A lone soldier, bloodied and limping, stumbled through the trees. His breath was ragged, eyes wild with rage and desperation. He had escaped the massacre on the battlefield, but the fury in his heart hadn't left with the retreat.
As he pushed through the brush, he spotted two figures — Rein kneeling beside Sheath, who was still weak from his injuries.
"You..." the soldier growled, raising his weapon. "You're the damn recruits… You're the ones slaughtering my comrades!"
Rein quickly stepped in front of Sheath, shielding him.
"I won't spare you!" the soldier screamed, fury overtaking his reason. "You'll pay for every one of them—Die!"
A gunshot rang out.
Rein jerked back as the bullet pierced his abdomen. His body crumpled to the ground with a gasp of pain, blood quickly soaking through his uniform.
Sheath's eyes widened in horror.
"Rein!" he shouted, scrambling over to him. The soldier raised his weapon again, but before he could fire a second shot, Sheath snatched Rein's fallen pistol and, through gritted teeth and trembling hands, fired.
The bullet struck the soldier in the leg. He screamed and collapsed, writhing in pain.
Sheath didn't even look at him. He dropped the gun and turned back to Rein, his hands shaking as he pressed against the wound.
"Rein! Are you alright? Please—talk to me!" he pleaded, his voice cracking. "Don't do this... don't die on me…"
Rein's breathing was shallow. He managed a faint, pained smile, but his eyes were starting to dim.
"No, no, no..." Sheath's voice broke as tears streamed down his cheeks. "Please… wake up! You protected me... Now it's my turn—just stay with me, alright?!"
The forest, once silent, was now filled with Sheath's desperate cries — cries that echoed louder than the gunfire ever had.
A few tense minutes passed. The sound of hurried footsteps broke the silence as Isame, Kale, and Lira emerged from the forest brush, their eyes scanning frantically—until they saw Rein lying motionless on the ground, Sheath kneeling beside him.
Isame's voice cracked in alarm. "What the—Rein! What happened to him?!"
Sheath looked up, his face pale and stained with tears. "He got shot... He protected me. We need to get him help—fast!"
Lira rushed over and knelt beside them. Her eyes flicked to a soldier writhing nearby, his leg bleeding from a gunshot wound.
"Is that the one who shot him?" she asked, her tone sharp.
Sheath nodded stiffly. "Yeah. He ambushed us… Rein blocked the bullet with his own body."
Lira's expression darkened as realization struck. "I saw him earlier... that same soldier running from the battlefield. I ignored him. I thought he was fleeing." Her voice trembled. "This is my fault. If I had just taken the shot…"
"No time for blame," Kale said quickly, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Let's focus on getting Rein out of here."
With practiced urgency, Isame knelt down and helped Sheath to his feet, supporting his weight as they made their way toward the medics. Lira and Kale lifted Rein carefully between them, doing their best not to jostle him.
They moved as fast as they could through the uneven forest terrain, eventually breaking through the treeline to reach the triage zone. The medics, already swamped with wounded soldiers, immediately rushed over when they saw the state of Rein.
"Set him here—quickly!" one of them ordered.
Rein was placed onto a makeshift bed as medics tore open his uniform, inspecting the wound. Blood soaked his shirt, and his breaths were shallow, but he was alive.
One of the medics leaned in, examining the entry point of the bullet. "He's very badly injured. The bullet missed his intestines by just an inch."
Lira stood nearby, clenching her fists. "Is he going to be okay?"
The medic didn't hesitate. "He'll live, but it's going to take time. He needs rest and close monitoring. Any movement could reopen the wound."
Sheath, standing with Isame's support, let out a breath of relief, though the anxiety in his eyes remained. "He saved me… and I couldn't do anything."
Kale stepped beside him and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You did what you could. He made that choice because you mattered to him. Don't waste it."
Lira, still haunted by guilt, glanced toward the injured soldier who had shot Rein, now tied up and under guard. Her jaw tightened, but she said nothing.
The chaos of war still echoed beyond the treeline, but for a brief moment, amidst blood and sorrow, there was a fragile thread of hope: Rein was alive. And with that, so was their will to keep fighting.
Armin stood on the roof of the central building, his eyes scanning the horizon as the last echoes of gunfire faded into silence. Smoke still curled into the sky from smoldering wreckage, but the battlefield was finally quiet.
"It seems the battle is over," Armin said calmly, though his voice carried the weight of exhaustion.
Kliner stepped up beside him, surveying the aftermath. "And we won," he added with a faint smirk.
Armin nodded. "Now comes the next phase. We'll announce our rule over the country. There's no one left to challenge us—at least not here."
Kliner crossed his arms. "If everything stays on course... we might finally have a chance to destroy that thing."
Armin's expression darkened, his eyes narrowing as if remembering something—or someone. "I'm still waiting for the day I can return to a normal life," he said quietly.
Kliner let out a dry chuckle. "Yeah... me too."
For a moment, they stood in silence, two men who had clawed their way through chaos, bloodshed, and betrayal. They had won the war—but peace still felt like a distant dream. Beneath their victory was a lingering sense of unease, as if the real battle had yet to begin.
The news spread like wildfire across the country. Every television, radio, and newsfeed blared the same shocking announcement: "Armin has seized the capital and declared himself the new ruler of our nation. Is this the start of a revolution? A power struggle? Or something more mysterious—something we do not yet understand?"
The streets buzzed with confusion, fear, and speculation. Citizens gathered in public squares, glued to outdoor screens or listening to crackling radios. In homes and shops, the question was the same: Who is Armin really, and what does he want?
News reporters scrambled to cover the historic development. Microphones were shoved into the faces of civilians in every city.
"This can't be real," said one woman, clutching her child as she watched footage of the burning capital. "We were never told anything. One day it's peace, the next—he takes over?"
An old man shook his head as he was interviewed, his voice shaking with both anger and awe. "This doesn't feel like a coup. It's too fast, too clean. He knew exactly what he was doing."
Others weren't so worried. "Maybe it's time for a change," muttered a younger man. "Our government's been rotting for years. If Armin's strong enough to take the capital, maybe he's strong enough to fix everything."
But while the country argued over Armin's motives, a far more urgent response was forming behind closed doors.
Scattered remnants of the national military—those who had not been at the capital during the siege—were now converging. Across the regions, army camps were hastily reactivated, soldiers recalled from leave, and old alliances rekindled. Communications between the high command flared to life in a frenzy of encrypted messages.
At the center of this resistance stood the country's ministers, the political heads of each constituency. In a rare moment of unity, they declared a nationwide mobilization to reclaim the capital.
Minister Halden of the northern territory stood before his battalion and roared, "We will not be ruled by a tyrant who rises from the shadows! The capital belongs to the people—not to a single man with a god complex."
From the southern deserts to the icy northern frontiers, war banners were raised. Troop transports began to move. Resistance fighters, disbanded long ago, started arming themselves once again. Veterans who had not fought in decades dusted off their rifles.
It wasn't just soldiers responding to Armin's power grab—it was an entire nation waking up to the realization that peace had been shattered.
Inside one of the regional military command centers, maps were being unrolled, plans drawn up, and red pins placed over strategic targets. The generals weren't aiming only to retake the capital—they intended to dismantle Armin's control from the ground up.
"This is not just a mission," one commander said. "This is our country's survival. We don't know who—or what—Armin truly is. But we know this: we cannot let him hold the heart of the nation."
Back in the capital, Armin stood on the balcony of the central building, eyes narrowed as he watched the distant skyline.
"They're coming," Kliner said, stepping beside him.
"I know," Armin replied without emotion. "Let them come. This time, the country will see the truth."
Below, the city was eerily calm. But the storm was brewing. A nation was about to be divided—by loyalty, by fear, and by the unseen forces guiding it all.
Nestled deep within a forest and encircled by rugged mountains stood a secluded military base—one of the last neutral outposts not yet consumed by the chaos erupting across the country. The sun was barely piercing through the thick canopy overhead, casting dappled shadows across the compound. Inside the command tent, tension simmered.
Maps of the country lay sprawled across a large wooden table. Red and blue markers marked the shifting control of regions, while scattered notes and intercepted transmissions painted a picture of a nation teetering on the edge of civil collapse.
General Rowen leaned over the table, his gloved hands pressed firmly against it, his face etched with frustration and weariness. His voice broke the heavy silence.
"These bastards…" he growled, "they're not fighting for the people. They're fighting for their own power, their own pride. All these damn politicians—posturing for control, pretending to be heroes—when deep down, they're as rotten as the system they want to reclaim."
His officers stood in a circle, silent for a moment, digesting his words.
Rowen continued, his voice rising slightly. "They talk about taking back the capital, about restoring order. But if they succeed, they'll turn on each other the next day. Authority breeds greed—and every last one of them wants the throne for themselves."
There was a pause. A female soldier, Lieutenant Cera, stepped forward hesitantly. Her voice was firm, but not defiant.
"Sir, if I may… Maybe it's time we chose a different side. Supporting Armin might be the better option. At least he's not wearing a mask. He's honest about his power."
Another soldier, Private Jerrik, nodded from the side. "She's right. The way I see it, Armin might be doing something none of them ever could—shaking the system to its core. Yeah, he's harsh… but maybe harsh is what this country needs."
A third voice, quieter, more uncertain, joined in. "We still don't know what his real intentions are. What if this is just another dictatorship waiting to unfold? One man's idealism could still become a nightmare."
Lieutenant Cera turned to face him. "And we do know the intentions of the ministers? The same ones who let this country rot from the inside for decades? Who turned a blind eye while corruption festered in every corner? If Armin is a threat, at least he's a new one. Not a recycled lie in a new uniform."
The general said nothing for a moment. He stared at the map in front of him, then slowly raised his head. His voice was quieter now, thoughtful but resolute.
"I've led troops through three wars," he said. "I've seen heroes turn into tyrants. I've watched governments fall and be rebuilt only to fall again. I've buried more good men than I care to remember."
He straightened up and looked each of his soldiers in the eye.
"I don't know what Armin really wants. I don't know if he'll be the savior or the executioner. But I know one thing—if the soldiers marching under those politicians reach the capital, they won't stop at taking it back. They'll cleanse it. Every recruit in Armin's army—young, hopeful, and barely past their youth—will be slaughtered. Not because they deserve it, but because they're seen as traitors."
Cera lowered her gaze, her fists clenched. The others nodded grimly, some with hesitation, others with acceptance.
General Rowen turned away from the table and walked toward the tent flap. As he stared out at the mist-covered mountains, his voice carried back to them.
"We're not just choosing a side—we're choosing a future. I've seen what the so-called leaders will bring if they win. Armin's future may be uncertain, but at least it has a chance. I won't stand by while idealistic kids are butchered to maintain a broken order."
He turned back to face his troops. "We're supporting Armin. No matter what."
There was silence. Then, one by one, the soldiers around the tent began to nod. They weren't cheering, and no orders of "yes, sir" rang out. But there was unity in the quiet—an understanding that a line had been drawn, and they had chosen which side of it to stand on.
Private Jerrik picked up his rifle and slung it over his shoulder. "Then I guess it's time we made contact with Armin's forces."
Cera stepped forward beside him. "We'll need a secure channel. I'll set up the relay tower on the ridge."
General Rowen nodded. "And prepare for movement. If this war continues the way I expect… we won't be staying in these mountains for long."
Outside the tent, the forest echoed with the sounds of soldiers preparing. Footsteps on gravel, weapons being cleaned, communication arrays being assembled. The base had come alive—not just with activity, but with a new sense of purpose.
The air was still thick with uncertainty. But the men and women inside that mountain base knew this: they had finally chosen a side not out of politics, but out of conviction. And come what may, they would stand by it.
Armin stood at the edge of the ruined balcony, overlooking the once-proud capital now scarred by conflict. The wind tugged at his coat as he turned to Kliner and said, "These factions will be brought down by their own people. Not by force, but by truth."
Kliner folded his arms, skeptical. "That's only if the people believe we're doing the right thing."
"They already know what the old regime stood for," Armin replied calmly. "Corruption, greed, false promises. The politicians have lost the trust of the people—no matter how loud they shout for loyalty."
He paused, watching a group of young recruits in the courtyard below, helping wounded civilians and salvaging supplies.
"We didn't recruit children for war. They came because they still believe in something better. And the others—their parents, their brothers and sisters—they'll come too. Not to fight for us, but to save them."
Kliner nodded slowly, the doubt in his eyes fading just a bit. "So we're not just building an army. We're building a reason to fight."
Armin looked back over the horizon. "Exactly. And no politician can kill that."
The man leading the charge to reclaim the nation's capital was General Lenso—a hardened veteran known for his ruthless discipline and fiery speeches. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting an orange glow over the military encampment nestled among the hills, Lenso stood before his gathered troops.
"We're just a few miles from our capital!" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the valley. "Tonight, we rest. Tomorrow—we conquer!"
A roar of approval erupted from the soldiers. "Yeah!!"
With the camp settling into an uneasy calm, Lenso stepped into his tent, the flap falling shut behind him. The flicker of a lantern cast long shadows on the canvas walls. Alone now, his expression darkened. His voice dropped to a low, venomous mutter.
"We're coming, Armin... whoever the hell you think you are."
He poured a drink with a shaking hand, rage simmering just beneath his skin.
"You took our capital. Paraded your victory like a hero. But all you've done is expose yourself."
Lenso stared into the flame of the lantern, voice tightening with cruelty.
"We'll storm your walls, cut down your men—those pathetic child soldiers you hide behind—and when we find you…"
He gritted his teeth.
"I'll make sure your death is slow, painful, and public. I'll rip your name from the pages of history. And when the dust settles, I'll be the one standing over this country—its rightful leader."
He raised his glass in a bitter toast to the empty tent.
"Tomorrow, Armin… is your last day."
General Rowen stood atop a crate in the center of the encampment, his voice rising above the crackle of campfires and murmurs of tired soldiers. "Tomorrow, we march to the capital. Prepare for battle. Rally with the rest of our forces. Get the airships in the sky and the weapons loaded. We fight not just for land—but for our future. For our people!"
A thunderous roar of agreement erupted through the camp, but beneath the surface, some doubts remained.
One soldier stepped forward hesitantly. "General… the army we're up against has larger numbers. How do we stand a chance?"
Before Rowen could answer, Cera, one of his trusted lieutenants, chimed in. "They may outnumber us, but their tech is outdated. They rely on numbers—we rely on precision. We have advanced airships, tactical weapons, and trained minds. It's not about how many you have, it's how you use them."
Rowen nodded. "Exactly. And that's why I want the bomber aircraft ready at first light."
A ripple of unease passed through the crowd.
Another soldier raised his voice. "Sir, earlier you spoke about how their army is filled with young recruits—some of them hardly older than children. Aren't we killing our own people by siding with Armin?"
Rowen's expression hardened, but there was a glint of empathy in his eyes. "Listen carefully. We are not fighting for corrupt politicians who hide behind walls and send others to die for their greed. Those men—those cowards—have poisoned this country long enough. Armin stood up. He brought change, and he didn't do it with greed. He did it with courage. He united the forgotten."
The camp grew quiet as his words sank in.
"Yes, there are young fighters on both sides," Rowen continued, "but many of them joined Armin because they saw truth in his cause. We're not here to slaughter them. We're here to break the illusion that those old leaders still hold power. That's what the bombers are for. Not to destroy our own—but to show strength. To shake the ground and rattle the confidence of those who would still stand with the rotting core of this country."
He paused, letting the silence linger.
"If we can scare them enough—make them question their orders—some might turn. Surrender. Even join us. That is how we win. Not through bloodshed, but by collapsing their morale from within."
Another soldier spoke up, voice tinged with uncertainty. "You really believe Armin's the answer? That he's not just another power-hungry rebel?"
Rowen met his gaze with absolute conviction. "I've seen enough men rise and fall to know the difference between a tyrant and a leader. Armin doesn't want a throne—he wants a nation that doesn't eat its own. I'd rather fight beside him than under a flag waved by liars."
Cera added, "We've made our choice. Now let's make it count."
Rowen raised his fist. "We move at dawn. For the people. For the future. For a nation worth believing in!"
The soldiers roared again—but this time, it was different. It was no longer just obedience—it was belief.
The night passed in tense silence, and with the first light of dawn, preparations for the looming clash began. Both sides moved swiftly, aware that the hours ahead would decide the fate of the nation.
The army loyal to the old political regime appeared strong on the surface—uniformed, organized, and confident. They marched in tight formations, their morale seemingly high. Tanks rolled alongside them, carts carried ammunition and supplies, and every soldier was armed and ready. But beneath their polished exterior was uncertainty. They believed in orders, not in purpose. And once they laid eyes on their true opponents, that illusion of strength would begin to crack.
Unlike them, General Rowen's forces were forged in real battles. They were hardened, not by drills, but by fire and survival. Veterans of countless skirmishes, they didn't just follow commands—they understood the cause. These soldiers weren't fighting to defend failing politicians. They were fighting for change. For a future that Armin promised. And they believed in it.
Rowen's troops had another key advantage—equipment. While the enemy was forced to march across rugged terrain to reach the capital, wasting precious energy and time, Rowen's men were already in position. They had airships hovering above, ready to strike. Their bombers were prepped, loaded with payloads designed not just to destroy but to demoralize. Their rifles were newer, their communication faster, their tactics sharper.
The difference was clear: one side relied on numbers and tradition. The other, on precision, experience, and conviction.
As the sun climbed higher and the capital city shimmered in the distance, both armies braced for war. But only one side was truly ready to fight.
And only one side knew exactly what they were fighting for.
The sun had barely risen when the army loyal to the politicians began their march toward the capital. Their boots hit the ground with practiced rhythm, and the rumble of tank carts echoed through the dense terrain. From a distance, they looked like a formidable force—organized, well-supplied, and focused. But appearances were deceiving.
Their chosen path to the capital was a miscalculation. The route cut directly through a dense, untamed forest—hostile territory filled with wild animals and difficult terrain. Tall trees blocked visibility, tangled underbrush slowed their movement, and the constant threat of ambush or animal attacks added tension to every step. Progress was painfully slow.
To make matters worse, they carried heavy weapons and equipment on foot. Limited resources only added to their burden. Water supplies were running low, food was rationed tightly, and they had only a finite amount of ammunition. Any delay, any misstep, could prove fatal. And as the heat of the day built, exhaustion crept in. Morale was already beginning to waver.
Meanwhile, General Rowen's forces were moving with urgency—but also with purpose. High above the ground, his soldiers boarded airships with calm efficiency. The decks buzzed with activity as engines roared to life and weapons were secured.
Rowen stood at the front of his lead ship, eyes fixed on the distant horizon. "We need to move fast," he said firmly to his officers. "We're still far from the capital, and even with aircraft, we can't afford to be late. Every second matters. No time wasted."
The airships rose into the sky like steel hawks, slicing through the air toward their destination. Unlike the foot soldiers of the politician-led army, Rowen's forces didn't need to fight the land. They flew above it, bypassing forests, rivers, and threats on the ground. Their weapons were advanced, their strategy sharp, and their purpose clear.
Rowen's army wasn't just better equipped—they were smarter. While the opposition struggled through the wilderness with dwindling supplies and flagging spirits, Rowen's men were conserving energy, coordinating in the skies, and preparing for a precision strike when the moment was right.
Two armies were headed for the same city. One trudged through mud and fear. The other soared with fire and resolve.
The difference between them wouldn't just be who got there first—it would be who was ready to win.
The army loyal to the politicians finally reached the outskirts of the capital, weapons ready and spirits high, unaware of the storm waiting for them. They marched forward, confident in their numbers—but blind to the forces preparing to stop them.
At the top of the central building, Armin stood alongside Maverick and Kliner, the three of them quietly sipping their coffee as the sun rose over the city.
Armin set his cup down, his eyes narrowing. "They've arrived," he said calmly.
Kliner gave a half-smile. "So, the guests are here."
Maverick didn't even look up. "They've come all this way just to lose."
None of them flinched. There was no rush, no panic—only the quiet certainty of men who had already seen the outcome. As the enemy drew closer, they finished their coffee, still calm, still in control. The real battle hadn't begun, but the tide was already decided.
A pilot approached General Rowen with concern. "Sir, one of our airships is showing signs of engine trouble. There's a chance it might crash."
Rowen remained calm, his gaze steady. "It's just a chance," he said. "If it goes down, we'll deal with it then."
The pilot nodded. "Understood, sir," he replied, before relaying the message to the crew of the affected airship.
Despite the potential risk, the mission pressed on. There was no room for hesitation—not now.