History Marches On

When the signal flare suddenly rose near Highland Position No. 4, Philip realized that the situation had slipped beyond control.

A battlefield was made up of countless accidents and inevitabilities, countless plans and unexpected events.

The well-trained professional soldiers aboard the Iron Throne reacted in the shortest possible time. The small secondary guns in the arsenal section and tactical section roughly aimed toward the rising flare within seconds, followed by a series of thunderous blasts—railgun shells traced pale green paths through the air before erupting across the highlands in fierce flashes that illuminated the bleak, dim wilderness beneath the wind and rain. Yet everyone knew that this round of retaliatory fire was merely an attempt to salvage some results after the plan had failed.

A signal flare that had already been fired could not be stopped—in the murky sky, that brilliant blood-red light shone over the entire highland and the vast plains nearby. Typhon's main forces on the Longwind Defense Line had surely seen it.

The urgent secondary bombardment lasted only thirty seconds before Philip ordered the entire train to cease fire. As a commander no longer green, he knew that the Typhonian force on the Paramel Highlands had most likely relocated before the flare went up. The artillery-covered positions probably held only a handful of suicide troops.

Perhaps there had been only one brave signalman.

"General, should we force the griffons into the air for reconnaissance?" the Iron Throne's deputy sergeant major asked cautiously. "Or send out a group of Iron Rangers..."

Listening to his subordinate's suggestion, Philip sighed faintly to himself.

He knew it was probably already too late... The enemy commander was a troublesome opponent—cautious and rational, and likely somewhat familiar with Cecil's equipment and methods of battle. They would not linger nearby. He also knew how