The sky above the desolate ruin no longer looked like an ordinary sky.
Thousands of massive arrays spun across the horizon, golden runes locked onto the world like divine chains; chains that even bent space and spread waves of mana like a stormy sea across the entire region.
The clouds had long since been destroyed, the winds howled wildly.
And the ground was slowly collapsing under the intensity of the pressure being exerted on it.
At the center of that hell, four commanders stood in the sky: Varkas with his massive black wings covering the sky.
Alindra with that cold emerald gaze and a bow leaking the light of ancient forests.
Miralia amid hundreds of floating magic circles.
And Rodric, the quietest of all.
Behind them, the greatest army the continent had seen in thousands of years had taken the world's breath away.
Then the battle began.
Not with a shout or a command like ordinary attacks or anything similar, but with the simultaneous explosion of thousands of attacks.
