Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 250: Illusion
"I suggest we conquer a foothold so absolute, that the Emperor’s reach will officially span from the Jade Palace to the edge of the Atlantic!" Strategist Sun declared, his frail hands trembling with excitement as he traced invisible borders across the parchment map.
"We have the food, we have the manpower, and the local rulers are too terrified of our numbers to mount a unified resistance! We shall easily overwhelm the northern fortresses, enslave their populations to work the mines, and secure a permanent fortified harbor to support your eventual return from the northern islands!"
Zhao Feng paced around the war table.
To be the general who not only executed a traitor but also handed the Emperor an entirely new continent on a silver platter? It would guarantee his ascension to the highest echelons of immortal, historical divinity!
"The locals are weak, completely divided by their pathetic religious squabbles and petty territorial disputes," Zhao Feng said.
"If we strike the northern territories with fifty thousand men, we will catch them entirely unaware..."
Turning abruptly, Zhao Feng snatched his cup and raised it high into the air, his voice booming.
"The grand strategy is officially rewritten!" Zhao Feng roared, causing the assembled officers to instantly snap to attention, their hands aggressively clutching the hilts of their swords.
"Admiral Zheng, you will immediately prepare the deep-water Junks! You will pack them to the absolute brim with our most elite shock troops, our heaviest siege engines, and the finest provisions stolen from the Caliphate! We sail for the frozen island of Alba to exterminate the Iron Father and his stolen legacy!"
Zhao Feng pointed a finger directly at his chest. "Strategist Sun, you are hereby granted supreme command of the remaining fifty thousand ground forces. The moment my sails disappear over the northern horizon, you will march this army into the northern territories of this peninsula. You will show these divided, primitive kingdoms the true meaning of eastern supremacy! Burn their pathetic castles, seize their resources, and build me a fortress worthy of the Tang Dynasty!"
"It shall be done, General!" Sun shouted.
"By the time you return from the north with the traitor’s head, you shall find a new imperial province waiting to welcome you!"
Thus, completely unbeknownst to the warring factions of the Mediterranean and the industrious, steam-powered architects of City Titan, the geopolitical chessboard had just been violently flipped once again.
The fires of global, total war were spreading with terrifying speed, and the entire western hemisphere was about to drown in an unstoppable tide of eastern steel.
...
The Coastal Fortress of Wessex
Ragnar stood at the very edge of the towering stone walls. Even though he was the Iron Father of a rapidly industrializing nation, he liked his hair long. It was a proud, traditional trait, a small piece of his old self that he kept close while he dragged the rest of the medieval world kicking and screaming into the modern future.
Right now, Ragnar was in a fantastic mood. He looked down at the sprawling, bustling coastal city of Wessex with a proud smile.
Every single day was about balancing raw resources, assigning eager workers to new factories, and watching the production numbers go up.
And honestly? His empire’s growth rate was incredibly fast. It felt like his civilization was progressing a thousand times faster than any normal ruler in history could ever hope to achieve.
"Your Majesty, the new iron shipments from City Titan have arrived perfectly on schedule," said Ealdred, the royal caretaker of Wessex.
Ealdred was an older, highly nervous Saxon man who always seemed to be carrying a massive stack of rolled-up parchment.
He had grown to deeply respect Ragnar over the past few months, even if the Iron Father’s terrifying machines still gave him nightmares.
The two of them had developed a surprisingly close working relationship.
Ragnar provided the grand vision, and Ealdred frantically ran around trying to make sure the paperwork was filed correctly.
"Excellent work, Ealdred," Ragnar replied smoothly, giving the old man a pat on the shoulder that nearly knocked him over.
"Make sure the dock workers are paid double for unloading the cargo early. A happy worker is a highly productive worker."
"Y-Yes, my King! Right away!" Ealdred stammered, scribbling a note onto his parchment.
Ragnar turned his gaze back to the farmlands and fortified sites surrounding the city.
Wessex was not just a simple village; it was a huge, wealthy town that served as the beating agricultural heart of the southern lands.
Before Ragnar took over, the military system here was deeply traditional and honestly quite primitive.
The local lore of Wessex dictated that if a war broke out, the regional lords could quickly summon a field army of around 4,000 freemen to fight. But that was just their basic standing force. At maximum mobilization, utilizing theoretical and temporary levies meant for building forts or defending local borders, Wessex could pull up to a quarter of its entire adult male population.
When combining the forces from all the burhs... the heavily fortified sites scattered across the region they could muster a grand total of over 25,000 men.
This massive army was mainly composed of the fyrd, which was essentially a basic peasant militia armed with simple wooden spears, farming tools, and wooden shields.
Leading this militia was an elite core of professional warriors known as the thegns, heavily armored retainers who fought with absolute loyalty and skill.
Upgrading these basic units into a modern, disciplined infantry line was his current personal goal, and the growth rate of their training was exceeding all his expectations.
It had been exactly fifteen days since the Iron Empire’s intelligence network intercepted panicked rumors regarding the Tang army’s movements far to the south in Al-Andalus.
Ragnar knew the eastern dragon was desperate for supplies and transport. They had the food, thanks to the captured Arabian warehouses and the terrified Caliph’s orders, but ships were a different story.
Suddenly, the deep and utterly terrifying sound of the coastal warning horn echoed through the crisp morning air.
"AWOOOOOOOO!"
Ragnar’s eyes immediately snapped toward the ocean horizon. The light-hearted, relaxed atmosphere on the wall vanished in an instant.
The morning mist rolling off the English Channel was slowly beginning to clear, revealing a sight that made the blood freeze in the veins of every single Saxon guard standing on the wall.
Ships. Hundreds and hundreds of ships...
Massive, towering deep-water Junks with their distinctive, ribbed red sails were cutting through the waves, heading straight for the beaches of Wessex.
These were massive, highly organized imperial troop transports, and there were enough of them to block out the horizon entirely.
Ragnar leaned against the parapet.
The Tang expeditionary force had clearly split their numbers. They had secured enough captured Arabian dhows and imperial Junks in Al-Andalus to transport exactly half of their total army across the treacherous ocean.
"Fifty thousand..." Ragnar muttered to himself, "They actually managed to sail fifty thousand men all the way here. I have to admit, their dedication to vengeance is truly top-tier."
Fifty thousand elite eastern soldiers. It was a staggering number that would instantly crush any normal medieval kingdom in this world. The Tang generals obviously believed that 50,000 men were more than needed to wipe out a supposedly primitive island of uneducated barbarians.
They were clearly thinking of a very straightforward plan: invade the northern shores of Wessex, establish a massive beachhead, and burn the entire kingdom to the ground before marching to City Titan.
They wanted a quick, easy victory.
Standing next to Ragnar, Ealdred dropped his entire stack of carefully organized parchment. The papers scattered wildly into the ocean.
The old caretaker’s eyes were bulging so far out of his head they looked like they might pop. His face turned as pale as a fresh sheet of snow.
"F-F-Fifty thousand?!" Ealdred shrieked.
He gripped his thin hair in panic, his knees visibly knocking together. "My Lord! The fyrd is not ready! The peasant militia only has wooden spears and leather tunics! We cannot fight a massive eastern empire with 25,000 farmers! They will slaughter us all! They will burn the crops! They will take the children!"
Ragnar chuckled softly. He turned to Ealdred.
"Take a deep breath, Ealdred. You are stressing yourself out over nothing!" Ragnar said simply, crossing his arms over his chest.
"They are bringing swords and arrows to a modern gunfight. They simply don’t know that Wessex is no longer just a medieval farming town. Let them land on the beaches. It will save us the trouble of hunting their ships down later..."
But Ealdred was completely lost in his own terror. He couldn’t understand Ragnar’s calm attitude in the face of annihilation.
To the caretaker, the literal end of the world was sailing right toward their peaceful shores, and his King was treating it like a minor inconvenience in his daily schedule.
Ealdred didn’t wait for another comforting word or a strategic order.
"I must sound the general alarm! I must call the thegns! We need to mobilize the burhs immediately! We need help!" Ealdred babbled hysterically, tears of panic streaming down his face.
Without another word, the panicked caretaker spun around and sprinted down the stairs as fast as his old legs could possibly carry him, running off to get help from the local garrison commanders while screaming at the top of his lungs.
Ragnar just watched him run, shaking his head with a smile.
