Iron Fists and Thick Smoke

Ralte's dawn was awakened by a suppressed unrest.

The sun had yet to fully dispel the night's chill. Beneath the gray sky, the city resembled a restless beast tossing and turning in its lair.

The first spark ignited in an abandoned square at the border between the slums and the artisans' quarter.

There had been no warning, no clamor. Just scattered figures emerging from narrow alleys and beneath low eaves, silently gathering at the center of the square. They wore tattered work clothes and patched robes. Their faces bore the sickly pallor of prolonged malnutrition, yet their eyes were exceptionally bright, burning with a fire of resolve, rage, and something close to religious fervor.

The numbers kept growing—dozens, hundreds, then more hundreds... A dark mass stood silently together. Only heavy breathing and the rustle of clothing formed a silence that made hearts pound.

This unusual gathering quickly drew the attention of the patrol guards. A squad of around ten city guards, clad in worn leather armor and carrying rusted spears, came over cursing. Their captain, a burly man with a scar across his cheek, impatiently waved his arm.

"What's this? What's this?! Don't you all want to live? Gathering here at dawn, are you trying to rebel? Get the hell out of here! Crawl back to your dogholes!"

He was answered by an even deeper silence. The crowd was like a frozen tide, utterly motionless. Countless gazes fixed coldly upon the guards. There was no longer any of their old fear in those eyes—only icy hostility.

The scarred captain felt his skin crawl under those stares. Putting on a fierce front to hide his fear, he roared, "Damn it! Are you deaf? Arrest them! Drag out whoever's leading this!"

The guards hesitantly stepped forward, attempting to disperse the crowd. They reached out to shove the people standing in front.

The instant their hands were about to touch those silent bodies—

"For Earthly Heaven!"

A hoarse yet powerful cry, like a torch thrown into dry kindling, suddenly tore through the silence!

It came from a gaunt old craftsman in the crowd. He abruptly raised his right hand, clenched it into a fist, extended his index finger and thumb, and slammed it against his left breast!

That cry, that gesture, was like opening the floodgates!

"For the Son of God, Lorgar!"

"Break the shackles! Welcome new life!"

Deafening shouts erupted from hundreds of throats at once, converging into a violent wave of sound that shattered Ralte's oppressive morning stillness! The crowd moved in an instant. No longer silent statues, they became a surging tide of fury! Rather than avoiding the guards' shoves, they charged forward!

The squad of guards was instantly swallowed up. The scarred captain stared in shock at the scene spiraling out of control. Just as he reached for the short sword at his waist, several thick hands pinned him down. Clubs and fists rained upon him. He did not even manage more than a few screams before the furious crowd dragged him to the ground, where he vanished beneath countless trampling feet. The other guards panicked even more. Their spears were useless at such close range. The crowd scattered them, split them apart, surrounded them, seized their weapons, and tore and beat their bodies with countless hands. Their screams were soon drowned out by louder cries.

This was only the beginning.

At almost the same time, similar gatherings and shouts erupted at designated locations throughout Ralte—the market, the wells, and major intersections. Crowds rose like springs from beneath the earth, rapidly forming streams, then rushing rivers that surged forward along the streets! They shouted slogans and waved whatever they had found: wooden clubs, iron hammers, even ripped-off door bolts. The gesture of a fist pressed to the chest appeared again and again amid the moving sea of people, becoming a silent language for recognizing comrades and bolstering morale.

The city's law enforcement forces were completely stunned by the sudden uprising blooming everywhere at once. Scattered patrols tried to suppress it, only to be swallowed the moment they made contact by rebels who outnumbered them severalfold or several dozenfold. More guards chose to watch from the sidelines. Some even quietly removed their conspicuous leather armor and slipped into the crowd, or hid away. The lower- and middle-ranking officers and clerks who had long been infiltrated or won over by the Propaganda Department either remained inactive or secretly directed the rebels toward armories and barracks.

Yet the true test came from the Church's loyal core forces—the several hundred standing guards stationed in the city barracks, and the Covenant Church knights guarding the Lord's Hall.

When the tide of rebellion began battering the main streets and converging toward the city center, the barracks gates burst open. Around two hundred relatively well-equipped guards marched out in formation, shields and spears in hand, led by a commander in ornate armor. They attempted to use their disciplined formation to block and disperse the crowd.

"Form ranks! Spearmen to the front! Archers, prepare!" the commander shouted himself hoarse, trying to steady the line.

Faced with the cold gleam of spearpoints and drawn bowstrings, the surging crowd showed a flicker of hesitation and unrest. How could flesh and blood contend against a formation of steel?

At that critical moment—

"Fire!"

A cold, utterly emotionless command came from the rooftops on both sides of the street!

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

A dense chorus of air-splitting sounds rang out! Not arrows, but more vicious and unexpected crossbow bolts! Along with lit clay jars hurled from behind windows—filled with burning compounds mixed with grease and grit!

The weapons secretly assembled and stockpiled by the Propaganda Department played their crucial role at this moment!

Crossbow bolts shot accurately into the rear of the guards' formation, especially at the archers and commander! Screams immediately rose as the orderly formation fell into confusion. The incendiary jars burst among them, flames and thick smoke spreading in an instant and deepening the guards' panic!

"Ambush! It's an ambush!"

"They have weapons too!"

The guards' morale collapsed at once. At the same time, even more fervent shouts rose from behind the crowd.

"The Son of God is with us!"

"Break them!"

It was Lorgar! No one knew when he had appeared at the very forefront of the rebels! He wore no armor, only a plain gray cloth robe, but his mountain-like frame and the violet gleam in his eyes, reflected by smoke and firelight, were themselves the brightest banner and an unmatched symbol!

He did not even strike. He simply stood there, raised his hand, and pointed at the guards' chaotic formation.

That gesture granted the rebels boundless courage! Hesitation vanished. Fear was replaced by fanatical faith and rage! Like floodwaters bursting through a breached dam, the crowd roared and charged madly at the already disordered line of guards!

The spear formation lost all effect before the overwhelming numerical advantage and attacks from above and the flanks. Using sheer numbers, the rebels smashed through the shields. With their crude weapons, and even their teeth and fingernails, they grappled with the guards! The street instantly became a bloody hellscape, filled with roars, clashing weapons, and screams!

The battle was brief and brutal. After suffering considerable losses, the rebels, aided by their numbers, surprise attack, and incendiary weapons, utterly crushed the strongest organized force of city guards. The commander tried to flee, but several red-eyed rebels caught him and beat him to death with clubs.

The road to the heart of the city—the Lord's Hall—had been cleared!

At that moment, the Lord's Hall stood like an isolated reef amid raging waves. Dozens of Covenant Church knights in gleaming silver armor and cloaks bearing holy emblems formed the final line of defense upon the steps before the hall. They were well-equipped and highly trained, their eyes filled with fervent faith and contempt for "heretics." Sunlight struck their armor, reflecting a blinding glare that stood in sharp contrast to the rebels' ragged clothes and crude weapons.

The uprising crowd halted beneath the steps. Before this final force, which appeared impossible to shake, the atmosphere grew heavy once more. The sharp two-handed swords and halberds in the knights' hands radiated a cold aura of death.

At that moment, one knight in the formation, especially tall and seemingly their leader, stepped forward. He removed his helmet, revealing a weathered face written with arrogance. He swept a disdainful gaze over the dark mass below before finally fixing his eyes on Lorgar at the front of the crowd.

"False god of heretics!" the knight leader declared in a ringing voice carrying the lofty air of judgment. "In the name of the Father God, I, Templar Knight Barton, issue you a sacred challenge to a duel! Do you dare let your filthy soul accept the purification of holy light?"

He tried to use a traditional knightly duel to reverse the situation, raise morale, perhaps even imagining that one battle could decide everything.

But he was wrong. Completely wrong.

He did not face nobles who cared for chivalric honor, but people oppressed for generations, burdened with countless furies, and freshly baptized in blood and fire! What they sought was not personal glory, but total liberation!

Lorgar did not even answer his challenge. He merely looked at him quietly. There was not a ripple in his violet eyes, as though he were looking at an insignificant insect.

That disregard was more insulting than any words.

Knight Barton's face flushed red at once. With an enraged roar, he raised his two-handed sword and prepared to charge down the steps.

But he would never have the chance.

"Beat these Church dogs to death!"

"They don't deserve a duel!"

Furious roars exploded from the crowd! No one knew who threw the first stone. Then rocks, wooden clubs, and even short spears freshly seized from the guards poured toward the knights on the steps like a storm!

The knights tried to block the barrage, but their ornate armor was cumbersome and helpless against projectiles coming from every direction at close range. Knight Barton bore the brunt of it. A rock slammed hard into his visor with a dull thud, sending him staggering backward.

The next moment, the crowd surged again! Like a frenzied swarm of ants, it instantly swallowed the dozens of Covenant Church knights trying to hold their formation! Countless hands reached for them, dragging them down from the steps, tearing apart their ornate armor, and wrenching away their finely crafted weapons. The knights swung their swords and halberds in vain, but before an absolute sea of people, individual bravery looked so pale and laughable. Knight Barton was pinned beneath countless bodies. His roars and struggles quickly turned into despairing wails before finally falling silent.

The battle—or rather, the massacre—ended quickly. When the crowd scattered, only twisted fragments of armor, shattered weapons, and a mess of blood remained on the steps. That force, symbolizing the Covenant Church's last vestige of dignity, had been torn to pieces by the enraged populace in the most primitive and brutal way.

With its final defenders gone, the doors of the Lord's Hall were easily smashed open by the rebels using heavy objects.

Ralte, the Covenant Church's major stronghold in the southern region, changed hands in the span of a single morning.

The smoke had not yet fully cleared. The air was thick with blood, gunpowder, and the dazed emptiness that followed liberation. Lorgar stepped over the wreckage on the stairs and entered the hall that had once symbolized supreme authority. He ignored the remaining priests and clerks huddled in corners, trembling in fear.

He walked straight to the balcony outside the hall, where bishops had once preached to the people. Below him were countless upturned eyes, stained with blood and sweat, yet full of hope.

Lorgar did not speak. He merely took from his robes a specially made signal tube, tightly compressed from the hide of some desert beast and chemical substances. He placed it on the balcony railing and lit it with flint.

Hiss—

An exceptionally dense plume of smoke, black as ink and carrying a harsh, choking stench, rose straight into Colchis's orange-red sky. It was so conspicuous that it could be clearly seen even from far away.

This was the signal of victory, the trumpet announcing the success of the "home-swap strategy." To the south, to that "Earthly Heaven" standing ready in tight formation, it proclaimed:

The city had been secured.