’m fine, Grisha.”

She turned her head—only to find she had mistaken the voice. It wasn’t the stubborn boy but another little girl standing before her.

The girl held up a piece of flatbread with both hands, glancing up timidly.

Gwen blinked, took the bread, and reached out to pat her head—but the child quickly turned and ran, hiding behind an old granny while peeking out from behind her skirt.

Looking down at herself—filthy, bloodstained—Gwen gave a self-mocking smile and began eating the bread in large bites.

“Don’t mind her, Lady Gwen. The little one’s just shy.” The old woman chuckled, opening a wooden lunchbox that held a bowl of hot soup with floating leaves.

“Just call me Gwen. You’ve had it hard too, these past months.”

“Hard or not, it doesn’t matter. We used to toil all season to grow wheat, but once the lord’s tax officer came, we were left with nothing. We harvested so much grain, yet still starved.”

“But we also took much of that grain. Many of the young men who joined the Resistance never came back from the battlefield.” Gwen’s voice grew heavy, and the bread in her mouth turned dry as sand.

The old woman shook her head.

“There are always times of hunger. When food ran short, didn’t you starve with us? The ones who kept us from eating weren’t you Resistance folks—they were the bandits in fine clothes.”

From behind the old woman, the little girl poked her head out. “Big Sister Gwen, can we beat them?”

Gwen gulped down a mouthful of soup, forcing the food in her mouth to go down. She stuffed the remaining half of the bread into her coat, wiped her hands with a leaf, and sat on a stone. But she couldn’t bring herself to give a certain answer.

At last, she closed her eyes and muttered in resignation, “If… if there’s a miracle…”

Suddenly, she opened her eyes in surprise—a small, warm hand rested gently on her head, comforting her.

When Gwen looked up, the little girl jumped in fright and withdrew her hand.

The old woman laughed, wheezing like a leaky bellows. “Hehe, Lady Gwen, I’ve lived long enough to see it all—meteors falling into seas of fire, empires rise and crumble, the White Calamity devouring a kingdom, the ocean drying and filling again. Miracles—well, you never know.”

“That’s right, you never know, Big Sister Gwen!” the little girl said earnestly, peeking out again.

“Miracles…”

Gwen gripped her sword and looked around her.

The craftsmen were directing the townsfolk to bring stones to repair the walls; the medics were changing bandages for the wounded; young men, holding the hands of fallen friends, turned to sign up at the recruitment tent; the cook missing an eye cheerfully carried a pot of hot porridge.

Outside were powerful enemies who could crush them at any time—but inside the fortress, the people’s eyes still burned with hope.

They were the Resistance. They had never given up the fight.

Gwen took a deep breath and stood up.

The soup she had just drunk warmed her whole body. Fear and confusion melted away. Flexing her limbs, she once again became that fearless girl.

“Boss! Gwen! Lady Gwen! Come look, quick!” chaotic shouts came from the wall above.

“They’re retreating!”