A heavy silence settled over the grand war chamber beneath Originus estate. Lit by hovering crystal lanterns and draped in ancient battle banners, the room felt more like a tomb of destiny than a place for strategy.
Maps sprawled across the obsidian table, pinned with red markers and pulsing mana threads, displaying the advancing tides of corruption. The air was thick with the scent of ink, steel, and something far older—like fate itself was holding its breath.
Hepton Originus, once a general and now a war strategist, stood with his hands behind his back, his eyes hard with grim precision. Across from him stood Duke Lionheart, towering, arms folded, his gaze locked on the battle map. A long scar traced down the left side of his face—a painful reminder etched in flesh.
"The southern front is holding, but only barely," Hepton began, voice like sharpened iron. "The battlefield is divided into three main strongholds—each vital, each at risk."
He raised his hand, and a glowing map projection bloomed into the air.
"The first stronghold—Fort Mornhal—is the Empire's bastion. Heavily defended, fortified with spirit cannons, and manned by the best-trained legions under General Avarn. But even they are struggling to hold back the waves."
His finger drifted to the east.
"Second—Verdant Bastion, controlled by the Elven Kingdom. Their mages have woven powerful nature wards, sentient forests, and illusionary veils. They're effective… but few in number. The Elves lost nearly an entire generation in the last conflict."
"And the third?" Lionheart asked, his voice low.
Hepton's hand stopped over a canyon stronghold.
"Highridge Keep. Controlled by the Noble Houses, including ours. Strategically placed, but politically divided. Pride outweighs strategy for many of them. They refuse to act under a single banner."
Lionheart's eyes narrowed.
"They'll fall unless they submit. Pride has no place in the face of extinction."
Hepton nodded.
"But that's not the worst of it." He waved again, and the projection shifted to show a wave of green and violet corruption pulsing outward like a tide of rot.
"The Demon Sea and the Nether Race have returned—after thirty-three years of silence. Their numbers? Endless. Each horde contains thousands of corrupted beasts, void-touched creatures, and fleshforged horrors. Our scouts estimate over three million troops."
The numbers hit like a punch.
"Then how do we stand a chance?" Lionheart asked.
Hepton looked at him with quiet resolve.
"Because we still hold one edge—quality over quantity. Though their numbers are endless, their high-rank combatants are few."
He pointed to two bright lights on the map.
"There are only two Emperor-rank powerhouses standing on our side now—you… and the emperor of our empire. The rest are king -rank or lower."
Lionheart exhaled. His scar twitched.
"That will be enough," he muttered. "Because this time… I will end it. That wretched beast who gave me this scar still breathes. I will not let him escape again."
A quiet fury settled in the room.
"I will paint the battlefield with his blood," he said. "For every knight who fell. For every village consumed. This time, the Demon Sea will drown in its own darkness."
Hepton gave a solemn nod.
"Our engineers have completed three major advancements to give us an edge:
Spirit Cannons, powered by compressed mana cores.
Linked Formation Arrays that connect mages and knights to amplify and shield each other.
Anti-Nether Seals, developed from ancient Elf relics. They can suppress Netherborn abilities temporarily."
"But it's still a numbers game. We can't win through brute force. We must strike surgically, surgically and quickly."
Lionheart stared at the map again, before turning.
"Then I must sharpen the sword before we unsheathe it."
Hepton raised an eyebrow. "You mean... the boy?"
A faint smile tugged at Lionheart's scarred lips.
"Chris is no ordinary child. He has reached the Soldier-Knight realm already. He may very well reach sprirt Knight before the war truly begins. Perhaps… more."
Hepton's gaze sharpened. "We don't have time to wait years."
"We won't need to," Lionheart replied. "He's not bound by normal growth. Not anymore."
Just then, a tremor of magic rippled through the walls.
Hepton turned to the side. "What was that?"
Lionheart's smile faded. "That... is the sound of a miracle beginning to take shape."