Kingdom Building Game: Starting Out With A Million Upgrade Points! - Chapter 172

Chapter 172: • Akerian Invades Part Two

“The fortress was old, Captain. Unstable. It would have come down in another decade. We simply hurried the process along.”

Vaelin hummed, not quite satisfied but not quite bothered either. His gaze drifted to the prisoners—what few there were.

A handful of Bloodbane survivors had been gathered in the courtyard—a pitiful sight, their armor melted to their skin, their faces drenched in sweat and blood, eyes still wide with the horror of what they had witnessed.

Some had collapsed into mindless sobbing; others sat rigid and shaking, trying to maintain a sliver of dignity.

One, a man with grizzled features and a dented breastplate, forced himself to his feet, glaring at Vaelin with a defiance that was almost admirable.

“You’re wasting your time, Akerian,” he spat, his voice hoarse. “You think taking Blackthorn means you’ve won? That the Empire won’t crush you for this?”

Vaelin’s lips curled in something almost like amusement. “Crush us?”

He turned his gaze to the open skies, where the great airships still loomed, their massive hulls casting long shadows over the burning fortress. More of them still drifted in from the horizon, carrying more soldiers, more weapons, more death.

“The Bloodbane Empire is rotting from the inside, old man,” Vaelin said, stepping forward until he was close enough that the prisoner could smell the ozone radiating from his armor. “And you lot? You were already dead the moment we arrived.”

Then, in one fluid motion, he unsheathed his sword.

The blade hummed with blue energy, slicing through the air—**and the man’s throat—**with almost surgical precision.

The prisoner did not even have time to react. He staggered, clutching at the red ruin of his neck, and fell without another word.

Silence followed.

The other prisoners shrank back, their defiance withering into terror.

Vaelin wiped the blood from his blade with a casual flick of his wrist. “Kill the rest,” he ordered. “We don’t need prisoners.”

His men moved without hesitation.

Screams rose again, but they were brief, short-lived.

By the time the blood had dried, the fortress was silent.

Vaelin turned to the lieutenant. “Begin fortifications. We won’t hold this place for long if the Bloodbanes come marching.”

The lieutenant nodded sharply, already relaying the command through his communication device, a small silver disc embedded into his wristplate.

Even as he did so, Akerian engineers—men clad in strange, bulky armor with tools humming at their belts—descended from the ships above. They worked quickly, efficiently, their hands glowing with alchemical energy as they reinforced what remained of the walls, set up arcane barriers, and prepared defensive positions along the courtyard.

Massive ballista-like weapons, but sleeker, deadlier, were hoisted onto the battlements, their blackened tips pulsing with stored energy.

The Akerians were not simply holding the fortress.

They were making it their own.

Vaelin watched it all with the quiet patience of a man who had done this a hundred times before.

Blackthorn had fallen.

The Bloodbane Empire just didn’t know it yet.

…

…

The command hall of Fortress Blackthorn was a grim relic, its walls pitted with age and streaked with salt from the Stormmere’s relentless winds.

Torchlight flickered across uneven stone, casting shadows that danced like specters over beams thick with cobwebs.

The air was heavy, sour with the reek of ash, damp iron, and the faint coppery tang of blood that no amount of scrubbing could erase.

At the room’s heart stood a massive oak table, its surface scarred from decades of blades, boots, and spilled ale.

A map of the Stormmere Marches sprawled across it, parchment yellowed at the edges, weighted by daggers driven into the wood. Ink lines snaked through cliffs, marshes, and forests, marking outposts, passes, and the jagged scar of Ravenglass Point.

Captain Vaelin Oras loomed at the table’s head, his crimson cloak swept back, the serpentine sigils on his black Akerian armor catching the light like molten silver.

His lieutenants—five of them, each in that strange, shifting plate that seemed to hum faintly—formed a tense half-circle around the map. Koren, pale and lean with eyes like flint, stood closest, his fingers twitching as if itching for a blade.

Torv, grizzled and broad, his beard flecked with gray, leaned on his knuckles, staring at the map like it owed him answers.

The other three—Lirien, a wiry woman with a scar splitting her lip; Gaveth, a stocky man whose armor was scratched from too many fights; and Soren, young and quiet, his gaze darting nervously—kept their thoughts close but their hands ready.

Vaelin’s gauntleted hand pressed down on Ravenglass Point, the map crinkling under his touch.

“We hit Ravenglass at dawn,” he said. “It’s the eastern gate to the Marches. We take it, we choke the Bloodbanes’ reinforcements before they can march. Two ships scout ahead—Skyclaw and Dawnbreaker. Three more—Iron Seraph, Starfang, Viper’s Breath—strike hard with ground troops. We land here.”

His finger tapped a narrow valley just west of the pass. “Bottleneck their forces, pin them against the cliffs.”

Koren tilted his head, his brow furrowing. “Ravenglass is fortified, Captain. Stone walls, ballistae, maybe a garrison of two hundred. Dunmere’s softer—open fields, a wooden palisade at best, and it’s closer to their granaries. We could starve them out, hit their supply lines, force them to spread thin.”

Vaelin’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, more like he was tasting something bitter.

“Dunmere’s a distraction, Koren. A fat prize for lazy men. We take it, the Bloodbanes regroup at Ravenglass, dig in, and bleed us for months. Ravenglass is the key—always has been. We break it, we break their spine.”

Torv grunted, his thick finger jabbing at a river winding east of Ravenglass. “He’s right, lad. Dunmere’s a trap. Bloodbanes’ll expect us to go for the easy grab. But Ravenglass—control that pass, and their armies’ll be wading through their own dead to reach us. That river here, though…” He traced the line, frowning. “Could be trouble. Fast current, deep in spots. If they’ve got boats or mages, they could flank us.”

Lirien leaned forward, her scarred lip curling. “Then we burn the boats first. Send a squad before dawn—small, fast. Sabotage their docks, poison the water if we have to. Keep their mages busy dousing fires instead of weaving spells.”