The White Palace is the seat of power of the Sacred Country of Millis, an imposing structure that floats in the center of the Great Lake, surrounded by deep, serene waters. This palace is home to the Royal Family of Millis, although, in practice, the monarchy is merely symbolic.
Around the capital rise the Seven Magic Towers, colossal enchanted pillars that keep the city protected against floods and natural calamities.
The barrier created by these towers is so effective that the city has no walls. The protection is invisible, but absolute.
Unlike the Kingdom of Asura, where the Royal Family has direct control over everything, in Millis it is the Church that holds the true power.
The king is little more than a ceremonial public figure, and even the highest religious authorities move freely within the White Palace, influencing and deciding the fate of the nation.
Within the limits of the sacred capital, Milishion, the immense structure of the Great Church of Milis also stands out—the absolute center of faith and seat of the Milisian religion, recognized for centuries as the largest religious organization in the world.
The building, with four floors, features an onion-shaped golden dome visible from virtually any point in the city. Its four courtyards symbolize the four seasons of the year.
Besides these two main landmarks, the city hosts constructions common to other great continental capitals: a massive headquarters of the Adventurers' Guild, refined restaurants, luxurious inns, and exotic marketplaces.
The sacred city is organized into four main districts: the Adventurers' District, the Sacred District, the Residential District, and the Commercial District.
Atop one of the Seven Magic Towers, amid the biting wind and the subtle magical energy enveloping the structure, a man practiced fencing.
His white and gold robes gleamed under the morning sun. He was middle-aged, with brown hair streaked with gray.
Despite the scowl etched on his face, his technique was austere and refined.
It was an inconvenient place to train. The magic towers were not designed for people to climb to their summits as in a traditional siege.
There were no observation platforms, guards, or defined paths. They were colossal magical tools, true pillars of power.
Climbing up there required either a magical item or pure physical strength. The Pope had used the former. His companion, the latter.
A few steps away, motionless like an ivory statue, a knight in ivory-white armor watched in silence. His hand rested on the hilt of his sheathed sword, and his face was indiscernible behind his helmet: the White Knight.
The Pope abruptly halted his training, panting and sweaty. He stared at the horizon in the direction where Tinaver should be located.
Many times he had considered simply ordering an all-out attack on that city, but he always held back. He also restrained his men. After all, he knew something with absolute certainty, thanks to his Divine Visions.
Taking Tinaver would be useless. Not even conquering the entire stretch of the Great Forest would matter. The key was Rygar Adoldia. The Beast God needed to die.
Only with his death would the Crusade regain its meaning. Until then, the demons had the advantage.
Like a swift, silent wraith, a new figure appeared near the tower's summit, hovering in the air. His armor was silver and gold, covered with hand-engraved symbols.
He carried a massive sheathed sword—its guard shaped like a cross and its hidden blade almost two meters long. A navy-blue cloak fluttered in the wind: a magical artifact, a flying cloak.
The Pope, grimy, sweaty, and in a foul mood, said:
"What do you want, Galgard?"
The man hovered above the tower, motionless, his expression also hidden behind his helmet. The White Knight, beside the Pope, stiffened, ready to intervene at any sign of threat. The air seemed about to snap.
Galgard's voice cut through the silence, cold and accusatory:
"You told me everything was under control. You said the only vanguard point to suffer damage would be the one that faced the Beast God."
He glanced at the White Knight and then back at the Pope.
"That's why I acceded to your demands and stayed in Milishion. Cowardly hiding behind these towers."
The Pope averted his gaze, sighing deeply.
"We had... unexpected complications. The Disaster Witch, Verdia Solarion, countered my Divine Vision with one of her own. She should have been eliminated before the return of the Beast God. Now, the two of them together have become a thorn in our side."
He raised his eyes to Galgard.
"This operation was supposed to be a success. I admit my mistake. But I do not take responsibility for that foolish King trying to kill Rygar on his own. Worse... he dragged members of his own inner circle into that insanity."
Galgard remained still for a moment, then spoke:
"And the other fronts...?"
Lucios lowered his eyes, his voice heavy with frustration:
"If the Second Division of the Iron Legion had been exterminated, and if the two Generals who followed the King had fulfilled my original designs, the scales would be in our favor. The Beast God would have abandoned all caution and attacked Milishion without thinking. And at that moment, you would need to be here."
He indicated the White Knight. "And him as well."
He paused for a long moment. Then concluded:
"But indeed, I failed at another thing."
Galgard tilted his head slightly.
"Oh...? At what?"
Lucios shot him an icy glance.
"I should have eliminated all opposition within Millis before the war. I did what I could with the Acceptance Faction, but the King... still stood in my way. That dying old man..."
Galgard interrupted:
"Have a little more respect. He is still the King of this nation."
The Pope sneered, not even hiding his contempt:
"A King who drags his country to ruin is no true King."
He turned back to the horizon, toward Tinaver.
"Galgard... we are not in perfect agreement, I know that. But you know I want what is best for Millis. The rest of the country may be lost, but this war... this war is far from over. With the arrogance of that golden-eyed demon, he will not leave Milishion standing after taking the kingdom."
The Pope gripped the sword's hilt. His expression was somber, resolute.
"He will come. And at that moment, the fact that you followed my advice, of not having died a meaningless death on the front line... that will be worth it."
Lucios activated the enchantment of a silver bracelet on his left arm. A faint glow enveloped his body. He cast one last glance at Galgard behind his helmet and declared with conviction:
"The Beast God will die in Milishion. That, I guarantee."
Then, he began to walk calmly along the tower's vertical wall, as if gravity ignored him completely, disappearing from view.
The White Knight walked to the edge of the tower, stared at Galgard for a brief moment, without saying a word, and then jumped. His body sliced through the air in freefall, like a white arrow launched from the sky.
Galgard remained floating beside the Magic Tower, his body firm and motionless. His cloak fluttering.
His eyes were fixed on the misty horizon. There, far beyond what his eyes could truly see, lay Tinaver.
Since the Church Order had managed to unify the Kingdom of Millis—or at least forge a fragile alliance under the banner of a common enemy—many resources and hopes had been channeled in its direction.
Galgard was the strongest among them all. Millis' Champion. The sword that hung over the Legion.
The Church had spared no effort to make him as strong as possible.
If it were not for the Iron Legion Generals being so elusive, or for his own hesitation to kill them at the beginning of the conflict, he might already have defeated some of them.
It was a war where mercy cost dearly, and he discovered that.
Galgard did not see himself as so powerful. His fight against the Red Wolf years ago had shown him what it meant to face a true genius.
But at that time, he believed Rygar Adoldia was then fifteen or twenty years behind in strength.
And then... in just six years, he reached and surpassed him.
The Beast God was, without a doubt, far stronger than he.
Without the artifacts, Galgard calculated himself to be an Emperor-level warrior. A very high-level Emperor, yes, but still below true God-level. Something was missing.
And for him, that something... were the Sacred Artifacts.
Guarded under seven locks in the deepest vaults of Millis, accessible only to the highest figures of the order, were his armor, his sword, and his cloak.
Together, these three treasures elevated him beyond human limits. They transcended him.
Now, he was called the Divine Warrior.
The silver and gold armor was charged with indestructible enchantments.
The sword, with its cross-shaped guard, carried within its core a pure light, able to cut through mana itself.
And the navy-blue cloak, fluttering even without wind, was the key to his flight.
With them, Galgard felt that perhaps one day he could aspire to become one of the Seven World Powers, not that he desired it. But he had never met one of those figures, so he could not confirm.
Still, he was certain of one thing: he was at God level.
Divine Warrior.
But would that be an appropriate title for him?
Galgard had his doubts. A Divine Warrior should not fight for such a sick cause. He should not soil himself in a war so devoid of meaning.
Lamentable Warrior.
Perhaps that described him better.
He lamented.
He lamented not having forgiven Rygar for the horrors at the Joylore Mansion. If he had shown compassion, perhaps the later conflicts could have been avoided or at least mitigated.
He lamented not killing him while he was still young, and lamented that this thought crossed his mind. He lamented the indiscriminate hatred that the Church high ranks held for demons and beast races.
But all of that was now irrelevant.
Now, he was at war. And there was no room for regrets.
Galgard did not intend to allow Lucios Galard to remain in power after the war. That much was clear in his mind.
But, as the Pope himself had said moments before, internal conflicts would only weaken their chances.
The Iron Legion was brutal and full of justified violence. But Millis' soldiers were also swept up by a current of fanaticism and pride. At some point, both sides looked alike.
And he had chosen his side.
Lost in his thoughts, Galgard rose higher. His body streaked across the skies of the sacred capital like a reversed shooting star, gaining speed as he flew toward the heart of Milishion.
His destination: the Magic King of Millis.
That man would be responsible for maintaining control over the Seven Magic Towers that protected the city. A vital role. A responsibility that allowed no errors.
Everything needed to be handled with perfection.
Every detail. Every barrier. Every protocol.
Time was a blade above their heads. And Galgard had no idea how much remained.
How many days? Weeks? Hours? Until the Iron Legion planted its banners across the entire Kingdom of Millis?
He did not know.
But he was absolutely certain of one thing:
His family would not be here to witness the outcome.
And, if Millis fell, he would not be alive to see the consequences.
For Galgard, this war had no middle ground.
It was victory... or disappearance from history.
---
Walking among the ruins of the once-imposing Marble Fort stood a tall man, with silver hair that reflected the sun like polished steel, intimidating golden eyes that glinted with intensity, and a white cloak that danced with the wind of destruction.
His steps were silent, each seeming calculated.
He stopped beneath the rubble of an ancient tower, or what remained of it. The shattered, burned stones formed a grotesque scar on the once-majestic landscape.
The sky, clear and indifferent, contrasted with what lay beneath it. The hot wind blew through the debris, carrying the smell of smoke, molten metal, and half-told stories.
His eyes surveyed the surroundings, alert, and for a brief moment, a menacing spark flashed in his gaze.
The threat he perceived may no longer have been there, but the memory of its presence still lingered in the air. An invisible mark left behind.
"I believe Averyc Loremaia will never be born again in the Marble Fort..." he murmured, his voice deep, contemplative, and slightly hostile.
The words hung in the air like a belated prophecy. He stood there, stoic, for a few more seconds. Observing. Judging. Reflecting.
Then, as silently as he had arrived, he turned and departed, leaving the ruins behind without another word.
Without looking back, fading little by little among the shadows of the collapsed buildings.
His thoughts and actions... a mystery to the entire world.
-----
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