Two days after the third battlefield burned, the air over the Holy Empire's western border reeked of ash and boiling blood. The flames hadn't stopped burning, fed by oil traps the beastfolk left behind before retreating into the dense forest. What was once farmland had turned into scorched wasteland.
The humans called it a setback.
The beastfolk called it a warning.
And Ivan, ever the watcher, simply noted it down.
He moved with his hood raised, walking slowly through the smoking ruins of the last camp. With him was no one—only his own silent thoughts and the boy that is sleeping in the tree.
He crouched down next to a broken standard of the Church. The golden cross was shattered in half. A clear statement.
Still warm, he thought. They didn't even bother to collect the bodies.
The silence was broken by a slow clapping.
From behind a blackened tree, a figure emerged—a young man dressed in tattered beastfolk robes, eyes sharp, fur red like fire.
"Ivan, the S-rank human who helps beasts and watches death like it's a play in a stage" the boy said, stopping a few steps away.
Ivan didn't rise. "You've been following me."
"Observing. Same as you," the beastboy grinned. "Name's Varkas. My father was one of the fallen commanders at the First Clash. They call me his leftover rage."
"I've heard your name."
"Then you should know I don't like humans," Varkas said coldly.
"I'm not here to be liked," Ivan said as he finally stood, brushing dust from his cloak. "I'm here because what's coming next… no one's ready for it."
Varkas narrowed his eyes. "The Pope's planning something?"
Ivan only tilted his head slightly.
And that was enough.
Far away, in the sacred halls of the Holy Spire, the Pope of Light stood atop the highest balcony. His robe shimmered with magic symbols, the runes glowing faintly as holy energy surged through him. Before him knelt the Ten Inquisitors—his most secret, most loyal force.
"Beasts wage war with muscle and rage," the Pope said calmly. "But faith is a fire. And fire burns everything."
One inquisitor looked up. "What are your orders, Your Holiness?"
"Cleanse their sacred grounds," the Pope whispered. "Their temples. Their spirit wells. Their gods. I want them erased. When they fall to their knees, they must find only silence."
The Inquisitors bowed in unison. "As you command."
"And begin the Purging. Not just warriors. Every den, every hidden village that refused the Holy Oath—burn them all. No beasts shall remain who deny our Light."
Meanwhile, in the Beastfolk capital, the King sat quietly on his throne. His body was adorned in armor now, no longer just ceremonial. He was no longer just a king. He was a warlord.
His generals stood in a half-circle around him, their faces grim.
"The flames spread too quickly. The humans bring phoenix powder now, not just steel," one growled.
"Three villages near the border are gone," another reported. "Only bones remain."
The King's claws dug into the throne. "And the Pope still claims peace?"
An old shaman stepped forward, his eyes milky with age. "I felt the silence in the spirit wind last night. Our ancestors are screaming. The sacred groves—they've been desecrated."
The King stood.
"I will not kneel," he said.
And every beast in the room dropped to one knee in response.
Back in the wilds, Ivan and Varkas sat at a small fire in silence. Night had fallen, and the trees whispered.
"You still didn't tell me what you're really doing here," Varkas said, staring into the flame.
Ivan poked the fire with a stick. "When two gods fight, mortals die. I'm just making sure I don't die first."
"You talk like you know the ending already."
"I don't," Ivan said, glancing up at the stars. "But I know the players."
"And?"
"They're not just warriors," Ivan muttered. "Some are monsters dressed as saints. And some are saints who've turned into monsters."
Varkas looked at him, truly looked at him.
"Who are you really?"
Ivan smiled faintly, but didn't answer.
Instead, he pulled out a map—one marked with red circles, black Xs, and strange symbols only he knew. He placed a finger on a distant spot in the middle of the continent.
"This," he said. "This is where the real war begins."
"What's there?"
"An ancient ruin the Church sealed a century ago. A vault buried beneath it, filled with forbidden knowledge. Artifacts. Spells they swore to destroy but kept instead."
Varkas blinked. "And you want to get it?"
"No," Ivan said, standing. "I want to make sure no one else does."
At dawn, the Holy Church launched another surprise raid.
Not on a military camp—but a beastfolk orphanage hidden deep in the northern valleys.
The walls were made of bark and stone. Children barely old enough to stand clung to their caretakers. They never stood a chance.
The Inquisitors wore black armor beneath white cloaks, faces hidden behind masks of saints. Their blades glowed with divine enchantments.
"No witnesses," the leader ordered.
They didn't kill the children. Not at first.
They branded them—symbols of the Church burned onto their flesh. Then they took them away.
To be "cleansed."
News spread like wildfire through the beastfolk lands.
And the rage returned.
That night, Ivan met with his contact.
A Kahl stepped into the glade, silent as wind.
"You saw it?" Ivan asked.
She nodded. "They didn't even hesitate."
Ivan took a deep breath.
"Then we move to Phase Two."
She paused. "Even if it makes you a traitor to all kingdoms?"
Ivan looked back at the burning horizon.
"I was never even a man of the kingdom."