Imperator: Resurrection of an Empire-Chapter 394 - 389 - The End of Francia 10/10

The sag in the iron walls became a groan—deep, grinding, testing the endurance of these ancient walls.

The ground itself protested beneath the strain.

The Francian defenders atop the parapets stumbled, clutching the battlements for balance as fissures spread like veins of molten fire beneath their feet.

Then the wall gave out.

With a thunderous crack, the black iron bulwark—boasted for centuries as impenetrable—split like rotten timber.

Whole sections pitched backwards, collapsing in a rain of dust and debris that sent shockwaves through the ground.

Men screamed as towers buckled and fell, their white and blue banners swallowed by the rising cloud.

When the dust cleared, the once-mythical fortifications of Francia lay shattered.

Julius lowered his sword.

The crimson glow of the Earth Resonance coming off of his blade dimmed to a faint pulse before he sheathed it once more.

Behind him, his Praetorians tightened ranks, the black shields gleaming under the ashen light.

"Advance," Julius said softly.

And so they did.

The breach became a gaping wound in the castle’s side, wide enough for whole cohorts to pour through. Trumpets blared from the Roman lines, and within moments, the ground trembled beneath the march of armored boots.

The first legions crossed the rubble, fanning out to secure the courtyard while simple battering rams were being hauled by strongmen into the breech for use within the castle itself to breech the final doorways leading to the interior.

The Francian defenders were utterly unprepared, having set themselves up for the long haul battles of a castle siege, not expecting their formidable walls to be breeched in mere minutes, with the enemy claiming the interior as they hasitly abandoned their posts upon the walls scurrying to rally into a proper counter attack force to repel the invaders, their royal banners still fluttering above them abandoned to be captured and replaced by the Romanus Crimson.

Seeing the might of their god emperor take down a myth single handed, the Legionaires morale soared to extreme’s their adrenaline pumping furiously as they found strength they didnt know they had.

Men who were cut by swords soldiered on ignoring the pain, striking out to kill one or two more francians if it meant victory in the name of their Emperor!

Steel met steel.

The sound was deafening.

Roman shields slammed forward, crushing men against stone.

Gladii darted through gaps in armor, efficient and precise.

The Francians broke beneath the weight of discipline and dread.

The once-proud royal guards of the king fell in heaps, their blood pooling in the cobbles of their own courtyard.

Many never having actually served in real combat acquiring their positions thanks to nepotism or usuary.

While the main force surged into the breach, Julius and his Praetorians peeled away, moving along the outer edge of the castle.

Their route wound through gardens and archways, taking in the beauty of the royal palace even as the majority of it was descending into chaos and slaughter.

It was almost peaceful, in a way taking the scenic route.

The screams of death happened in the distance, far from this tranquil land untouched by the war thus far.

"Beautiful, in its death," one Praetorian murmured through his helm.

Julius’s gaze lingered on an angel statue, its wings outstetched as if about to take flight.

"It’s beauty shall fade, as these treasures will be sent to Romanus as trophies, while the Francian capital shall be left as a reminder to those who resisted our rule."

They passed beneath an archway adorned with glass mosaics depicting the founding of Francia—its kings crowned by divine right, their line said to be chosen by the heavens itself.

By the time the emperor’s retinue reached the front of the keep, the battle had engulfed the entire castle.

Through broken windows and breached doors came flashes of combat—Romans forcing their way up spiral staircases, Francian knights making desperate last stands in marble halls.

The air was thick with the scent of burning oil and the echo of clashing steel.

From above, the bell tolled once more.

Slow.

Mournful.

Perhaps the last prayer of a dying kingdom.

Sabellus appeared from the smoke, his armor scorched, blood streaking his temple.

"The courtyard is secure, sire. The inner halls still resist, but not for long. The royal guard has withdrawn to the throne room."

Julius nodded.

"Then that’s where we’ll end it."

Behind him, the Praetorians raised their shields and advanced toward the final doors—the grand entrance of the keep itself.

The gate was a masterpiece of Francian craftsmanship: carved oak reinforced with black iron bands, adorned with golden fleurs-de-lis now tarnished and blackened.

But beauty mattered little to the Romans.

Two rams were brought forth, their iron heads already dented and smoking from prior use.

"Positions!" barked a centurion.

The rams swung forward.

Boom.

The door shuddered but held.

Boom.

Cracks spidered through the hinges.

Boom!

With the third strike, the doors burst inward in an explosion of splinters and flame.

Smoke poured from the shattered entryway, curling like serpents into the night air.

The Praetorians formed up instantly, their shields rising in a wall of black steel as arrows hissed from within.

"Push through!" Sabellus commanded.

The Praetorians surged into the breach, their formation unbroken even as arrows clanged off their shields.

They drove forward step by step, gladii darting through the gaps until the first line of Francian defenders was cut down. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦

Julius followed behind them, unhurried, his gaze sweeping across the grand entry hall as it came into view.

The scene was one of great strife.

Nobles had clearly been at odds with one another.

Great works of art had been removed from the walls, just as statues, and other decorations had been placed into heaps as if they were helping the invaders with looting the castle itself, rather than putting up the best image of unity in their final moments.

The hall stretched forward toward the great doors of the throne room itself.

Beyond them, faintly, came the sound of armored movement—the clatter of weapons being drawn, the shouts of men preparing for one final stand.

Sabellus turned to Julius.

"Sire, the throne room is their last redoubt. If you wish, we can—"

"No." Julius raised a hand.

He stepped forward, the torchlight catching the burnished red of his armor.

"The time has come for me to face those who have wronged me, who have wronged out kingdom, our allies."

He stopped at the threshold of the great doors, resting his palm against the wood.

From the other side came a single horn’s call—steady, clear, defiant.

The signal of a final desperate resistance.

this was a mechanic of the game, even when all is lost the game gave a saving grace action, a method which when invoked would allow a player or NPC a chance to survive, live until such a time that they could cause an uprising founding a new nation, or fleeing to another before taking it over as their new leader.

Julius had seen this action be taken only once before, and even when this was all a game the action was rarely every taken by players, if it reached that point it was easier just to hit the reset button and begin again.

But i reality, when the Francian’s had broken the concordate itself, would Romanus honor the old ways, allowing the royal family of Francia the honor of trial by Combat to secure their freedom, after putting their unconditional surrender up for grabs instead.