✦ Author's Note ✦
This novel is an original work written entirely by Yumila.
All characters, events, and settings are created from my own imagination.
Please do not copy, repost, translate, or modify any part of this work without permission.
All rights reserved.
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The Supreme War Planning Hall lay buried deep beneath the palace, carved into stone far below the throne—
a throne that had been occupied only by those granted a title bestowed no more than once in a century.
Within the Great Valerion Empire, there existed an ancient tradition.
On the day a hero was crowned, a sacred flame would be lit and left to burn for four full years.
If it extinguished before that time, it was seen as an omen of ruin.
If it endured until the end, the era was declared victorious.
Four years ago, as nobles bowed and armies knelt,
an emperor was not crowned.
A hero was.
Alexir Valheim.
The Crowned Hero.
Guardian of the Borders.
Bearer of the Holy Sword Erathion.
The man who halted the first great wave of demonic armies on the very day the Empire was believed to be lost.
The map spread before them was not parchment.
It was the hide of a black dragon slain in the First War.
The borders of the known world were carved into its scales, mana lines glowing faintly beneath the surface like living veins.
The darkest region lay to the south.
Southern Zakra.
A land of eternal mist, where black vapor seeped from the earth after nightfall.
"They are no longer satisfied with raids."
The voice belonged to a commander worn thin by relentless reports.
"Three fortresses fell within a single week."
"Civilians are being driven south," another added grimly.
"As if they're being gathered for something."
The silence that followed was not fear.
It was calculation.
Because the man standing at the table did not know fear.
Alexir had not sat since entering the hall.
He stood straight, hands clasped behind his back.
His armor bore no ornamentation, though he could have demanded it forged in gold.
He wore no medals, though his victories surpassed any living legend.
Four years since his coronation as Hero.
Four years without a public smile.
When he spoke, his voice did not rise.
"They are not attacking," he said.
"They are preparing."
Breaths stalled across the chamber.
He stepped closer to the map and extended a finger toward Zakra.
The mana lines there pulsed erratically, unstable.
"The Demon King does not move unless the prize is worth more than land."
A name left unspoken for months echoed silently in every mind.
Valkardith.
The Demon King.
Breaker of Oaths.
The one who emerged seven years ago and ignited the Great War.
Alexir had been the first to face him.
He had not defeated him.
But he had stopped him.
And that alone had been called a miracle.
Alexir's fingers moved with calm precision, repositioning unit markers across the dragon-hide map with astonishing speed.
"If Zakra falls," he said evenly,
"they will open a rear corridor straight into the heart of the Empire."
One of the commanders broke the tension.
"Our forces are exhausted. We need immediate reinforcements from the capital—"
"They won't arrive in time."
Alexir cut him off without raising his voice.
Silence followed.
Then, cold and final:
"Which is why we are the reinforcements."
Orders followed without pause.
The Seventh Legion was to be redeployed.
Heavy cavalry withdrawn from the northern front.
Night scouts stationed along the Burned Forest.
Mountain passes sealed, even if the land itself had to burn.
He did not speak like a man hoping for victory.
He spoke like a man who had already decided the outcome.
One general slammed his fist against the table.
"We've fought demons for generations!
How many times will we lose land only to reclaim it?!"
Alexir lifted his gaze.
One look was enough.
The chamber fell silent.
"This time," he said quietly,
"we will not reclaim it."
A deadly pause followed.
"Because we will not allow it to fall."
Chairs scraped back.
Armor was tightened.
Swords were fastened to belts.
"Damn the demons," someone muttered.
"We'll burn them," another swore.
Alexir did not curse.
He did not shout.
He did not raise his blade.
He simply said, "Inform the soldiers."
Then he turned toward the chamber doors.
"We move before dawn."
The sky above Southern Zakra hung heavy with suffocating gray, as though it refused to witness what was about to unfold.
Mist seeped between the hills, thick with the scent of iron and ash.
Then they emerged.
The demonic forces surged from the fog like a living flood.
Not dozens.
Not hundreds.
Thousands.
Twisted bodies marched forward, black armor fused into flesh. Horns, torn wings, eyes burning with madness. Some crawled. Some flew. Others did not walk at all, gliding across the ground like living shadows.
One soldier whispered in disbelief, "This… this is an extermination army."
Alexir Valheim stood at the front line, his sword still sheathed.
"Alpha formation."
His voice was calm, almost quiet.
Every soldier heard it.
The arcane archers began their chants. Blue mana circles ignited in the air, forming layered sigils that trembled with power. A storm of luminous spears tore through the sky and descended like divine judgment.
The front ranks of demons were obliterated in an instant.
Bodies exploded. Limbs scattered.
But the advance did not slow.
"They're not stopping!" someone shouted.
More demons stepped over the fallen, unbroken.
A commander cried out, panic breaking through his discipline. "The volleys aren't enough!"
Alexir's eyes narrowed.
The demons in the rear lines were moving differently.
They were hunting.
Winged fiends swept behind the Imperial ranks, bypassing the front entirely. Dark magic pierced the defensive barriers. Mages fell before their incantations could finish, heads bursting under concentrated spells.
"They know our formation," Alexir said.
At last, he drew his blade.
The sound of steel leaving its sheath rang across the battlefield like a death sentence.
"Seventh Legion. Now."
Heavy infantry surged forward, shields locked, shoulders braced. Steel collided with claw. Black blood mixed with red. Bones shattered beneath disciplined strikes.
Alexir advanced at the front.
Every movement was precise.
Every strike lethal.
He severed a demon's wing, pivoted half a step, drove his blade through another's throat, then kicked the corpse aside to trip the creatures behind it.
He was not fighting.
He was eliminating.
The explosion came from the rear without warning.
A watchtower collapsed in fire and stone. Soldiers screamed as debris crushed them.
"Attack from within!"
Alexir understood immediately.
"Traitors."
An Imperial magus, assigned to reinforce the defensive barriers, raised his hands. The magic circles forming above him were black.
"The Empire is finished," the mage declared. "The demons promised us a new world."
A hellgate opened behind the Imperial lines.
From it stepped a noble demon, towering—three times the height of a man. His expression was calm, almost pleased.
"Alexir Valheim," the demon said. "At last."
Alexir did not retreat.
"So," he replied evenly, "this is the spearhead."
Then, for the first time since the battle began, he shouted.
"Delta formation. Sever the tail."
As chaos spread, the truth revealed itself.
Hidden units had been watching the magus from the beginning.
An arcane sniper released a single mana arrow. It pierced the traitor's eye, killing him before the gate could fully stabilize.
Alexir had known.
He had been waiting.
The second wave of the demon army advanced—not as a mob, but as an organized force. Their ranks moved in synchronization, shields raised in unison, steps guided as if by a single will.
The sky darkened further. The mana in the air grew bitter and oppressive.
Alexir felt it immediately.
This is not an invasion.
His grip tightened around his sword.
This is preparation.
The air split apart.
Not one gate.
Three.
Massive infernal circles tore open across the battlefield sky, each radiating an ancient and cruel mana.
They emerged slowly.
The first was a massive demon covered in scars, his right arm entirely formed of serrated black bone. The earth cracked beneath each step.
"Humans still resist?" he said, amused. "How entertaining."
The second was tall and slender, almost elegant. Six shadowy wings drifted behind her like smoke, her pupil-less eyes endless black.
"Alexir Valheim," she said with a smile. "The Emperor raised you well."
Alexir froze—for the briefest moment.
The third wore a torn ritual robe, his skin carved with countless seals that bled violet light. His voice echoed as though spoken by many mouths.
"The land you defend," he said, "was never yours."
They advanced together.
For the first time in years, Alexir felt weight press against his chest.
Three legion commanders at once.
This was not about territory.
He raised his voice. "What is your objective in Zakra?"
The winged demon laughed softly. "Because the Emperor buried his sin here."
They did not wait.
The scarred commander charged first. One swing of his bone arm erased an entire row of soldiers.
Alexir intercepted.
The impact detonated the air. His arm trembled as his boots dug into the earth.
Raw power. No technique.
The winged commander raised her hand. Shadows beneath the soldiers stirred, then erupted into black spears. Screams filled the battlefield as bodies were dragged into darkness.
Alexir released a surge of mana, severing the shadows in half.
"Off the ground!" he commanded. "Break contact!"
The robed demon began chanting. The seals on his body flared violently, the earth trembling in response.
"This place," he said, "is the key."
The winged commander's voice carried through the chaos.
"The First Emperor made a pact with our King."
Alexir's eyes widened. "Lies."
"He buried the heart of that pact here," she replied calmly. "In Zakra."
The heart.
Alexir fought alone.
He deflected Margol's crushing blows, severed Sylphra's wings one after another, and shattered Ferkan's incantations through sheer force. Blood ran freely. His armor cracked beneath repeated impacts.
Alexir Valheim remained standing.
Not because he was incapable of falling, but because he refused to.
A broken voice cried out from behind the lines.
"We sent the emergency signal! We requested the Count's support!"
Alexir turned slowly.
"Where is Daion?"
No one answered.
Then another voice, hesitant and heavy.
"His unit arrived… but the Count was not with them."
Something fractured inside Alexir's chest.
You said you would be here.
The demons understood the moment.
They closed in around him, layers of dark magic sealing the space. Pressure bore down on his body, paralysis creeping into his limbs, mana draining relentlessly.
One knee bent.
He did not kneel.
Alexir raised his trembling hand.
"Body Enhancement—"
"Sir, don't! That spell—"
Too late.
The magic ignited.
Mana erupted inside his veins. His body glowed like fractured molten glass, light leaking through cracked skin. His strength doubled. His sword felt heavier, denser, devastating.
Each swing obliterated demons outright.
And each second tore him apart from within.
Blood streamed from his nose. His vision blurred.
You said you'd cover my back.
A bitter smile crossed his lips.
"Liar."
Through the swirling dust, a colossal demon emerged, towering like a siege tower, its skin hard as black stone. It seized Alexir in a single hand.
Bones screamed. His sword nearly slipped free.
He tried to shout.
No sound came.
Then it happened.
A single cut.
Unseen.
Only the sound—thok.
The giant demon's head fell, severed cleanly. It struck the ground and rolled, eyes still open. The grip vanished. The body collapsed.
The battlefield froze.
Demons stopped moving. Soldiers forgot to breathe.
Footsteps echoed across the ruined ground.
Unsteady. Almost lazy.
A man stood before Alexir.
White hair, swaying slightly as though he were drunk. A wide smile stretched across his face—empty, disturbing. His cloak fluttered idly. His sword dripped thick black blood onto the earth.
He spoke in a warped, languid tone.
"Ah… found you."
Red eyes, vacant and unfocused, locked onto Alexir's golden gaze.
Inside Alexir's mind, a single thought surfaced.
Not now.
Is he drunk?
For the first time since the battle began, Alexir felt certainty settle in his chest.
We are going to lose.
The young man's smile widened, calm and terrifying.
"I wasn't planning to come."
He paused.
"But I felt like spilling some blood."
Daion.