Third-Person POV
It was deep into the night, and the world had gone unnaturally quiet.
In a small hut not far from General Voltaire's training grounds, two warriors slept so soundly that the silence itself seemed afraid to disturb them.
This hut was home to Ton-Ton, Dante, and Asper.
On a woven mat laid across the wooden floor, Ton-Ton and Asper slept side by side, their exhaustion from the day's brutal training pulling them into a deep, unbroken slumber. Asper lay on his side, facing away, while Ton-Ton had also turned on his side—directly toward him.
Unfortunately, even in sleep, Ton-Ton's thoughts revolved around food.
His head had drifted close to the back of Asper's neck, and in his dream-induced hunger, he had begun chewing—quite enthusiastically—on Asper's hair.
"Mmm... noodles... so good... nyam, nyam, nyam..." Ton-Ton murmured blissfully in his sleep.
Asper, still half-buried in dreams, faintly heard a distant siren.
It pulled him halfway awake.
"Ton-Ton," Asper muttered groggily, eyes still closed, "why is your stomach so loud? I'm trying to sleep."
There was no reply.
Instead, Ton-Ton continued gnawing on his hair with unwavering dedication.
Then the siren sounded again—longer this time.
"Seriously?" Asper grumbled, rubbing his head. "It's still early. You're already hungry?"
"Nyam, nyam... munch, munch..." Ton-Ton replied, completely lost in his dream.
Asper frowned slightly, still half asleep.
Something tugged at the back of his head.
Slowly, he reached up, fingers closing around his hair—only to feel that it was wet.
That did it.
His eyes snapped open, and he bolted upright.
Staring at Ton-Ton in disbelief, he touched his hair again.
It was soaked.
With saliva.
"Bloody disgusting!" Asper exclaimed. "Ton-Ton! Of all things, you had to chew on my hair?!"
Just then, the siren blared once more—louder, sharper.
Asper froze.
That was not Ton-Ton's stomach.
Alarmed, he grabbed Ton-Ton by the shoulders and shook him violently.
"Ton! Wake up!" Asper said urgently. "Listen! That's the emergency siren—someone is attacking the palace!"
"Huh?" Ton-Ton groaned, eyes barely open. "What are you talking about? I was eating noodles... where is the server? I still need another plate...nyam nyam nyam..."
"TON-TON!" Asper shouted. "There's a war happening!"
Ton-Ton's eyes flew open.
"A war?!" he yelled, scrambling upright and spinning around wildly. "Where?!"
Asper let out a tired breath and rubbed his temples.
Outside, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the night.
Asper rushed out of the hut and saw warriors from their army sprinting toward the training grounds. He stopped one of them.
"What's going on?" Asper asked, his voice tight with fear.
"We don't know the full details," the warrior replied. "But there is an invasion at the palace. Everyone is assembling at the training grounds as we wait for General Voltaire's command."
Asper nodded and hurried back inside.
"Get dressed," he said urgently. "Battle gear. Now."
Ton-Ton swallowed hard, his excitement tangled with fear. "If this is real... then this is our first actual war."
"I'm scared too," Asper admitted, pulling on his armor. "General Voltaire always said war chooses no time. We must always be ready, and he was right all along."
He paused, scanning the hut.
"Wait. Where's Dante?"
Ton-Ton hesitated. "Maybe he went ahead."
"Went ahead?" Asper scoffed. "Impossible. Dante is always slow and late. Still... I hope you are right that he's already there."
They finished dressing in tense silence.
* * *
Meanwhile, deep within a hidden chamber, far from torchlight and watchful eyes, six figures gathered in secrecy.
At the center stood their leader—smiling.
"Our plan has begun," he said smoothly. "The kingdoms powerful enough to challenge Ardentia will fall, starting with Solyn."
He clasped his hands behind his back, clearly pleased.
"I told them Ardentia's defenses weaken at night—that the palace would be vulnerable. They rushed in, desperate for victory." His smile sharpened. "A fatal mistake."
The figures around him remained silent.
"They will be destroyed," he continued calmly. "And the one who will annihilate them all... is Voltaire."
A soft chuckle escaped him.
"We won't even need to dirty our hands by killing their warriors ourselves."
Nearby stood Dante, stiff and visibly tense.
The leader turned his gaze toward him.
"What are you waiting for, Dante?" he asked. "Go. Aid Ardentia's warriors. Let them see you as an ally—never as an enemy."
Dante bowed slightly.
"As you command," he said.
Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving the chamber behind as the rebellion moved one step closer to igniting the kingdom.
* * *
Voltaire's POV
I stood at the highest point of the palace, where stone met sky, and surveyed the vast darkness beyond Ardentia's gates.
The night had settled fully, heavy and absolute. The moon loomed above—pale, watchful—casting a cold sheen over the fields below. The wind cut across my skin, sharp and unrelenting, tugging at my cloak and whispering against the battlements.
Yet it was not the cold that unsettled me.
It was what lay before my eyes.
Beyond the gates, the army of Solyn advanced.
Not scouts.
Not a probing force.
Their numbers were unmistakable.
They were deploying their entire host.
At night.
All at once.
That alone was enough to raise alarm. No competent commander committed an entire army to a direct assault on a fortified palace without first testing its defenses—unless they believed something had already tipped the scales in their favor.
Unless they were certain.
Or desperate.
My gaze sharpened as I studied their movements, forcing down the instinctive warning pounding against my ribs and replacing it with cold calculation.
If Solyn believed this would be a simple invasion, then they were already dead.
One broken line. One failed advance. One misjudged response—and their army would shatter against Ardentia's walls.
And yet... they marched with confidence.
That confidence told me everything.
This was not merely an invasion.
Still, intention meant nothing once blood was drawn. Whatever Solyn believed they knew—whatever lie or half-truth had led them here—there was one thing I would not allow.
Anyone who dared lay a hand on Aurein would receive only one answer from me.
Death.
I would not let him fall.
My focus narrowed completely as I began to dissect their formation, piece by piece, stripping it down to intention and weakness.
At the very front marched their shield-bearers.
Dense ranks. Overlapping shields. Edges angled forward with practiced precision, forming a reinforced wall designed to absorb punishment—arrows, stones, the initial clash of steel. This was no ragged vanguard. It was disciplined, drilled, and built to advance steadily under fire, denying us clean shots and forcing a close engagement on their terms.
Behind them stood the spearmen.
Long shafts of steel rose above the shield wall like a forest of blades. They would thrust through narrow gaps, withdraw before our swords could reach them, then strike again—methodical, repetitive, merciless. A tactic designed not to overwhelm, but to grind us down, eroding formation and morale alike.
That told me something crucial.
They were not rushing.
They were buying time.
Further back waited the swordsmen, arranged in staggered units rather than rigid ranks. These were the breakers—the moment a line faltered, they would surge forward with speed and violence, widening any breach and turning disorder into slaughter.
And at the rear—
Archers.
Rows of them, already nocking arrows, positioned just beyond the reach of counterfire from our walls. Their purpose was not precision. It was control. Suppression. Chaos. To pin our defenders down while the frontline advanced beneath a rain of death.
It was textbook.
Clean. Efficient. Ruthless.
Too perfect.
Solyn had not come blindly.
But neither had they come wisely.
They had committed everything at once—as if they expected Ardentia to fall swiftly... or as if this battle itself was merely a step toward something greater.
I released a slow breath, my grip tightening around the hilt of my sword.
Whatever Solyn thought they knew—
I would tear it apart before they reached the gates.
My eyes remained locked on their formation, but I was no longer observing.
I was strategizing.
At first glance, Solyn's army appeared flawless. Layered ranks. Clear roles. Controlled advance. Any lesser commander would hesitate before such precision.
But perfection is fragile.
And the flaw revealed itself the moment I stopped focusing on what they had—and instead, on what they lacked.
Their formation was too unified.
Every unit—shield wall, spearmen, breakers, archers—was aligned toward a single objective: the palace gate.
They had committed everything into one relentless push.
No reserves held back.
No secondary flanks positioned wide.
No hidden detachments waiting to respond.
Which meant only one thing.
Once their momentum broke—
They would have nothing left to replace it.
And when that moment came—
I would be there to end them.
Their shield-bearers were formidable—but slow.
That was the first fracture in Solyn's design.
If their advance was halted even briefly, the spearmen behind them would lose spacing. If that spacing collapsed, their swordsmen would be forced to surge forward too early—without the protection they were meant to exploit.
And their archers...
Too centralized.
Their firing lanes overlapped heavily with their own advancing troops. Effective for suppression, yes—but disastrous if pressured to reposition. If the frontline stalled, the archers would face a fatal choice: hold their fire or slaughter their own men.
They had built a formation meant only to advance.
Not one meant to adapt.
Worse still, the land itself betrayed them.
The ground before Ardentia's main gate narrowed subtly as it approached the outer defenses—a natural funnel shaped by ancient stone embankments and long-forgotten trenches. Their wide formation would be compressed as they pushed forward, forcing units closer together than intended.
Tighter ranks.
Less mobility.
One disruption there—and the entire structure would fold inward like a crushed spine.
They believed the darkness would hide this weakness.
They were wrong.
A slow breath left my chest as the final calculation settled into place, clean and absolute.
Solyn was gambling everything on speed and intimidation.
They believed Ardentia would panic.
They believed we would react emotionally.
A faint, cold smile touched my lips.
That was their greatest mistake.
I turned sharply from the edge of the tower.
My gaze left the advancing enemy and shifted inward—to the heart of Ardentia.
Below me, the courtyard and inner walls pulsed with controlled motion.
The six armies had assembled.
Banners rose high beneath torchlight that carved the darkness apart—distinct colors, distinct formations, distinct doctrines. They did not crowd one another. Each held its assigned zone with precision, leaving deliberate corridors for movement, reinforcement, and retreat.
This was not chaos.
This was preparation.
Ardentia was ready at any time, for any invasion. That was why its defenses were never to be underestimated.
On the western approach, the First Army, under General Almiro, had formed a dense defensive wall. Shields were grounded. Spears angled forward. They were positioned to hold—not to chase. Their purpose was clear: anchor the battlefield and deny Solyn any swift breakthrough.
Along the elevated inner walls, the Second Army, General Hector's archers, were already in position. Their ranks were staggered, firing angles carefully calculated to avoid overlap. They were calm. Patient. Waiting for command rather than rushing to loose arrows. They would not waste steel on fear.
Near the inner gate, the Third Army, under General Zavier, stood in compact formation. Swords were drawn but lowered. They were the responders—the force meant to reinforce fractures and counter sudden advances. Mobile. Disciplined. Ready to move the instant the battlefield shifted.
Further inward, half-concealed by stone and shadow, the
Fourth Army, led by General Lysandra, waited in silence. Light infantry. Faster units. They would strike where pressure became opportunity—or vanish entirely if the situation demanded it. They were not meant to be seen yet.
The Fifth Army, commanded by General Hans, held the side corridors and secondary routes. They watched not the enemy before us, but the paths an enemy might choose. They understood that wars are often lost where no one is looking.
And at the far end of the inner courtyard, the Sixth Army, under General Fredrein, stood in reserve.
Silent.
Steady.
Undeployed by design.
They were the final measure—the force meant to respond when the enemy revealed their true intent.
I took in the entire formation in one measured glance.
Six armies.
Six roles.
No wasted movement.
Only one absence remained.
My army was not there.
The Seventh.
They had not yet taken the field, and the space where they would emerge remained deliberately empty—an unanswered question hanging over the battlefield.
Good.
Let Solyn believe this was everything Ardentia had prepared.
Let them commit fully.
When my army moved, it would not be to defend.
It would be to end this.
We would strike their rear—tear into their backline, shatter their command, and crush their morale before they could understand what had happened.
This was no boast.
This formation—this entire structure of war—had been my design. A strategy forged long before tonight, refined for the moment any kingdom wishes to invade ours that chose arrogance over caution.
While the six armies held them in place, now was the perfect time to gather my forces and sever the spine of their invasion.
I was certain of one thing.
This battle would be over before the sun rose.
* * *
I moved without hesitation.
By the time my boots struck the packed earth of the training grounds, my army was already there—assembled, armored, standing in perfect formation beneath the torchlight. Their posture was firm, disciplined to the eye, yet I could feel it beneath the surface.
Nervousness.
This was their first true war.
I did not fault them for it. Fear, at this stage, was not weakness—it was awareness. Tonight would carve that fear into something sharper.
After this battle, their outlook would change.
They would be braver.
More adaptable.
More prepared.
I stepped forward, letting my presence settle over them like a drawn blade.
"You already know that the full force of the Kingdom of Solyn is advancing on our palace," I said, my voice steady and unyielding. "The six armies are holding the front line as we speak. They will keep Solyn's attention fixed forward."
I let my gaze sweep across their faces.
"It is our task to strike them from behind—to shatter their rear formation and erase their will to fight. Can I trust that not a single one of you will fall tonight?" I said.
"Yes, General!" they answered in unison.
A smirk tugged briefly at my lips.
"Good," I said. "Then pour everything you have learned into this moment. Prove to the other six armies that we are not to be underestimated. Prove that my army is one to be feared. Is that clear?" I said.
"Yes, General!"
Their voices rang sharp and unified, cutting cleanly through the night.
I turned, scanning the formation once more.
And then I saw it.
An absence.
"Asper. Ton-Ton," I said, my brow furrowing. "Where is Dante? Why is he not with you?"
"When we woke, he was already gone, General," Asper said, unease clear in his tone.
"We don't know where he went," Ton-Ton added.
I exhaled slowly.
A cold suspicion tightened in my chest.
Dante.
And the rebellion he was tied to.
The pieces aligned too cleanly to ignore. If his group had lured Solyn into attacking Ardentia—if this invasion was meant to thin the ranks of kingdoms capable of challenging us—then this battle was never meant to be won by Solyn.
They were expendable.
And perhaps... I was being used as well.
Not trapped by ignorance—but forced into action.
Still, there was no room for hesitation. Whatever scheme lurked beneath this chaos, my priority remained unchanged.
Protect my precious treasure...
Prince Aurein would not suffer for it.
"Forget Dante," I said firmly. "We move now. We end this here."
I drew my sword, its steel catching the firelight.
"We strike their rear and erase their formation. Move out," I commanded. "Let's go, my army!"
A thunderous roar answered me as the Seventh Army surged forward, boots pounding against the ground in perfect rhythm.
As we marched toward the enemy, one certainty burned in my mind—
Before dawn broke the horizon, Solyn's invasion would be nothing more than a memory written in blood.
* * *
Third Person POV
The horn of Solyn tore through the night.
It was not a warning.
It was a declaration.
The sound split the darkness like a blade, and the earth itself seemed to recoil as steel thundered against stone. Solyn's vanguard slammed into the outer defenses of Ardentia, shields colliding in a deafening avalanche of iron. Torches flared along the palace walls, casting violent light over thousands of armored soldiers advancing in disciplined waves—shields locked, spears rising and falling in ruthless rhythm, the movement of a single, monstrous organism.
And Ardentia answered.
From the western approach, the First Army under General Almiro moved as one.
They did not charge.
They received.
Shields drove into the ground in perfect unison, spear points angled forward, bodies braced for impact. When Solyn's shield wall crashed into them, the sound was cataclysmic—metal shrieking against metal, breath crushed from lungs, bodies pinned and broken between formations.
Solyn pushed.
General Almiro held.
"Hold the line!" his voice thundered, cutting through the chaos.
Solyn spearmen thrust through narrow gaps, desperate to break the wall, but Ardentian shields rotated with merciless precision—deflecting, locking, trapping. Spears snapped under pressure. Arms were severed at the elbow. Blood spilled freely, slickening the stones beneath their boots.
This was not a line that bent.
This was a wall that devoured.
Above them, death descended.
From the inner walls, the Second Army under General Hector released their first volley.
Not scattered.
Not panicked.
Measured.
Arrows screamed through the air in staggered waves, blotting out the stars before plunging into Solyn's advancing ranks. Shield-bearers buckled as shafts pierced exposed joints. Spearmen collapsed mid-thrust, arrows buried deep in throats and eyes.
"Second row—fire now!" General Hector commanded.
Another volley followed instantly, timed between Solyn's movements, striking as their formations compressed under pressure. Solyn's archers tried to respond—but Hector's men were already shifting, firing from alternating elevations, never remaining still long enough to be targeted.
Solyn's advance slowed.
That was when the Third Army moved.
General Zavier raised his blade.
And his army flowed forward like a drawn sword.
They did not crash blindly into the front.
They cut.
The moment Solyn's left flank overextended against Almiro's unyielding wall, Zavier's swordsmen surged in tight wedges, blades flashing beneath torchlight. They struck low—legs, exposed backs, the vulnerable gaps beneath shields.
"Do not let Solyn break through Almiro's wall! Charge!" General Zavier ordered.
This was not brute force.
This was execution.
Solyn's formation twisted under the pressure—and the instant it did—
The shadows came alive.
From collapsed stone, shattered corridors, and half-buried passageways, the Fourth Army under General Lysandra struck.
"These female warriors of mine are the ones you will fear," General Lysandra said.
Silent.
Swift.
Lethal.
They slipped through broken alleys and palace structures like living blades, severing supply lines, assassinating Solyn officers, dragging commanders into darkness before their warriors even realized they were gone. Torches fell. Orders died with their speakers.
Solyn's coordination began to unravel.
And still—the palace did not fall.
Because elsewhere, unseen by the main battlefield, General Hans and the Fifth Army were already fighting a different war.
Solyn infiltrators flooded the side passages, attempting to bypass the chaos of the front lines—but Hans was waiting.
Steel traps snapped shut with brutal finality.
Hidden archers loosed arrows at point-blank range.
Short, vicious clashes erupted in narrow corridors where numbers meant nothing and survival lasted only seconds. Solyn warriors died without ever glimpsing the battlefield they were meant to reinforce.
And still—
Solyn did not retreat.
They pressed harder.
That was when the ground began to tremble.
From the inner courtyard, the Sixth Army under General Fredrein finally advanced.
"We move. Now," General Fredrein ordered.
They surged forward like a tidal wave.
Heavy infantry crashed into Solyn's exhausted units—soldiers already shattered by arrows, flanked by blades, and bled dry by relentless pressure. Fredrein's men struck with overwhelming force—shields smashing ribs inward, axes cleaving through armor, momentum unstoppable.
This was the hammer.
And Solyn—
Solyn was the anvil.
And the palace of Ardentia bled beneath the clash of empires.
* * *
King Lucen stood upon the palace veranda, hands loosely resting at his back, posture relaxed—as though he were not witnessing a war, but a performance arranged solely for his amusement.
Below him, the battlefield burned.
Steel clashed, formations collided, and the air trembled with the cries of dying men. Yet the king remained unmoved. His gaze was steady, his expression calm, almost indulgent.
He knew this outcome long before the first horn had sounded.
Ardentia's defenses were impenetrable.
What unfolded before him was not a battle—it was the slow, inevitable collapse of another kingdom's arrogance.
"I do not know what madness entered your minds to assault my kingdom," he said coldly, eyes never leaving the carnage below. "But this will be remembered as a grave mistake. Let this serve as a lesson to every other realm that dares test our defenses. Any who attempt to invade my kingdom shall die within my sight."
His words were carried away by the wind, swallowed by screams and steel.
Elsewhere—
Inside Aurein's chamber, the atmosphere was far from calm.
Aurein stood by the window, staring out at the chaos beyond the palace walls, his breath shallow, his hands clenched tightly at his sides. His heart raced, torn between awe and dread. Beside him, Serena paced restlessly, her right foot tapping against the marble floor in rapid, impatient rhythm.
"Aurein, I cannot stay cooped up inside your chamber," Serena said sharply.
"What do you mean?" Aurein asked, startled.
"I want to witness the war itself. Up close," she said.
Aurein turned to her in shock. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"
Serena scoffed, flipping her long, white, silky hair with unmistakable confidence. "You forget—I know how to fight. I am not your average princess."
Aurein hesitated. "Then... what exactly are you planning to do?"
Serena's eyes gleamed as she turned back to the window. "Do you not want to see why General Voltaire is called one of the most powerful warriors—not just in Ardentia, but in the entire world? Have you ever truly seen him fight, even once?"
"I have," Aurein replied slowly. "But he was only throwing stones at Solyn warriors as well... and somehow, it was deadly." He swallowed hard at the memory.
Serena smiled, thrilled. "Then this time, this is the real thing. We will see what his title is truly worth. We will see how great he really is. And maybe—once you witness him in battle—your fear will finally disappear."
"You think so?" Aurein asked quietly, pressing a hand to his chest. "That all this fear and anxiety will vanish?"
"Yes," Serena said firmly. "I was once just like you—afraid. I was only a weak girl back then, unable to fight. I witnessed a war unfold before my eyes, helpless... until someone saved me. A female warrior, whom later on became my master. She taught me how to wield weapons, how to fight. Though she was a woman, she was a formidable warrior—just like General Voltaire. From that moment on, I vowed to become like her. To be just as strong."
Her conviction was unshakable.
Aurein inhaled deeply. Her words stirred something within him—courage, fragile yet growing.
Serena turned back to the window, scanning the battlefield with sharp focus.
"One... two... three..." she murmured.
"What are you counting?" Aurein asked.
"The armies of Ardentia," Serena replied seriously. "All six armies are present, each with their general... except General Voltaire." Her eyes narrowed as she analyzed the scene.
Aurein followed her gaze—and his breath caught.
"You're right," he said. "If he isn't on the front lines, then that means—"
"Yes!" Serena exclaimed, clapping once in excitement. "If we are thinking the same thing, then General Voltaire is already behind Solyn's forces. He is slaughtering their rear lines. He truly knows exactly what to do!"
Aurein's heart began to pound—not with fear, but with a sudden, electric thrill.
"Do you not want to fight alongside Ton-Ton, Asper, and Dante?" Serena asked with a grin. "They are inexperienced too. This is their first battle. Wouldn't it be exciting to fight with them?"
"Yes—I would like that!" Aurein said quickly, then hesitated. "But... the General will not like it. If he finds out we left my chamber, he will be furious. You do not want to know what happens when you disobey him."
Serena clicked her tongue. "Oh, Aurein. You are far too devoted to General Voltaire. Relax. He loves you too much to truly be angry with you."
Aurein blinked. "Wait—Serena. You knew?"
She sighed dramatically. "You think I wouldn't? Do not forget—I am the girl with a hundred secrets," she said, smirking.
"I am sorry if I did not tell you sooner—" Aurein began anxiously.
Serena raised a hand, stopping him mid-sentence. "I do not need your apology. What I need right now is for you to be strong. Understand?"
Aurein straightened, his expression hardening with resolve.
"Do not forget," Serena continued, "we will be the next rulers of this kingdom. And if that is the case, then it is only right that we fight for it—starting now."
"You are right," Aurein said, nodding. "Thank you, Serena... for lifting me up."
"And if you are truly worried about being scolded," she added casually, "then we will conceal ourselves. Come with me to my chamber. I have cloaks we can use." She reached for his hand.
"Wait—are you sure this will not get us killed?" Aurein asked.
"There you go again," Serena snapped. "Afraid already. I told you—you have me. I will protect you, even if I am a woman."
Aurein smiled.
"Do not smile at me!" Serena said sharply. "That does not mean I like you. I am only doing this because... you are my only true friend!" She added as she fixed her gaze elsewhere.
"Serena..." Aurein uttered as he gave her a gentle smile. "Let's go!"
Aurein nodded, allowing himself to be pulled along.
"My cloaks are pink," Serena added briskly as they ran. "Because I like pink. You do not get to choose."
"Pink?" Aurein said. "Will that not attract attention?"
"Yes," Serena replied proudly. "Because I like being the center of attention."
"How are we supposed to conceal ourselves then?"
Aurein laughed softly as they ran side by side.
"Forget about that!"
"Thank you, Serena," he said sincerely. "For staying with me during this war. Without you, I might have broken down inside my chamber."
"Hmph," Serena scoffed, rolling her eyes—yet she did not let go of his hand as the palace echoed with the sounds of war.
* * *
Meanwhile—outside the palace walls, where the war raged without mercy—
On the western front, General Almiro stood unmoving as Solyn's shield wall crashed into his formation for the third time.
His boots were planted firmly on blood-soaked stone. His shield was dented, scarred, slick with gore—yet unbroken.
"Brace!" he roared.
The impact rippled violently through his ranks. Shields ground together. Bodies slammed and strained. A Solyn spearman lunged through a narrow opening—
Almiro stepped forward.
His shield smashed into the man's face with a sickening crack, crushing bone inward. In the same breath, Almiro's spear thrust forward, punching clean through another warrior's chest.
"Hold," he commanded coldly. "Do not chase. Let them destroy themselves upon us."
His warriors obeyed without hesitation—locking shields, rotating the wounded to the rear, replacing the fallen with ruthless efficiency. No panic. No hesitation.
Solyn pushed harder.
Almiro did not give a single step.
On the battlefield overseen by General Hector, the general lowered his raised fist.
"Fire," he said.
The sky screamed.
Arrows descended in disciplined waves, tearing through Solyn's ranks with brutal precision. Hector watched calmly as shield formations buckled under sustained bombardment.
"Third elevation. Adjust left by ten degrees," he said evenly.
His archers shifted instantly.
Solyn's counter-volley came too late.
"Now," Hector said.
Another storm was unleashed.
His gaze never lingered on the dead.
He watched movement.
"Good," he murmured as Solyn's archers hesitated. "They're afraid to fire."
Fear, after all, was a weapon.
And Hector wielded it flawlessly.
At the central zone—where the fighting was at its most savage—General Zavier wiped blood from his jaw with the back of his gauntlet and raised his blade.
"Third unit—advance!" he commanded.
His army surged forward into chaos.
Steel rang. Men screamed.
Zavier moved with terrifying focus, cutting down two Solyn warriors in a blur before driving his boot into another and sending him crashing into his own men.
"Do not let them regroup!" he shouted.
A Solyn captain tried desperately to rally his troops—
Zavier's sword severed his head cleanly from his shoulders.
The body fell.
The line collapsed with it.
"Push!" Zavier commanded. "Crush them before they realize they're surrounded!"
Within the shadowed corridors, where Ardentia's elite female warriors stalked unseen, General Lysandra stood atop a fallen pillar, her silhouette barely visible in the darkness.
"Now," she whispered.
Her warriors flowed out of the shadows.
Blades flashed once.
Solyn warriors fell silently—throats opened, bodies dragged away before alarms could be raised. A runner tried to flee.
An arrow pierced his spine.
Lysandra stepped forward, calm as death itself.
"No survivors," she ordered softly. "Confusion is our ally."
And her army vanished again.
Solyn never saw them coming.
In the side passages, General Hans slammed a Solyn infiltrator against the stone wall and buried a dagger in his chest.
"Clear," he barked.
His warriors moved swiftly through the narrow corridors—blocking escape routes, collapsing passages, herding Solyn units into dead ends.
"Seal the east tunnel," Hans ordered. "Flood the west stairwell."
Fire was lit.
Smoke poured through the corridors.
Solyn screamed as they realized—too late—that they were trapped.
Hans never looked back.
In the inner courtyard, General Fredrein raised his massive warhammer.
"Forward," he said.
And his army obliterated everything in its path.
They crashed into Solyn's weakened center like a landslide—shields shattering bones, hammers reducing armor to twisted scrap. Fredrein himself crushed a Solyn knight's chest plate with a single swing.
"Advance!" he thundered.
Solyn broke.
Men dropped their weapons.
Men fled.
Men died.
Six armies pressed inward.
The palace of Ardentia stood illuminated by fire and steel—untouched, unyielding.
And somewhere within the chaos—
A greater storm was gathering.
As front lines crumbled.
Orders dissolved into screams.
Formations collapsed into madness.
And yet—
The battle was not over.
Because far beyond the flames and bloodshed at the palace gates, another war ignited.
Behind Solyn's lines—
Hell opened.
A sudden roar split the night.
From the darkness, Ardentian banners erupted from the rear as the Seventh Army descended like divine judgment.
General Voltaire had arrived.
His warriors were inexperienced—but they were never to be underestimated. Not when the War Prodigy stood among them. Not when the most formidable general, the living fortress of Ardentia, led their charge.
And on this night—
General Voltaire would once again prove to the world why his title was earned.
The rear formation of Solyn was in the midst of its advance when everything changed.
A sudden hesitation rippled through their ranks.
Then—confusion.
Shouts echoed as warriors at the back began turning around, weapons lifting instinctively as they sensed something approaching from behind.
And then they saw him.
The moment General Voltaire emerged from the smoke, the entire rear line of Solyn froze.
Shock struck them as one.
"What the—! That's him!" one of Solyn's rear commanders exclaimed, disbelief cracking his voice. "The infamous General Voltaire... in the flesh!"
Murmurs spread like wildfire.
Every warriors knew the name.
A living legend. A war prodigy. A general who had already crushed countless armies despite his age. Stories of his battlefield dominance were whispered in taverns and feared in war councils.
And now—he stood before them.
General Voltaire advanced at the head of his army, unhurried, deliberate, as though he had arrived not to fight—but to collect what was already his.
Behind him, his forces marched in flawless formation. Each step was synchronized, disciplined, relentless. Their presence alone spoke of absolute readiness.
They were not charging.
They were claiming.
The Solyn warriors remained frozen, eyes locked on Voltaire as he approached through drifting smoke and embers. His lips curved upward—just slightly.
A smile.
"Welcome to the Kingdom of Ardentia, dear warriors of Solyn," he said calmly. "I am General Voltaire. And I would like to formally welcome you... to your downfall."
His voice was composed. Polite.
Deadly.
Fear rippled through Solyn's rear line.
The commander gritted his teeth and raised his weapon. "Don't falter!" he shouted. "If we defeat General Voltaire here, we will become an army remembered for generations! Our kingdom will be feared!"
Voltaire lifted a single finger.
"Do not delude yourselves," he replied lightly. "Excessive expectations often lead to great disappointment."
The commander snarled. "Enough! This ends now! Solyn will invade your kingdom and bring it to ruin!"
Voltaire raised his right hand.
Not in haste. Not in fury.
"Let us show them who they are facing," he ordered calmly. "Advance."
And then—the Seventh Army moved.
General Voltaire's army, the designated backline destroyers of Ardentia's defense system.
They surged forward with lethal precision, proving that new did not mean untested, and no war experience did not mean weakness.
The battlefield seemed to inhale.
Smoke drifted low across the shattered ground. Burning wagons crackled. Broken arrows lay scattered beneath heavy boots. Fallen warriors groaned—or lay still, unmoving.
At a distance, two figures cloaked in soft pink fabric watched from cover.
"I'm nervous, Serena," Aurein whispered, his fingers curling into his cloak. "I hope the General doesn't get hurt."
Serena's eyes never left the battlefield.
"The warriors of Solyn should be the ones trembling," she replied firmly. "They're facing General Voltaire. Now—watch carefully."
At the center of the chaos, two figures stood facing one another.
Voltaire did not rush.
He stepped forward with measured calm, his mere presence forcing Solyn's remaining warriors to retreat instinctively, widening the space around him as though the ground itself yielded to his authority.
Opposite him stood Solyn's rear formation Commander.
The man was tall—broader than most—encased in ornate armor etched with sigils of conquest. His massive blade was built for devastation rather than finesse. His eyes burned with fury.
"So," the commander sneered, circling him, "you're the monster they warned us about."
Voltaire tilted his head slightly.
"If they warned you," he replied evenly, a faint tease in his voice, "you should have listened."
The commander roared and charged.
Steel exploded.
The first strike descended with enough force to shatter bone—but Voltaire was already gone.
He pivoted at the last possible moment. The blade missed his head by a breath, sparks screaming as it struck stone. In the same heartbeat, Voltaire stepped inside the attack, closing the distance before the commander could recover.
Too fast.
Voltaire's sword flashed—not wild, not heavy—but immaculate.
A clean diagonal slash tore across the commander's shoulder armor. Metal screamed as it split like cloth, blood splattering against the stone.
The battlefield erupted.
Cheers rose from Ardentia's forces.
Gasps from Solyn.
Voltaire did not pause.
He flowed forward, movements precise and devastatingly elegant—every strike purposeful, every step controlled. He parried, twisted, countered, his blade dancing like silver fire beneath the burning sky.
The commander swung again—wide, desperate.
Voltaire ducked beneath it, spun, and struck.
Once.
Twice.
The final blow came swift and merciless, knocking the massive blade from the commander's grasp. Voltaire's sword stopped an inch from the man's throat.
Silence fell.
Voltaire leaned closer, his expression calm, unreadable.
"This," he said quietly, "is why your kingdom will fall under my hands."
And with one decisive motion—The battlefield remembered his name.
The Solyn commander staggered backward, disbelief written across his blood-streaked face.
Voltaire did not pursue him immediately.
He watched.
Measured.
Waiting.
"You're slow," Voltaire said calmly.
The words shattered what little control the commander had left. He grabbed his blade back to his hands and with a furious roar, he charged again—faster this time, reckless, pouring everything into the assault. Blow after blow came crashing down, each strike heavy enough to crush bone, each swing fueled by desperation rather than discipline.
Voltaire parried them all.
Not with brute strength.
With mastery.
He redirected each strike with minimal effort, stepping into blind angles, twisting his blade just enough to deflect without wasting motion. His footwork was immaculate, his balance unshakable. Every movement flowed into the next with lethal grace.
It was not a fight.
It was a performance.
A deadly dance executed by a master.
The commander swung wide—
And at a distance, Aurein squeezed his eyes shut, hands covering his face—yet his fingers parted just enough for him to peek through, heart pounding as he watched in terror, convinced the General might finally be struck.
Serena turned toward him, her brows knitting in disbelief.
"You're covering your eyes, yet you're still peeking," she said irritably. "What's the point?"
"I'm nervous! I can't help it!" Aurein hissed back.
"Watch properly," Serena snapped. "Eyes wide open."
Before he could protest, she grabbed his hands and pulled them away from his face. Then, with decisive insistence, she placed her fingers against his eyelids and forced them open.
"There," she said firmly. "Watch it openly."
At the center of the battlefield, the Solyn commander attacked again—
Voltaire ducked, spun, and struck.
Steel sang.
A sharp cut tore into the commander's thigh.
He roared in pain and collapsed to one knee.
Voltaire moved instantly.
Three strikes.
One to disarm—his blade snapped against the commander's wrist, sending Solyn commander's massive sword skidding across the stone.
One to destabilize—Voltaire's boot slammed into the commander's chest, driving him backward with brutal force.
One to end—
—but Voltaire stopped.
The commander gasped, staring up at him, blood seeping through shattered armor, breath ragged and uneven.
"Why..." he wheezed. "Why hesitate?"
Voltaire stood over him, sword poised, his expression cold and unreadable.
"This is not hesitation," Voltaire said quietly. "I want you to look at me for the last time..."
The commander attempted to rise.
But Voltaire ended it.
One clean, merciless thrust.
Straight through the heart of the commander.
The body collapsed lifelessly to the ground.
Silence followed.
Not because the battle had ended—
—but because everyone had seen.
Solyn's remaining warriors froze where they stood.
Their commander lay dead at Voltaire's feet.
Voltaire withdrew his blade slowly, blood sliding down the steel before dripping into the dust. He turned toward the remaining enemy forces.
He did not raise his sword.
He did not shout.
He simply looked at them.
And that was enough.
Solyn broke.
Weapons clattered to the ground.
Men fled in panic.
Some dropped to their knees, surrendering without a fight.
Voltaire stood amidst the chaos, blood-spattered yet untouched by exhaustion, his breathing steady, his presence overwhelming—like war itself had chosen him as its vessel.
Behind him, Solyn burned.
Ahead of him, Ardentia still stood.
And anyone who witnessed that moment understood—
This was not merely a general.
This was the legend that everybody talked about—
"The General Voltaire, the war prodigy."
End of Chapter 33