The banners of the two kingdoms danced to the rhythm of a violent wind, snapping and snarling like hungry beasts waiting for the first scent of victory. High above, the midday sun sat heavy in the sky, its unfiltered glare thickening the shadows of the massed armies until they pooled beneath the soldiers' feet like spilled ink.
Then, the silence of the world was shattered.
WROOOOM!
The deep, guttural roar of the war horn echoed across the plains, a sound that felt as though the earth itself were groaning under the weight of impending slaughter.
On the field, the commanders—Kaelen and Demor—pointed their swords at each other in a silent, lethal promise. With a collective roar, the knights took their first heavy steps, their blades erupting in a kaleidoscope of colorful auras. Above them, the sky became a canvas of chaos; spells filled with Aether from the mages trailed through the air like falling stars, and arrows, amplified by lethal skills, rushed alongside them in a lethal rain.
CLANG!
The front lines collided with the force of two tectonic plates.
---
As the knights hacked and parried through the initial shock, Demor Aurelyth looked at his brother, Cassian, who was riding close at his side.
"Is that him?" Demor asked, his gaze fixed on Kaelen, whose blue aura was carving a path through their infantry. "The one you talked about? The one who humiliated you?"
"No," Cassian hissed, clenching his teeth so hard they threatened to crack. He didn't look at the battlefield; he looked at the distant, quiet hill where the pavilion stood. "He's there."
Demor followed his brother's line of sight, squinting at the man Cassian pointed out. To Demor's eyes, the figure sitting on the hill seemed almost ordinary, a calm observer in a military coat. But then he caught the darkness in the man's eyes—a gaze that felt far too heavy for a mere spectator.
"He doesn't look like much," Demor smirked, though the expression didn't reach his eyes. His mind was not at ease. A nagging doubt tugged at the back of his thoughts, a tactical inconsistency he couldn't quite name.
Why did they decide to face us by coming here so suddenly? They could've stayed in their fortifications without wasting stamina on a march. How did they get Relic Grade armor suddenly?
The tactical move felt wrong, like a trap that was too obvious to be a trap.
"I'll get him this time. That bastard will pay for what he did," Cassian roared, his pride burning hotter than the spells flying overhead.
---
Slpppshh!
Kaelen moved through the chaos like a storm made of steel. He cut through everyone in his path with a brutal, efficient grace, his mind split between the duel at hand and the movement of the thousands behind him. His white horse, draped in reinforced plating, reared its front legs in a rhythmic dance of war, its hooves crushing the earth as Kaelen's voice thundered over the din.
"Keep the formation intact! Don't let them split you!" he shouted to his comrades.
The Crimvane knights pushed back against the overwhelming red tide of Aurelyth. Despite being outnumbered two-to-one, the sheer quality of their Relic Grade armor held the line. Their hope to survive this war and return to the families they had left behind was a physical force, keeping their weary arms moving.
As Kaelen advanced, his gaze finally locked with Demor's. The Crown Prince of Aurelyth looked back with sharp, predatory eyes, and for a moment, the battle around them seemed to slow. They were two masters of the blade, measuring the weight of each other's souls.
Thud.
Kaelen dismounted from his horse with a fluid motion, his eyes never leaving Demor. Seeing the challenge, Demor prepared to do the same, but Cassian spurred his horse forward, stepping in front of his brother.
"Who is this guy?" Cassian asked, raising his eyebrows in a display of practiced arrogance. He glanced back at Demor with a sneer. "Brother, let me handle this one. He's not worth your time."
"No, you can't take him," Demor said firmly, his voice cutting through Cassian's ego. "Help with commanding the army while I fight. This man is different."
With a heavy thud, Demor also dropped from his saddle and drew his blade.
The two commanders stepped forward, the chaos of the army parting around them as if by instinct, leaving a hollow circle of blood-stained grass. They stopped a few meters apart and pointed their swords toward the heavens in a simultaneous salute of death.
[Aura Blade]
[Aura Blade]
Demor's sword, a masterpiece of peak Relic Grade craftsmanship, erupted in a violent, blood-red glow. The pressure radiating from the steel was so intense that nearby knights stumbled backward, their breath hitching. Kaelen's high Relic Grade sword answered with a pure, piercing blue light that mirrored the sky of Mythara above them.
"I am Demor Aurelyth, the Crowned Prince of Aurelyth and the Knight Commander," Demor declared, his voice ringing with the weight of his lineage.
"Kaelen Veythorne, their Majesties' sword and Knight Commander," Kaelen replied, his voice calm and unyielding.
Demor's eyes narrowed at the plural.
'Majesties'? Two?
He filed the thought away for later, intending to extract the answers once Kaelen was beneath his boot.
"Why are you even fighting me?" Demor stated, his tone almost pitying. "You have to know you aren't strong enough to win this duel, let alone this war."
"I want to prove myself," Kaelen said, his grip tightening on his hilt. "I want to prove that I am worthy of the status that was bestowed upon me so suddenly. I won't let their trust be a mistake."
"Prove yourself, huh?" He pointed his own sword toward Kaelen with a prideful smile. "You won't survive long enough to do that, commoner."
In the heart of the slaughter, the two commanders began their dance. It was more than a fight; it was the hinge upon which the morale of two nations turned.
---
The healing camps were a frantic, bloody theater of their own. Even with the Relic Grade gear, the sheer volume of the Aurelyth numbers meant the wounded were being carried in on rags and makeshift stretchers by the dozens. The healers from Cyradis, their robes already stained, worked with a focused desperation to maintain Vionette's 'zero deaths' mandate.
Vionette's voice echoed through the minds of every commander on the field, orchestrating the battlefield like a grand symphony. Following her telepathic lead, Isla barked orders to the healer units.
"Move the last two to tent three, there's space!" she shouted at the sweating knights carrying a comrade. "We need a regeneration user here! Aether Body healers, come here quickly!"
The Aether Body—the spiritual layer that reinforced the physical frame—was under immense strain. For the mages, who were channeling Aether beyond their natural limits to counter the Aurelyth numbers, injuries to this spiritual layer were becoming common.
The Cyradis healers didn't fully understand why they had been dragged to this foreign war, nor did they understand the 'Crazy Queen' of Crimvane. But they followed the orders of their lord, and for now, that meant saving every life that crossed their threshold.
---
Duke Korneas was a man possessed, his shield slamming into enemy knights while his sword bit into any opening he could find. His horse lunged forward, a battering ram of meat and steel, but his heart was heavy with the sight of his men being pushed back.
The sheer, unfiltered aggression in her mental voice left him no room to argue.
Without a choice, Korneas signaled his captains. He realized that Vionette wasn't just guessing; she had a plan that required blind obedience. If he wavered, the entire house of cards would come down.
"Knights of Highfen! To the left wing! Move!" he roared.
As he turned his horse, he looked back at the hill where Vionette sat.
Can we really win this?
The memory of the first fall of Crimvane was a ghost that still haunted his thoughts, and only a total victory today could exorcise it.
---
Duke Valric felt the voice in his head and didn't even flinch. His eyebrows twitched with a moment of confusion at the tactical shift, but he remembered his son's words about the 'Crazy Pair'. If Lucien believed in them, Valric would too.
"Knights of Blackmoor! Advance to the right wing immediately!"
With the dukes moving their forces to the flanks, the center of the Crimvane line suddenly looked dangerously thin, held together only by a few loyal units and the Royal Knights.
---
On the opposite hill, inside a golden-tasseled tent that smelled of expensive incense, King Kahen Aurelyth sat in a carved chair, swirling a glass of royal wine.
"Sire, Crimvane's front lines have started to falter. They're pulling their dukes to the wings out of desperation, and Duke Caldris' hidden army is now nearing their rear," a knight reported, kneeling with a triumphant grin.
Kahen let out a boisterous laugh, setting his wine down on a table covered in tactical pieces.
"Kahahah! Crimvane will fall before sunset, and the victory will be ours! Their princess is nothing but a child playing at war."
A man emerged from the shadows of the tent, his blonde hair perfectly styled and his green eyes cold and calculating. It was Duke Gemsh Caldris.
"Though she changed her style, she's still that same stupid doll princess," Gemsh said, his voice dripping with condescension. "Falling into my trap and killing Carvan was predictable, but rejecting Eryndor's help was pure idiocy. She's isolated herself perfectly for us."
"Heheh! You can't blame her, Gemsh. We planned this so well that there's no way her tiny mind could predict the pincer," Kahen agreed, offering a glass to the Duke.
Gemsh smiled to himself, looking out toward the battlefield.
Vionette Crimvane, I am the genius of Caldris. You were never more than a pawn on my board.
"Begin the annihilation immediately," Gemsh ordered the knight, his hand sweeping across the map.
---
"Keep holding until the others can heal! Don't give an inch!" Numael shouted, his voice hoarse.
As the second-in-command, the weight of the thinning center line had fallen onto his shoulders while Kaelen was locked in his duel.
CLANG!
Numael blocked a dual-strike from two Aurelyth knights. His body was drenched in sweat, his lungs burning with every breath, while his opponents were still fresh.
With the dukes moving to the wings, the pressure on the front was becoming unbearable.
"What is Her Majesty doing?" a soldier cried out, his shield splintering.
"Is this really the end?"
"WHAT THE HELL?"
The hope that had been built up was vanishing like mist in the sun. Their armor was battered, their muscles were screaming, and the sheer weight of numbers was crushing them.
SHROOOM!
A massive fireball from the Aurelyth mages streaked through the air, exploding in the middle of a Crimvane squad.
"Hahah! You idiots are going to die today!" the Aurelyth knights mocked.
"Crimvane falls today!"
"And look behind you—there's more where that came from!"
The Crimvane soldiers turned their heads in horror. There, emerging from the tall grass at their rear, were the banners of Duke Gemsh Caldris. The 'support' they had expected was actually the knife in their back.
"Caldris betrayed us?"
"How... why now?"
The last shred of hope disappeared. They were being crushed from the front and stabbed from behind. It was a massacre in the making.
Only a miracle—or a god—could save them now.
---
Lina looked at the battlefield with growing terror, her small hands clutching the edges of her seat. She didn't understand why her brother was just sitting there, looking so calm while their people were almost dying. Rose looked at Vionette, her stoic face showing a flicker of concern. Roswell and Livora both stood up, their hands on their own weapons.
"I will order our knights to intervene. This is a slaughter," Roswell said, his voice urgent.
"Hold," Vionette said, her hand extending to stop him. She didn't even look at him; her eyes were fixed on the chaos below. "The real fight has only just begun."
Roswell froze, his eyes wide. He looked at Vionette, then at Noa, who was finally standing up from his chair.
Noa grabbed his sheathed sword, Acheron, by the middle. His dark hair waved in the wind as he stepped to the edge of the pavilion.
[Blink]
In an instant, he vanished.
Elina looked back at the battlefield, a small, dangerous smile appearing on her face.
"Guess it's time."