The dawn did not rise — it was torn, forced, from the horizon.
The first ray of sunlight ripped through the gray fog and fell upon the field, revealing what the night had tried to hide: fear, anticipation, and steel.
The wind blew cold, carrying the scent of damp earth, sweat, and iron.
Now the sun struck the Viscount's walls head-on, glinting off the enemy spears.
And then, the gates opened.
The sound was deep — wood, iron, and wind merging into a single roar that rolled across the field.
From within, a man emerged on a gray warhorse, followed by dozens of soldiers in polished armor.
Behind him, red and gold banners rose high, trembling under the newborn sun.
The enemy commander lifted his sword and pointed it toward the field.
A cry split the air, and the walls awakened — rows of archers and spears aligned like teeth of steel.
Marcus twirled his spear in his hands, tense.
"The courtesy is over."
Éon watched the movement with cold precision.
"They want to crush us quickly," he said, his eyes seeking Éreon. "And you?"
Éreon didn't answer right away.
The wind stirred his black cloak, and for a brief instant, silence returned — a silence that only he seemed to command.
The black banners rippled heavy, as if they already felt the weight of what was coming.
In the ranks stood men and women — peasants, miners, hunters, young ones who had never held a blade — side by side.
Hands sweated.
Eyes searched for something to believe in.
The silence before war was almost unbearable.
And then, Éreon moved forward.
The sunlight found him in the exact moment he climbed onto his black horse.
The gleam touched the emblem on his cloak, and the entire field seemed to breathe as one — as though time itself waited for his word.
His voice rose — steady, controlled, laden with purpose:
"I know that until not long ago, you were just ordinary men and women." His voice cut through the wind, reaching even the farthest ranks. "You never held a blade. You never wielded a weapon. But today…" — he paused, letting the silence weigh — "here and now, you are an army. Not just any army. My army."
A murmur rippled through the lines — reverent, fearful, alive.
Éreon continued, his eyes scanning every face:
"Remember this: no blood will be spilled in vain.No death will be in vain.Every one of you who falls will take twice their number with you.And when those who come after us look upon this field, they will know that here began something that even time itself will not dare erase."
The air seemed to vibrate.
Then, suddenly, a flame swept through the troops — not made of fire, but of will.
A soldier raised his spear.
Another shouted.
Then another.
And soon the roar rolled across the field like thunder:
"ÉREON! ÉREON! ÉREON!"
Marcus twirled his spear again and let out a sharp laugh, tense, but with something fierce in his eyes.
"I think they finally believe," he said, "and it's too late to turn back."
Éon, mounted beside him, looked ahead.
"They believe because he believes," he murmured. "And that… is more dangerous than any sword."
Éreon watched in silence for a moment.
Then, unhurried, he urged his horse forward.
Each step was a sentence.
The field, once loud, fell into reverent silence — every gaze followed him.
He stopped before the barrier, only a few paces from the enemy army.
The black horse snorted, restless, as though it could feel the power pulsing in the air.
Across from him, the enemy commander raised his sword — the steel gleamed under the sun, reflecting the deep violet of Éreon's eyes.
They locked gazes, and for an instant, the entire field seemed to vanish.
The commander lifted his sword higher, the blade singing under the light.
"Retreat!" his voice rang firm, but there was hesitation in it. "This is your final warning."
Éreon smiled — brief, untouched by his eyes."Commander… you made two mistakes.The first was seeing only what stands before you.The second… was choosing me as your enemy."
Then he raised his hand.
The air seemed to hold its breath.
A subtle vortex formed around him, and a purple light began to pulse beneath his skin — not summoned magic, but something that had always been there, dormant, waiting for permission.
Éreon's fingers opened in the air, and energy spilled between them — luminous threads, serpentine and alive, sliding until they touched the barrier.
The contact made the entire field shudder.
The barrier — a translucent wall of bluish energy — vibrated as if breathing, and the violet threads began to spread across it, seeping in like roots through ancient stone.
They moved with intelligence, searching, probing, sensing the invisible fractures of the spell.
A sound rose — low, metallic, almost a lament.
The enemy soldiers stepped back instinctively.
The sound was too wrong, too alive — as if the air itself was screaming.
Éreon's allies, however, watched in silence — awed and afraid. Even faced with a thousand foes, he showed no fear.
Only control.
Then his voice broke the air — deep, steady:
"If you wish to take my head, Commander, this is your best chance."
He tilted his head slightly, his gaze flickering like lightning beneath the violet glow.
"But remember… if you miss, yours will be the first to kiss the ground."
The threads found the weakness.
A sharp crack split the air, and the barrier fractured like glass under strain.
Light scattered in living fissures — lines multiplying, converging at the wall's center.
The sound that followed was not an explosion.
It was a sigh.
The sigh of the world giving way.
And then, the barrier fell — shattering into fragments of light that dissolved into the wind.
The last echo of the barrier had not faded when the enemy commander roared and charged.
His sword cut the air — a direct, precise strike aimed at Éreon's neck.
But the steel never reached him.
A flash — swift, cold, absolute — sliced through the air.
The commander's blade halted mid-swing.
An instant of silence.
Then, his head rolled to the ground, his body remaining upright for a heartbeat before collapsing with a dull thud.
Éon, mounted just behind, spun his sword in a clean motion and let it fall to his side.
The blade's gleam still caught the sun when Éreon watched the body fall — expressionless.
He gave a faint smile.
"I warned you."
The enemy ranks faltered.
The riders stepped back instinctively, as though the very air pushed them away.
Then Éreon raised his hand.
The motion was subtle — almost calm — yet the entire field seemed to bow before it.
His violet eyes burned, and the shadow moved.
Not the absence of light, but a living force, dense and immense, rolling across the ground like a wave.
The wind stopped.
And from the horizon came the roar.
A colossal, ancient sound that made the earth tremble.
The sky darkened as the shadow split the clouds — a vast body covered in black scales, eyes burning like molten embers.
The dragon descended from the heavens with a roar that shattered the air.
When it spread its wings, the wind tore across the field; when it breathed fire, the world burned purple and orange.
The Viscount's walls collapsed as though made of sand.
Stone, iron, and flame merged into one thunderous blast.
The dragon swept over the battlefield, the searing heat forcing enemy soldiers to their knees — blind, terrified.
And then, as swiftly as it came, it soared back into the skies — leaving only fire and smoke in its wake.
Éreon lowered his hand.
His eyes returned to normal.
Silence lasted for a single heartbeat — the heartbeat before history shifted its course.
His voice rose, low but heard across the field:
"Advance."
The roar of nine hundred and ninety steps answered.
And the field became war.
The ground still smoked when the dragon climbed higher, vanishing among the clouds like a living shadow.
The fallen walls left a colossal breach, and through it Éreon's soldiers surged in waves, armor clashing, war cries echoing.
Éreon stood still.
The wind whipped his cloak, and the violet gleam still lingered in his eyes, fading slowly.
At his side, Éon approached, watching the open path ahead.
The air before them still pulsed with the remnants of the dragon's energy.
"Don't lower your guard," Éreon warned, his tone firm without needing to rise.
Éon gave a faint smile.
"I felt that sinister energy further ahead," he said, gazing at the horizon. "But I've already passed through body reconstruction. I've reached the Semi-Divine Body… I can use my abilities freely now."
Éreon turned his face slightly, and for an instant, a rare hint of humor crossed his gaze.
"May the gods protect you… or devour you quickly."
Éon adjusted the katana at his waist, and with a sharp smile replied:
"I am the one who will devour them."
Then he advanced, disappearing among the ranks of soldiers, while the distant roar of the dragon echoed through the clouds.
But the sound did not fade — it only changed its place, now burning inside the men marching to war.