The Grand Duke's Son Is A Heretic-Chapter 501

Roosevelt closed his eyes for a moment, then reached for a letter lying on the desk.

It bore a royal seal carved from ice.

The Ice Elves.

He opened it carefully and read through the elegant script. The letter was from Queen Alvera of the Ice Elves. It spoke of support, of reinforcements, and of standing together against Nightstar.

A slow smirk appeared on Roosevelt’s face as he finished reading.

"So," he muttered, folding the letter. "It’s time to act."

He looked up sharply.

"Martina."

"Yes?" she replied at once.

"Push the secret plan forward," he said firmly. "We need to start pressing Nightstar along the borders."

He paused, then added, "Also, ask Kael to quickly break through before coming back."

If Kael had heard that line, he would have slapped Roosevelt across the face and cursed him without hesitation.

What the fuck do you mean by breakthrough? You wouldn’t even be standing here without everyone else’s help, you asshole.

Martina stared at Roosevelt in disbelief.

"Your Majesty," she said slowly, "if you say those exact words to him, you will be beaten very badly."

Roosevelt blinked.

Then reality hit him.

He coughed awkwardly and waved his hand.

"Alright. Scratch that," he said quickly. "Just ask him to come back. Once he returns, we’ll start deploying the assassins."

He leaned back slightly and looked at Martina with a serious gaze.

"Martina, you are a crucial part of this plan," he continued. "You need to prepare as well and gain as much experience as possible. The mages have already traced a stable threat connection to Nightstar. Things are only going to escalate from here."

Martina clenched her fist at her side. Her playful tone from earlier was gone. Only resolve remained.

"Yes," she said firmly. "I am ready."

The room fell silent.

Outside the chamber, the war was far from over. But inside, the wheels had begun to turn.

....

At the border between Nightstar and Heizen, a deadly atmosphere hung heavy in the air.

The sounds of gunfire and explosions echoed without pause. Bombs thundered in the distance, and sharp cracks of rifles rang out again and again. Smoke drifted across the land, mixing with dust and the stench of blood.

The tactical advantage of guns and artillery was painfully clear.

For long-range combat, Heizen relied mostly on archers. But archers needed clear lines of sight, stable ground, and time to aim. Nightstar did not. Their firearms could shoot from far away, even from behind cover, even through chaos.

Until now, Heizen had only been retreating.

They fell back step by step, defending the forsaken land with everything they had. Shields were raised. Trenches were dug. Barricades were built and destroyed again and again.

Still, it was not enough.

"Fuckkk!"

A Heizen soldier slammed his back against a shattered wall, panting hard as bullets struck the stone above his head.

"It’s so damn hard to defend against these sons of bitches!"

Another explosion shook the ground, throwing dirt and debris into the air. Soldiers scrambled, rolling behind broken wagons and fallen rubble.

"Take cover!"

"Archers, fire!"

A group of archers rushed forward, releasing arrows in volleys. Several shots found their marks, and a few Nightstar soldiers fell. But the enemy lines barely slowed.

Their positions were fortified. Metal plates, sandbags, and reinforced walls absorbed arrows and deflected most attacks.

Gunfire answered back immediately.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Bullets tore through the air, forcing the archers to retreat again.

"This is bad," one soldier muttered, gripping his spear with shaking hands. "We can’t keep this up."

The situation dragged on like this for days.

Day after day of retreat. Day after day of desperate defense.

Morale dropped. Supplies ran thin. Sleep became a luxury.

Then, one afternoon, a sudden shout cut through the chaos.

"Message! Message from the center!"

A man came running through the trenches, waving a sealed scroll high above his head. His face was flushed, not with fear, but with excitement.

The commander of the front line, Bumper, strode forward quickly. His armor was scratched and stained, his eyes tired.

"What happened?" Bumper demanded.

"What is the message, and why do you look like that?"

The messenger stopped in front of him, took a deep breath, and smiled widely.

"It’s because we have reinforcements."

For a moment, Bumper just stared.

Then his shoulders relaxed slightly.

"...I see," he said quietly.

Around them, soldiers who overheard the words looked up in disbelief. Some laughed weakly. Others clenched their fists, and clicked their tongues in sheer annoyance.

Bumper watched the crates being dragged across the dirt, their wooden bottoms scraping against stones and leaving rough lines on the ground. The men around him had gone quiet. Even the wind seemed to slow, as if it sensed something heavy was about to be revealed.

He rubbed his face again, exhaustion mixing with irritation.

"For God’s sake," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "We don’t need more bodies. We need something that stops those fuckers from poking holes in us from half a battlefield away."

A cough broke the silence.

"You are not understanding the matter, sir."

Bumper looked up. The messenger was no longer smiling wildly. Instead, there was a strange confidence in his eyes. He clapped his hands sharply.

The sound echoed.

At once, soldiers moved. They dragged the crates forward with effort, boots sinking into mud, shoulders straining. The crates thudded down one after another, forming a rough line in front of Bumper.

"What’s this?" Bumper asked, his voice low.

"Don’t just stand there," the man replied. "Go and see."

Bumper hesitated, then stepped forward. He bent down and pried open the lid of the nearest crate.

The smell of oil and cold metal rushed out.

Inside lay long barrels, dark and heavy, stacked with care. Beneath them were metal frames, triggers, magazines, and parts he had only seen on the bodies of dead Nightstar soldiers.

His breath caught.

His fingers brushed one of the barrels.

It felt cold and chilling, sending deja vu.

"Don’t tell me..." he whispered.

He slowly turned.

The messenger nodded, a thin smile on his lips.

"Yes...Guns."

"Holyshittt!"