The Holy Empire of Athenea expected a swift victory.
A backwater town. A handful of overconfident mercenaries. An artifact that belonged to them by right.
They believed Border Town would be a memory—its people forgiven, or burned.
Instead, they found themselves in a storm of fire, steel, and unrelenting madness.
From the top floor of the mansion, Anna sipped her tea.
Her crimson eyes glowed faintly as she peered into a hovering Magic Eye—a scrying orb pulsing with battlefield images. Through it, she saw knights fall, fire explode, formations collapse.
She didn't gloat. She didn't smile.
But she worked.
Silently.
An invisible glyph appeared in the air—her finger twitching with a tiny, dismissive motion. A divine magic barrier below flickered and collapsed mid-cast. A holy bolt meant for the city gate veered slightly and detonated harmlessly into the dirt.
Another motion. A squad of Athenean war-mages suddenly found their boots fused to the cobblestones by enchanted frost.
And all the while, no one knew she was there.
No name. No face. Just silent interference from the shadows.
Down in the chaos, the Mercenaries of Mayhem were running the show.
Bob led the frontline like a walking wall of steel and anger. Divine spears slammed against his shield, lighting up the street in holy flame—and he didn't budge.
"YOU WANT THIS GATE? COME GET IT!" he roared, pushing back an entire line of knights with one massive charge.
A priest cast a binding chain at him. Bob caught it with his bare hand and snapped it like twine.
"Do you think Bob's… immortal?" one guard asked.
"They say he eats rocks for breakfast," the other replied.
Derek was a blur of motion, carving through the Empire's holy vanguard like they were training dummies.
He moved too fast for knights in plate, his strikes too sharp for shields blessed by prayers. Wherever he appeared, bodies fell, cleanly cut, perfectly timed.
A golden-armored paladin with years of battle experience lunged for him—Derek sidestepped, disarmed, and disarmed him again, this time at the elbow.
The man dropped without a sound.
From afar, Captain Volgas watched in grim silence.
He had assumed this swordsman was just another fool.
But he was wrong.
"This one…" he muttered, "is not normal."
Up on the rooftops, Marcus laughed as his crossbow clicked and sparked.
"I CALL THIS THE NIGHTFANG!"
He fired a bolt that ricocheted off a sign, clipped a knight's helmet, bounced off a barrel, and hit an apple cart.
"…Not my best work," he admitted.
Still, his cover fire kept clerics ducking. Which is exactly what Bam needed.
And Bam—was a one-man cataclysm.
Fueled by Anna's mysterious mana potion, his flames were no longer wild—they were surgical. Controlled. Terrifying.
A wall of advancing knights lit up in a perfect row, their shields glowing red before melting apart.
Bam twirled and snapped his fingers—fire rained down like arrows.
A priest screamed. "WHO THE HELL IS THIS GUY?!"
Bam just grinned. "Divinely inconvenient."
At the edge of the battlefield, Captain Volgas narrowed his eyes.
Something was wrong.
His knights were skilled. His mages disciplined. His strategy perfect.
And yet—
Their spells misfired.
Their movements faltered.
Their formations collapsed at the worst moments.
And no source could be seen.
"Someone is interfering," he growled.
His mage-commander shook his head. "No enemy mage is visible. No trace of casting. It's like the battlefield itself is… shifting against us."
Volgas clenched his jaw.
There's someone else at work. But where?
He scanned the horizon. Nothing.
Not the gates. Not the rooftops. Not the towers.
But still… someone was out there, pulling threads, tipping scales.
His gaze flicked once, briefly, toward the distant hill where a lone mansion stood above the town.
Then he looked away.
Too quiet. Too far. Unimportant.
Anna sipped her tea again.
The orb dimmed. Her next spell was ready.
She hadn't moved from her chair all evening.