The battlefield had gone silent.
Not because the war had ended — but because every soul present could feel it.
Two forces were about to decide the fate of nations.
At the heart of the wasteland stood Grand General Lythor of Voltaire and Grand General Alan of Infris — warriors forged in countless wars, symbols of their empires' pride.
The ground between them shimmered with heat and soul energy. Smoke rose from the molten cracks that spread like veins across the earth.
Alan's breathing was heavy now. His halberd — once glowing with confidence — flickered with dim light. Across him, Lythor stood tall, his armor battered, his sword chipped, but his aura still raging like a storm that refused to die.
"Still standing, Alan?" Lythor's voice was calm — too calm.
Alan smirked through bloodied lips. "You think this old body will fall that easily?"
Lythor stepped forward, and the air shifted. Each step pressed the land deeper into the ground, his aura thickening like the weight of a collapsing sky.
Alan charged, halberd blazing with blue-gold soul fire.
Lythor met him head-on, their weapons colliding once more — and the world roared.
The blast sent soldiers flying, shattered the nearby cliffs, and drowned every other sound.
But this time… there was a difference.
Lythor didn't back down.
His soul flame began to twist, its crimson light fusing with his elemental core. Sparks of black lightning danced along his blade.
Alan's eyes widened. "You fused your element and soul energy—"
"—For victory."
Lythor's blade cleaved through the halberd's shadow form, then through the weapon itself.
Metal screamed. Alan stumbled back, his arm burned, his weapon split in half.
Before he could recover, Lythor's next swing came — wide, decisive, final.
The blade struck deep into Alan's chest. The sound was muted, swallowed by the wind.
Alan's eyes trembled as he fell to one knee. The flames around him flickered out. His halberd dissolved into faint blue particles, fading into the night.
He looked up one last time — not in hatred, but in pride.
"You've… grown strong, Lythor… stronger than the Empire itself."
Lythor caught him as he fell, lowering him gently to the ground.
"I didn't want this, Alan."
Alan smiled faintly. "None of us ever do."
And with that, the Grand General of Infris closed his eyes. His soul faded like a quiet ember — gone, but not extinguished in spirit.
For a brief moment, even the battle around them seemed to still.
Then — a sound.
A horn.
Deep, ancient, and commanding.
From the distant horizon, black banners rose, embroidered with golden suns — the insignia of Infris Empire's Royal Legion.
The ground trembled as an army unlike any before approached. At its head rode a man clad in dark steel armor with crimson fur draped across his shoulders — his eyes glowed faintly with madness and might.
Commander Ragnar of Infris, the Blood Lion of the South.
He looked down at Alan's fallen body, then at Lythor.
"So… the Grand General of Voltaire takes our strongest," Ragnar growled, voice like a grinding storm. "Then let's see if your Empire can take its consequences."
Before Lythor could respond, another horn echoed — from the opposite horizon.
Silver banners — the mark of Voltaire's Imperial Command — filled the burning skyline.
A colossal war chariot rolled through the smoke, led by white-armored knights.
Standing atop it was Commander Darius of Voltaire, eyes sharp as blades, his cloak flowing like a river of silver light.
"Enough blood for today, Ragnar," he said coldly. "Unless you want the Emperor himself to step onto this cursed ground."
Ragnar smirked. "Funny… my Emperor said the same thing."
And then — as if the world itself responded to those words — the air shifted.
Two overwhelming auras descended simultaneously.
From the sky above Infris ranks, Emperor Rayling Infris appeared — tall, golden eyes burning like miniature suns, his very presence warping the light around him.
From the opposite side, a golden lightning fell upon the Voltaire army as Emperor Alaric Voltaire emerged, draped in golden and white, his aura calm yet domineering.
Every soldier on the field fell to one knee.
Even the air seemed afraid to move.
Two divine beings, rulers of empires, now stood upon the same battlefield.
The Grand Generals' fight was over…
but the true war had only just begun.
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