Two days had passed since the Beast King declared war.
The news spread like wildfire, carried by messengers, birds, and frightened whispers. The borders were sealed, scouts recalled, and soldiers summoned.
Now, in the hills between the Holy Empire and the Beastfolk Kingdom, the first true battle was about to begin.
It started in a place called Lornridge Crossing—a once-neutral valley where merchants used to pass, now abandoned, its fields empty, save for two gathering storms.
On the eastern side, hundreds of Beastfolk warriors waited in formation. Wolves, lions, tigers, bears—the strongest warriors from the clans stood armed, their eyes burning with grief and fury. They wore armor made of bone, hide, and enchanted steel. On their banners was the broken chain, symbol of vengeance.
At the center stood Fanghart Ironclaw, a towering grey-furred beastman, half-wolf, half-titan. He gripped a black halberd and sniffed the wind. The memory of the missing princess burned in his heart.
"Today, we fight not for conquest," he growled. "But to remind the world—we are not their slaves."
The army roared behind him.
Across the valley, the Holy Empire responded.
Marching with eerie synchronization, lines of knights clad in white and gold armor arrived, shields gleaming beneath the afternoon sun. At the front marched the Second Legion of the Church, known as The Blinding Light.
Their commander, Sir Caldras of the Flame, rode a white steed, his silver armor shaped like wings. Behind him stood a group of robed priests, hands aglow with holy energy. The banners of the Church flew high, marked with the flaming sun.
"Stand firm," Caldras called to his men. "Do not let their rage cloud your faith. Today, we do not kill monsters—we cleanse them."
As if the valley held its breath, both sides paused.
Then, the horn of the beastfolk sounded.
They charged like an avalanche.
The ground trembled beneath their feet. Spears lowered, claws extended, magic surged. The air was filled with battle cries, howls, and thunderous stomps.
The Holy Empire stood their ground.
When the two forces met, steel clashed with fang, shield slammed into fur, and magic lit the skies in blinding bursts. A wave of light exploded from the priests, pushing back the first wave. Beastmen flew into the air, only to rise again in rage.
Fanghart carved through a dozen knights with sweeping blows. A lion warrior tore through a mounted paladin and roared in triumph. The beasts fought with fury born of mourning.
But the Church responded in kind.
Sir Caldras moved like a dancing flame. His sword glowed with divine judgment, each swing cutting through thick hide and enchanted bone. Behind him, Saintess Myria stood at the rear lines, her magic healing soldiers faster than the enemy could wound them.
Above the battlefield, a magical barrier shimmered, raised by the holy choir—meant to suppress dark powers. And yet, the beastfolk were not necromancers.
They were rage given form.
Far from the chaos, hidden in the forest that bordered the valley, Ivan sat atop a tree branch, his dark robes hidden beneath a dull brown cloak.
They didn't speak.
They watched.
Ivan's eyes didn't blink as he saw fire engulf a bear-warrior and lightning strike a group of chanting priests.
"The balance is breaking," he murmured.
"Those Church elites..." he whispered. "That woman—her healing magic... I've never seen anything like it."
Ivan added "She's not ordinary. She's likely protected by something greater. The Pope may be keeping his cards close."
Below, another explosion shook the earth.
Kahl narrowed her eyes. "My kind are holding for now... but they can't win like this. Too much power. Too many priests."
"They weren't meant to win this battle," Ivan said calmly.
Reeva frowned. "Then why fight?"
"To send a message," he said, leaning back. "The world must see that the beastfolk aren't weak... even if they die proving it."
Kahl glanced at him. "You seem to understand war too well for someone claiming to be a loner."
Ivan simply smirked and said nothing.
Hours passed.
As dusk settled, both sides were bloodied. Neither had gained ground. The priests had been pushed back slightly, but at the cost of hundreds of beastfolk lives. The valley was littered with corpses, weapons, and broken banners.
The battle ended not with a final blow, but with a retreat.
Sir Caldras raised his hand.
"Fall back!" he commanded. "Regroup! Tend to the wounded!"
Fanghart growled but did not pursue. His warriors pulled back with him. They had made their point.
From a distance, Ivan stood as the sun dipped behind the mountains, casting long shadows over the battlefield.
He looked down at the carnage—both sides had lost something here.
He took out a small crystal orb and whispered a recording spell. "Lornridge Crossing. Day two. Casualties are heavy. But both sides are strong. The real monsters haven't appeared yet."
He put the book away and turned toward the deeper forest.
"I am nearing the end of the story. But this is just the beginning."