The sky had blackened with the residue of magic and ash, thunder cracking through clouds as if the heavens themselves protested the war. Screams and steel danced together in a harrowing symphony as the battlefield between Lumisgrave and Eshalorn ignited into its most brutal chapter.
King Mamba, watching from a ridge flanked by his elite battalion, gave a single sharp nod.
"Release them."
His commander saluted with a clenched fist across the chest and turned. A horn blew—shrill, reverberating across the war-ravaged land.
Then came the real Magic Knights.
They descended like a storm. Clad in obsidian armor laced with arcane sigils, their very auras distorted the air. Each of them held within their grasp not one but multiple spirit fragments—fiery, icy, shadowy, and wind-born—twisting around their limbs, amplifying their power tenfold.
Arrows of spirit-fire rained from behind them, exploding mid-air with shrieking wails, as if the spirits themselves screamed. Walls of soil erupted, raised by earth-based spirits to block incoming attacks. The soundscape was maddening: whirring wind, groaning spirits, metal shearing against bone.
Among the defenders of Lumisgrave, panic surged. Even a Zenith-ranked warrior staggered backward, a massive gash across her shoulder dripping with golden blood. A Mythic stumbled beside her, clutching his side as the shadow of a Magic Knight loomed over him.
King Farhan's eyes widened for a heartbeat from his elevated position atop the rear command rock.
"They brought the true ones... The sealed ones..."
His voice was hoarse, eyes filled with rage and regret. Still, he refused to step back.
At that moment, Kar'Thael's voice crawled into Arslan's mind.
"This is the moment, Arslan. Show them what fear means. Release your new techniques: Dread Spike Guard, Trinex Surge, Split Pulse, and the Volthren."
Arslan's eyes snapped open amidst the chaos, his body cloaked in his dark aura. Around him, shadows flickered unnaturally, as if alive and eager.
He stepped forward into the frenzy.
A Magic Knight with a glowing hammer and two wind spirits came charging.
"You die today!" the knight bellowed.
Arslan raised his hand.
"Dread Spike Guard."
An orb of swirling black energy formed instantly around him. It shot out jagged dark spikes in all directions—skewering three knights in a flash. The hammer bounced harmlessly off the dark shield, shattering into smoke.
Before the knight could even comprehend what had happened, Arslan was behind him.
"Trinex Surge."
Three rotating vortexes—one of dark energy, one of spectral flame, and one pure force—rushed from his arms like living serpents, crashing into enemy lines. Thirteen Magic Knights were launched back like leaves in a storm.
Another wave surged forward.
Arslan lowered his stance, his hand sweeping across his chest.
"Split Pulse."
He split into three shadow clones, each mirroring his abilities. They darted across the field like assassins, slicing through the Magic Knights' flanks. The clones fought independently, even countering complex spirit combinations. Within minutes, they took down another five.
On a distant ridge, King Mamba clenched his fists.
"Who is that... boy?"
A messenger beside him replied, shaken, "He's one of their Mythics. Name... Arslan."
"Impossible," Mamba hissed. "No one below Zenith should possess that kind of control."
Meanwhile, Arslan exhaled, sweat trickling down his cheek. Kar'Thael's final words for now rang out like a war drum.
*"Finish them. VOLTHREN."
Arslan slammed both palms into the ground.
Dark flames spread in a vast circle like crawling roots. Then the earth itself seemed to rupture.
A massive infernal structure—a spiked, black cage infused with soul-energy—rose from the cracked earth. Any Magic Knight inside its radius was crushed by gravitational force and screaming spirits.
Thirteen lay motionless.
The battlefield slowed in disbelief.
From the other side, Kaelen of Obreth emerged, the Zenith whose legend traveled even beyond Lumisgrave. His golden armor was etched with ancient glyphs, his two blades spinning like silver hurricanes.
He was a storm unto himself—graceful yet deadly. He teleported from point to point, each strike disabling another enemy. Twin spirits danced behind him: one of pure light, one of molten crystal.
He parried an incoming strike, flipped in the air, and slammed both swords down. The ground split and sent a ripple that knocked out six Magic Knights.
Behind him, a group of Alpha and Apex-ranked fighters formed defensive lines. One shouted:
"Kaelen just tore down the Bone Wall in one strike!"
Another gasped, "And Arslan... he just wiped a whole line alone!"
Yet despite the Mythics' and Zeniths' brilliance, the Magic Knights pushed harder.
A sudden surge of darkness spilled across the field. One Magic Knight raised both arms. Shadows from fallen allies coalesced around him.
"We will not die like this!"
The shadows lunged, forming beasts—wolves, serpents, even winged horrors.
Omega warrior Sophia stepped in, conjuring a massive healing ward to protect those behind her. "We must hold!"
King Farhan raised his sword, its edge now shining brighter than any sun.
"This is not the end of Lumisgrave! Strike back! Push!"
And so the field became a living furnace of light, shadow, and steel.
Each clang of a blade was history rewritten. Each drop of blood was memory forged. And in the eye of this storm stood Arslan—haunted, burning, and ready.
Because the real war... had only just begun.