On a distant battlefield, far from the sacred halls and the floating towers, a brutal scene was unfolding on the attack route of the Iron Legion's First Vanguard Division.
The sound of steel, cries of pain, and the smell of fresh blood dominated the air. Before a walled military citadel, with eight-meter-high ramparts and defended by Milis's knights and archers, the Iron Legion advanced with fury.
Milis's defenders resisted bravely, their arrows flying like swarms and their spears holding the line. For a moment, it seemed that the mass of beasts, demons, and humans would be stopped by the small fortress.
The Milisian commanders exchanged confident glances—they believed this might finally be the chance to halt the enemy armies' advance.
But then, from among the trees, two figures emerged with terrifying speed. They passed the Legion's soldiers like dark blurs and, with a single powerful leap, vaulted over the wall.
They were two enormous Ebony Wolves. Upon one rode the small red‑haired dwarf, Rufus, wielding a massive hammer. Upon the other was the beastly half‑deer Garrison, his serene eyes and silver spear gleaming in the sun.
The collision was blood‑soaked.
Skoll, the wolf ridden by Garrison, sank his fangs into the enemy's armor and, with claws sharp as swords, tore apart all in his path.
In one bound, Garrison separated from the wolf and landed inside the citadel, spinning his spear and unleashing a massacre among Milis's unsuspecting soldiers.
Every thrust was lethal, every strike carved a bloody void in the defense line.
Meanwhile, Rufus also jumped from Geri. The wolf itself was already a force of destruction, tearing armor and crushing skulls with its paws.
Contrary to expectations, Rufus did not immediately join the fray. Instead, he turned to the wall with a silent smile and murmured:
"Earthbreaker!"
His hammer struck the ground with devastating force. Shockwaves spread out, cracking the earth into deep fissures. Columns of earth rose like the arms of the very land, smashing against the base of the wall.
With a deafening crash, the citadel's foundations gave way. The wall began to collapse, and a cloud of dust enveloped the battlefield.
Before the debris had even finished falling, a new figure emerged from the shadows, leaping among the ruins.
Their arrival was heralded by a magical howl that reverberated throughout the fortress—a powerful Howling Magic. The mental impact on Milis's soldiers was immediate.
Stunned, many fell to their knees as they were struck by the potent bestial magic.
And then, the true advance began.
As the wall crumbled, dozens of legionaries stormed through the wreckage with terrifying synchronicity.
They employed abilities so diverse and deadly that Milis's crusaders could only describe the sight as the apocalypse itself.
Chantless magic was unleashed from every direction. Techniques from the three schools of swordsmanship, as well as beast, dwarf, elven, and demonic combat styles, turned the citadel into a whirlwind of destruction.
The Iron Legion was a monstrous entity, and in that moment, it seemed an unstoppable force.
Garrison charged like a battering ram, his spear spinning in deadly circles, felling everything in his path.
Rufus, having ensured the structure's collapse, advanced cautiously across the field, crushing any remaining resistance with his powerful Earth Magic.
Within minutes, the fortress had been conquered.
But that was only the beginning.
A city lay close by, a Milisian settlement protected only by a two‑meter‑high wall. It was now practically undefended, its military citadel in ruins.
Guards still stood watch at the gates, and the local lord, with his entourage, waited outside.
He knew there was nothing more to be done. His city could not withstand the Iron Legion.
It was not the first time this had happened on Milisian soil. The lord was well aware of the fate awaiting those who fought the inevitable.
Rufus, as commander of the detachment, was supposed to receive the city's surrender in person. Instead, he sent one of his feral subordinates.
He himself turned silently to tend to his wounded soldiers, casting healing spells without chanting.
Before the sun fully disappeared below the horizon, the Iron Legion's banner was already fluttering over the small city.
Relations were established with the local leaders, and veteran legionaries were left to guard the city against future threats, as well as to maintain order.
The detachment, having rested and reinforced its ranks, departed again at dawn, bound for its next target.
---
Elsewhere on another battlefield, across a vast open plain, the sky was overcast with heavy clouds and the air charged with the smell of iron and dust.
A detachment of the Iron Legion's Third Vanguard Division faced a powerful Milisian force.
The confrontation had lasted for hours, and the battlefield was scarred with craters, shattered weapons, and bodies from both sides.
At the center of the Legion's formation, Rygar's father, Hontar Adoldia, one of the most feared beast warriors, dueled a Water Saint of Milis.
They were shadows in motion, too fast for ordinary soldiers to follow.
Hontar used his agility as a shield, dodging mere centimeters from the blade that flowed like a river in his opponent's hands.
His claws glittered, delivering precise cuts perilously close to his opponent's arteries. The clash was a true spectacle of strength and speed, an impasse that held everyone's attention.
But stalemates do not last forever.
Emerging like a wraith from the midst of the troops, a feral of intimidating appearance sliced across the battlefield like a blade through flesh.
Wielding a black sword, he advanced like a reaper. Executing the Longsword of Light technique, a gleaming, clean cut, he passed through the Milisian soldiers as if they weren't there.
The black sheen of the sword was the last thing the Water Saint saw before his head rolled across the ground, severed by a single blow.
This was Weys Adoldia.
The first Sword Saint to emerge from the Great Forest after Rygar.
His eyes met Hontar's for a brief second—a steady look, charged with recognition.
Without words, the two beast warriors advanced like hurricanes through the Milisian ranks, carving a path with precise, brutal, and graceful strikes.
Their movements were fluid, almost choreographed, as if they had replayed this battle dozens of times in their minds.
The Legion, seeing them in action, found renewed vigor. The legionaries roared in unison, and the offensive's momentum multiplied.
The Milisian formations, which had until then held firm, began to crumble before the avalanche bearing down on them. Victory came like a wave: inevitable, overwhelming.
---
Throughout Milis's territory, similar scenes repeated themselves.
The last pockets of resistance, scattered in smaller fortresses, walled towns, and makeshift battlefields, were methodically crushed by the Iron Legion's elite.
Combined units of ferals, demonic mages, elven archers, human warriors, and heavily armed dwarves advanced as a single, relentless organism.
Wherever the Legion passed, only the silence of surrender or the echo of destruction remained.
The remaining Milisian forces that were neither defeated nor captured sought refuge behind the barriers of the sacred capital: Milishion.
Weeks passed, and the Iron Legion's dominion over Milis became more symbolic than combative. No army dared raise arms again.
The noble houses that had remained neutral during the conflicts now surrendered peacefully, many sending delegations with white flags even before the legionary troops arrived.
In the conquered towns, few protested against the new administration, thanks to the strict rules Rygar had imposed on his troops.
Of course, there were some exceptions, but they were swiftly resolved.
The presence of dozens of veteran, well‑trained, and highly organized legionaries was enough to maintain order—and, in many cases, security.
It was not that the people of Milis welcomed the occupation; they simply saw no alternative.
The Iron Legion's reputation spread like wildfire.
Its relentless advance, the strength of its leaders, and the overwhelming diversity of its troops made any resistance futile.
Ordinary soldiers did not wish to fight monsters, beasts, and warriors who embodied their worst nightmares.
And so, little by little, the rest of the continent began to turn its attention to Milishion.
The last bastion. The jewel of Milisian faith. The city where the Pope resided, the elite forces, the sacred priests, and, above all, the Divine Warrior—the Church of Milis's sword.
There were those who still believed Milishion would never fall. After all, the city had withstood sieges for centuries, protected by its walls, its sacred charms, and its indestructibility. History had given them reason—until now.
But even those certainties were beginning to crack.
The Iron Legion now approached the sacred city, step by step. Its commanders were names both feared and respected.
Its soldiers, figures of legend or newly exalted through the blood, sweat, and glory won in this war. The annals of history recorded each new feat, each city taken, each army shattered.
As Milis's conquest spread smoothly across the territory, a new feeling took root in the hearts of allies and enemies alike: doubt.
Would Milishion fall?
And if it did… what would remain of the old Sacred Kingdom?
---
The last barrier stubbornly standing before Milishion was the Silver Heart Knight.
Even after being defeated and forced to retreat by Gretta and Eris, the man showed impressive resilience. He was, indeed, a difficult foe to kill.
He managed to gather a new force from his remaining troops and, employing guerrilla tactics against Gretta, momentarily put her in a defensive position.
The Silver Heart Knight sought an honorable duel with the Demon King. It was clear his strategy was to weaken the Legion's strength without sacrificing more soldiers—a rational but desperate gambit.
Gretta, of course, continuously refused his proposals, keeping the strategic advantage in terms of troops and resources. Still, the pursuit became a tedious hunt—a game of cat and mouse between two powers.
But everything changed with the arrival of one variable. On that day, for the first time, Gretta agreed to the duel with good grace.
The current scene was a ruined castle, consumed by the devastation of war and the very blows of the combatants.
Cracked rocks, collapsed walls, and shattered pillars bore witness to the ferocity of the clash. Both warriors were covered in blood but remained standing, still determined.
Gretta was missing an arm. Numerous lacerations marred her marble‑black skin like lines on a map of pain.
A deep scar crossed her lower back, threatening to expose her internal organs, yet she smiled—holding her opponent by the neck with her only remaining hand.
Blood trickled down her arm as she laughed.
"Hahahahahah! It's hard to find an old human with such spirit these days!"
The knight let out a hoarse groan, his body barely holding together.
"Haaah… I almost got you… I nearly killed you. That would have been my final great victory…"
Gretta let him drop. She limped to a corner to recover her halberd, her arm still spurting blood.
"Actually…" she said, chuckling, "you never stood a chance…"
The old knight on the ground raised his eyes with difficulty.
"W… what?"
Gretta, gripping her halberd, pointed to the top of one of the partially ruined towers.
"Hahahahahaha! You didn't even notice my guardian angel watching us the whole time! Hahahahahaha!"
The Knight's gaze drifted to the tower. There, standing in absolute silence, was Rygar. His golden eyes glowed like embers in the stone's darkness.
His silver hair billowed in the wind. He had been there all along, invisible even to the keenest eyes thanks to his Touki concealment, merely observing.
It was only at that moment, in the last seconds of his life, that the Knight realized: his death had been sealed the instant Gretta accepted the duel.
The halberd came down.
A clean cut. The head of the old man rolled away, his gaze still confused even in death.
Rygar sighed, descending from the tower as lightly as a shadow.
"All right, Gretta. You had your fight."
Gretta smiled, breathing heavily.
"Yes… good to shake off the rust! Hahaha! I have to challenge that green‑haired brat again!"
Rygar approached, assessing her condition. Then he placed his hand on her shoulder and, with his Chantless Magic, began to heal her.
First, he relocated and regenerated her lost arm. Then, the deeper wounds, including the one on her lower back, began to close.
Meanwhile, Rygar could not help but admire once more the demons' absurd resilience. Gretta had fought nearly to the death, yet now laughed as if she'd taken a strong drink.
As he turned to leave, Gretta called out:
"Hey, Beast God!"
Rygar paused and looked over his shoulder.
Gretta, now more serious, said:
"We all have some secrets. Some more than others. Verdia hides a few… but I'm sure they're for a good reason. So… be patient with her, okay?"
Rygar raised an eyebrow, but the Demon King had already turned her back and disappeared down the castle corridors.
Upon exiting, Rygar found Lisena waiting for him. Her expression was firm, but there was a subtle gleam of admiration in her eyes, which she tried to hide.
"Report," she said, handing him a parchment with the army's latest advances and the tactical objectives for the next phase.
Rygar read it quickly, asked a few questions, and then thanked her with a sincere smile.
"Good work, Lisena."
She nodded, serious, but a faint blush rose to her cheeks before she turned and left.
Rygar looked to the horizon. The frontline was basically decided.
Now, only one thing remained: the final siege of Milishion.
And, after breaching several fortified cities with powerful barriers… he was already forming some ideas on how to take that indestructible city.
-----
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