Extreme Cold Era: Shelter Don't Keep Waste-Chapter 926 - 153: The War for Survival (Part 2)

He knew that this storm could no longer be stopped.

And what Perfikot wanted was never peace.

What she wanted was to eliminate any future threat.

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Under Perfikot's strategy, Valken's troops, after slaughtering three tribes that had tested the Empire, did not advance further but instead stayed at a predetermined battlefield.

It was a basin surrounded by wind-eroded stone columns, low-lying terrain with towering columns creating a natural defensive barrier.

Empire engineers quickly got to work, hammering heavy steel bases into the sandy ground, and with the roar of steam engines, a small mobile Energy Tower was erected.

Coal was fed into the furnace, and white steam started to spew from the top of the tower, while an invisible thermal barrier was unfurled, gradually forming a defense against the cold. 𝒻𝑟𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝑛𝘰𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝘤𝘰𝘮

The cold wind was blocked outside, and the temperature inside slowly rose, with even some snow closest to the Energy Tower showing signs of melting—this was the power of Empire technology, enough to carve out a haven for survival in the bitterly cold end times.

For the Empire army, having small mobile Energy Towers meant they didn't mind temporarily setting up camp in the desert.

The soldiers skillfully set up tents, and the logistics units began installing simple stoves, collecting snow to melt into freshwater.

The glow of the Energy Tower was particularly striking in the dusk, like a lighthouse announcing the Empire's presence across the desert.

And this was precisely what the Desert Tribe craved.

They needed this technology to gain the power to survive in this frigid apocalypse.

Without the Energy Tower's shelter, the nightly low temperatures would be fatal for an entire tribe; without a stable heat source, the oasis's water source would freeze overnight into hard ice.

The Empire's technology was the hope for survival.

However, some tribes chose to submit to the Empire in exchange for the Energy Tower, offering loyalty and resources, becoming vassals of the Empire, hoping to continue their lineage under the Empire's protection.

But another part of the tribe chose to resist, unwilling to bow, preferring to seize this power with swords and blood.

Deep in the sand sea covered by eternal cold nights, fate was weaving the most brutal chapter.

The howling extreme cold wind stirred up millennia of yellow sand, like heavy sighs of the gods from the clouds, witnessing this moment destined to be soaked in blood.

Formerly people drinking from the same clear spring now drew swords against each other before the choice of survival and dignity.

Those young boys who once chased sand foxes together, those brothers who blessed each other at coming-of-age ceremonies, now had only cold killing intent in their eyes.

Young warrior Amir gripped the ancestral scimitar, the leather wrapped around the hilt still carrying the warmth of his father's palm.

Just three months ago, he and his cousin from the opposing camp were still drinking sweet tea together in the same tent, yet now they had to fight for life and death on this ancestor-resting dune.

Tears froze into ice on his cracked face, but he gripped the sword tighter—for the tribe's elders and children shivering in the cold night, he had no other choice.

On the other side of the battlefield, the old blacksmith Salih silently sharpened the last arrow.

His three sons had all chosen to swear allegiance to the Empire, now wearing brand-new Empire uniforms.

The old man's coarse fingers brushed the arrowhead, remembering his wife's dying exhortation: "Protect our children."

At this moment, he looked up at the sky, unsure which Divine forgiveness to pray for.

The ancient desert covenant crumbled under the Empire's technological glow, as fragile as thin ice on winter nights.

Meanwhile, the tribal kings were strategizing in their luxurious tents.

Unlike ordinary warriors, these noble kings had neither much hatred nor loyalty toward the Empire, only calculations of interests, pondering how to secure more benefits in this war.

Some were gauging the timing to surrender, while others plotted post-war interest distribution, and some had already secretly sent people to contact the Empire's secret envoys.

When Perfikot's Floating Battleship cast a huge shadow, the ordinary warriors looked up at the steel giant, their eyes reflecting despair and determination.

The lonely horn sounded across the wilderness, more piercing than the cold wind, more chilling than death.

Amir glanced one last time toward his homeland, where his aged mother and his new wife were.

He knew this battle was not about honor, only survival.

When the war drums beat, countless ordinary people like him would pay the blood price for the kings' calculations, while history wouldn't remember their names.

As the last tribal banner appeared on the horizon, the whole desert fell into an eerie silence.

Even the never-ceasing sandstorm seemed to hold its breath.

The spears of the loyalists shone cold under the moonlight, while the scimitars of the resistance flickered with bloodthirsty glints in the dark.

The sound of camel bells no longer symbolized the joy of merchant travels but turned into a funeral dirge.

Suddenly, the sky was overshadowed by a massive shadow.

Perfikot's Floating Battleship pierced through the clouds like a sword of judgment day, the flag of the Empire's Regent fluttering in the fierce wind.

At this moment, all the resisting warriors looked up, their wind-eroded faces etched with despair and determination, forming the most tragic totem.

They knew this might be their last time to gaze upon this sky left by their ancestors.

The lonely horn echoed across the wilderness, more piercing than the cold wind, more chilling than death.

When the first arrow split the sky, it seemed the ancient Prophet's prophecy resounded among the sand grains: On this cursed land, glory and betrayal are forever intertwined, like thorns and roses in the desert.

The hiss of arrows ripping through the air hadn't faded before an arrow shower blotted out the sky, casting the shadow of death in the morning light.

War unfolded after one day and night; when the second day's sun rose, both armies had already entered the battlefield and formed their array.

The Empire legion lined up in neat iron phalanxes, the Steam Knights' armor glistening cold under the sunlight, steam-driven war machines emitting low roars.

Meanwhile, the resistance scattered like a desert sandstorm, cavalry deftly shuttling between sand dunes, scimitars reflecting dazzling cold light.

Perfikot stayed above on the Floating Battleship, overlooking the battlefield, with no emotion evident on her stern face.

Beneath her feet, death was weaving bloody patterns on this golden sand sea.

Resistance kings occupied a sand dune, built a high platform to watch the battle.

They wore magnificent robes but no one noticed the struggling wounded on the sand, their eyes only yearning for victory and thirsting for power.

There was neither politeness nor a session of mutual persuasion to surrender; only one from each army made a pre-battle speech to rally morale for the last time.

From the Empire's side, General Valken's voice spread across the battlefield through amplifiers: "For the glory of the Empire!"

In the resistance camp, an elderly Shaman raised a bone staff, calling out to the Ancestral Spirit with a hoarse voice: "For freedom and dignity!"

Then the two armies began fighting, drum sounds, horn sounds, and shouts instantly breaking the desert's silence.

The Empire's heavy infantry phalanx advanced like a moving steel wall, while the resistance's light cavalry encircled from the flanks like a tide.

Arrows, bullets, and spears wove a web of death in the air, every moment claiming lives within this net.

From the onset, this war entered the bloodiest state of melee, leaving no room for probing or hesitation.

The desert trembled, the sky burned, blood soaked into the golden sand grains, turning this battlefield into a massive slaughterhouse.

The Empire soldiers' steam battle-axes cleaved through the resistance's Shields, while the resistance's scimitars sought every gap in the armor.

Here, there's no mercy, no retreat, only the most primal instinct for slaughter.