The moons hung high above the battlefield.
One silver. One warm.
Their light filtered through the storm clouds in fragments, slicing through the haze like broken glass.
Mist curled across the trees, thick and low, painting the ground in smoke and shadow. Rain hissed as it met the earth. The wind moaned like a warning no one heeded.
For a breath, the world held still.
Then…
A sound.
Soft. Strange.
The strumming of strings.
And there he was.
Kyro.
Balanced on a fallen log like it was his sacred stage,
stubby feet slipping slightly,
cloak flapping in the gale,
fingers blurring across the strings of his lute
with the chaotic fire of a rock god on his final encore.
His voice cracked through the downpour — raw, glorious, and absolutely unhinged.
"You stole my heart, you stole my soul… now taste the thunder from a broken toad!"
I blinked. "What the hell is he singing?"
It didn't matter.
Because it worked.
The storm exploded.
Rain twisted into a sideways torrent.
Wind howled through the trees like wild spirits set loose.
Visibility collapsed into a swirling wall of smoke, ash, and mist.
The battlefield vanished.
And then... they came.
Shapes in the haze.
Low to the ground.
Moving fast. Crawling through roots and wet grass like ghosts of the forest.
I hadn't even told them to strike.
They already knew.
The Berserker Unit.
Ancient warriors of the wild.
Bare chests.
Axes heavier than they looked.
They didn't move like humans.
They moved like beasts. And they have Wolf ears.
Light armor clung to their bodies like war paint.
Tribal tattoos spiraled down their hips and across thighs that demanded more than a glance.
And, for one second… just one... I almost lost focus.
I remembered the moment I first saw them.
An hour ago.
Armenia stood before me, her hands outstretched, voice deep with a chant that pulsed with old magic.
The air shimmered.
A vortex of black mist and violet light spiraled into being.
The smell hit first — not smoke or rot… but something intoxicating. Sweet. Seductive. Feminine.
Then the haze parted.
And they stepped through.
Twelve of them.
Each bearing the same wolf ears as Armenia, the same tattoos, the same primal aura.
But their shapes…
Hourglass curves. Long legs. Breasts that barely hid behind thin wrappings.
Eyes like predators.
Bodies like temptation given form.
For a heartbeat, I forgot they were warriors.
Until now.
Now, that allure is gone.
What emerged from the smoke wasn't beauty.
It was fury.
The Berserkers struck without orders.
They didn't wait for commands.
They didn't need to.
They leapt from the fog like silent death, axes carving clean through orc flesh.
One landed on an orc's back, splitting his spine in two.
Another tore through a cluster, body spinning, weapon gleaming.
Twelve ghosts of war.
Crouched in roots and mud.
Chest exposed, rain dripping down cleavage laced in blood and paint.
Their cloth, barely armor, clung to skin like second breath.
Every curve teased, every movement deadly.
They were born to kill.
Born to conquer.
And tonight… they hunted.
The Armenia Berserkers.
That's what I call them.
As their axes danced through blood and rain, my mind was somewhere else — swept in a different surge.
A memory.
The stream.
Selene.
The warmth of our skin, the closeness, the unspoken trust.
It hadn't just been physical.
There was something deeper. A pulse shared between us.
That moment… had unlocked them.
The Berserker Unit.
A manifestation born from passion, not command.
I couldn't help but wonder — how much more power was hiding inside this world?
Was War Dominion IX not just a strategy game, but something more primal?
Could connection, emotion, desire itself… shape the battlefield?
My gaze shifted.
Lyssa stood further down the slope, soaked from head to toe, her voice rising above the clash of war.She shouted to the villagers, rallying them to throw stones, torches, anything they could hold. And they did.
Not one of them hesitated.
Because her strength made them strong.
There was no magic in her hands… but something in her will turned fear into fire.
Watching her, I felt it.
That same glimmer — like the bond I shared with Selene.
Could Lyssa… unlock something too?
Then I thought of Juvia.
that intimate session this afternoon triggered something new huh
Evaluation?Something awakened in that warmth.
"Where is she?" I muttered under my breath, scanning the battlefield.
But she was gone.
Of course.
Those who couldn't fight had returned to the village.
Still… my eyes lingered on the others.
The women of Eldenthyr.
Shieldmaidens. Farmers. Blacksmiths' daughters.
All of them standing their ground, soaked in rain, eyes unflinching.
They weren't soldiers.
But they held the same fire.
Each of them held a piece of the battle's potential,
a fire that could rival the storm itself.
As I observed them, my mind raced with possibilities
What units could I unlock? What secrets lingered within my Ephone,
nestled in the War Dominion IX interface?
And if I could harness that…
This war would never be the same.
I couldn't help but smirk at my own thoughts.
"It's more like... Horny Dominion," I muttered under my breath, half amused, half exasperated.
This game — or whatever the hell this world had become — had a way of tying lust and power together in ways I never expected.
Apparently, strategic depth came with seductive depth too.
But I couldn't dwell on that now.
The battlefield didn't wait for my distractions.
I forced my thoughts back into focus.
The Armenia Berserkers were already carving their legacy.
The air itself felt charged, like the storm wasn't just above us… but born from them.
Twelve warriors.
That was all.
Yet they moved with the force of a thousand.
Each swing of their axes was a brutal hymn, a rhythm of destruction written in blood.
Their bodies twisted, leapt, spun — and wherever they landed, orcs fell.
I could feel the fear rolling off the enemy, even from up here.
How the earth itself seemed to tremble beneath the footfalls of women who fought like beasts.
The battlefield had become their stage.
And every splash of blood was another note in their violent symphony.
This wasn't just a skirmish anymore.
It was art.
It was dominance.
I exhaled slowly, letting the scent of rain and smoke anchor me.
My gaze locked onto the chaos.
"Focus," I whispered to myself.
My fingers tightened on Kentucky's reins.
"We need to win this."
The urgency pierced through the fog of my thoughts. The intimacy of the stream was a fleeting memory; the battle was here, and we were on the brink of triumph.
With the Berserkers leading the charge, the orcs faltered, their spirits crushed beneath the weight of our collective fury.
This was our moment.
The moment the first orc dared to ascend the slope toward me, they unleashed their wrath.
Axes flashed in the storm's fury, hips swaying like the rhythm of battle, blood splattering in violent arcs as the beastly warriors took flight.
SHLUNK.
The first orc's head tumbled down as if it were a dropped melon, the gruesome sound echoing through the rain-soaked air.
CRACK.
Another orc was cleaved in half from shoulder to gut, a brutal testament to the Berserkers' prowess. They erupted from their cover like wolves unleashed from the dark, howling with primal fury. Their muscles moved like coiled springs, feet splashing through puddles, axes swirling in deadly dances.
BZZZT.
You earned 15 coins!
You earned 15 coins!
You earned 15 coins!
I watched from above, mounted on Kentucky, my silhouette framed against the storm. The first orc line crumbled like rotten timber, unable to withstand the weight of Berserker steel.
They were broken. Chaos rippled through their ranks.
The middle segment surged forward, desperate to aid their fallen comrades, while the rear scrambled to reposition. From the treeline, javelins flew like angry wasps, and boulders rolled down the slope like cannonballs, unleashing chaos upon the battlefield. The orcs halted mid-stride, their attempts to help the first segment thwarted as the Berserkers tore through them one by one.
"Let it loose!" Lyssa bellowed from behind the villagers, her voice sharp and commanding, cutting through the confusion like the metal she hurled.
Twenty brave citizens of Eldenthyr launched their spears in unison, precision and rhythm guiding their throws. Javelins pierced armor, and orcs dropped mid-step, their numbers dwindling under the sudden onslaught.
Panic spread among the orc ranks. They were scattered, disoriented—just as I had planned.
The rain intensified, wind slicing through the trees, turning the mud-road a vibrant green as grass surged beneath the downpour, painted by Kyro's song—a symphony of nature joining the slaughter.
And there was Kyro, perched on the hilltop like a rock god possessed by the storm itself.
He strummed that lute as if it were carved from lightning, legs spread wide, chin raised defiantly as he screamed into the tempest:
"Let thunder kiss the steel, let the broken ones kneel!"
Lightning exploded behind him, illuminating the scene like a divine omen.
Was that even part of the spell?
It didn't matter.
Whatever it was… it was working.
The middle segment finally reached the frontline—
but they didn't find comrades waiting.
Because the first segment was already gone.
Slaughtered.
Only awaiting them head-on were the Berserkers, Bloodthirsty,charging like wolves loose from their chains, legs flashing under the moonlight as they crashed into the orcs with a full, furious assault.
"Hold javelins!" I barked. "No friendly fire!"
Lyssa raised her hand. Her warriors halted, then vaulted onto their cuckoos like soldiers possessed, switching to melee with sudden unity. And then, with their young chief at the front, the Eldenthyr defenders surged into the orcs' exposed flank.
Axes. Spears. Pitchforks.
Not trained soldiers.
But defenders—fighting for their homes, screaming like demons.
The orcs turned too slow. Heavy armor rooted their legs in mud. Their axes rose too late. By the time they shifted, the Berserkers had already ripped into their front line, turning the charge into chaos.
I gave Kentucky a soft tap. He shrieked and lunged forward, claws tearing through earth. At my side Selene appeared, Valkyrie unit at her back, their silhouettes sharp against the moonlit slope.
"Let's finish this," I commanded.
We descended as one, galloping like knights of some broken legend. Ahead, the Berserkers tore the orcs head-on; from the opposite flank, Lyssa's unit struck like a knife; and from my side, Selene and the unit closed the trap.
In the rear — the third orc segment — Armenia's axe was already singing.
She picked them off one by one, slicing through their ranks like they were nothing more than wheat ready for harvest.
I couldn't help it.
A thought crept into my mind.
Told you… this woman could wipe out all of them without even needing her unit.
And just like that, from across the chaos, Armenia looked up.
Her golden eyes locked on me through rain and blood.
She grinned.
Then gave me a thumbs up.
The next second, she split an orc clean down the middle — a geyser of black-red mist erupting behind her.
There it goes again…
Like she could hear my thoughts.
Then she howled.
A wild, bone-deep sound that ripped through the storm like thunder.
That was the signal.
A young rider galloped in — Dobi — leading a flanking charge that slammed into the exposed edge of the third orc group.
Their formation buckled.
Surrounded.
Some tried to retreat.
Others charged forward.
But hesitation is death.
And they hesitated at the worst possible moment.
Meanwhile, in the middle path — the second orc segment — we clashed.
It wasn't a battle.
It was an execution.
They were crushed like meat between millstones.
Berserker axes from the flanks.
Selene's spears from the front.
And behind them… Lyssa's villagers, fighting not like peasants, but like people who had something worth dying for.
It didn't matter who struck the final blow.
The sweep was absolute.
The mud turned red. Armor cracked like shells. Screams broke, then fell silent.
As the last orc's head rolled from a Berserker's blade, I straightened in the saddle and turned my gaze to the rear.
The last segment crumbled.
Orcs at the rear tried to rally.
Some turned to flee.
But their gear betrayed them, helmets and shoulder plates thrown aside, boots sinking deep into the mud.
Didn't help.
Armenia was there, wolf grin flashing as she swung two dripping heads like trophies. Those who dared face her lasted only seconds before she split them apart. Others slipped, only to be cut down by Dobi, riding his sleek gray cuckoo like a reaper from the mist.
"Move!" he barked, spear in hand.
The first runner fell with a spine-shattering thrust.
Another zigzagged in panic too late. Dobi's spear licked its tendons, and the beast collapsed screaming in the dirt.
The rout had begun.
I'd seen this before. Not here back in history books.
Cannae, 216 BC. Hannibal didn't just fight Rome—he broke them. Half the legion was trampled by their own men as panic spread faster than any blade. No formation. No discipline. Just bodies crushed under bodies.
That's what I was watching now—an orc army dissolving into chaos.
And Teutoburg, too. The forest, the mud, the ambush. Varus's legions dragged their armor while Arminius slaughtered them in the rain. That's what their retreat looked like: heavy boots sinking, axes flailing too late, crushed by speed and terrain.
We hunted them down like the Mongols chasing routed knights.
The final kill was brutal in its certainty: twenty spears, three axes, a hunter's arrow, and one well-placed boulder from the hunters trap
Then silence.
Steam hissed from blood-soaked mud.
The air was thick with iron and rain.
Lyssa raised her blade high, her voice cutting through the storm.
"VICTORY!"
A roar surged back from the villagers.
They embraced, sobbed, laughed like lunatics in the mud. Some collapsed on their knees, staring at their bloody hands as though unsure they were still alive.
But I wasn't done.
Never leave breathing enemies behind.
Not here. Not anywhere.
"Armenia," I said coldly, eyes hard as iron. "Take your unit. Sweep the area. Kill anything that moves."
No hesitation. No questions. She nodded, vanished into the mist with her berserkers, their howls echoing like wolves sealing a hunt.
The rain kept pounding.
I looked up the slope.
Kyro was still there, strumming like a mad god at the end of a world tour, voice cracked but unbroken.
"Enough," I muttered.
I turned to Aunt Mereia, the one Kero still hopelessly adored.
"Take the lute."
She didn't even argue. With a swift motion she snatched the instrument mid-riff.
Kyro froze, lips trembling.
"…not again…" he whispered.
The storm died instantly.
The clouds themselves seemed to hold their breath.
And in that quiet, I gave my final order.
"Lyssa… tell your villagers to return. Tend the wounded. Wash the mud away."
I sheathed my blade, stepping forward into the stillness.
"It's time, we celebrate."