"His Majesty the King is to lead the army in person?"
At the news, General Celt jolted in surprise, staring disbelievingly at the dispatch in his hand, half-convinced it was a cruel prank. Yet the words were clear and unmistakeable: King Wester V would march on Crimson Fortress with fifty thousand soldiers, alongside Duke Barron, commander of the Pale Eagle Legion—one of the kingdom's three great legions—to repel the Sith Empire's advance.
This, of course, was the official proclamation. Celt thought otherwise. Once, he might have chalked it up to the king's vainglory, a craving for glory on the battlefield. But not now. He knew full well the turmoil in the royal capital, and the bitter enmity between Wester V and Blake. That the king would lead an army to the fortress while Blake was stationed here—his motives were unfathomable.
Surely he did not intend to crush the **Doomsday Knights** by force, to tear open hostilities with Blake outright?
Celt's chest tightened with worry, yet he was powerless to act. He was still one of the three legion commanders, and the front lines were in crisis—he could not leave for a moment. Though he despised the king's actions, he knew this was no time for recriminations. For behind him stood not just the royal palace, but the people of the Wester Kingdom. If he renounced his allegiance now, panic would spread like wildfire.
So the nobles could rebel, the officials could flee—but Celt could not. And Duke Barron, he suspected, was in the same bind. The three legion commanders held more than half the kingdom's military power in their hands. As long as they remained loyal to the crown, all other troubles were trivial… for now. Though trivial troubles had a nasty habit of blooming into catastrophes.
"Sigh…"
Celt let out a heavy breath. Before he could ponder his next move, a flurry of urgent footsteps echoed outside, and a messenger burst into the room, his face ashen with panic.
"S-Sir! General! Disaster!!"
"What is it?"
Celt's expression darkened. He slipped the dispatch into the fire unobtrusively and snapped the question.
"The Sith Empire… the Sith main army is on the move!! They're marching straight for us!"
"Oh?"
Celt's brows shot up in surprise.
"Whose banners fly at their head?"
"I-I…"
The soldier's face turned green, but he clamped his jaw and forced the words out.
"It's the Serpent Scepter, the Wind's Beacon, and… and…"
"Speak! Stop stammering!"
"And the Holy Unicorn!"
Roared on by Celt, the soldier finally spat out the last name, his legs buckling beneath him, barely able to stand. It was a display of utter cowardice for a soldier—yet Celt had no time to rebuke him. He strode forward in a rage, seizing the man by the collar and lifting him off his feet.
"What did you say?! Repeat it! The Holy Unicorn?! *That* Holy Unicorn?!"
"Y-Yes, sir… exactly."
"Damn it!!"
Celt ground his teeth, roared, and hurled the soldier to the floor.
"Send the signal at once! Level one alert! Level one alert!! Go! Now!!"
"Y-Yes, sir!! Right away!!"
The soldier scrambled to his feet, forgot to salute, and fled the room in a frenzy. Celt's face was grim as he marched back inside, grabbed his sword hanging on the wall, and headed for the fortress walls.
A low horn blared—three short blasts, one long. The most urgent alert of all. Every soldier dropped what they were doing, rallied quickly, formed ranks, and gripped their weapons, ready for battle. By the time Celt hurried to the command platform on the fortress front, his men were already assembled, a sea of black armor lining the walls. The air hung heavy with tension, like a boulder suspended overhead, ready to crash down at any moment.
As Celt stepped onto the platform, he met the gazes of his officers—all pale, ashen, their eyes fixed on the distance with dread. And there, on the horizon, the vast Sith host had formed its battle lines. Three banners fluttered in the wind above the army.
Triangular banners, all.
Above the left legion flew a black flag edged in red, emblazoned with a golden scepter coiled tight by a jade-green serpent, its scarlet tongue flicking out—the Serpent Scepter, the banner of Sidvie the Puppeteer.
Above the right legion, a green flag edged in blue, bearing a swirling storm mark—the Wind's Beacon, the banner of Kael the Windbringer.
If it had been only these two Gifted Knights, Celt would not have lost his composure. He had garrisoned the fortress for weeks, steeling himself for battle against them. But when his eyes fell on the banner of the central legion, even Celt's blood ran cold.
A pure white flag edged in gold, with a galloping unicorn emblazoned upon it—the Holy Unicorn, the standard of Lindilot the Silver Princess, heir to the Sith Empire and commander of the Sacred Silver Knights.
By the Grace of the Saints! Why was *she* here?!
In that moment, Celt felt ice cold from head to toe, as if he were no longer a general commanding thousands, but a raw recruit stepping onto the battlefield for the first time.
And it was no wonder. Though the Silver Princess was merely sixteen or seventeen, she was a name that struck fear into every heart across the continent.
Not for cruelty, mind you. In truth, Lindilot was kind and merciful, never shedding blood unnecessarily. Soldiers who surrendered to her were always treated with dignity. Nor was she a fool—she possessed extraordinary talent for warfare, her greatest strength being her devious, unpredictable strategies. And more terrifying still was her Gifted Aura: within its range, every soldier, even a low-ranked swordsman, was granted the power of a high-ranked swordsman in an instant.
It was, in a word, a cheat ability. Once battle was joined, her enemies faced the assault of tens of thousands of well-trained high-ranked swordsmen—a thought that made even the bravest man's scalp tingle. And since the Silver Princess had first taken up arms, she had fought a thousand battles great and small, and never once been defeated.
But this was not why men feared her. No—Celt's terror stemmed precisely from her kindness and mercy.
Yes! Precisely that!
Ordinarily, a kind commander had glaring weaknesses on the battlefield—but Lindilot's Gifted Aura erased them almost entirely. Against absolute power, all scheming was futile. And the princess was no slouch at strategy either; few could match her in either wit or might. Yet war was war, and even against impossible odds, one must fight—and morale was everything.
If his foe had been a cruel, bloodthirsty general, Celt would have stayed calm. Sidvie, for example, left no prisoners alive, slaying them all. Such brutality stoked the fury of enemy soldiers: if death was inevitable, they might as well take as many foes with them as possible, to fight like men and die like heroes. Fueled by this desperation and fear, armies could sometimes unleash astonishing power. For a skilled commander, such bloody terror, though terrifying to common soldiers, could be harnessed to ignite their fighting spirit. Flee if you must, hold fast if you can, and if all else fails, drag your enemies down with you—bite and scratch even in death. This was why Sidvie, for all her prowess, often failed to win decisive victories.
But the Silver Princess was different. Her mercy was known across the continent, and enemy soldiers knew it. Why fight to the death when surrender meant safety? The princess was famous for her clemency to prisoners; no cruel torture awaited them if they laid down their arms.
Men were selfish by nature. They would die for their country and their families—but when defeat was inevitable, self-preservation became their first thought.
And so the Silver Princess was the most feared foe a commander could face. With overwhelming power, a calm mind, and a reputation for mercy, she sapped her enemy's morale before the first blow was struck. And when defeat came, her foes surrendered in droves. In fact, the rapid fall of the Kingdom of Olute was largely her doing. It was her gentle persuasion, her steady advance, that ensured Olute remained peaceful under Sith rule, with no uprisings or rebellions to speak of.
To common soldiers, such a foe was not frightening at all. But to legion commanders, she was a nightmare. What could one do? Paint her as a ruthless tyrant who burned, looted, and killed all in her path? Even if the soldiers believed it, such lies would only make them despise their commander, sapping morale even further.
This was why Celt feared the Silver Princess far more than the Windbringer or the Puppeteer.
He stared at the central banner in stunned disbelief, unable to comprehend what was happening.
Why would the Silver Princess come to Crimson Fortress? Intelligence said she was negotiating with the border barbarians! Damn it!! What now? What could he do?
Unconsciously, his gaze drifted to the right flank—Blake's position. But there was no movement there. The noble coalition had formed a defensive line in response, yet Celt could not shake the feeling that they were merely going through the motions. He longed to send for Blake, to ask his counsel—but he was the fortress commander. Seeking the advice of an outsider must be done in secret; to do so in full view of his men would be unforgivable.
"All troops…"
Celt gritted his teeth, raised his right hand, and opened his mouth to speak—when he froze, his eyes widening in surprise. A lone black figure was stepping slowly out of the Sith ranks.
The two armies were not close, but nor were they far apart. The small, slender figure walked leisurely from the Sith lines, soon reaching the midpoint of the battlefield. And on the fortress walls, the men finally saw who it was.
A petite frame bound in a black restraint suit, a large, dark blindfold covering her face, four metal swords fanned out behind her back.
Sidvie the Puppeteer, one of the Sith's Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
What was she doing?
At the sight of her, the men on the walls fell silent, staring at one another in confusion, utterly bewildered by this bizarre display.
Then Sidvie lifted her head, her gaze fixed on Crimson Fortress, and a sneer curled at the corner of her lips.
Though no one could see her eyes, every soldier on the wall felt a chill run down their spine, as if they had been marked by a cold, venomous serpent. And then Sidvie spoke. Her voice was soft, yet it carried clearly to every ear.
"I am Sidvie. You cowards of Wester—come down and fight me."
Sidvie was never one for subtlety or games. She spoke her mind, blunt and unyielding. At her words, Celt and his officers froze, exchanging anxious glances, all seeing the same dread in each other's eyes.
She was here to provoke them!
Pre-battle provocation was not unheard of. Commanders confident in their strength often resorted to it, to crush the enemy's morale and boost their own. But it was a gamble—misjudge the moment, and a reckless charge could end in a cheap death, not heroism.
Of course, one was not obligated to answer such a challenge. But Sidvie had issued a direct duel. Soldiers were not men of letters; they were brutes, driven by pride. To lose a duel was one thing—but to refuse to fight at all was to be branded a coward. What was more, for all her Gifted Knight power, Sidvie was a mere girl, her body bound as if she were a helpless invalid. If they dared not face a blind, bound girl of thirteen or fourteen, they would be a laughingstock for all eternity.
The Silver Princess had played a cruel hand indeed!
Celt's face twisted with bitterness. He knew his men's strength—some mid-ranked swordsmen, a few upper-ranked at best. Against a Gifted Knight, they were nothing. Looking across his lines, he alone was a high-ranked swordsman.
Blake's side, however, had genuine masters. But they were outsiders, and the real war had not yet begun. To call on them to answer a mere provocation would be to shatter his men's morale just the same.
A ruthless move.
Celt gritted his teeth, his hand tightening on his sword hilt. He longed to face Sidvie himself—but he knew the cost of failure. If he fell, the war was lost for Wester before it even began.
"Sir! Let me go!!"
A burly officer stepped forward, kneeling before Celt.
"I swear I will not fail you!"
"I…"
Celt hesitated. He knew the officer stood no chance against Sidvie. But he had volunteered, and Celt could not refuse him.
"Very well."
Celt banished his doubt, nodded firmly.
"May fortune favor you."
"Yes, General!!"
With Celt's approval, the officer roared, spun on his heel, and leaped from the fortress walls.
*BOOM!!*
The walls were several meters high. A normal man would be killed or maimed by such a fall—but this officer was an upper mid-ranked swordsman. His soul power shielded him, and he landed heavily yet unharmed, the impact sending cracks snaking across the hard ground. He stood tall, raised his sword, and pointed it at Sidvie a short distance away.
"Hellmann, Division Commander of the Third Army's Fifth Division, Wester Kingdom! I accept your challenge!"
"Fight."
At his words, Sidvie merely raised an eyebrow, her voice cold as she spat out a single word. She stood motionless, not a muscle tensing.
Seeing her stillness, Hellmann tensed, not daring to charge recklessly. He gripped his sword with both hands, raised it to his shoulder, and pointed it forward. His soul power blazed brighter and brighter around him, the air swirling faintly at his sides. Then he roared, his body erupting in a brilliant glow, and he streaked toward Sidvie like a shooting star.
"Bravo!!"
The soldiers on the fortress walls shouted their approval at his fearsome charge. But Sidvie did not move an inch, standing cold and still as the blazing star hurtled toward her.
Only when Hellmann was mere steps away did Sidvie let out a cold laugh. The second sword on the left of her back let out a soft *shink* sound.
A flash of cold steel.
Hellmann saw a blade slash down at him from above, and in the next instant, his thrusting sword was struck by an invisible force, its path wrenched aside. His eyes bulged in shock as he stared at his sword—split clean in two from hilt to tip.
Damn!!
It was his last thought.
A coiling, icy serpent pierced his body an instant later. The thick leather strap connecting the sword to Sidvie's back lashed out like a tentacle, and the force sent Hellmann flying, his body still moving forward from the momentum of his charge. He crashed to the ground with a sickening *thud*—and the sword, lifted high by the strap, stabbed down like a spider's fangs, piercing his skull and snuffing out his life.
The cheers on the fortress walls died instantly, as if a hand had clamped down on the soldiers' throats.
Many had heard tales of the Gifted Knights' power—but none had seen it with their own eyes. Now they knew. How strong were they? Strong enough to kill an upper mid-ranked swordsman as easily as crushing a bug.
Silence fell, thick and heavy.
"Fire the Mage Cannon!"
Celt slammed his fist on the command table, a fierce glint in his eyes.
"Now! Fire at once! Destroy her!"
He had not been unprepared. From the start, he had doubted Hellmann's chances—but he could not waste the opportunity. The moment the officer had leaped down, Celt had ordered his men to aim and prime the Mage Cannon. Sidvie was a Horseman of the Apocalypse, no matter the pretense of a duel. To slay her would cripple the Sith threat—and he would stop at nothing to do it.
A brilliant flash of light.
A deafening roar shook the air. A golden beam erupted from the fortress's defense tower, streaking toward Sidvie. The Mage Cannon—mana power compressed and forged into a single blast, its explosive force enough to annihilate a thousand-man legion. It could not possibly fail to kill a mere girl.
Faced with the oncoming torrent of power, Sidvie did not flinch. She stood perfectly still, the only unsheathed sword swinging gently from its leather strap, as if nothing was happening.
And then the sword rose high, driven by the strap, and stabbed down into the ground before her.
At the same moment, the golden mana wave engulfed her petite frame completely.
The colossal energy erupted in a cataclysmic explosion, shaking the very earth. Shards of rock flew in all directions, spiderwebbing cracks spreading across the ground. Dust and smoke billowed into the air.
Hit!!
As he watched her figure vanish beneath the blast, Celt let out a long breath of relief. He had feared she would flee—but she had stood her ground, facing the attack head-on… yet relief was tinged with unease. Why had she not run? Could it be that…
Celt stared fixatedly at the ground before the fortress. And soon, his worst fears were realized.
The dust cleared.
Sidvie stood in the exact same spot, unharmed. And before her, before the sword embedded in the earth, everyone could see it clearly: the crater left by the mage cannon's blast was split clean in two, the earth torn apart to either side of the blade. The answer was unmistakeable.
This girl had blocked the fortress's Mage Cannon with a single sword.
Only then did the cheers erupt from the Sith lines—thunderous, triumphant.
And in stark contrast, Crimson Fortress fell deathly silent. From Celt down to the lowliest soldier, every face was dark with despair.
By the Grace of the Saints! Not even the Mage Cannon could kill her! Were the Gifted Knights truly this powerful?
"It seems General Celt has reached his limit."
Blake stood on a watchtower, watching the distant battlefield with a faint smile.
"Which means it is our turn to fight… hmmm…"
He turned, his gaze falling on the two girls standing behind him.
"Messiah, Semia. It's not every day you meet someone your age. Go play with her for a while."