The sag in the iron walls became a groan—deep, grinding, testing the endurance of these ancient walls.
The ground itself protested beneath the strain.
The Francian defenders atop the parapets stumbled, clutching the battlements for balance as fissures spread like veins of molten fire beneath their feet.
Then the wall gave out.
With a thunderous crack, the black iron bulwark—boasted for centuries as impenetrable—split like rotten timber.
Whole sections pitched backwards, collapsing in a rain of dust and debris that sent shockwaves through the ground.
Men screamed as towers buckled and fell, their white and blue banners swallowed by the rising cloud.
When the dust cleared, the once-mythical fortifications of Francia lay shattered.
Julius lowered his sword.
The crimson glow of the Earth Resonance coming off of his blade dimmed to a faint pulse before he sheathed it once more.
Behind him, his Praetorians tightened ranks, the black shields gleaming under the ashen light.
