Reinhart was surrounded by Soliver, his deputy Carter, and the commander of Silver's troops, as they reviewed the previously established plan.
"Lord Duke Reinhart de Moliar, it is an honor to meet you, but my men are dying in vain. We have lost 5% of our defensive force in a matter of minutes."
"Furthermore, they refuse to fight, arguing that the battle is unfair. I must say, I agree with them; the strongest among them is only of the 'Half-Ruler' rank, whereas the Beast Rulers are capable of killing someone of the 'Master Ruler' rank. The disparity in power is immense."
Silver's tone was heavy with fear and dread—intensified by Reinhart's piercing gaze.
The silence that hung in the air for several seconds exerted such intense pressure and strain on Silver's mind that, when Reinhart finally spoke—calmly—Silver collapsed to the ground, his face drenched in sweat, his expression a mixture of terror and awe.
Reinhart ignored him entirely, turning instead to Soliver and Carter with a serious tone:
"Very well. Since the troops of the city of Yuspeakers will not participate—despite having fought against the Beast Rulers at the start of the war—we shall proceed according to the established plan."
"As you previously arranged, the students will face the Goblin Ruler, even if the heads of the other three Great Duchies were to arrive. Is that clear to you both?" Soliver and his deputy, Carter, narrowed their eyes as they stared at him for several seconds. Reinhardt, however, paid no heed to their gazes; giving them no chance to object, he continued:
"I shall fight the Ruler of the Lions, as planned. You and your deputy, Carter, will take on the Ruler of the Snakes, while the professors will engage the Ruler of the Orcs. As for the Ruler of the Wolves—should the leaders of the three remaining Grand Duchies and the Sword Saint, Azars Nozaki, fail to arrive in time—that task will fall to the mercenaries, the hunters from the city of Yuspeakers, and the visiting guests."
Both Soliver and Carter were unsettled by Reinhardt's words; by assigning them to face the Ruler of the Snakes, he was implicitly suggesting that they were as cunning and treacherous as he was.
Yet, neither uttered a word. After all, Reinhardt was roughly four ranks stronger than them—a confrontation would mean certain death.
Reinhardt strode away toward the battlefield, his steps steady and radiating both power and confidence.
"Inform the students and the professors that the battle is about to begin," Soliver said calmly, his eyes fixed on Reinhardt's back as he neared the exit of the command center.
"Soliver, is something on your mind? I know Reinhardt can be overbearing, but now is hardly the time for that," Carter said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. He then left the operations room, placing a cigarette in his mouth. With a casual flick of his hand toward Soliver, he said:
"See you in a bit. Get some rest; the battle is about to begin, and we need a fighter who is prepared—mentally, physically, and at heart."
Soliver let out a deep sigh, his gaze fixed on Carter—a calm, inscrutable look. He then turned his attention to the task at hand: battling the Beast Rulers.
He moved toward the person nearest to him.
Elsewhere, Silver let out a sigh of relief, assuming Soliver—an ally—posed no threat. But his relief was short-lived.
He felt Soliver's finger touch his head, yet he couldn't utter a single syllable; his head was blasted from his shoulders before he could say a word.
Fragments of skull, bone, flesh, brain tissue, and eyes—all slick with blood—scattered across the operations room, while blood gushed from his neck like a fountain.
Looking down at Silver's corpse as it slumped to the floor, Soliver said coldly:
"Military law strictly forbids desertion or the failure to carry out assigned duties. As the commander of the Contit troops, your penalty is death."
"Desertion—or any attempt to evade punishment—is punishable by execution on the spot. I hope you learn a lesson in hell, Mr. Silver Berktarvis." Soliver wiped his blood-stained hand and left the room, ignoring the soldier who had witnessed everything.
His primary objective was not to kill the soldier, but to ensure he saw what would befall anyone who refused to fight against the minions of the Beast Rulers.
The soldier chose to leave the operations room without a word; the sight of Silver's death was enough to root out any notion of objection or defiance—not only from his own mind but from the minds of his comrades in the other battalions as well.
Atop one of the fortresses, Tom and Armin watched the battle with calm, steady gazes.
It was a one-sided slaughter; the Beast Rulers possessed a terrifying level of strength that the soldiers were ill-equipped to face.
Soldiers were dying by the second. The sharp, metallic scent of blood drifted toward them, mingled with the din of combat and the desperate cries of men calling for help.
The inhabitants of the city of Yuspeakers were left paralyzed, consumed by panic and chaos. They made no attempt to intervene—the battle was already well underway, and their own credibility was on the verge of total collapse.
War and combat are harrowing realities; one need only hear of them—or witness them firsthand—to grasp their sheer brutality.
Tom and Armin's expressions were inscrutable, reflecting a complex blend of emotions. Though their features remained cold, each held a perspective that was, in its own way, both distinct and remarkably similar to the other's. The absurdity of life was reflected in the eyes of two young men—neither yet eighteen—who had already been forced to fight for their very survival at the age of fifteen. Now, they found themselves dragged into yet another life-or-death battle, with barely a day—perhaps even just half a day—separating the two ordeals.
Armin watched the dying combatants in bewilderment, unable to grasp why they would continue to fight their enemies when they were so hopelessly outmatched. Their lives were being snuffed out, and the "beast masters" didn't even seem to exert the slightest effort.
It was utterly preposterous: the opposing side held all the power and the upper hand—a fact known to everyone—yet these helpless fighters were being sacrificed against adversaries they stood no chance of defeating.
The power level of the students from the Versalkin Academy was not vastly different from that of the common soldiers; however, the students were of a higher caliber, thanks to the rare resources and the brutal, rigorous training they had received.
As for Tom, the sight of the soldiers dying before his eyes stirred a complex mix of regret and helplessness. He watched his own kin perish, consumed as if they were nothing more than mere fuel.It was a scene that reminded him of the death of his children during his very first life as a human.
The moment he—along with his other half, Alessandra—approached the Tree of Origin, they merged midway. They were like fire and natural gas—elements that would explode upon contact without a proper buffer; that buffer was the primordial essence of his own being.
It was agonizing for him to watch those whose existence he had fought to secure perish before his eyes, as if they were nothing more than mere insects.
His life had been a wretched one. In his first life, he had watched his children die, one by one. In subsequent lifetimes—as his two halves, Zhao Li and Alessandra, roamed the infinite ordinary realms—he had even been forced to take the lives of his own descendants with his own hands.
Yet, he said nothing. He could not bring himself to cry out that his children were dying.
He was Zhao Li—the first to cultivate and master the laws of the Dao in this miserable world—and simultaneously, he was Alessandra—the first Saint, the very architect of the laws governing mental and physical power.
Above all, he was the one who had brought this fantasy world into existence in the first place, the one who had founded the Versalkin Academy millions of years ago.
How could he possibly voice such a thing, knowing full well that no one would believe him?
He had lived countless lives, witnessing the birth and death of countless people—though he could now recall only ten percent of his memories. And even that small fraction remained blurred and indistinct. Over the past two hours, as he watched his kin perish at the hands of beast rulers far more powerful than themselves, his thoughts kept returning to one person: his son, the Rising Sun Emperor, Zhao Yong.
The boy was impulsive and kind-hearted, driven by a desire to challenge himself and attain glory and renown among the beasts—a pursuit that had allowed arrogance to take root in his heart.
Tom closed his eyes, attempting to clear his mind, but a memory from his former life surged forward like the cold waters of a river, refusing to fade.
"Father, I want to ask you about something that's been on my mind," the seven-year-old Rising Sun Emperor said, looking up at him with a puzzled expression—a sight that brought a smile to Tom's face.
Zhao Li spoke softly, gently stroking the boy's hair:
"What is it that's weighing on your mind, my dear?"
With clear annoyance, the Rising Sun Emperor, Zhao Yong, swatted Zhao Li's hand away from his hair—which resembled scattered tongues of flame—prompting a low chuckle from Zhao Li.
Adjusting his hair back into its original style, Zhao Yong said, sounding quite vexed:
"I came across a group of barbarians fighting fourteen kilometers from here. Before the battle began, I heard them say, 'We declare war.'"
Zhao Li studied him for a few moments before replying:
"War is a conflict between groups. If it breaks out among members of the same group, it is called an internal or civil war. For it to be considered a war, the group must be a clan or larger. The same principle applies to colonial, political, and global wars." "Regardless of the methods employed, the underlying objectives remain clear—no matter how they are justified: to assert superiority, to seize the resources of a given territory, or to usurp leadership over a tribe."
A look of pity crossed Zao Li's face as he watched the battle unfold. Though it was fourteen kilometers away, he could see it with striking clarity from his vantage point atop the mountain.
Wars arise from a multitude of causes and go by many names. There are internal conflicts—civil wars—in which the people of a single nation turn against one another in a struggle for power.
The roots of such conflicts are varied: they may stem from a corrupt and incompetent government, leaving citizens to endure oppression, injustice, famine, and widespread pestilence—compelling them to seek an end to this travesty through arduous and often violent means.
At other times, a conflict may take the form of a government turning against itself—a coup—driven by members dissatisfied with how the state is being run. Yet, the distinction is clear: the previous administration simply failed to serve their interests, and their actions are motivated by no genuine love for the populace nor any compassion for the common citizen.
Then there are colonial wars, in which a powerful nation consumes a weaker one, driven by greed for its natural wealth—whether renewable or non-renewable—including its energy, mineral, botanical, and animal resources.
From this emerge wars of independence—fought to escape such humiliation and the absurdity of subjugation.
A life of degradation is something that human dignity, pride, and honor cannot endure; the spirit instinctively rejects being humiliated and debased on its own soil by a foreign hand. As for political wars, they are a sordid affair—waged without physical contact, fought with words and pens rather than guns, and scented with perfume instead of the acrid smell of gunpowder, sweat, and adrenaline.
These wars unfold within enclosed, dull spaces—settings adorned with exquisite art and artifacts, rather than strewn with blood and corpses. Yet, despite their polished and seemingly superior appearance, they are far filthier and more despicable than conventional warfare.
In this arena, human life is rendered so trivial that it ceases to hold any value at all. Reputations are tarnished, psychological well-being is shattered, and harsh penalties are imposed upon anyone who opposes—or threatens—the interests of those in power, especially their own personal agendas.
Ultimately, wars take many forms and arise from various causes—some overt, others hidden—shifting according to the time and place in which they occur. Nevertheless, they all share certain common traits: they extinguish human lives, whether directly or indirectly, and they strip away masks to reveal the true, base nature of those who harbor ignoble souls.
Across the globe, millions perish in wars; countless lives are lost, and fundamental rights are stolen.
From physical combat to psychological and social conflict, the nature of human strife continues to evolve. Some lives are extinguished before they ever have the chance to begin—a phenomenon known as abortion. Elsewhere, psychological wars are waged within the hearts of women, sometimes driving them to suicide—a tragedy rooted in a complex interplay of personal psychological factors and social pressures.
I know that what I am saying may sound foolish, yet it is a reality that we all live within. Deep within ourselves, we wage psychological and social wars that we have no desire to see end.
And yet, let us return to what truly matters.
Zhao Li smiled as he hoisted the seven-year-old Emperor of the Rising Sun, Zhao Yong, onto his shoulders.
"How about you help your father gather some fruit? Your sister, Zhao Minghua—the Empress of the Desolate Moon—is currently in the middle of her training."
A beautiful smile spread across Zhao Yong's face.
"Let's go!"
A faint smile appeared on Zhao Li's face as he headed toward the orchard to pick fruit, trying to clear his mind of the wars and battles that would seemingly never end in his lifetime.
Outside the realm of the subconscious, Tom opened his eyes to find that the battle was still in its early stages.
"Two hours and fifteen minutes have passed since the war against the Beast Rulers and their minions began. Who would have thought they'd summon their underlings? They usually possess enough pride and arrogance to avoid such underhanded tactics—except for the Serpent Ruler; he's a despicable wretch."
Tom spoke with a cold, mocking tone as he made his way toward where his companions had gathered.
The grace period they had been granted was nearing its end, and the fight against the Goblin Ruler was about to begin. Yet, neither he nor Armin showed even a shred of fear.
The battle was imminent, and they had to plunge straight into the thick of it without the slightest sign of retreat—for even a moment's withdrawal could cost them their lives at the hands of the Goblin Ruler and his followers.
"Isn't that Yuta? What's he doing here? Didn't Gowther say he left the city the moment we arrived?"
Armin asked, looking puzzled as he glanced toward Tom Tarta and the other Yuta Tarta. Noticing Inyusha in his company—and the clear look of indifference on his face—the two decided to approach them.
"Didn't you leave the city of Yusbekers last night? How are you still here?"
Armin asked, looking toward Yuta, who appeared calm and unconcerned.
"I came back because I left some meeting documents at Verselkin Academy. Besides, the meeting was called off when I was already fifteen kilometers outside of Yusbekers, so I decided to set up camp and head back to the city. I certainly didn't expect you to be attacked by Beast Rulers, though."
Tom and Armin both shot him a look of frustration. Breaking the silence, Armin remarked:
"You really are a lazy one, Master Yuta! How could you forget such important papers in your room? Then again... it *is* Verselkin Academy, after all!"
Meanwhile, Tom's gaze held a hint of suspicion. Yet, observing Yuta's expression—which betrayed only lethargy and fatigue—and hearing his heavy, indifferent tone, the explanation seemed somewhat plausible.
Afterward, they headed straight for the assembly point, the departure site for the battle against the Goblin Ruler.
At the gathering spot, Grey watched his companions and the other students; they had finished their preparations and stood fully ready for combat.
He mused to himself, feeling a sense of pity—both for his own sake and for all the lives lost in the struggle for existence—a life that felt as fragile as a thin sewing thread, liable to snap under the slightest pressure. "Today, Friday, May 29th, 675—at 11:40, I believe. A group of students—the strongest among them being of the 'Sacred Ruler' rank—are set to face entities capable of easily slaughtering fighters of the 'Master Ruler' rank."
"And yet, there is still hope. I honestly don't know—I'm not even sure if there's a shred of hope to be found in that 'Desert of Refraction'… Haaah!"
Grey closed his eyes for a few seconds, then opened them in surprise upon hearing the voice of someone who, by all rights, shouldn't have been there at all.
"Yuta Caseral? Isn't he supposed to be outside the city of Yosbikers?"
Grey's tone was laced with bewilderment as he watched the students—who began to move away from him, pointedly avoiding his gaze.
This struck him as rather odd; based on what he had come to know of Yuta over the past five years or so, the man was not one to harm others without a compelling reason.
Deciding it wasn't the time to dwell on the fear others felt toward him, he let the matter slide.
The companions gathered, their expressions a complex mix of relief, suspicion, and confusion.
Jian Yi spoke, his voice heavy with doubt—the possibility of a traitor in their midst still weighing on his mind.
Yuta's return at such a moment only deepened his suspicions; after all, criminals often enjoy witnessing the aftermath of their own handiwork.
"What brings you back here? Don't you have business to attend to at your companies, Master Yuta Caseral?" Yuta's crimson eyes remained calm as he gazed at Jian Yi, whose expression betrayed deep suspicion regarding Yuta's involvement.
Although Jian Yi's suspicions were well-founded, voicing them in front of over a hundred students—amidst an army of more than two thousand fighters—was, to say the least, naive.
Yet, in truth, had Yuta wished to kill them, no one could have saved them.
After all, he was stronger than Reinhardt—a being of the "Trans-Omnipotent" level—who had not yet managed to unlock the third wing.
Yuta, however, stood at the "Beyond-Existence" rank, possessing a fourth-level wing.
In this hierarchy, masters who reached the third level were known as "Emperors," those who attained the fourth level were called "Venerables," and those who reached the fifth level were titled "Exalted Venerables."
Furthermore, Yuta had twelve fourth-level entities on his side, along with the Exalted Venerable, Izlabeth of the Heavenly Blessing.
Consequently, any attempt to kill him would exact a devastating price—one that could result in the total annihilation of their very existence.
Nevertheless, Yuta had no desire to kill them or destroy this world, as doing so would interfere with his future plans.
Moreover, securing their presence had been an incredibly arduous task, and negotiating with a "Sacred Scribe" or a "Mist of Mystery" was all but impossible.
Thus, killing them now—simply because they harbored suspicions—would be a waste of all his efforts.
"The reason I returned is that I left the meeting documents behind at Versalkin Academy." Moreover, the meeting was called off when I was fifteen kilometers away from the city of Yusbikers, so I decided to set up camp and head back to the city. But I never expected it to come under attack by the Beast Rulers.