High amid the clouds, King Ghidorah stretched his three gilded heads, his golden slit pupils looking down upon the earth like a deity surveying the teeming masses beneath his feet.
Gales flowed tamely around him. The lightning that could have torn heaven and earth apart was deliberately restrained, reduced to fine golden patterns winding among his scales. He deliberately suppressed his presence, his enormous body concealed behind thick curtains of cloud, leaving only a stretch of iridescent wing bone exposed. Without careful observation, no one could have noticed the world-destroying Titan hidden above the clouds.
The scene below lay clearly within his sight.
On the ground, squads of soldiers marched through the ruins. They wore sharply tailored dark uniforms and standard-issue military caps, with long firearms on their backs and bayonets and packs hanging at their waists. Their ranks were neat, their movements orderly, and their overall appearance closely resembled the army uniforms of World War I in King Ghidorah's memory.
"Hmm... they do look like soldiers from World War I."
His middle head murmured softly, offering the observation with a measure of nonchalance. He vaguely remembered two long-established powers on Earth in his previous life whose uniforms had looked much like these: an island nation across a strait and a powerful country on the western side of the continent. But he had long since lost track of which was which, and could not be bothered to distinguish them.
"They all look pretty much the same anyway. No difference."
His left head swept a casual glance over them, only to have its attention quickly drawn to another group of figures.
Among the ordinary soldiers were several exceptionally burly figures. They wore heavy suits of solid plate armor, their metal surfaces engraved with intricate magical circuits. Their pauldrons were broad, their breastplates sturdy, and glowing mana cores were embedded at their joints. Thin steam pipes ran along their backs, and their movements carried the distinctive weight and power of machinery.
"What are those things... power armor?"
King Ghidorah raised his brows slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his golden eyes.
Given this world's circumstances, it was not particularly hard to understand. Apekus had previously demonstrated high-tech creations from the previous era, ranging from spatial devices to war mechs. With magic already widespread in this world, and steam industry interwoven with supernatural power, the appearance of soldiers in powered armor fitted with magical circuits made perfect sense.
"All right, I can't be bothered to disturb them."
King Ghidorah had little interest in attacking these mortals. He had not come to destroy the world in the first place. He was merely crossing the continent under the cover of the storm, taking in this world's local customs along the way and looking for a suitable place to install the remote avatar equipment Apekus had promised him.
To avoid utterly destroying the continent's ecology and causing unnecessary upheaval, he deliberately restrained most of his power, compressing the storm that rose around him to a span of less than twenty kilometers. He kept its winds and rainfall at the level of an ordinary natural disaster, making it look no different from the powerful cyclonic storms commonly seen on the continent.
The only abnormal thing was the storm's absurd speed.
Ordinary storms tended to move slowly, covering little ground even in a day. But the storm King Ghidorah controlled shot inland like an arrow loosed from a bow, racing at a speed plainly visible to the naked eye. Clouds churned and winds rushed onward, as though an invisible hand were pushing the entire cloud mass into a mad sprint.
"What normal storm flies this fast..."
King Ghidorah himself found it somewhat amusing, but had no intention of adjusting it. He only wanted to reach the continent's interior as soon as possible, find somewhere secluded to settle down, and properly study the remote avatar Apekus had mentioned, while also keeping an eye on that reincarnated human named Nuoyaji.
With a flash of golden wings, he rode the storm and continued hurtling into the distance.
On the ground, amid the ruins of Iron Anchor Port.
Marshal Reinhardt, the official Hermann, and every ordinary soldier present all instinctively stopped what they were doing and looked up at the sky, disbelief written across their faces.
"Is... is that a storm..." a soldier muttered, his grip tightening slightly around his weapon.
They had seen tsunamis, hurricanes, and strange weather caused by magic, but never a storm this bizarre. Its cloud formations and the intensity of its wind and rain were no different from an ordinary powerful storm, yet its speed was simply inconceivable. Like a galloping horse sweeping past, it advanced an enormous distance in the blink of an eye, completely defying everything they knew about weather.
"How can a storm fly so fast..." Hermann paled and instinctively took half a step back, an inexplicable chill rising in his heart.
The superstorm had already been terrifyingly abnormal. Now even the cyclones left in its wake were so strange that it was hard not to associate them with some supernatural power beyond comprehension.
Marshal Reinhardt stared fixedly at the rapidly receding storm clouds, his brow deeply furrowed, shock likewise lurking in the depths of his eyes that he could scarcely conceal.
Over decades of military service, he had campaigned far and wide and witnessed countless natural disasters and magical phenomena, yet he had never felt his heart tremble as it did now. It was as though some indescribably terrifying presence lurked within that storm. Even a distant glimpse left him, a battle-hardened legendary powerhouse, feeling waves of oppression.
But he was, after all, an imperial marshal bearing grave responsibilities. He could not permit himself the slightest loss of composure.
Drawing a deep breath, Reinhardt forcibly suppressed the turmoil in his heart and regained his customary calm authority. He ordered in a low voice, "What are you staring at! Continue the search and rescue! Inspect the pipelines! Reinforce the temporary defensive lines! No mistakes!"
At his rebuke, the soldiers abruptly came to their senses and hurriedly lowered their heads to resume their work, though a shadow now hung over every heart.
Outwardly composed, Reinhardt's thoughts raced.
This storm was by no means natural. Some supernatural power had to be behind it. Anyone capable of raising a natural disaster that covered half the continent and controlling its movement with such precision wielded power far beyond that of tower mages, or even legendary powerhouses.
Was it an ancient monster? A force from the Abyss? Or some ancient god awakened from slumber?
Countless possibilities flashed through his mind, but none offered a definite match. The only thing he could be certain of was that Victoria, and indeed the entire continent, was about to face an unprecedented upheaval.
Beside him, Hermann slowly recovered as well. The panic on his face gradually faded, replaced by a hint of calculation.
The storm was so strange, the damage far exceeded estimates, Iron Anchor Port was almost completely destroyed, and every Archon Mech was a write-off... This was no longer as simple as a natural disaster. Once word reached the imperial capital, it would inevitably cause a tremendous stir. The balance of power among parliament, the nobility, the military, and the mage corps could very well be reshuffled as a result.
Grand Duke Cavendish had sent him here precisely to obtain firsthand information. From the look of things now, dangerous as this assignment was, it also held immense opportunities.
"Marshal, the mechs..." A noncommissioned officer hurried over, pointing at the fallen Archon-Type Steam Mechs. "What should we do with them?"
Reinhardt withdrew his gaze and looked solemnly at the warped war machines.
The Archon Mechs were the pinnacle of Victoria's military industry. Each required immense quantities of mana ore and hours of precision work, and represented cutting-edge military power capable of safeguarding the empire. Even in their severely damaged state, their mana cores, magical circuits, and critical components were still worth a fortune. They absolutely could not be abandoned in the disaster zone.
"Work together to turn the mechs upright and bring in heavy transports," Reinhardt ordered gravely. "Recover every component that can be repaired. Dismantle the badly damaged sections and transport them back to the workshops. Even if only a single core plate remains, it must not be discarded."
"Yes, sir!"
The soldiers immediately went into action. Dozens of soldiers worked alongside the power-armored troops, chanting in unison as they heaved together, slowly turning the heavy mechs over. Steam transports pulled up nearby, and the soldiers took out their tools, carefully beginning to dismantle the mechs' outer armor and recoverable components.
"Are there any mechs that can still start up?" Reinhardt asked.
The technician in charge of inspections shook his head, his expression bitter. "Marshal, the core circuits of every mech have fractured, and their mana cores have collapsed from overload. They're completely unresponsive. There's no possibility of restoring their combat capability in the short term."
Reinhardt let out a heavy sigh, exhaustion and gravity filling his brow.
Iron Anchor Port's defenses were paralyzed, its mechs all destroyed, its fleet sunk, and its port industrial system all but ruined... Victoria's military strength in the western sea had been virtually wiped out by this storm in one stroke. If Nordheim pirates attacked now, or Saint Junxi cavalry crossed the border, they would have no means of resisting.
Without further hesitation, he took a specially made magical scroll from inside his coat.
The scroll was gilded throughout, its edges embroidered with the royal griffin crest. It was made from the rare hide of a message-bearing magic deer, and only the empire's senior officials were permitted to use it. It could transmit information across vast distances to the imperial capital at tremendous speed.
Reinhardt poured mana into the scroll. As golden light flowed across it, he recorded the devastation at Iron Anchor Port, the fleet's losses, the report of the mechs' total destruction, and the strange storm's abnormalities, one by one.
Light blossomed, and the scroll transformed into a lifelike golden bird. It spread its wings, broke through the clouds, and sped toward the imperial capital.
Beside him, Hermann's gaze shifted slightly. His eyes followed the golden bird closely as calculations continued running through his mind.
A message sent straight to the imperial capital would surely alert the emperor and parliament. The situation that followed would be quite a sight.
The golden bird beat its wings, crossing mountains and rivers, passing through the clouds left by the storm, and skimming over Karelia's border as it flew toward Lionheart City, the imperial capital of the United Kingdom of Victoria.
After flying for an unknown length of time, the golden bird finally reached the central district of Lionheart City and landed on the windowsill of an extravagantly luxurious palace.
Inside the palace, the vaulted ceiling soared high above a marble floor polished like a mirror. Portraits of past monarchs and magical oil paintings hung on the walls, enormous floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the entire imperial capital, and a steam clock ticked steadily in a corner.
Someone was already waiting there.
A young man stood before the window, dressed in exquisite finery. His formal attire was embroidered with gold and silver thread, a sapphire pin adorned his collar, and his long hair was tied behind his head. His features were handsome, his bearing noble and composed. He was Mortisen, the youngest son of Victoria's emperor and one of the leaders of the court mage corps.
The golden bird settled gently into his palm, then dissolved into flecks of golden light. Lines of condensed golden text appeared in midair, containing all the information Reinhardt had sent from Iron Anchor Port.
Mortisen read every word and sentence. The ease on his face gradually faded, replaced by solemnity.
With a gentle wave of his hand, the golden text vanished completely.
"Mortisen."
A steady voice called from behind him.
An elderly man sat upright in a carved chair, wearing deep purple formal attire. His face was imposing, his temples white as snow, and he radiated the oppressive presence of one who had long occupied the imperial throne. He was Augustus VII, the reigning monarch of the United Kingdom of Victoria.
"Your Majesty." Mortisen turned and bowed slightly.
"Has word arrived from Iron Anchor Port?" Augustus VII asked, a barely perceptible trace of weariness in his voice.
"Yes, a message from Marshal Reinhardt." Mortisen paused, his tone heavy. "I think this may be extremely bad news..."
Augustus VII closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were filled with worry.
"I understand."
Those few words seemed to exhaust all his strength.
Half the continent had been swept by the storm, the major stronghold on the western sea was utterly destroyed, the fleet had sunk, the mechs were all lost, and the nations were in turmoil. And then there was that strange storm of unknown origin...
Victoria, and indeed the entire continent, stood on the edge of a precipice.