The moment the scene reflected on the massive projection screen came into focus, Dwarf King Gazel fell silent.
"…This is beyond reason."
"My liege," the old archwizard Jaine said sharply, tapping her staff against the floor, "if this much has shaken you, then you still have far to go."
"You're being unfair, Jaine," Admiral Paladin Vaughn replied in Gazel's place, his expression strained. "Even I wouldn't know how to react after watching conventional warfare collapse this thoroughly."
No one argued with that.
Using technology supplied by Atem, the Dwarven Kingdom had prepared large-scale viewing devices capable of broadcasting the battlefield in real time. Even Hero King Gazel, a ruler who had seen countless wars, felt his understanding of combat being overturned.
"The very foundation of warfare has been shattered," Gazel muttered.
Commander Dolph of the Pegasus Knights let out a tired breath and nodded.
"Those weapons—tanks. Even a legion-class magic barrier wouldn't survive a direct hit. Had we faced them without prior knowledge, the result would have been total annihilation. Still… knowing what we know now, layered trenches and reinforced earthworks could reduce their effectiveness. Not eliminate it—but endure it."
The others nodded in agreement.
A single earthen wall would be pulverized instantly, but stacked defenses could disperse the shockwaves of the shells. That conclusion—reached calmly, analytically—was only possible because of Atem's foresight.
"And yet," Vaughn added, "the Empire's doctrine is flawed. Their forces are built for mid-to-long-range combat. I saw no heavily armored infantry—only lightly equipped troops."
"I looked into that," Jaine said. "The Empire developed a new weapon—Spell Guns. Tools that allow even mediocre soldiers to wield magic. They also adopted firearms from the Otherworld. To them, close-quarters combat is obsolete."
"The age of swords is over," Dolph said grimly. "From their perspective, that conclusion was inevitable."
Firearms that pierced iron armor with ease. Tanks that made castle walls meaningless. To the dwarves—masters of metallurgy—it was almost insulting.
"And yet," Gazel said slowly, "this is not the Otherworld. Weapons that dominate there must still obey the laws of magic here."
"Exactly," Vaughn agreed. "Spell Guns are dangerous, but they met the worst possible opponent. Atem possesses vast quantities of scale shields from the Charybdis incident—and he shared them freely. Against those shields, most magic becomes meaningless."
The Empire's doctrine collapsed under its own assumptions.
Their obsession with ranged combat left them fragile once the distance closed. Their magic was countered. Their weapons neutralized. Every decision compounded into catastrophe.
"No matter the era," Gazel said quietly, "war is decided by preparation and judgment. We must not repeat their mistakes."
But even as he spoke, he knew—
That was not the true problem.
What terrified him was not tactics or weapons.
It was individual power.
Gobta.
Ranga.
Gabil.
Even their subordinates had grown monstrously strong. And with mass-produced healing potions—made possible by Atem's control over Hipokute grass—soldiers could fight recklessly, fearlessly, beyond the limits of common sense.
The logic of attrition itself had been overturned.
Then Jaine spoke again, her voice heavy.
"My liege, there is something we cannot ignore."
Gazel closed his eyes. "…I know."
"The demonesses," Jaine continued. "The one who destroyed the airships used a Greater Ritual—Nuclear Flame. Even I would struggle to cast that alone. And the white-haired one… Death Streak. A forbidden spell no human body should be able to control."
Silence filled the chamber.
They had all sensed it. Anrietta, head of the Night Assassins, had already investigated their origins.
Those women—Testarossa, Ultima, Carrera—had appeared suddenly in Eterna, brought by Atem's right hand, Diablo. Officially, they were intelligence and judicial officers.
Unofficially?
Monsters wearing smiles.
"…I suspected this," Gazel admitted. "During the festival night."
"The one where you were summoned privately?" Vaughn asked.
"Yes. By Atem's aide—Diablo."
At the mention of the name, the room stiffened.
"Elmesia confirmed it," Gazel said calmly. "Diablo is a Primordial. Noir."
The room went deathly quiet.
"…You're saying," Jaine whispered, "that a Primordial serves under Atem?"
"Yes."
"That is insanity!"
"And he brought others," Anrietta added flatly. "Testarossa. Ultima. Carrera. They treat Diablo as an equal."
No one wanted to say it.
But they all understood.
"Then those women are—"
"Primordials," Gazel finished. "Or worse."
Jaine looked physically ill.
"And you chose not to tell us?"
"What good would it have done?" Gazel replied. "Atem gave his word that he would keep them in check. I trusted him."
"And he went and gathered more of them…?" Dolph muttered hollowly.
Gazel exhaled slowly.
"He already stands with the Storm Dragon. At that point, there was no turning back."
One by one, the others nodded.
"I trust your judgment," Vaughn said.
"I've seen Atem myself," Dolph added. "He is not reckless."
"I am your shadow," Anrietta said simply.
Jaine sighed. "…Complaining won't change reality."
The truth was simple and terrifying.
If Atem ever turned hostile—
There would be no defense.
"Enough," Gazel said. "Set this aside for now."
The war was not finished.
Though the Imperial forces in the central region had been crushed, danger still lingered. The Empire's main army continued advancing, unaware of the devastation already suffered.
"They haven't realized their defeat yet," Vaughn said. "No commander would believe reports like this."
"Nor would I," Gazel admitted. "Calgurio won't retreat until he's broken personally."
Jaine's voice hardened.
"Then let this war be recorded. Let humanity remember this lesson."
"Never march against a Demon Lord."
The battlefield had proven one thing beyond doubt:
Eterna's monsters had reached Catastrophe-class.
And yet, Gazel knew—
It was mercy that they sought coexistence, not conquest.
As king, he had to prepare for the impossible.
Because if one day he ever stood against Atem, King of Games—
Victory would not be an option.
And that realization weighed heavier on him than any crown.
I clearly remembered giving the order.
Fight with everything you have.
There was no reason to doubt my own words. I was not so old as to lose my memory, and it had only been three years since my reincarnation. Still—watching the battlefield unfold on the massive projection screen, I found myself questioning it.
Had I truly told them to go this far?
The answer was obvious the moment I looked again.
What played out before my eyes was not a battle.
It was a one-sided annihilation.
The victory of Eterna was undeniable—but the way it was achieved was overwhelming, even to me.
Gobta was racing across the battlefield, smashing Imperial tanks as if they were nothing more than toys. The sight alone was absurd. The Gobta I knew should not have been capable of something like this. And yet, fused with Ranga, he had become something entirely different.
No—this form was worthy of the title Four Heavenly Kings.
His presence carried weight. His strikes carried inevitability.
Then there was Gabil.
He had ascended into a dragon-majin form, radiating an oppressive energy that crushed the air itself. One blow—just one—was enough to bring down an Imperial airship. Not a lucky strike. Not an ambush.
A single, deliberate attack.
And it was not just Gabil. Every member of the Hiryuu had transformed. I immediately understood the reason.
Dragon Body.
I had known of the ability. I had approved it.
But I had never truly grasped its potential.
A violent surge of magicules. Temporary, dangerous, self-destructive if mishandled—but the power it granted was absolute. A perfect trump card. A weapon meant to decide wars in moments.
Still, even that did not prepare me for what came next.
The sky burned.
A colossal explosion swallowed the Imperial flagship, followed by a chain reaction that erased the entire airship fleet. Fire, pressure, magic—all of it collided into a thermonuclear catastrophe that left nothing behind.
In an instant, the Empire's air superiority ceased to exist.
Every ship fell.
That was the turning point.
From that moment on, the battle belonged entirely to us.
With Gobta dominating the ground and Gabil ruling the sky, the Imperial Army lost any chance of recovery. Just as helicopters dominate tanks in modern warfare, aerial breath attacks rendered the Empire's armored units helpless.
Their cannons could not track.
Their formations collapsed.
If they could not hit their target, their power meant nothing.
They tried to counterattack. Again and again.
Each attempt was erased.
That was when Veyron and Zonda moved.
Ancient demons—true veterans of slaughter.
They did not concern themselves with ranks or formations. They hunted strength. Captains, elites, commanders—anyone dangerous was eliminated before they could act.
Their attire—a butler's uniform, a cook's outfit—made no sense on a battlefield.
Yet to the Imperial soldiers, those silhouettes became symbols of death.
Meanwhile, Hakurou advanced through the supply lines.
No hesitation.
No mercy.
One strike. One kill.
At one point, an Imperial warrior stepped forward, shouting something about being ranked ninety-seventh.
Hakurou's blade flashed.
Blood scattered across the ground.
Before moving on, he spoke calmly:
"Forgive me. Atem-sama is watching this battle. Since he ordered us to give it our all, I cannot afford restraint."
That was when it fully sank in.
My words carried weight—far more than I had intended.
But there was no turning back.
Interfering now would only disrupt the battlefield. Confusion would cost lives. Ours.
So I watched.
And I understood.
The Imperial soldiers eliminated by Veyron, Zonda, and Hakurou were not ordinary troops. Many of them were equal to—or stronger than—
the Holy Knights. Their equipment was legendary-grade, superior even to spirit armaments.
These were the rumored Imperial Guardians.
An elite force chosen from the Empire's strongest, including otherworlders. Roughly a hundred in number. A strict hierarchy of strength.
If they had been allowed to assemble and coordinate, this battle could have turned into chaos.
But they were never given that chance.
The strongest were eliminated first—silently, efficiently, without warning.
That judgment was correct.
Mercy on a battlefield is arrogance.
Arrogance invites death.
This was war.
And war demands absolute resolve.
I was already preparing for the next phase—whether the enemy would surrender—when a new alert appeared.
«Notice. Death Streak has been activated. User: Testarossa.»
I immediately projected the scene.
Testarossa and Ultima stood calmly at the Imperial command center.
Smiling.
There were no survivors.
Nearly a thousand immobilized tanks littered the field. The infantry around them had collapsed—lifeless. Only tens of thousands remained alive across the entire front.
Death Streak.
Even I recognized the danger instantly.
«Death Streak is a form of nuclear magic,»
Solarys, Sovereign of Wisdom, reported smoothly.
«It annihilates biological life through a concentrated magical death ray. Secondary effects include—»
I silenced the explanation.
I did not need more details to understand how terrifying that spell was.
Ultima's Nuclear Flame had already crossed a line.
This went far beyond that.
Testarossa was… excessive.
But the result was undeniable.
The moment that spell was cast, the battle ended.
The Imperial headquarters ceased to exist. Leadership was erased. Resistance became meaningless. What remained would soon collapse under its own confusion.
Thus—
The Imperial Army advancing toward the Dwarven Kingdom was utterly defeated.
A complete victory for Eterna.
And as I looked at the battlefield one last time, I understood something clearly:
This was not simply the result of power.
This was the result of resolve.
I had given the order.
And my generals had answered it—
without hesitation,
without restraint,
and without mercy.