{Chapter: 57: True Culprits And Breaking Through Defense}
Only Ciel, James's most loyal aide, noticed the dullness in the prince's eyes. For a moment, James seemed far away, not here in this gilded prison of stone, but in the past—perhaps reliving a memory, a regret.
But Ciel said nothing. He understood his master. James was not the type to reveal weakness. Whatever pain lingered in his heart, it would be buried beneath duty and discipline.
Time passed. After extensive searching, the verdict was clear.
"Nothing unusual, Your Highness," a priest reported, bowing low.
James gave a nod. "Good. Then we proceed."
They rode on. As the party approached the next target, a structure loomed in the distance—wide, dark, foreboding. Its spires curled like claws into the air, its archways yawning open like mouths eager to consume.
Safi halted his horse, narrowing his eyes.
"This is it," he murmured. "I can feel it. The darkness here is tangible."
James scanned the massive structure ahead—the Colosseum. It wasn't merely an arena for entertainment. It was a relic of war and politics, a monument to the strength of the Principality. Built not only for games of blood but as a defensive fortress in times of siege.
"They've stopped hiding," James muttered. "They knew we were closing in. They're burning their escape routes."
Safi nodded grimly. "This place is massive. How do you want to proceed?"
James furrowed his brow, recalling the structure's layout.
"The director of the Colosseum is Richard Woz—my uncle. If it's been compromised, either he's failed in his duties... or he's complicit. But there's no time to speculate."
He turned his eyes to the towering walls—stone reinforced with steel, nearly 35 meters high, unscalable by normal men. The gates were massive, fashioned from layers of ironwood and enchanted bronze. Battering them down would take hours upon hours.
James clenched his jaw. "We won't waste time at the front."
He raised his arm.
"All knights and great knights, prepare climbing hooks! We scale the wall and take them from above! Archers, ready your bows. Soak your arrows in oil and wrap the tips in cloth! If they try to retreat inside, we'll burn them out."
The soldiers responded swiftly, moving with trained efficiency. Knights began fastening climbing gear, testing the weight of their equipment, while archers dipped their arrows into barrels of thick, tar-like kerosene.
James turned to his aide. "Ciel, organize three squadrons. I want one to go up the west flank, one to scale the eastern wall, and the last to stay with me and breach from the northern balcony."
"Yes, Your Highness," Ciel said and moved quickly to issue the orders.
Safi remained silent, watching James command with sharp precision. The prince, even after the emotional blow from his mother, remained unshaken. This was the mark of a true ruler—someone who placed his people and kingdom before his pride.
Unlike Earth, where large-scale sieges often hinge on the deployment of cumbersome machinery—siege towers, battering rams, and ladders—this world, shaped by generations of magical evolution and physical prowess, had forged its own path. Climbing hooks, deceptively simple tools crafted from enchanted steel, had become a mainstay in siege warfare. Compact and deadly, they allowed trained soldiers to scale otherwise impenetrable walls. But these hooks came at a cost.
They required strength—raw, unrelenting strength.
Each climber had to use all four limbs, sacrificing the use of weapons or shields in exchange for rapid vertical movement. In that vulnerable moment, when bodies were dangling between sky and stone, they were easy targets—silhouettes against the sky. Defenders needed only a steady aim and a flick of the wrist to send them crashing back to earth like broken dolls. This made such tools suitable only for stealth missions or lightning-fast ambushes. In direct combat, they bordered on suicidal.
And yet, James Woz stood unwavering in front of the towering walls of the Colosseum—stone bastions nearly thirty-five meters tall, embedded with wards of protection and defense magic. An ancient structure that had once been an arena of royal celebration, now sullied by shadows.
James didn't flinch. He knew what waited inside. He could feel it—a foul stench beneath the stone, like sulfur and rot.
Armor clanked and leather straps snapped into place as soldiers, loyal to the Principality of Marton, obeyed without pause. These were veterans—men who had fought in bloody fights and wars and lived to tell the tale. They knew what this climb meant.
Among them, the priests of the Church's Heretic Hunting House stood motionless, momentarily uncertain. Their discipline came from faith, not battle drills, and now, they looked to Safi, their commanding inquisitor, for clarity.
Safi stared at the wall, eyes burning with cold fire. He knew what was at stake. The ritual happening inside the Colosseum wasn't some minor summoning—it was a gateway. If it completed, a demon would claw its way into the mortal realm. The blood spilled now would be a whisper compared to the screaming that would follow.
He clenched his jaw. "All those at knight level or above—climbing gear, now! The rest of you, provide cover fire!"
The hesitation dissolved. Dozens of black-robed clerics and armored priests began strapping on climbing tools with grim determination. Unlike regular soldiers, these men were trained for dealing with heretics and monsters. They had stormed crypts, desecrated temples, and darkened caves. Climbing hooks were no stranger to them.
Within moments, the preparatory chants of blessing could be heard—soft prayers to armor limbs and sharpen minds.
James gave one last glance at the sky. It was overcast now, clouds swirling as if the heavens themselves were uneasy. A foul wind rose from the Colosseum, thick with corruption.
"Archers—fire!"
The first volley shot into the air with the sound of a thousand whip cracks. Fiery arrows arced high, trailing smoke, before crashing down into the open-air portions of the Colosseum. The response was immediate—screams erupted from within. Some high-pitched, others guttural, inhuman. The cultists had been hit. James's instincts were right—they hadn't expected such a bold frontal assault.
He counted the seconds between volleys.
"One… two… three…"
"Fire again!"
More arrows screamed into the sky. Some ignited wooden watchposts. Others found flesh. The smell of burnt fabric and blood filled the air.
And then—James roared: "Assault! Scale the wall! For Marton!"
Thousands of soldiers surged forward like a living wave, their climbing hooks catching on stone as they began their ascent. From a distance, it looked like the fortress walls were growing thorns—each one a man ready to die for the cause.
The cultists responded, but it was chaotic. Their counter attacks were crude, their formation sloppy. Bows were fired down at awkward angles. The knights pressed upward regardless—some falling, others catching themselves on lower ledges, refusing to surrender.
Safi raised his staff. "Suppress their casters!" he ordered. A dozen white-robed clerics knelt and began a joint incantation.
Screams, arrows, and the rumble of collapsing platforms followed.
James watched the top of the wall. The first knight made it up—then another—then five. The defenders at the top began to falter. Their focus turned inward.
"Hold fire!" James ordered the archers. "They've breached the wall!"
With the shift in power atop the fortress, continuing to fire would do more harm than good. They needed to move.
And then, at last, the gates began to groan. Screams of metal and the grinding of ancient hinges echoed out as the heavy gates of the Colosseum cracked open from within. Smoke poured out in the tendrils. The knight who had opened the gate stood bloody and defiant, sword dripping with crimson.
James didn't hesitate.
"All archers, draw blades! Into the breach! Kill anyone who resists—drive them into the dust!"
A roar erupted as hundreds of soldiers surged forward through the widening gate. Inside, the Colosseum had transformed into a battlefield.
"Stop the ritual!" he shouted, sword raised. "The demon must not rise!"
As the moon climbed higher, casting its cold light over the battlefield-to-be, the siege of the Colosseum was about to begin.
And within those towering walls, the cultists waited—knowing their time was short, but determined to take as many down with them as they could.