Chapter 516 Submitting to the Heavenly Demon God Sect

The scene shifts to Marseille.

The walls of Marseille are built of obsidian and hemlock, and every seam is soaked with the blood and sweat of three generations.

At this moment, it is being crushed by 100,000 allied troops.

It wasn't a siege, it was an crushing defeat.

Catapults were not siege weapons, but living creatures—they crouched on the hills, their thick winches stretched taut and bluish-purple, each burst of power like a giant beast beating a drum in its chest.

As the trigger fell, a muffled tremor tore through the air, and the oil canisters, like sulfur-coated meteors, streaked with scarlet flames, tracing deadly parabolas.

"boom!"

The first explosion resounded in the eastern gate's barbican, and scorching flames instantly soared three zhang high, licking the oak beams of the battlements. The acrid smell mixed with gunpowder smoke and the pungent odor of burning flesh was so thick that it was impossible to open one's eyes, and even breathing carried the scalding smell of rust.

A young knight was thrown off balance by the blast wave and rolled to Hua Tianyou's feet. His helmet was askew, revealing half of his face, which was blackened by smoke. His lips moved silently, but only a string of white foam came out—he could no longer smell fear, only the excruciating pain of his lungs being burned.

On the city wall, Hua Tianyou was clad in black armor, a broken arrow still lodged in his shoulder armor, its fletching trembling slightly like the tail of a dying serpent. An ordinary person would have already fainted from blood loss. But Hua Tianyou merely raised his hand to wipe away the blood and sweat trickling from his forehead—the blood was dark red, the sweat cold, mixed together, dripping down his chin, leaving a small, dark stain on the collar of his armor, like a lingering cinnabar mark.

His gaze was sharp as a knife, sweeping across the undulating black tide below the city—the Marquis Henry's golden lion banner, fluttering in the wind amidst the papal banners, seemed to already consider Marseille as his possession.

But Hua Tianyou saw further: he saw that under the golden lion banner, the soldiers' eyes were not filled with the fanaticism of certain victory, but with a weary numbness; he saw the edges of the holy banner, with several tears torn by the wind, like festering wounds; he even heard the suppressed coughs coming from the distant tents—the sobs of lungs eroded by sand and cold after a long journey.

Just as the 100,000-strong allied army was fiercely attacking the city, the black tide suddenly receded as if it were receding.

There were no bugles, no retreat drums, and not even a single flag fell.

Only the wind, blowing in from some mountain valley, carrying fine sand and gravel, swirled and rushed towards the camp.

Yellow sand filled the sky, obscuring all flags and all expressions.

One moment the army of 100,000 was like an iron wall, the next it turned into a blurry, flowing gray shadow, silently and swiftly retreating to the north.

Before long, a deathly silence, even more suffocating than the sound of gunfire, enveloped the area around Marseille.

The defenders stood frozen at the crenellations, their spears trembling slightly, unsure whether to raise them to the sky in celebration or continue aiming at the dissipating gray mist.

Count Cassio shoved his guards aside and staggered to the highest beacon tower. He stared intently at the expanse of yellow sand, his lips moving silently as if questioning the heavens: "What's going on?!"

......

That night, in the darkest underground wine cellar in Marseille, the candlelight flickered like ghostly eyes.

Count Casio sat behind a crippled oak table, an intelligence report spread out before him: it had been brought back by an old soldier who had once infiltrated the Papacy's logistics corps. The old soldier had three new scars on his face and only half of his right ear remained, but he had licked a parchment letter with the tip of his tongue and then pressed it tightly to the old scar on his chest. Clearly, the old soldier had gone through a near-death experience before handing it to the Count.

By candlelight, Count Cassio unfolded the letter.

The ink was still wet, each word like an icicle, piercing his pupils:

To the Marquess Henry:

...The borders of our divine kingdom are in dire straits! The Tsarist Empire has brazenly invaded! We have been ordered by the Pope to immediately return our troops to reinforce the front lines. As for the situation in Marseille, we will consider it once the situation within the Papacy has stabilized. --Cardinal Silas"

"Shelved?" Count Cassio muttered to himself, his throat bobbing as he let out a cold laugh that was almost a sob.

He suddenly understood—the Marquis of Henry hadn't withdrawn his troops, but rather, without the support of the Papacy, he absolutely couldn't take Marseille, so he fled first.

When the Marquis of Henry attacked Marseille, his proud 100,000-strong allied army was nothing more than a disposable cog in the vast machine of the Papacy's divine kingdom. When the real storm arrived, he was even stripped of the right to serve as cannon fodder.

......

After Count Cassio understood the reasons for the retreat of the 100,000-strong allied army, he left Marseille's darkest underground wine cellar.

It was evening when he returned to the Earl's mansion.

At this moment, a jet-black warhorse, like a black lightning bolt carrying blood and fire, ignored the guards on both sides of the mansion and smashed open the bronze gate of the mansion's front courtyard! The horse's hooves shattered the blue bricks, and what splashed up was not gravel, but sparks flying everywhere—the horse was covered in blood, its mane was stuck together with sweat and blood, and its four hooves flew as if it were walking on thin air.

The rider was exhausted and lay slumped on the saddle, his armor torn apart, his left arm severed at the elbow. The cut was tightly bound with a strip of burning cloth, but dark red blood still dripped onto the blue brick ground, blooming into tiny and ferocious ink plum blossoms.

What he was clutching tightly in his hand was not a military command flag, but a scroll of sheepskin letter paper.

The letter was wrapped with three purple-gold threads, at the ends of which hung a small, lifelike emblem of the Tsarist Empire.

The messenger tumbled off his horse, coughing up a mouthful of black blood, but he still struggled to raise the scroll high with his remaining right hand, presenting it to the tower window—where a solitary lamp was burning quietly.

Upon seeing this, a servant stepped forward to take the letter, but Hua Tianyou, who had just arrived, raised his hand to stop him.

The movement was extremely light, yet it carried an undeniable air of authority. The servant's hand froze in mid-air, his fingertips trembling slightly.

Hua Tianyou walked up to the dying knight and, without saying a word, slowly knelt on one knee. This action struck all the guards, servants, and even the archers watching from the tower like lightning, causing them to freeze instantly.

He reached out, not to snatch it, but to gently support the messenger's raised wrist.

His wrist was withered and thin, and his pulse was as weak as a candle flickering in the wind.

For the first time, Hua Tianyou's gaze truly fell on the messenger's face.

It was a face utterly ravaged by wind, sand, and war, with high cheekbones and deep-set eyes. Only its eyes shone with an astonishing brightness, like two clusters of eerie blue will-o'-the-wisps that refused to be extinguished in the ashes.

"What's your name?" Hua Tianyou's voice was deep, yet strangely it drowned out the sound of the wind in the courtyard.

The messenger's lips moved, uttering a few broken syllables: "...A...Er..."

"Alpha?" Hua Tianyou repeated, then shook his head. "No, it's Alpha. Please give this letter to Hua Tianyou."

As the words fell, the eerie blue flame in the messenger's eyes finally extinguished. The letter scroll in his hand slipped silently to the ground.

Hua Tianyou caught it with both hands.

The moment his fingertips touched the rolled-up sheepskin, a strange warm current surged from his fingertips into his meridians! It wasn't internal force, nor true qi, but a wisp of demonic energy.

Hua Tianyou trembled violently, and his pupils suddenly contracted!

He suddenly looked up and gazed northward. The night was as dark as ink, but he seemed to see the young man in black robes standing with his hands behind his back in the Tsarist Empire, his clothes fluttering, his gaze piercing through the endless darkness, looking at him across the distance.

Hua Tianyou no longer hesitated. He carefully untied the purple-gold thread and unfolded the rolled-up sheepskin letter.

The ink is deep and somber, yet the characters are as if carved by a knife and axe, each stroke seemingly containing immense power, carrying a resolute determination to sever all illusions.

"Heavenly Demon Lord:"

"From this day forward, contact Ruolan City and Silvermane City to form a 'Three-City Alliance' with Marseille City, open the English battlefield, and fully support the Tsarist Empire's war of unification. Once the Tsarist Empire defeats the Papal Kingdom, I will assist them in unifying the far west. —Shen Mo"

After reading it, Hua Tianyou's fingertips trembled slightly. The thin sheet of paper seemed to weigh a ton, pressing down on his knuckles until they turned white.

He raised his head, his gaze passing over the letter and once again turning towards the Tsarist Empire.

That gaze was no longer the sharp look it had during the day when it surveyed the enemy, but a deep, unfathomable solemnity mixed with turbulent waves.

His mind was filled with doubt: Why would his lord support the Tsarist Empire? Why would he support the Invincible Duke, who was once his enemy?

Supporting him would be tantamount to handing over one's father's lifelong pride to the enemy. Is this... forgiveness, or a greater ambition?

However, as his gaze slowly returned to the end of the letter, a line of small characters, like a thunderclap from the heavens, exploded deep within his consciousness:

"The Tsarist Empire has submitted to the Heavenly Demon God Sect."

In an instant, Hua Tianyou felt as if he had been struck by lightning from the heavens, his blood boiling violently! He even stopped breathing for a moment.

He clenched his fists instinctively, his nails digging deep into his palms, a metallic sweetness spreading across his tongue—not pain, but ecstasy, a trembling rush of blood! It was a dizzying, almost divine sensation, as if the solid earth beneath his feet was rising, transforming into a cloud platform supporting the stars.

Submission? His former enemy! The Invincible Duke, the leader of the Seven Stars who stood tall in the far west and whom even the Pope feared, actually bowed down and submitted to the Heavenly Demon God Sect?!

After a moment of silence, he suddenly closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

The scent carried the lingering stench of blood from the messenger, the aged aroma of parchment, and the wind blowing from afar.

When he opened his eyes again, all the turmoil in them had subsided into an unfathomable, molten calm.

He finally understood—his lord wanted to make the entire far west a vassal state of the Heavenly Demon God Sect.