Dungeon King: The Hidden Ruler-Chapter 103: [The Throne of Kharnath-Dur 6] The Siege of Kharnath-Dur

Chapter 103: [The Throne of Kharnath-Dur 6] The Siege of Kharnath-Dur

Smoke choked the breath from the market corridor. A riot had broken out—not from chaos, but from precision. Mages hidden among the crowd had triggered incendiary glyphs, flame blooming like fangs into merchant stalls and stone walls. Screams echoed beneath the towering arches, blending with the rising clang of boots and panicked feet.

The lone mage was immediately slashed down by the standing guard.

""What was that?!" Ironsong frowned.

Raven’s mind raced. There was only one explanation.

"Maeryn’s been backstabbed by Velkarin."

Raven gaze turns to the lift gate, Dominion Chain slack at his side, watching the black plumes spiral into the city’s artificial sky. His eyes narrowed.

"There are no heavy siege units," he muttered. "The main elevator won’t have space for heavy sieges."

"This could be the main turning point of their assault," Ironsong growled.

From the distance, the thunder of marching grew louder—measured, metallic, and relentless. The Velkarin Axis army was descending.

Commander Ironsong stood beside him, motionless.

His hands were clenched, knuckles white around the hilt of his sword. Beneath the torchlight, sweat mixed with ash on his brow. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

One question lingered in his mind—a question Raven had asked days earlier, and one he had ignored.

Which side are you on?

His breath caught. He looked past the smoke, past the scrambling civilians, to the broken marketplace where dwarves knelt beside burning carts and guards froze under the weight of fear.

His city.

Ironsong exhaled, slowly. Then, with a quiet motion, he unclasped the pauldrons of his Velkarin armor. The blacksteel pieces hit the ground with a loud clang—sharp, deliberate.

A few guards turned to look. Some widened their eyes in disbelief. He didn’t meet their gaze.

Piece by piece, he discarded the rest. Breastplate. Bracers. Gauntlets. The sigil of Velkarin Axis landed last, clattering against stone like a severed chain.

He was still in his undersuit. Still armed. But no longer shielded by the banner of his former empire.

He ran.

Toward the flames. Toward the frightened. Toward the heart of the city he had once sworn only to guard.

"Ironsong!" one dwarf called out. "What are you doing?!"

He didn’t stop. Didn’t turn. His answer was simple:

"Going home."

Behind him, Raven pulled his hood tighter. The system ping still lingered on his HUD.

[Optional Quest – Pick a Side and Decide the Fate of Kharnath-Dur (0/1)]

His eyes followed Ironsong’s silhouette disappearing into the rising smoke.

One move had been made.

Smoke wreathed the upper tiers of the city. Torchlight mingled with the golden glow of the dormant brass sun suspended above. The ramparts stood silent—waiting.

Ironsong burst into the staging area beside the defense wall.

"Set up cannon defenses on the upper wall! Technicians, get those barrels calibrated for staggered fire—make a crossing kill-zone down the main approach!"

Several dwarven guards and engineers turned, stunned by the human’s commanding tone. ƒree𝑤ebnσvel-com

"Why should we listen to a human?" one shouted.

"I am a son of Kharnath-Dur!" Ironsong roared back. "I was raised here, taught here! My first memory is a dwarven hand pulling me from the snow!"

"You’re still an outsider," one of the mechanics hissed, knuckles white on a crate.

Ironsong stepped closer. "Then damn you. Sit here and wait to die—wait to be captured, used, broken. They see you as cheap labor. Entertainers. Tools with a beard. Is that your pride? Is that what your ancestors bled for?"

A heavy silence fell.

"Follow my orders," he growled. "Or get out of the way."

Slowly, one by one, they moved. Some with reluctance. Some with guilt. But they moved.

Raven appeared beside him, calm as ever. "You’ve got a good bark. What’s the plan?"

Ironsong exhaled. "We hold this wall. Buy time. You, my friend, will help me."

He looked over the gathered defenders. "I trust no one here but you and Durnehra. And she’s no soldier."

"I’ll take the left wing," Raven said, already slipping into the shadows of the battlement.

"Take care, friend. Let’s share a drink after this."

"Or a funeral," Raven answered, flashing a dry smirk.

Ironsong chuckled, voice ironbound. "Either way sounds good."

Then they split—one to the left, one to the right—as the sounds of war surged toward Kharnath-Dur’s gates.

Raven crouched atop the left wing of the defense wall, his eyes scanning the stretch of battlements, the winding streets below, and the distant elevator shaft that now echoed with the steady march of approaching troops.

Five dwarven mana cannons were lined along the wall—angular devices carved from stone and metal, humming faintly with arcane charge. They were marvels of dwarven craftsmanship, the very weapons the Velkarin Axis had long coveted.

He stood tall, voice cutting through the smoke and clamor.

"Form up!" he barked. "One mage and one mechanic per cannon—now!"

The defenders hesitated only a moment. Dwarves scurried to the stations, forming impromptu crews as Raven moved briskly between the platforms.

"If you’re not on cannon duty, get your hands on a bow, a crossbow, anything that launches death!"

He pointed toward the crates of supplies stacked at the edge of the parapet.

"Women, help with resupply! Mana bottles, arrows, bolts—keep those lines fed or we die choking on empty hands!"

A dwarven youth stood frozen, clutching a crate of mana vials.

"You!" Raven called out. "Name?"

"Th-Tharik, sir!"

"Tharik, you’re the spine of that cannon team now. Keep their bottles full, or you’ll be scraping their remains off the wall."

The youth nodded and ran.

Raven moved like a wraith—checking formations, correcting alignments, pointing out lines of fire.

"This isn’t about glory," he called, voice carrying over the clash of preparations. "This is about holding what’s ours. You want to live? You want to breathe free air tomorrow? Then tighten your bolts, anchor your runes, and don’t miss."

He paused at the last cannon, gazing out at the slowly forming line of enemy torches in the distance. Then he whispered, low enough only the wind might hear:

"Let them come."

Meanwhile, Ironsong, on the other side of the wall, raised his sword.

"Endure it! This doesn’t end until they reach the royal palace!"

The Velkarin soldiers had almost reached optimal range.

He drew a long breath. "Great army of Kharnath-Dur... fire!"

His command echoed through the ancient walls.

A heartbeat later, the mana cannons ignited with thunderous fury. Blazing arcs of condensed magic surged from their mouths, rupturing the air and incinerating the first wave of Velkarin soldiers. Bodies flew backward in twisted silhouettes, armor liquefied by the raw force of arcane combustion. The grand elevator shaft became a pyre, engulfed in flame as its steel frame screeched under the sudden shock.

The ground trembled beneath the force. Rubble pelted the stone floor, and the acrid stench of burning steel mingled with screams.

But the onslaught wasn’t enough.

From the smoke-choked inferno, figures emerged—staggering, singed, but not stopped. Velkarin infantrymen burst through the chaos in scattered squads, sprinting hard while the cannons recharged. Shields raised, eyes locked forward, they surged like wolves through fire, determined to reach the wall before the next salvo could reload.

"This one is ready, sir!" a dwarf shouted.

"Crossbows! Longbows! Fire at will! Hit the ones that slip through the kill zone!" Ironsong ordered. "Mana crews—reload and fire at will! Our lives depend on it!"

"For Kharnath-Dur!"

The long road to the gates of Kharnath-Dur became a killing field. From the walls, the five dwarven mana cannons roared in deadly succession, each blast a thunderclap of destruction. The front line of Velkarin soldiers was obliterated, their bodies tossed like ragdolls, armor melted and fused to seared flesh. Smoke and fire swallowed their advance.

A second volley followed—cannon barrels glowing red, the recoil trembling through the ramparts. Dozens more fell. Screams were lost beneath the violence of detonation. Limbs flew. Helmets clattered against stone. Crimson stained the pale dwarven road.

Then the third wave—Velkarin troops, more organized, using fallen debris as cover—charged with desperation. Arrows and bolts rained from above, pinning them down, breaking their lines. A few managed to sprint into the dead zone between the cannon cycles.

But just as they began to climb the incline near the base of the wall, a coordinated spell burst from the rear ranks. Velkarin mages raised their staves, muttering synchronized incantations. Flames coalesced and surged forward.

A massive fireball struck the left-most turret. The explosion rocked the wall, stone cracking, defenders thrown to the ground. One of the mana cannons buckled from the impact, toppling and crushing the team beside it. A gaping hole opened in the battlement, smoke and debris clouding vision.

The chaos was complete. Screams, smoke, arrows, magic, all colliding in a deafening crescendo. War had arrived not with horns, but with fury. And above it all—Kharnath-Dur’s heart pounded, ancient and defiant.

It was not a battle—it was massacre with thunder, a storm of fury and defiance.

And through it all, Kharnath-Dur stood.

Against fire.

Against politics.

Against the inevitability of empires.

And the Velkarin Axis invasion began in full.

This 𝓬ontent is taken from f(r)eeweb(n)ovel.𝒄𝒐𝙢