Current Casualty Count:
Anarchy Empire: 2849 Dead | 1298 Injured
Valte: 9432 Dead | 2,978 Injured
Supplies were running low.
Reinforcements had not come.
The soldiers barely spoke. Morale was disintegrating by the hour.
Some had stopped polishing their weapons. Others sat silently, staring into nothing, waiting for the final trumpet.
And yet… in the silence…
Hope flickered.
Not in speeches. Not in strength.
But in the simple, stubborn choice to stand.
To fight even when every breath hurt.
To defend the walls even when death felt certain.
To face the oncoming storm with steel drawn and hearts still burning.
Cintrell would not fall without a fight.
The Fall of Cintrell
The final defense of Cintrell began under blood-red skies.
Valte's war horns blared in the distance—an omen of doom echoing across the ruined fields. The knights manned the battlements with gritted teeth and hollow eyes. They knew this would be their last stand.
The walls shook with each distant impact. Catapults roared. Ballista bolts screamed through the air. Valte's soldiers came like waves, crashing against stone, climbing with ladders, dying in droves—yet never stopping.
And bit by bit… the fortress crumbled.
First the eastern wall. Then the second inner gate.
Flames burst through the southern tower. The sky filled with smoke. The Empire's banners, once proud and defiant, were now charred and torn.
And then—he came.
Teslon. The Mercenary King.
He walked through fire and ruin, his cloak dragging across the blood-soaked stone. His presence alone sent shockwaves through the battlefield.
He approached the final gate.
Palm touching the gate.Smirk on his face.
"Force: CRUSH."
The great iron gates of Cintrell—said to withstand even dragon breath—crushed into twisted steel and splinters.
And standing in the wreckage to meet him—bruised, bloodied, yet unbowed—were Lucas, Isla, and Arman.
Their eyes burned not with hope… but with fury.
They charged.
Lucas's flaming blade clashed with Teslon's steel. Isla weaved between shadows, striking from behind. Arman struck with earth-shaking fists, forcing Teslon to parry and dodge.
But he was relentless.
"Force: REDIRECT."
Lucas's flames turned away from Teslon's armor, leaving him open.
"Force: PROPEL."
Arman was sent flying, crashing through a pillar.
"Force: REPEL."
Isla's shadow step faltered as he was flung back, skidding across the scorched floor.
Still—they rose again.
"We don't run," Lucas growled.
"We die on our feet," Isla added.
The castle was in ruins—its towers shattered, walls broken, and the air thick with smoke and blood.
Lucas stood amidst the devastation, watching the last vestiges of Cintrell crumble around him. The time for caution was over. The time for restraint had ended.
Now—he would go all out.
Whatever happened, Teslon had to fall. If he survived, even reinforcements wouldn't matter. There would be nothing left to save.
Gripping his blade tightly, Lucas turned to Isla and Arman.
A single nod.
"No holding back."
Isla moved first, vanishing into the darkness.
"Heavenly Dark Art – Second Form: Abyssal Bind."
The shadows beneath Teslon twisted, coiling upward like black serpents. In an instant, they bound him in place—tight and suffocating. The Mercenary King grunted, caught by surprise.
Lucas raised his sword, calling down the fury of the heavens.
"Heavenly Flame Art – Third Form: Blazing Tempest!"
A vortex of fire spiraled down from the sky, roaring like a dragon. The ground cracked beneath its heat as it descended upon Teslon with the force of divine judgment.
Flames consumed the battlefield—
And still, Teslon smiled.
Even with his hands restrained, his voice rang out:
"Force: REPEL."
A massive shockwave exploded from his body. The shadows shattered. The inferno split apart, redirected skyward.
The ground trembled.
Lucas's eyes widened. "Now!"
Arman was already in motion, fists clenched, body surging with borrowed strength. They'd studied Teslon's attacks. Every time he invoked his power, there was a brief pause—a heartbeat's delay before impact.
That was their only window.
"External Art – 200% Output: Colossal Punch!"
The blow landed with a deafening crack.
Teslon's chestplate buckled. Blood splattered from his mouth. He staggered back, for the first time—wounded.
But Arman too collapsed to one knee, coughing blood from the recoil. The cost was steep—but worth it.
The air stilled.
The sky darkened further, and the pressure around them shifted.
Teslon wiped the blood from his lips… and smiled again.
No more tricks.
No more games.
Now, he was done playing.
He stepped forward, his aura rippling like a collapsing sun. The ground beneath his feet caved. His eyes, cold and inhuman, locked onto the three.
"Impressive," he said. "But not enough."
Then suddenly the sky cracked open.
Dragons.
Ten of them, summoned by Valte's final gamble. Their roars split the heavens. Their wings turned day to night.
From the burning sky, a shadow descended.
Wings like thunder stretched across the heavens—a dragon, black-scaled and colossal, its roar silencing the chaos below.
And upon its back rode a man cloaked in regal battle armor, crowned by a circlet of obsidian steel.
Roderick.
The King of Valte.
A former Tower Master. A tyrant. A conqueror.
His presence alone bent the wind. His gaze swept across the battlefield, settling on the duel unfolding below—Lucas, Isla, and Arman clashing desperately against the Mercenary King.
He chuckled under his breath.
"Let them fight," he muttered, his voice carried only to the dragon's ears.
But then his eyes narrowed. The castle—his soon-to-be stronghold—was burning. Fire devoured its walls and towers, choking the sky with black smoke. That was unacceptable. A ruin was useless to him.
With a flick of his fingers, he raised his staff and whispered:
"Wind Magic – Gale Force."
A massive current of wind surged forward.
The flames across the castle were smothered in an instant, ripped apart by the magical maelstrom. Embers scattered. Smoke cleared. What remained was scorched stone and ash—but intact walls.
He would have his fortress intact.
Roderick hovered above the chaos, watching the battle below unfold like a king observing a game of pieces—
For now, he would wait.
This battle was almost over.
The pressure was suffocating for the empire. Teslon alone was already overwhelming. But now, with Roderick and a dragons looming over the battlefield, the tide was turning into a nightmare.
"We'll be overrun," Lucas muttered, voice grim but steady.
Isla didn't hesitate. "Arman—take Luna and the knights. Handle the dragons. Buy us time."
Arman, battered but alive, nodded and leapt into action. Luna, injured and limping, joined him, leading the surviving knights with fire in her veins.
Isla and Lucas remained.
Alone.
Facing Teslon in the ruin of the throne hall, surrounded by flames and bodies.
One one side was Teslon and the other was Roderick.
This was no longer war.
It was execution.
Teslon raised his hand.
"Time to end this."
But before he could strike—a tear in space cracked open.
And through it—
The Wizard King appeared.
Hair wild. Eyes sunken. Hands glowing with the raw light of Origin Magic.
"I came to repay my debt," the Wizard King said, his voice thin but resolute. His gaze locked onto Isla, unwavering even as blood dripped from the corner of his lips.
He clasped his trembling hands together. Ancient runes blazed up his arms like wildfire.
"Origin Magic: Spatial Severance."
A blinding explosion of light erupted from his body. Space itself cracked open like shattered glass.
In an instant—Teslon, Roderick, the Wizard King, and half the dragons were gone, ripped from the battlefield and hurled into the unknown.
They reappeared on a vast, empty plain far from the chaos. No soldiers. No fire. Just silence and wind.
The Wizard King, his body shaking, bled from his mouth—but he wasn't done.
He raised his hands once more. "Origin Magic: Spatial Severance."
This time, the spell focused solely on Roderick.
And just like that, both vanished again—reappearing in the heart of Dracia, within the sanctum of the capital.
The Wizard King's voice thundered through the air:
"Activate the anti-magic field!"
A wave pulsed outward. Runes embedded in the ground flashed, forming a dome of silence. All magic ceased to function. The air itself turned dead and heavy.
Roderick's expression soured. "You sacrificed your life using Origin Magic—for what?" he asked, voice laced with both fury and disbelief. "Why did you interfere?
The Wizard King's body trembled, but he stood tall.
"Because in the world of peace that I dream of, there is no place for monsters like you."
His voice cracked with both pain and truth. "I know what you did. The chimera experiments. The human sacrifices. The Blue Tower's corruption. You disgust me."
Meanwhile, back on the battlefield…
A heavy silence fell.
With Teslon and Roderick gone, the remaining dragons—now directionless—began to falter. Enemy soldiers looked around, leaderless and unsure.
Then came the thunder of hooves.
Reinforcements had arrived.
With fresh knights and mages sweeping in, the Empire forces pushed the remaining enemy lines. One by one, the dragons were slain, and the Valte soldiers—shattered in morale—began their retreat.
The siege was over.
For the first time in days, the defenders could breathe.
Far away, in a forgotten plain…
Teslon stood alone.
The dragons he had been teleported with had turned on him—wild, panicked from the forced summoning.
He tore through them with terrifying ease, his body bloodied, his expression empty.
Now, surrounded by corpses and silence, he walked.
Aimless.
Relentless.
Searching for a way back.
Cintrell, Three Days After the Battle
The drums of war had gone silent.
Roderick was no longer a threat—imprisoned deep beneath the earth in the arcane dungeons of Dracia. The Dracian envoy delivered the message with cold formality, leaving behind sealed documents and a crystal orb containing proof of the king's magical restraints. As for Teslon… he had vanished into the wilderness, somewhere far from Cintrell and its bloodied soil.
The Countess of Cintrell held a formal ceremony atop the rebuilt courtyard. Dressed in her mourning blacks, she placed ceremonial medals upon Isla and Lucas—tokens of valor and sacrifice. Knights, nobles, and common folk all applauded as the Empire's heroes stood before them.
But neither brother smiled.
Two Weeks Later – The Return to the Capital
The city gates of Valerius, capital of the Anarchy Empire, loomed tall and radiant, untouched by the war's fire. As their carriage rolled in, trumpets blared and banners unfurled. Citizens lined the main avenue to welcome back the Crown Princes.
But to Isla, it felt hollow.
Once the royal court's formalities ended, he disappeared into the Ivory Tower, a secluded estate within the palace grounds.
"No more weaknesses," he whispered to himself.
From dawn until midnight, Isla would be seen only in training halls or libraries. His once sleek movements became ruthless, exact. He pushed his aura to the brink, seeking the power to crush foes like Teslon without aid—even if it meant destroying himself.
Lucas chose another path.
The flames that once roared inside him now simmered in quiet reflection. Rather than isolate himself, he wandered through the capital—into the slums, the markets, the training fields—trying to understand what kind of man he had become.
One morning, he found himself outside the Knight Academy, the same place they had once escorted a ragged orphan into the Empire's care.
There, beneath the morning sun, stood Alaric.
A blade in each hand, shirt damp with sweat, eyes locked on the target dummy ahead.
He moved—fluid, precise, brutal. Each strike shimmered with aura, the kind only a true warrior could wield.
Lucas blinked, barely hiding his surprise.
Alaric stepped back and exhaled, aura dimming. Then he turned—and smiled.
"It's been a while, Your Highness."
Lucas chuckled. "You've changed."
A nearby knight instructor approached, pride gleaming in his eyes. "Alaric of Slums. Two-star Aura Master. Fastest advancement of any cadet in the last decade."
Lucas raised a brow. "Slums?"
Alaric grinned. "Didn't like the sound of 'peasant,' so I gave myself a name."
Lucas stared at him, pride swelling in his chest.
One year had passed.
And Alaric had grown into a warrior worthy of standing beside kings.