Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!
The sharp clash of chains rang out, sending a trail of sparks flashing across the night sky.
The young goddess, cloaked in black and wielding a sickle, met the incoming Chains of Heaven head-on. With swift, seamless motions, she spun the undying divine weapon in tight arcs, knocking aside the venomous fangs lunging from the darkness.
Having suffered from carelessness before, Ana now held nothing back. Wary of the chains' master, she unleashed her full power at the onset.
Her Mystic Eyes of Petrification gleamed brightly in the night, weakening the magical tide stirred by the Chains of Heaven and tracking the sharp, conical tips with precision.
The "Goddess's Core" roared to life. Elegant divine patterns surged around Ana, and with the power of "Monstrous Strength," arcs of terrifying violet-red light blasted the Chains of Heaven away again and again.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Silver chains lashed the air. Everything in their path—brick, stone, even reinforced Magecraft arrays—was reduced to ruin.
Like lightning, Ana's petite violet-red figure zipped through the sky, flinging arcs of light that sliced apart the approaching Wyverns mid-flight, dismembering them with such ferocity it made hearts race.
Roaring torrents of Mana surged violently. The shockwaves of battle shattered the high walls of Babylonia, fortified again and again with Magecraft, sending dirt and stone flying in all directions.
The hurled debris crashed into the round shields raised by two ranks of Uruk soldiers, producing a deep, metallic thrum. The sheer impact left their arms numb and their hearts pounding.
Before the troops could recover, tremors rumbled from the wasteland beyond the wall—like a mountain collapsing or a tsunami surging.
Those Uruk warriors gifted with night vision saw it first: columns of smoke shooting into the sky, and an endless tide of Magical Beasts swarming toward the northern wall.
To make matters worse, the Blue Dragon Bašmu, which had been circling above, was now plummeting fast, determined to exact vengeance on the humans who had wounded it.
The immense pressure and spreading dragon aura gripped the Uruk warriors with dread—their hearts tightened, and their insides churned.
Bang!
A storm of shattered stone erupted as the mighty Blue Dragon Bašmu, after a thunderous charge of dozens of meters, was forcibly stopped—by a single man with a shield.
Leonidas took the blow head-on. A shard of rock had torn a bloody gash across his forehead, and his vision was blurred by the blood. Every muscle in his body trembled violently, and his heels had already slipped to the edge of the wall.
Just one more step back—one misstep—and he would fall. The Uruk soldiers watching from the corners of their eyes all felt their hearts skip a beat.
Yet Leonidas, far weaker than the Great Dragon, planted his foot forward with the force of a dying warrior's last stand and bellowed with all his might.
"I am the blood of Zeus!"
His roar stirred the air like distant thunder, scattering the oppressive dragon aura.
"I am the descendant of Heracles!"
Screeeech!
The dragon's four massive claws scraped across the wall, emitting a harsh, grinding sound as its gigantic body was pushed back—impossibly.
"I am Sparta!"
Blazing flames erupted. From behind Leonidas, towering phantom warriors emerged—each gripping a round shield, bent low with spears and short swords in hand. They joined their comrades in a tight phalanx, driving their weapons with mechanical precision into the dragon's scales, targeting the weak points without mercy.
The dragon's scales split apart, blood spraying in all directions. Enraged, the once-dominant creature thrashed its wings wildly.
Amidst the ground-shaking tremors, one by one, the spectral figures shattered into light and faded.
Still, they charged fearlessly into death—intent on biting into the beast, tearing off its flesh, ripping away its scales.
Heroic Spirits are shining stars of humanity, beacons from past and future who blaze eternally.
The feats of these transcendent heroes are not easily erased by time.
Thus, in the summoning ritual to reinforce spirits, their deeds and legends can be elevated into a special power—what is known as a "Noble Phantasm."
Leonidas is naturally linked to one of the most iconic battles in Greek history—the Battle of Thermopylae.
Back then, during the Persian Emperor Xerxes I's invasion of Greece, Leonidas led three hundred Spartans to hold the narrow pass of Thermopylae for two days and two nights, fending off wave after wave of assaults from an army of half a million.
In the end, Leonidas and his three hundred comrades all perished, but not before taking twenty thousand Persian lives with them.
The time they bought through their sacrifice gave the Greek city-states a chance to unite and mobilize their forces, creating the breathing room necessary to turn the tide—and ultimately, secure the survival of the Greek world.
It's no exaggeration to say that this Spartan king, bearing the blood of the God King, shaped the course of history through sheer willpower and valor.
Though the phantoms before them were born from the sublimation of concepts, in Leonidas' heart, they were his ideal Spartan warriors—an unbreakable shield guarding the homeland.
As long as the will of the Spartan King endured, this indomitable iron phalanx could not be shaken.
So, with their surging power, the Guardians of Thermopylae kept the mighty dragon on the defensive.
And seeing these towering figures, so steadfast and resolute, the Uruk soldiers—who had frozen in place moments earlier—felt their resolve shaken and were overcome with shame.
"Roar!"
As more wounds opened, blood spilled from the cracks between Bašmu's scales. A dragon's roar, laced with rage and fear, thundered through the air.
Unable to break free from the relentless assault, the Blue Dragon Bašmu snarled in frustration, turning away and crawling toward the outer edge of the Babylonian wall.
"Roar! Roar!"
At that moment, furious howls echoed from the darkness above. Hundreds of twisted shadows plummeted from the sky.
They were Three-Horned Lion-Dragons—winged like evil dragons, lion-headed, each bearing three sharp bone spikes. The Ušumgallu descended in swarms, diving toward Leonidas and the now-scattered Spartan formation.
Clearly, these monstrous beasts had come to relieve the pressure on Bašmu, using sheer numbers to punch through the defenses of Uruk.
Bang! Bang!
"Sparta!"
Just as the tension reached its peak, two sharp shield-bangs rang out—and with them, a cry of war, both familiar and distant, erupted beside the ears of the Uruk soldiers.
"Splurt!"
In a flash, a figure sprinted forward, raised a round shield, and hurled a spear with all his might. The weapon pierced through a Ušumgallu's neck, dragging its massive body several meters before pinning it firmly to the ground.
Boom!
That spear strike cut through the haze like a bolt of thunder, snapping the Uruk soldiers out of their daze. Faced with these terrifying foes, they had faltered—until now.
Bang! Bang!
"Sparta!"
Bang! Bang!
"Sparta!"
Memories of grueling, repetitive training—the drills, the sparring—flooded their minds. That strange sense of familiarity lit a fire in their limbs, and their frozen bodies came alive once more.
As one, they raised their weapons and pounded their shields. They regrouped swiftly, surrounding and isolating the Magical Beasts climbing the walls, and drove their weapons forward with precise, practiced movements.
...
(40 Chapters Ahead)
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