Nine days.
That was how long it took Drakar to reach the front lines.
Nine days of marching beneath an unforgiving sky.
The army of Sanctoria had crossed forests, valleys, rocky plains, and stretches of empty land where the wind carried nothing but dust.
Thirty thousand soldiers had marched beneath the banners of Sanctoria.
Thirty thousand men and women walking toward an enemy more than twice their size.
Seventy-six thousand soldiers waited for them.
And now...
They had arrived.
The first thing Drakar noticed was the silence.
Not the peaceful kind.
The kind that followed death.
The Sanctorian camp stood beneath a gray morning sky, its tents scattered across a field that had once been green.
Broken weapons lay near the edges of the camp.
Some shields were cracked.
Several tents had been abandoned.
A few wounded soldiers sat against wooden posts while healers moved between them.
Drakar slowed his horse.
His crimson eyes traveled across the camp.
These were not the soldiers who had marched out with the army nine days ago.
These were survivors.
Men and women who had already tasted the battlefield.
One soldier caught Drakar's attention.
He was sitting beside a dying fire.
His armor was scratched and stained with dirt. A bandage wrapped around his left shoulder, and his right hand rested against a spear that looked almost too heavy for him to lift.
Drakar dismounted.
The soldier noticed him.
His eyes widened.
He immediately tried to stand.
"Sir Drakar!"
"Stay seated."
The soldier hesitated before obeying.
Drakar stopped in front of him.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Drakar looked at the man's bandaged shoulder.
"What happened?"
The soldier lowered his eyes.
"We were attacked three days ago."
"By Leonhart?"
"Yes."
"How many?"
The soldier swallowed.
"Too many."
Drakar remained silent.
The soldier looked toward the distant horizon.
"They came before sunrise."
His voice became quieter.
"We thought it was a scouting party."
He gave a bitter laugh.
"It wasn't."
Drakar listened.
"They hit our eastern position. We held them for nearly an hour."
"And then?"
The soldier's fingers tightened around his spear.
"They broke through."
A cold wind passed between them.
"We lost almost three hundred."
Drakar's expression remained unchanged.
The soldier looked up at him.
"Sir..."
"Yes?"
"Are we really going to fight them?"
Drakar looked at him.
The soldier's voice trembled.
"Seventy-six thousand..."
He glanced around the camp.
"We're only thirty thousand."
For several seconds, Drakar said nothing.
Then he crouched slightly so that his eyes were level with the soldier's.
"What's your name?"
The soldier blinked.
"Caelan, sir."
"Caelan."
"Yes."
"Do you still intend to fight?"
The soldier stared at him.
His lips parted.
But no answer came.
Drakar stood.
"Then you're already more useful than you think."
Caelan looked confused.
Drakar turned toward the battlefield.
"Numbers decide how many swords enter a battle."
His voice remained calm.
"They do not decide where those swords are placed."
Caelan slowly looked toward him.
Drakar continued walking.
"Rest."
"Tomorrow, you'll understand."
The soldier watched him leave.
For the first time since his unit had been attacked...
Caelan felt something other than fear.
By afternoon, the entire Sanctorian army had assembled.
Thirty thousand soldiers stood across the enormous field.
Infantry.
Archers.
Cavalry.
Shield formations.
Battlefield mages.
Every soldier had been summoned.
The six commanders stood near the front.
Garran Stonewall rested both hands upon the pommel of his enormous sword.
Elira Vane watched the western forest.
Lucien Hart sat upon his horse, his cavalry waiting behind him.
Theron held several magical scrolls beneath his arm.
Maera Frost stood beside the shield formations.
Darian Voss had already sent scouts toward every possible approach.
And at the center of them all...
stood Drakar.
He looked across the assembled army.
Thirty thousand faces stared back.
Some were confident.
Some were nervous.
Some were terrified.
Many were simply exhausted.
Drakar knew what they were thinking.
They had heard the number.
Seventy-six thousand.
A number large enough to crush courage before the first sword was ever drawn.
Drakar stepped forward.
The murmuring gradually disappeared.
One soldier lowered his spear.
Another straightened his back.
Then silence settled across the army.
Drakar looked over them.
"You have all heard the number."
Nobody moved.
"Seventy-six thousand."
A few soldiers exchanged glances.
Drakar continued.
"And you are thirty thousand."
The silence became heavier.
"But let me ask you something."
His voice carried across the formation.
"Did seventy-six thousand soldiers march into this field?"
The soldiers looked at one another.
Drakar's eyes hardened.
"No."
He pointed toward the distant enemy lines.
"They brought seventy-six thousand bodies."
His voice grew stronger.
"We brought thirty thousand soldiers."
Several heads lifted.
"There's a difference."
A murmur passed through the ranks.
Drakar continued.
"Because a soldier who knows why he is fighting..."
He paused.
"...is worth more than ten who do not."
The murmuring stopped.
Drakar walked slowly along the front.
"You are not standing here because Sanctoria needs numbers."
He looked toward the soldiers.
"You are standing here because someone must stand."
A soldier tightened his grip around his sword.
"You think they are stronger because they are more numerous?"
Drakar shook his head.
"No."
His voice became cold.
"They are stronger only if you allow them to be."
The words struck the formation.
Drakar stopped.
"Look at the person beside you."
Slowly, soldiers began looking around.
"That person is the reason you are still standing."
He pointed toward the ranks.
"When the enemy comes..."
His voice rose.
"...you will not fight alone."
The soldiers' expressions changed.
"You will fight beside the man who carried you when you were wounded."
A soldier's eyes widened.
"You will fight beside the woman who shared her last water with you."
Another soldier lowered his head.
"You will fight beside the friend who stood between you and death."
Drakar's fist tightened.
"And when the enemy believes your formation has broken..."
His crimson eyes burned with determination.
"...you will show them that they were wrong."
A roar began somewhere in the rear.
Then another.
And another.
Drakar raised his voice.
"You were not brought here to die."
The soldiers answered with silence.
"You were brought here to win."
The first shout erupted.
"FOR SANCTORIA!"
Another followed.
"FOR SANCTORIA!"
Then thousands.
"FOR SANCTORIA!"
The battlefield shook beneath the roar.
Drakar stood still as the sound rolled across the army.
The fear had not disappeared.
But it had been buried beneath something stronger.
Drakar slowly raised one hand.
The shouting gradually faded.
His expression became merciless.
"There is no time to spare."
The six commanders looked toward him.
Drakar's eyes moved across the battlefield.
Then he spoke.
"Starve your mercy."
A pause.
"Draw your death."
His hand slowly lowered.
"And leave them no tomorrow!"
For one heartbeat...
Nothing happened.
Then—
"CHARGE!"
The army moved.
Thirty thousand soldiers began marching.
And the battlefield finally came alive.
THE FIRST MOVEMENT
The western forest came first.
Three thousand Sanctorian soldiers disappeared between the trees.
They moved silently.
Then—
BOOM.
A war drum echoed through the forest.
BOOM.
Another answered.
Then another.
Smoke began rising above the trees.
From the distant Leonhart lines, soldiers turned toward the forest.
Fire arrows suddenly flew from within the trees.
One struck the ground.
Another struck a wooden barricade.
Then dozens more.
The illusion had begun.
Three thousand soldiers made the forest sound like an army many times larger.
Drakar watched from the center.
"Begin."
A messenger immediately rode toward the western force.
Moments later, another drumbeat echoed.
The Leonhart soldiers began moving.
Exactly as Drakar expected.
The center advanced.
Ten thousand Sanctorian soldiers marched forward.
Then stopped.
The Leonhart army responded.
Thousands of soldiers began advancing toward them.
The ground trembled beneath their feet.
The Sanctorian center slowly retreated.
One hundred steps.
Then another hundred.
Leonhart followed.
The distance between the armies continued shrinking.
Drakar watched carefully.
"Not yet."
The center continued retreating.
Leonhart continued pursuing.
The enemy believed they were pushing Sanctoria back.
That belief was precisely what Drakar wanted.
The western forest erupted again.
"NOW!"
Fire arrows filled the air.
The Sanctorian soldiers attacked.
Then retreated.
Leonhart responded.
Their mages began casting.
A burst of flame exploded among the trees.
WHOOOOM!
Several Sanctorian soldiers deliberately scattered.
"Fall back!"
The western force retreated.
Leonhart advanced.
Then—
another attack.
Then another retreat.
Exactly as planned.
From the distant battlefield, Drakar watched the smoke.
He turned toward Theron.
"How are their mages?"
Theron closed his eyes for a moment, sensing the magical disturbance.
"They're casting."
"How much?"
"Several spells already."
Drakar nodded.
"Good."
Hours passed.
The battlefield became a machine.
Every part moved according to the plan.
The western force attacked.
Retreated.
Attacked again.
Retreated again.
Leonhart's soldiers followed deeper into the forest.
Their mages continued casting.
Their formation slowly stretched.
Their confidence grew.
And that was exactly what Drakar wanted.
Meanwhile, the Sanctorian center continued retreating.
Not too quickly.
Never too quickly.
Every step was deliberate.
Every retreat calculated.
Leonhart believed they were winning.
The soldiers of Sanctoria knew they were retreating.
But their commanders knew the truth.
They were pulling the enemy exactly where they wanted them.
Then came the hills.
Two enormous hills stood ahead.
Between them was a narrow stretch of land.
Five thousand shield soldiers waited there.
Silent.
Motionless.
Hidden.
Maera stood at the center of the formation.
"Hold."
The soldiers tightened their shields.
"Hold."
The enemy approached.
The sound of thousands of footsteps grew louder.
Maera's eyes narrowed.
"Wait."
Leonhart entered the narrow ground.
More soldiers.
More.
More.
Their numbers began filling the passage.
Then Maera heard the signal.
A single horn.
She smiled.
"Close the formation."
The shields slammed together.
CLANG!
Thousands of shields locked into place.
Leonhart's soldiers suddenly found themselves trapped between the hills.
Their numerical advantage disappeared.
They couldn't spread.
They couldn't surround the shield formation.
They couldn't bring their full numbers forward.
The trap had closed.
"NOW!"
Sanctoria attacked.
Spears thrust forward.
Swords struck.
Arrows fell from above.
The Leonhart soldiers stumbled backward.
The center that had been retreating for hours suddenly turned around.
And charged.
Drakar watched from behind the formation.
His eyes remained cold.
"Exactly as planned."
On the eastern side...
Silence.
Lucien Hart waited behind the hills.
His cavalry remained hidden.
Not a horse moved.
The river beside them flowed quietly.
Then a messenger arrived.
"Their main force has committed."
Lucien looked toward the battlefield.
"How far?"
"Most of their eastern cavalry has moved toward the center."
Lucien smiled.
"Then we move."
He raised his sword.
"ALL CAVALRY!"
Hundreds of horses erupted from behind the hills.
Then thousands.
The earth shook.
The eastern Leonhart flank had been left exposed.
Sanctorian cavalry slammed into it.
The impact was devastating.
Leonhart's formation broke.
Men were thrown from their horses.
Orders were shouted.
Banners fell.
The Sanctorian cavalry pushed deeper.
For the first time...
the enormous Leonhart army began losing control of the battlefield.
At the western forest, Leonhart's mages continued casting.
Theron watched carefully.
"They're weakening."
Drakar looked toward him.
"Armand?"
"Still casting."
"How much?"
"Enough."
Drakar nodded.
The plan was working.
Every piece.
The forest.
The retreat.
The hills.
The cavalry.
The mages.
Everything.
Leonhart had been separated into pieces.
Their numbers no longer mattered.
Sanctoria was winning.
Actually winning.
The soldiers who had feared the number seventy-six thousand were now pushing the enemy backward.
Their morale exploded.
"KEEP MOVING!"
"FOR SANCTORIA!"
"DO NOT LET THEM ESCAPE!"
Drakar watched.
His commanders looked at him.
For the first time since the war had begun...
Garran smiled.
"Sir Drakar."
Drakar glanced toward him.
"We're doing it."
Drakar looked across the battlefield.
Thousands of Leonhart soldiers were being forced backward.
"Not yet."
Garran's smile faded slightly.
Drakar's gaze remained fixed on the enemy.
"We haven't won."
Then—
the wind changed.
Drakar felt it.
A strange pressure passed across the battlefield.
The noise of combat seemed to fade.
Theron suddenly stopped.
His eyes widened.
"Sir..."
Drakar looked toward him.
"What?"
Theron stared toward the far side of the battlefield.
"I don't know."
The air became heavier.
Then—
a sound.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Something was walking.
Slowly.
Through the chaos.
A figure emerged from beyond the distant smoke.
He wore a long, weathered hooded cloak that hung almost to the ground.
His body was thin.
Old.
Very old.
The skin visible beneath his hood was deeply wrinkled, with countless lines carved across his face like cracks in ancient stone.
Long gray-white hair escaped from beneath the hood and rested against his shoulders.
His beard was thin and uneven, reaching almost to his chest.
His back was slightly bent.
His hands were skeletal and covered in age spots.
He looked like a man who should have needed a cane merely to walk.
Yet his footsteps were steady.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
He stopped.
The hood concealed most of his face.
Then his hand disappeared beneath his cloak.
He pulled out a wooden staff.
It was nothing like the ornate staffs carried by Leonhart's known mages.
It looked ancient.
Dark brown.
Covered in cracks.
A twisted branch formed its upper end.
He slowly raised it.
Theron's face turned pale.
Drakar's eyes narrowed.
The old man whispered something.
The air screamed.
Magic exploded across the battlefield.
The sky above them suddenly turned red.
Soldiers looked upward.
"What is that?"
"Move!"
"GET DOWN!"
The clouds seemed to ignite.
Then—
FIRE.
Not one spell.
Not ten.
Thousands.
A rain of enormous flames descended from the sky.
WHOOOOOOOOOOOM!
The battlefield disappeared beneath fire.
But the flames did not touch Leonhart.
They fell only upon Sanctoria.
One after another.
Explosions tore through the formations.
Shield soldiers were thrown into the air.
Horses screamed.
Weapons melted.
The ground erupted.
"AAAAAAAH!"
"RUN!"
"THE FIRE!"
"HELP ME!"
The carefully constructed formation collapsed within seconds.
The soldiers who had been shouting victory moments earlier were now screaming for their lives.
Drakar's eyes widened.
"Fall back!"
Another wave of fire descended.
BOOOOOOM!
The earth shook.
Garran rushed toward Drakar.
His face was covered in ash.
"Our report..."
He struggled to breathe.
"Our report said there were only twelve mages."
Drakar looked toward the old man.
Another spell gathered around the wooden staff.
Garran's voice trembled.
"But he's the thirteenth mage."
Theron stared at the figure.
"No..."
His hands began shaking.
"That isn't possible."
Drakar remained silent.
Garran looked at him.
"Sir?"
Drakar's crimson eyes narrowed.
He stared at the old man standing alone amid the burning battlefield.
The old man's magical pressure continued spreading.
It was unlike anything Drakar had felt from the twelve mages they had been warned about.
Not a Spell Master.
Not an Arcane Adept.
Not an Arcane Master.
Not even a High Arcanist.
Drakar finally spoke.
His voice was quiet.
Cold.
"He isn't just a mere mage."
Another enormous fireball formed above the battlefield.
Drakar's expression changed.
For the first time...
there was something dangerously close to disbelief in his eyes.
"He is a..."
He looked directly at the hooded old man.
"...Grand Arcanist."
The battlefield fell into terror.
And the soldiers of Sanctoria finally understood something.
Their plan had been perfect.
Their victory had been within reach.
But they had never been fighting the entire enemy army.
There had been something else waiting behind it.
Something they had never been told about.
And now...
it had entered the battlefield.