The commander signaled for his troops to disengage, the tension in the room snapping as the spears were lowered. With a stiff, awkward gesture, he signaled for Cassia to follow him.
Cassia trailed behind with a silent, predatory grace, her footsteps making no sound as the group marched out of the tavern, a small smile curved underneath her mask.
The tavern was left in a state of absolute, stunned silence. The clink of a dropped mug was the only sound for a long minute. It was a remarkable day—learning that a gold-rank adventurer had been sitting among them in secret.
But as the silence broke, the rumors began to fester like a wound. Whispers grew about the enigmatic lady and her choice to lead a scouting party into No Man's Land. Fear outweighed the awe.
After all, the last group to enter that region had consisted of several silver-ranks and five gold-ranks. Forty of the kingdom's elite had vanished without a trace.
With the news of a demon army ambush and the total loss of communication, many in the tavern felt Cassia was simply walking into her own grave.
The Kingdom of Azmuth. Early afternoon of the next day.
The capital was a hive of frantic activity. Advisors and officials scurried through the palace halls, their faces etched with the chaos of logistics. Messengers were being prepped in the courtyards, their horses saddled for long rides to neighboring countries. The lie was being delivered far and wide: the Demon Army was building a stronghold in No Man's Land.
Inside the throne room, the Army General of Azmuth stood before the King. He was a burly man in his late forties, encased in silver and gold-plated armor of intricate, flowing design.
"My King, we have good news regarding the recruitment efforts," the General reported, his voice booming with a soldier's pride. "We have currently amassed a total of five thousand five hundred strong men from our territories." "Furthermore, the guilds have answered the call."
The General unfurled a scroll, reading the figures with a sharp glint in his eyes. "We have at least a thousand iron-rank adventurers, close to 500 hundred copper-ranks, five hundred bronze-ranks, four hundred sixty silver-ranks, and twenty-five promising gold-ranks." "And... we have secured one platinum-rank."
"This brings our total combined force to an estimated seven thousand plus."
The King leaned forward, his eyes widening in surprise. "Ho-ho! Twenty-five gold-ranks and a platinum-rank, you say?" He paused, a look of realization crossing his face. "Wait... could it be—?"
"Yes, my King," the General interrupted, a smirk of absolute confidence playing on his lips. "It is exactly who you think it is." "Our very own Lord Dexxos, 'The God-Hammer.' Azmuth's champion."
The King let out a breath of pure relief, a triumphant laugh bubbling in his throat. "OOHHH... very well! Very well indeed!" "It looks like we won't have to worry about losing many men, then. Not with Dexxos joining the skirmish."
"You are absolutely correct, milord," the General agreed, bowing his head. "With Lord Dexxos joining the vanguard, casualties will be at a minimum." "Against a demon host, there is no shield he cannot shatter."
The gears of war were no longer turning—they were screaming.
The General leaned over the massive strategy table, his voice swelling with the magnitude of the force he now commanded. "All in all, we have close to thirty thousand plus joining this skirmish," he stated, his finger tracing a heavy line toward No Man's Land.
"The remaining numbers are assigned as backup in case things go awry. And this is not even accounting for the aid we will receive from our allied kingdoms, my King." The King leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he calculated the sheer weight of his own power. "How many will be left here in Azmuth, and how do the ranks form?"
The General straightened, his chest puffing out beneath his gold-plated armor. "Our total army size stands at one hundred fifty thousand strong, milord." He began to count off the divisions with clinical, cold efficiency.
"First, our regular soldiers. Trained by the finest and capable of basic enhancement spells. In terms of power, each is comparable to a bronze or silver-rank adventurer." "Second, our mage regiment. The backbone of our fire support. They are capable of C to B-rank offensive spells, with elites wielding the destructive power of A-rank magic."
"Third, the beast riders. Masters of high-mobility ground combat, reinforced by enhancement magic." "Fourth, our pride: the Wyvern Riders. Their name is feared across kingdoms for the dominance they bring to every campaign."
"And last, the Arcane Knights. The pinnacle of Azmuth's strength. Gold-rank in physique and power, capable of A-rank spells." The General paused, a smirk of absolute certainty crossing his face.
"We are sparing twenty-two thousand and one hundred veterans for this first wave. Combined with the new recruits, that is thirty thousand head counts." "One hundred twenty-seven thousand and nine hundred men will remain in the capital as a second wave, should the unthinkable happen. This is the greatest force we have ever assembled."
The King was more than delighted. The air in the room was thick with a toxic, over-confident arrogance. They were fully convinced they were marching to war against a demon host.
They did not realize they were preparing to face something that would make a demon army look like a blessing.
They were on borrowed time, and the individual they were hunting was someone they would soon wish was "just" a demon. While the gears of war ground forward in the mortal realm, a different kind of darkness was gathering in the golden halls of Elysium.
Ares was not planning to go alone. He stood before a gathered group of deities, his voice a honeyed poison as he spoke of vengeance. He had successfully lured in those who still bore the scars and the grudges left by the "God-Slayer."
He was joined by: The God of Storms, his presence a low rumble of static and thunder. The God of Strife, whose eyes burned with the need for chaos. Another God of War from a rival pantheon, eager to reclaim lost honor.
A Monkey God with a mischievous, lethal grin. And a Mountain God, immovable, cold, and heavy. They all shared one thing: a burning, unquenchable hatred for Natsu.
Ares's plan was simple and cruel. He would use the mortals as fodder—let them bleed, let them die in droves to tire the abomination out. Then, once the "vanguard" was weakened, the gods would descend to take the kill and the glory for themselves.
They believed their plot was secret. They believed they were the masters of this game. They did not know that the Abyss has eyes and ears everywhere. And Natsu was never truly alone in the dark.
Two days later. Late afternoon. The capital of Azmuth loomed larger and more imposing than it had from the borderlands.
Its white stone walls were gilded by the dying sun, and the air hummed with the frantic, clattering energy of a kingdom preparing for its greatest campaign. Cassia Ghast walked through the bustling streets, flanked by an escort of kingdom soldiers. She appeared calm, but beneath her half-mask, her malachite eyes were moving with terrifying precision.
She was not looking at the vendors or the crowds. She was creating a mental map—calculating the width of the roads, the height of the battlements, the hidden pathways between the stone structures, and the structural weaknesses of the castle walls.
It was a silent, feverish mapping of a fortress she seemed to be treating as a future battlefield. "Uhhhh, my lady?" The voice of a soldier shattered her concentration.
In a blur of motion that defied the human eye, Cassia reacted.
Before the man could even finish his sentence, a jagged, dark-steel dagger was pressed firmly against the base of his neck. The soldier froze, his breath hitching. He could feel the bite of the blade against his skin—one millimeter away from ending his life.
Cassia stared at him, her eyes cold and predatory, as if she were deciding whether to finish the stroke. A few seconds passed in a silence so heavy it felt like a physical weight. Finally, she realized her environment. "What is it?" she asked, her voice a low, dangerous silk.
The soldier was sweating bullets, his eyes darting down to the steel at his throat. "I-I'm sorry to interrupt, my lady. You must have been deep in thought." He swallowed hard, the movement bringing his neck even closer to the blade.
"I just wanted to tell you that we'll be escorting you to the banquet halls now."
Cassia didn't pull the blade back. She kept it there, her gaze unblinking. "What for?" "There... there will be a briefing for all the high-ranking adventurers joining the skirmish," the soldier stammered. "We were ordered to escort you to join the others."
Cassia looked at the man for several seconds longer, her intense focus making him tremble. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she retreated the blade.
The dagger disappeared into the folds of her tactical bodysuit as if it had never existed. "Lead the way," she commanded.
The soldier didn't wait for a second invitation. He turned and marched toward the castle, his pace a fraction faster than it had been before, desperate to put space between himself and the woman who walked like a ghost.