Current Casualty Count:
Anarchy Empire: 1,259 Dead | 749 Injured
Valte: 9,000 Dead | 2,938 Injured
The tides of war had begun to turn in the Empire's favor. Each battle, each sacrifice carved a path toward victory. But triumph is a fragile dream—one that shattered on the dawn of Day 7.
Day 7 – The Trump Card
The frontal assault resumed, but this day was unlike the rest. Valte no longer intended to prolong the war. King Roderick had made his decision—to end it swiftly, with overwhelming force. And so, he released his deadliest piece onto the battlefield.
On the Empire's side stood 5,000 knights, rallied at the southern front near Cintrel. Four commanders led them: Isla, Lucas, Arman, and Luna. At the rear, August, aged but revered, stood as Supreme Commander. Though his body had long surpassed the years of combat, he remained—a symbol of resilience and guidance.
Then, the earth trembled.
Across the plain, he appeared—a solitary figure stepping forward from Valte's side. A man in a worn, scarred suit of armor—no medals, no embellishments. Just a quiet, terrible presence. His hair was mostly black, streaked with white—like an old wolf who had never known defeat.
Every step cracked the soil beneath him. The knights of Cintrel froze. Their courage faltered.
"…Damn it," Isla muttered, his voice low.
Lucas, eyes sharpened by instinct, drew his blade slowly, a cold tension filling the air.
Luna stepped forward. "Your Highness… please evacuate."
Lucas didn't turn to her. His voice was quiet, but laced with pride—and defiance.
"Why? Do you think I'm going to lose?"
He glanced at her, a faint smile tugging his lips. "Do you fear death, Luna?"
Isla answered for them both, his tone steady.
"We all die eventually. The only difference is when."
Lucas nodded. There would be no retreat. Not for them.
With a cold voice,Lucas commanded August to back down and guarded the Countess.
August stepped forward, his eyes filled with sorrow. He knew what was coming,he knew why they ordered him to do so. Still, he obeyed their request.
"I pray for your victory, Your Highness," he said before turning back, leaving the battlefield to the young lions.
Then came the name—whispered at first, then shouted across the plain:
"Teslon."
TheMercenary King.
He halted fifty meters away, standing alone like a wall of fate.
"Brave children," Teslon called out, his voice calm, unnerving. "I'll spare you out of respect for your Emperor. Leave Cintrel… and live."
Not one knight moved. Not one commander wavered.
Teslon smirked. "So be it. I'll let you youngsters make the first move."
He planted his sword into the ground. And waited.
Lucas stepped forward, voice raised not in fear, but pride.
"Knights of the Empire! Today, we may fall—but our deaths will not be in vain! This battle will light the path for those behind us. We are not just soldiers—we are the shields of the world!"
A battle cry rang across the field. Swords were raised. Spirits surged.
Then—
"Now!" Isla barked.
With blinding speed:
Heavenly Dark Art – Third Form: Oblivion Slash.
Twin arcs of shadow erupted from Isla's daggers, screaming toward Teslon.
Heavenly Flame Art – First Form: Ember's Path.
Lucas followed, a blazing crescent of flame trailing his sword's swing.
External Art – 80% Output: Colossal Punch.
Arman charged, the ground quaking beneath his feet as he leapt for a direct blow.
Poison Art – Second Form: Vines of Death.
From the earth beneath Teslon's boots, poisonous vines erupted, aiming to skewer his heart.
Four attacks—four masterclass strikes from the Empire's finest—converged on one man.
Teslon didn't move. Not a step.
He simply lowered his stance, raising both hands.
Force: Repel.
A shockwave exploded outward—shadow, flame, fist, and venom—stopped midair, frozen by sheer will. Arman was blasted backward like a broken spear.
Then—
Force: Pull.
Luna was yanked forward,she tried to resist but it was helpless against the gravitational force summoned by Teslon.
In one smooth motion, he pulled his left hand and plunged it into her stomach.
Force: Propulse.
He blasted her backward
She was bleeding, broken.
Blood soaked the soil. Silence fell.
He looked at the rest—expression cold, voice sharper than steel.
"One down."
The knights stood frozen, eyes wide with disbelief.
Their captain—struck down in a single move.
A 4-Star Aura Master, crushed like an insect.
Such power... it was unimaginable.
Teslon walked forward slowly, each step deliberate, casual, like a man strolling through a garden rather than a battlefield soaked in blood. He intended to finish the kill.
"Form formation! Protect Luna!" Lucas roared, his voice sharp and desperate.
"Damn it... it's too late," Isla muttered bitterly.
Teslon raised his hand. Calm. Steady. Cold.
A palm aimed at Luna—still within his range.
Force: Crush.
The ground beneath her began to crack—groan—collapse.
But in a blur of black mist, Isla vanished.
He reappeared beside Luna, grabbed her, and dove into the shadows. In a heartbeat, he relocated her behind the lines, giving orders at the knights to stabilize her wounds.
Meanwhile, Lucas ignited his sword and charged.
His flame-blade blazed with fury, every slash meant to kill.
Teslon dodged each one effortlessly, weaving through the strikes like a specter. Then—at the final clash—their blades met.
Force: Redirect.
The searing flame surged sideways, exploding harmlessly in the distance.
And in that opening—Teslon struck.
Force: Propulse.
A brutal punch landed on Lucas's chest. The prince flew backward, crashing into the dirt. He spat blood, dropping to one knee. His breathing ragged, eyes dimming.
The battle was slipping from their hands.
Arman, seeing the moment, roared. "Now or never!"
He surged forward, pouring every ounce of power into his strike.
External Art – 100% Output: Colossal Punch!
The blow connected—hard—denting Teslon's armor, forcing a step back.
The mercenary's expression shifted slightly. A flicker of pain.
But then his hand touched Arman's chest.
Force: Crush.
CRACK.
Bones shattered.
Arman screamed, stumbling backward before collapsing, his body twitching in agony.
"Damn it... damn it all!!" Isla cursed, his hands trembling as he formed a dark triangle sigil in the air.
Heavenly Dark Art – Fifth Form: Dark Veil.
A black orb erupted, engulfing Teslon entirely—locking away his senses, smothering light, sound, touch.
Without hesitation, Isla moved. He gathered Arman and Lucas and retreated behind friendly lines, handing them over to the knights for treatment.
But then...
Force: Crush.
The black orb shattered.
From the dust, Teslon stepped out—and standing before him now was Isla, alone, daggers drawn, unwavering.
"Retreat," Isla ordered his knights. "Now."
Teslon tilted his head. "So... you're buying time?"
Isla didn't respond. He gripped a dagger, planted it at his feet—then vanished.
From Teslon's shadow, Isla emerged, blade slicing for the throat.
But—
Force: Repel.
A shockwave burst forth.
Isla barely escaped, flickering back to his anchor point like a blink of smoke. His tactic was clear: hit and vanish, constantly looping between planted shadows.
Teslon smiled.
He liked this game.
And time passed.
Valte's forces pressed forward. They'd seen the Empire retreating—they wouldn't let the chance go.
Soon Isla was surrounded.
Perfect.
He pulled his dagger from the ground—and in an instant—vanished again.
He reappeared within the enemy ranks, masked by the chaos of Teslon's own destructive wake. Slipping through shadows, he began eliminating Valte soldiers—one by one.
Silent. Surgical. Efficient.
Teslon watched.
He laughed. "Cunning little rat."
But the deaths piled up. Dozens of Valte men fell, panicked, unsure where to strike.
Eventually, Teslon had enough.
He raised both hands.
Force: Repel.
A massive shockwave blasted outward—friend and foe alike were thrown aside. He didn't care. Isla was too fast. Too slippery.
But it was enough.
The Empire's troops had completed their retreat.
And Isla, seeing his mission done, slipped into the shadows—and escaped.
At Cintrel Castle
Lucas, Arman, and Luna lay within the fortress walls—bloodied and broken.
Luna is unable to fight anymore.At Least not this war.
The tension in the war room was heavy as iron. August, his arms crossed, asked quietly, "What about Teslon? How are we supposed to deal with him?"
The room was in complete silence.
Even Lucas had no answer. No one did.
The room felt suffocating.
Then Isla stepped forward, his armor still soaked in blood. He said only couple of words:
"I've got a way."
He pulled out a sealed letter, flicked his fingers, and summoned a Hollow from the dark—a twisted, loyal shade.
"Deliver this. Now."
The Hollow vanished.
"For now," Isla said, turning toward the window, "we hold the line."
And then he walked away—his shadow dragging behind him like a wound that would never close.