"Woah… Brother's spells are really flashy, aren't they? …I'm kind of envious."
The crashing sound of consecutive explosions rang the tale of that side of the battlefield. And if not, the gigantic mushroom cloud that emerged due East of the holy barrier, surely would. It sent oscillating waves of pressure through every corner of the land— to both ally and foe alike.
A declaration, and an indication, relaying the time frame of their mission— the signal for the beginning of the second phase of their ploy.
"…If only he's that prim all the time, I'd have a lot less trouble." Gill comments with a slight exasperation.
"Keep your eyes upfront, Gill." Silk warned her, gaze locked forward.
Lying in wait before them was a solitary girl.
Her azure hair drooped down to her shoulders, back slouched, quiet like an unstirred calamity. Her frame, petite and almost ghostly.
She wore an ornate dress— its design unmistakably that of the eastern regions. Though time had rendered it rugged and torn, its delicate hems failing to reach her wrists, it remained authentic to its roots. The silky fabric, dyed in the hues of the sky, had faded to a muted shade— its back stained deep with blood.
The air around her felt wrong— not quite spine-chilling, but still mysteriously… incorrect.
The twins jolted in instinctive caution, unsettled by her sickly white skin, wary of her every motion. There was something deeply unnatural about her unassuming, yet hollow presence— not simply lifeless, but disturbingly off. A feeling worse than facing an undead.
A specter bearing an unnatural aura of invulnerability, not born of power, but of her composition that is not quite like the other four.
She didn't move— didn't shift.
Her shadow was firmly planted, arms hanging like dead branches beside her. She displayed no intent to move… that they thought, until her foot stepped forward.
She was made to walk, shifting into a dashing sprint as shards of ice formed in her palms.
She stretched her arm out, firing them at Gill, who evaded them without much effort. The girl followed up with a quick step, propelling her forward like a leopard on hunt— right up to Gill's face where ice daggers hovered inches before her eyes.
But the silver girl remained unfazed, unbothered. Smiling even.
Then, the girl noticed.
It barely peeked over Gill's shoulders— a glowing orb cackling with restrained energy. Silk's staff, coiled with long strips of arcane scripts— it unleashed a flash of lightning that fried the air itself.
Should she not have backed away in time, she would have been the one melted her to a mush.
"Geh… You can dodge that? Guess you haven't lost the qualities demanded of your title." Gill sarcastically remarked, clasping her hands.
"Keep that up for a bit longer, won't you? I beckon you… Your Highness."
Startled, the girl waited— observing.
Deciding that thoughtlessly plunging in is dangerous, she simply maintained her stance, preparing for an opportune moment.
"That's… aggravating." Silk comments. Fingers coiled tightly around the stalk of her staff.
"I was hoping that would end it."
In but a single clash, the dynamic of the battle was clearly established. The twins realized the caliber of their opponent. She was nimble, her movements wasteless, her use of magic and the way she fluidly integrates it to her melee combat was simply masterful.
If they are to achieve victory, they have to be a tad more serious.
"[Latior Visus]. [Titanis Prehensus]. [Acceleratio]. [Umbrae Gressus]. [Furor Berserkir]. [Aquilae Apprehensio]. [Minuere Exhaurire]. [Linea Agilis]. [Ultor Deflexio]. [Velum Phantasmatis]. [Pes Leporis]. [Serpentis Cursus]…"
A barrage of incantation.
Gill took a deep sigh, her piercing eyes narrowed as she let her body's tension loose— her senses heightened.
"[Unguis Pantherae]!!!"
The moment Gill finished her routine, a surge of blazing purple erupted from her core, weaving through every vertex of her silhouette— glowing like a star endowed by the midnight aurora. Her skin was tanned to a fiery bronze, heat radiating from her as the toll of her multi-chanting stacked atop each one.
Her daggers gleamed in a wrathful red tone like the twin blades of Olympus as she unsheathed their edges. Her stance was low, cautious, and feral— like a panther preparing to strike.
"By the God of Thunder, let his wrath be unleashed. Son of the Allfather, the last king of the golden palace." Silk began her chant.
"Rise again, claim your throne, and smash their wretched souls with thy mighty hammer!"
With a graceful leap, she ascended high into the heavens, out of the reach of their opponent's assault. She spun her staff with ominous grace, a trail of misty cyan following its motion. Dark spheres of sapphire swirled into existence behind her, each one pulsating with an almost palpable intensity.
They coiled like serpents, the very atmosphere thickened as though realities had just overlapped. And as the orbs multiplied, diverging into a thousand forms, a storm gathered overhead.
"Maximized Annihilation Magic—"
It was no longer a hollow threat— it was an inevitability.
"[Mjolnir]!!!"
+
Western side of the battle.
"3 UNITS! 2F FORMATION!!!" Captain Hoft barked his orders.
"Keep your feet mobile! Don't let em' break through the middle at all cost!"
2F. A military acronym for [Fuck around and Find out]— [Fortified Fortress]. A defensive protocoled formation utilized in situations where the corps is operating against a great disparity in numbers, or against opponents possessing skills transcendent of what any individual of the group can contest— this case, being the latter.
It is a strategic maneuver in which the platoon would form a circular wall of vanguards— quadrilateral, at times— with the ranged fighters attacking from within.
"I would've liked if us Knights handled you five sisters ourselves, but the young master's been spoilin' us rotten, ya see— worrying 'bout my bad back and shit." Hoft nonchalantly struck up a conversation mid-battle. His movements, too agile for someone his size.
"I ain't too keen on bein' dead weight to my Lords. So how 'bout we keep this nice and simple, little misses?"
As soon as it became apparent that the dryads far outmatched them in terms of strength, Hoft rose to the forefront, and anchored the troops' offense— facing the dryads alone with the rest of his troops providing projectile support.
In any other army in the continent, being commanded to stand down is an irreparable dishonor. A blemish in a knight's career that could very well compromise their future opportunities. That shame— that blasphemy, is something that no warrior of noble blood would willingly endure.
However, not in this territory.
Unlike the proud warriors of other regions who are born to noble houses— lower prestige, but nobles nonetheless— Eisenburg's Knight Order is an aberration to the societal caste.
For what it's advertised— being heralded as one of the most formidable forces in a nation that had birthed countless powerful knights, the Zancrest Knights were, to an outsider's surprise, composed predominantly of commoners.
Margarette, the tanned ranger.
Lirin, the scar-faced markswoman.
Gourd, the bloated cleric.
Wambam, the silver-furred scout.
Kartu, Fatu, Vratu— the Ox beastkin vanguards.
And Bob, the demolition expert.
{Author's Note: He's not a builder this time.}
They are only a few of the Zancrest's elites, who bore no colorful background, yet whose names are etched alongside great warmongers.
They are fighters, not aristocrats.
They fought in battles, not politics.
No one among this group of maniacs will hesitate to retreat and fall back, or plunge face-first into the pits of hell should they be ordered to do so. They possess no selfish egos nor the heavy burden of inherited pride. Frustration might have simmered in some— a quiet ache rooted, not from dissatisfaction, but the rotten feeling of being powerless in this very moment.
Just a bad day.
Just a bad match.
Their opportunity will eventually come.
Each one knew that their value in the eyes of their Lord would remain steadfast, regardless of the task at hand. They know they are not disposable pawns, but family to them.
[Anyone could become anything, so long as fate wills it and they work for it.]
That was the Duke's belief— His ideal.
His fundamental lack of prejudice toward lower social communities, this almost spiritual understanding of what it meant to be a warrior— uncomplicated by titles and prestige, was the very bedrock that made the Duke and his territory reach the heights of authority they have come to possess.
{Author's Note: Eisenburg hasn't always been a Dukedom— Louis was the first Duke Zancrest.}
His rule, though imperfect, was not engraved by detached politics, but by a heartfelt connection with the people he served.
He was genuine. He had self-awareness. He was not afraid to listen and take advice. He was humble enough to understand that he understood nothing— not a sense of a clue on how to run his territory. He viewed admitting to his flaws, a virtue, rather than shame.
And in fact, he sought out those who could help him overcome his weaknesses.
Hoft Dass— was one of those who felt compelled to serve such a figure.
Once entrusted with the esteemed position of captain-commander, he willingly relinquished his title— an act born not of weakness, but a conscious choice to personify an unyielding pillar to support an old friend in realizing his ambitious visions.
His loyalty, forged through years of shared struggles and mutual respect, was unbroken.
And now, stood beside this aging hulk in a moment of crucial necessity was an unexpected ally— one whose presence had not been foretold, but one that is a welcome surprise.
"You sure about this, kid?" The captain coyed, briskly swinging his enormous blade as though it weighed less than an apple.
"These two lasses here ain't your run-of-the-mill thugs, just so you know."
"Hilden! Hilden Kraus!" The young man replied with fiery resolve under strained huffs.
"That is my name, Sir!"
His blade— a standard longsword, just with a slightly rougher hilt— clashed against the heavy strikes of the dryads, each one felt like it would take his whole arm with them.
"And, I wouldn't be standing here if I wasn't prepared for the worst!!!"
The display of courage from the boy— though raw and unpolished, was brimming with unrelenting spirit. A pure sight, enough to bring a smile to the elder warrior's weathered face.
It was a rare thing— seeing his younger reflection in the flames of a new cadet.
That untapped potential, an inherent knack for battle, curiosity to learn beyond what he is raised to be, and the cahones to stand firm against the literal embodiment of disaster. It reminded him of the early days, when he, too, had been nothing more than a rash knucklehead.
One that, with guidance, could become a blazing beacon that'll someday, surpass even his prime.
"Louis would love to see this." He thought.
"KAHAHAH! That's the spirit, Hilden!" He laughed heartily, a sound that resonated with the kind of wild joy only battle could bring.
"Now let's give these ladies a real taste of what the Zancrest knights are made of!"
"Roger that!!!"
Back to back, motion intertwined, they fought with unyielding defiance. Hoft, armed with a wild machete twice the size of a boar, and Hilden, ducked in a pre-emptive stance, became the impenetrable wall and the blades of resistance against the divine beast's nimble familiars.
Each blow welcomed with equal ferocity, the clash of steel against sharpened claws reverberated through the battlefield like an orchestral choir singing the symphony of war.
The clash began.
"Esteemed Monarch."
A voice carrying the low, resonant timbre of the oceanic depths drifted a subtle hum through the shadowed chamber like a tide at midnight.
"I have come with… unfortunate news." The figure continued, eyes narrowed, tone whispering frost upon the air.
An emaciated man, draped in dark garments like a phantom in a funeral. Skin gray— inanimate. Dull eyes black as the void sunk in his sickly features, along its contour— black spots like ink splattered on old parchment, glimmering faintly like inactive calderas.
His forehead, lined with stitches and cracks, was adorned with three regal horns curved like a crown of thorns, framing his untamed lilac hair.
"The Third General had gone rogue." He said, disinterest tugged in a lazy grimace.
"The [Sibyl] speaks of a bloody encounter. That mutt will be attempting a revolution in the coming months."
"I… see."
A ghastly whisper. A breeze above a tombstone.
The sound creaked from the direction of the throne. There, resided an entity, chained in tubes and ancient roots coiled like leeches, pulsing crimson ichor into his fractured veins.
His skin was dark, almost like charred firewood, much closer to a rotting husk than the living. His hair, white as snow, cascaded down the floor like endlessly flowing waterbeds, glistening with a dying ambience. His membranous wings, monstrous and imposing, perched on the armrest of his throne like claws of an ancient war.
His face bore beautifully sharp features— wan, wasted, yet elegant— lit only by the dim luminescence bouncing off his splinted halo— horns, scorched, littered with cracks as though it was about to snap to dust.
Transferred soul.
Desecrated vessel.
Fractured essence.
A debt paid in astral vitality. He bore the consequences of the script's tampering— unprecedented, unavoidable. He was once a silhouette of the impurity, transcendent beyond the veils of reality.
Now, a God on death's door— already imprisoned in a coffin before his destined time.
Qss iqos zit— Rqka Gft.
"So the second trial had already begun." He muttered, breath sparse and ashy.
"Monitor his movements. Assemble our legion discretely, and prepare to defend against that child's outburst."
"Are you truly… going to forgive him again?" The messenger asked, voice laced with venom.
"I have told you before. I am aware of his volatility when I welcomed him in our castle." The King stated firmly, voice distant as though reminiscing a forgotten past.
Something… Someone.
"He is ferocity incarnate. It is his nature. That was the reason I desired for him."
Pause. A silent turning of the cogs.
"It will take three times to gain his subservience. Three trials. Three betrayals. Only then will he kneel before my throne."
"And what if he still doesn't?"
Silence, dead and heavy— broken only by the rhythmic hissing of the tubes lodged on the sovereign's spine.
"He will."
The words descended like heaven's verdict— final and absolute. His tone grew lower like the growling of a disturbed eldritch horror.
Slowly, his eyes fluttered open, framed by her silver lashes— blood red, flaring with the radiance of twin suns forged in the hearth of divinity. His gaze crackling with a presence, undeniable, yet obsolete— an existence etched in the very core of the world, yet his name was a taboo made of spite.
The throne rumbled, the pillars shivered in harmony as though the very chamber acknowledged his decree.
"My orders are absolute, Cerberus. My will is the law of this iteration."
He rose a single, clawed finger, veins glowing like molten lava under his rotting flesh.
"Societies will fall. Calamities cycled in a trail of destruction. The stars crumble and birthed anew… But my words remain the truth." uttered the voice of prominence.
"Do only what you are told— Subdue him."
The halls were once again swallowed by an abyss that devoured all sounds, except the slow, uneven beating of his heart— haunting, corrupting, mellowed yet somehow… sentient.
The gaunt phantom bowed deeply, his thin, fading robe unraveling like haze.
"As you command, my King."