The battle had ended.
The once-proud Mapolian nation lay in ruins, their banners tattered, their strongholds crumbling under the weight of defeat. Smoke and ash drifted through the cold morning air, mingling with the first fragile rays of dawn that cast a solemn light over the battlefield.
The Gog Empire had conquered.
Those who had surrendered knelt in the damp earth, their hands bound tightly in jagged chains. Some were forced to their knees, heads bowed in silent humiliation, while others were dragged mercilessly into heavily fortified prison carriages. Their weary faces reflected despair, their future sealed in darkness.
For those who had resisted, there had been no mercy. Their bodies littered the bloodstained ground, lifeless, their weapons scattered like forgotten relics of defiance. Their guardian beasts—once entities of strength and loyalty—were now nothing more than dissolving embers, their existence snuffed out the moment their masters perished.
Then, a powerful hum filled the air.
A colossal warship pierced through the morning mist, its sleek, complex structure gliding downward like an iron leviathan. The engines roared like thunder, their deep reverberations shaking the very ground as powerful gusts of wind whipped across the ruined battlefield. The surviving Mapolians lifted their faces, squinting against the forceful breeze, their expressions filled with either awe or silent dread.
With a hiss of steam and the heavy clang of metal, the warship's entry hatch slowly opened. A stairway extended forth onto the war-torn earth, sleek and polished, gleaming under the dim morning sun.
Then, they emerged.
Four veiled priestesses descended in unison, their movements fluid and unnatural—as if guided by an unseen force. Their black garments were both revealing and ritualistic, the fabric adorned with ancient silver patterns that shimmered subtly in the early dawn light. Their voices rose in haunting hymns, a melody both sacred and chilling, sending a shiver down the spines of the conquered.
The priestesses reached the base of the stairs, forming a perfect line, standing like sentinels. Each held a triangle-shaped artifact, its smooth obsidian surface inscribed with glowing runic eye symbols that seemed to pulse, as if alive.
Then, as if the world itself had paused to witness, the final figure emerged.
A woman stepped forward.
She moved with prideful elegance, her form draped in an exotic military uniform that spoke of both prestige and dominance.
Her blue hair cascaded down her back in flowing waves, swaying slightly in the morning breeze. But it was her amber eyes—piercing and sharp—that sent a ripple of unease through the crowd.
She descended the staircase with a slow, deliberate stride, her boots clicking against the polished metal. She paused at the last step, exhaling softly, as though savoring the sight of total dominion.
A slow smirk tugged at her lips as she gazed down upon the battlefield, her eyes filled with arrogance yet calculated control, scanning the kneeling prisoners like a predator surveying its fallen prey.
Then, the moment her feet touched the ground, the priestesses ceased their hymns. Silence fell over the land, save for the distant crackling of burning debris and the quiet sobs of the defeated.
"Emissary Arugula," a uniformed, mid-aged man approached the newly arrived woman, his boots crunching against broken weapons and lifeless bodies.
His sharp military attire bore the insignia of high command, the once-pristine fabric now streaked with dust from war. Despite this, his posture remained proud and disciplined. "I trust your journey here was effortless," he greeted with a respectful incline of his head, his voice crisp and formal.
"Commander Marcus," Arugula responded smoothly, her tone neither warm nor distant. "Report."
Marcus straightened his stance, hands clasped neatly behind his back, adopting a rigid posture befitting a man of rank. His voice carried a note of satisfaction as he reported.
"Much as you can see, your Emissary, we've already secured dominion over the land of Mapoli—all glory to Lord Aragus."
Arugula barely reacted to the declaration, her amber eyes cold and unreadable. Instead, she idly brushed a stray strand of blue hair from her left eye, her expression betraying nothing but mild boredom.
"…And the casualty rate?" she demanded, her voice edged with an almost lazy impatience.
Marcus's lips curled ever so slightly, a flicker of pride in his eyes. "Surprisingly less than expected," he admitted. "Regardless of their desperate struggle, the Mapolians were like hopeless animals trapped in a corner."
Arugula exhaled a quiet, disappointed sigh. Her boot heels crunched against the dirt as she slowly scanned the field of prisoners—rows of battered Mapolians bound in heavy chains, their once-proud faces now hollow with despair. Young and old alike, they knelt on bruised knees, their wrists raw from the iron restraints.
"Urgh… Then these pests were obviously no fun." Her gaze flickered with both disinterest and mockery as she shifted her weight slightly. "Tell me, at least some managed to evade the pesticide?"
Marcus smirked, sensing the mocking undertone in her words. "Some definitely tried," he confirmed with confidence, his gaze unwavering. "However, their downfall was inevitable."
"I see…" Arugula murmured, her expression still unreadable as she moved further into the heart of the conquered land. Two veiled priestesses behind her followed closely, their rhythmic humming weaving through the smoky air like a ghostly whisper.
Then, something unusual caught her eye.
A lone, battered figure knelt in the dirt—a frail, yet unbroken presence amid the wreckage of his people. An elderly man, his long silver hair matted with dirt and dried blood, was held firmly in place by two heavily armored Gog soldiers. Chains wrapped tightly around his neck and wrists, the metal biting into his weathered skin.
But it wasn't the old man's sorry state that intrigued Arugula—it was his eyes. They were sharp, unyielding, filled with a defiance that had yet to be extinguished.
And beside him, pinned beneath the claws of a large enslaved dire wolf—one controlled by Marcus, lay his guardian beast.
A rare-level dire wolf, its once-magnificent dark coat now marred with bruises and blood, its cyan eyes locked onto its master, unwavering even in defeat. The beast strained against its captor, muscles trembling, refusing to submit even as its own kind held it down.
Arugula slowed her steps, her interest piqued.
"What is this supposed to be?" she inquired, her voice carrying an almost amused curiosity as she studied the scene.
Marcus followed her gaze before giving an amused chuckle. "Ah. This," he said, motioning towards the beaten elder. "This is the Mapolian chief."
The words hung in the air, carrying a weight that the surrounding prisoners clearly felt.
"He put up more of a fight than any of his wretched kin. An admirable resistance, really." He paused, his gaze flickering toward the subdued dire wolf still struggling beneath the weight of his own beast.
"To honor his effort, I thought it best to make good use of his guardian beast," Marcus added, his grin turning menacing. The greed in his eyes was unmistakable.
Arugula said nothing at first. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, letting her gaze drift from the old man to his dire wolf—two creatures bound by loyalty, yet moments from being torn apart.
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.
"Interesting."
Marcus raised a gloved hand, his fingers curling into a silent command. The Gog soldiers, without hesitation, yanked the old man forward, their iron grips unforgiving as they dragged him through the dirt. His frail form hit the ground hard, sending a small cloud of dust into the chilled morning air.
The battered elder barely reacted. He had endured far worse.
As he was forced onto his knees once more, Arugula strode forward, her boots clicking against the bloodstained soil. She loomed over the fallen chief, her amber eyes glinting with icy contempt.
"Speak, insect. Any last words?" she demanded, her tone laced with disdain.
For the first time since his capture, the old man lifted his head. His tired yet unwavering gaze locked onto Arugula's, unfazed by her presence or authority.
"You twist the once-noble Gog Empire into a tool for your own diabolic bidding," he rasped, his voice hoarse but unwavering. "You all are nothing but lowly guardian hunters, preying on those weaker than yourselves." He drew in a slow, shaky breath.
"It doesn't matter how many nations you crush beneath your heel." His lips curled into a weak, defiant smile. "There will always be someone powerful enough to put an end to your dark ambitions."
Silence followed.
For a brief moment, only the distant crackle of dying embers and the whisper of the morning wind filled the air.
Then, Arugula exhaled sharply, her expression falling into one of pure disappointment.
"How dull," she mused, shaking her head. "I expected something more poetic. We don't just prey on the weak, we also hunt the strong." Her voice carried a note of boredom as she stepped aside, gesturing dismissively toward Marcus.
"Honor the pest's effort, as you so boldly suggested."
A slow, malicious grin spread across Marcus' face. "With pleasure, Your Emissary." He gave a respectful bow toward Arugula before turning back to the old man.
And then… It began.
A haunting, unnatural wind swept through the area as Marcus withdrew an ornate, jagged artifact from within his uniform. The relic pulsed with a sickly, violet glow, Its surface engraved with ancient runes that seemed to slither violently as he extended it forward.
The dire wolf, still pinned beneath its captor, snarled and struggled violently, its eyes burning with desperation. It knew what was coming.
But it was powerless to stop it.
Marcus thrust the artifact forward, its dark energy latching onto the creature with invisible claws.
"Your guardian beast… will be mine!" His lips curled into a twisted sneer.
A deafening wail tore through the battlefield.
"Aaargh!"
The old man's agonized screams tore through the chilling dawn, his back arching in excruciating pain as his guardian beast's essence was forcefully ripped from him. The dire wolf let out a soul-wrenching howl, its body convulsing as its form began to unravel, its very existence being consumed.
Marcus laughed—a high, wicked cackle, as if feeding off the sheer agony unfolding before him. Dark tendrils of energy spiraled around him, merging with his own aura, his body absorbing the raw essence of the rare-level dire wolf.
The guardian beast let out one final choked whimper before its form collapsed into fading embers, its existence sealed within the artifact.
The old man, his body now damaged beyond repair, collapsed forward, limp and lifeless.
Arugula looked on, unmoved, unimpressed.
"A fitting end," she murmured, turning away as if the event had been nothing more than a mundane task.
Meanwhile, Marcus inhaled deeply, a look of ecstasy flickering in his eyes as he clenched his fist, feeling additional power coursing through his veins.
He turned back to Arugula, his smirk widening.
"Your emissary, it is done."
Ignoring him, she gracefully turned on her heel, her flowing military coat billowing behind her as she strode toward the massive warship. The priestesses followed in perfect synchronization, their haunting hymns rising into the cold dawn air, weaving an eerie melody of conquest and death. The soft clinking of the sacred artifacts in their hands resonated like a countdown to impending doom.
The warship's engines roared back to life, sending powerful gusts across the war-torn ground as it prepared to ascend. But before stepping onto the stairway, Arugula halted and turned back, casting one final glance toward Marcus and the assembled Gog soldiers. Her amber eyes gleamed with something unreadable—a mix of anticipation and cruelty.
"Listen, you all," her voice rang out, cutting through the sounds of the awakening warship.
The Gog soldiers straightened instantly, their attention locked onto their emissary.
"I'll be heading south to forge alliances," she declared, her tone poised yet commanding as her gloved hand rested on the hilt of her ceremonial saber sword. "But your duties remain here, in the north. In seven days' dawn, Memawi must be brought to its knees—or worse—razed to the ground."
She let the words sink in, her devilish smile widening as she surveyed the disciplined ranks before her. "That land shall serve as another warning to all who dare defy the Gog Empire."
"Do this in the name of our lord, Aragus," she continued, her voice thick with unwavering conviction. "Do not fail him."
The warship's thrusters ignited, sending a cyclone of dust and wind rippling across the battlefield, the force whipping through the tattered banners of the fallen Mapolians. As the vessel began its slow, majestic ascent, Arugula took one final step up the metallic ramp.
Then, with fierce triumph, she raised her clenched fist upward, her voice slicing through the chaos like a battle cry.
"All hail Lord Aragus!"
A thunderous echo followed as the Gog soldiers below bellowed in unison, their voices merging into a single, chilling battle cry.
"All hail Lord Aragus!!"
Arugula's smirk deepened as she disappeared into the warship, the doors sealing shut behind her. The colossal vessel tilted skyward, then, with a final, deafening roar, it soared into the dawn, leaving behind a land conquered… and another land doomed to fall.
******