Chương 46: Chapter 45: Hopes of Miracle

The banners of the two kingdoms danced to the rhythm of a violent wind, snapping and snarling like hungry beasts waiting for the first scent of victory. High above, the midday sun hung in the sky, its unfiltered glare thickening the shadows of the massed armies until they pooled beneath the soldiers' feet like spilled ink. Then, the silence of the world shattered. WROOOOM!

The guttural roar of the war horn echoed across the plains, a sound that felt as though the earth itself were groaning under the weight of the impending slaughter. On the field, the commanders—Kaelen and Demor—leveled their swords at one another in a silent promise. With a collective roar, the knights surged forward, their blades erupting in different colors of radiant auras.

Above them, the sky became a canvas of chaos; Aether-infused spells launched by the mages streaked through the air like falling stars, and arrows, amplified by skills, accompanied them in a lethal rain. CLANG!!! The front lines collided with the force of two tectonic plates.

As the knights hacked and parried through the initial shock, Demor Aurelyth glanced at his brother, Cassion, who rode close by his side.

"Is that him?" Demor asked, his gaze fixed on Kaelen, whose blue aura carved a bloody path through their infantry.

"The one you talked about? The one who humiliated you?"

"No," Cassion hissed, clenching his teeth so hard they threatened to crack. He shifted his glare and pointed a finger—not at the churning battlefield, but at the distant, quiet hill where the royal pavilion stood.

"He's there." Demor followed his brother's line of sight, squinting at the man Cassion had singled out. To Demor's eyes, the figure sitting on the hill seemed almost ordinary, a calm observer draped in a military coat. But then he caught the darkness in the man's gaze—a look that felt far too amused for a mere spectator.

"He doesn't look like much," he smirked, though the expression failed to reach his eyes. His mind was ill at ease. A nagging doubt tugged at the back of his thoughts, a tactical inconsistency he couldn't quite name. Why did they decide to face us on the open field so suddenly? They could've stayed within their fortifications without wasting stamina on a march. And how did they acquire Relic-grade armor so suddenly? It felt like a trap that was far too obvious to actually be one.

"I'll get him this time. That bastard will pay for what he did," Cassion roared, his pride burning hotter than the spells streaking overhead.

"Keep the formation intact! Don't let them split you!" Kaelen shouted to his comrades. He carved through every foe in his path with an efficient grace. His white horse, draped in reinforced plating, reared its front legs in a rhythmic dance of war, its iron-shod hooves crushing the earth as Kaelen's voice thundered over the din.

"Front line, fall back! Second line, advance! Keep them occupied until the first line recovers!" The Crimvane knights shifted to his command, pushing back against the overwhelming red tide of Aurelyth while desperately ensuring no one fell. Despite being outnumbered two-to-one, the sheer quality of their Relic-grade armor held the line. The burning hope to survive this slaughter and return to the families they had left behind became a physical force, fueling their weary arms.

"Is this really okay? We will lose too much strength if we try to keep everyone alive," Numael, who had been riding beside Kaelen, asked.

"These are Lady Vionette's orders, and we must not break them," he replied as he cleaved through another enemy.

"We should tru—" As Kaelen pushed forward from the Crimvane side, Demor and Cassion closed in from the opposing lines. Both commanders instinctively reined in their horses, signaling their seconds-in-command to halt as well. Kaelen's ocean-blue eyes assessed the prince's aura, and the Crown Prince of Aurelyth glared back with a predatory hunger. For a fleeting moment, the chaotic battle around them seemed to slow. They were two masters of the blade, silently measuring the weight of each other's souls.

"I'm giving you all of my authority, Numael," Kaelen said as he dismounted from his horse with a fluid motion, his eyes never leaving Demor.

"Command the army in my place." Numael stared at him in confusion, but upon seeing the resolute look in Kaelen's eyes, he closed his own, nodded, and wheeled his mount away to direct the forces. Recognizing the challenge, Demor prepared to do the same, but Cassion spurred his horse forward, intercepting his brother's path.

"Who is this guy?" Cassion asked, raising his eyebrows in a display of practiced arrogance. He glanced back at Demor with a sneer.

"Brother, let me handle this one. He's not worth your time."

"No. Move if you don't want to die," Demor said firmly, his voice slicing through Cassion's ego.

"Help command the army while I fight. This man is not at your level… something is off about him." With a thud, Demor dropped from his saddle and unsheathed his blade. The two commanders stepped toward one another, the chaos of the battling armies parting around them as if by sheer instinct, leaving a hollow circle of blood-stained grass. They stopped a few meters apart, raising their swords toward the heavens in a simultaneous salute of death.

[Aura Blade (Rare)] [Aura Blade] Demor's sword, a masterpiece of Peak Relic-grade craftsmanship, erupted in a blood-red glow. The pressure radiating from the steel was so suffocating that nearby knights stumbled backward, their breath catching in their throats. Kaelen's High Relic-grade sword answered with a pure, piercing blue light that mirrored Mythara's sky above them.

"I am Demor Aurelyth, Crown Prince of Aurelyth and Knight Commander," Demor declared, his voice ringing with the pride of his lineage.

"Kaelen Veythorne, Their Majesties' sword and Knight Commander," Kaelen replied, his tone calm and unyielding. Demor's eyes narrowed slightly.

'Majesties'? Two? He filed the thought away for later, intending to extract the answers once Kaelen lay beneath his boot.

"Why would you challenge me?" Demor asked, his tone dripping with pity.

"You have to know you aren't strong enough to win this duel, let alone this war."

"Because I want to prove myself," Kaelen said, his grip tightening around his hilt.

"I want to prove that I am worthy of the status bestowed upon me so suddenly. I won't let their trust be a mistake."

"Prove yourself, huh?" Demor leveled his sword at Kaelen with a sneer.

"You won't survive long enough to do that, commoner." In the heart of the slaughter, the two commanders began their deadly dance. It was more than a mere duel; it was the fragile hinge upon which the morale of two warring nations turned.

"Khuek!" A knight of Crimvane parried a strike from his enemy, his teeth grinding together with the same agonizing friction as the clashing steel. The Aurelyth soldier grinned maliciously, twisting his blade to throw the Crimvane knight slightly off balance.

"…!" The knight watched with wide, terror-stricken eyes as the enemy's blade descended, aimed straight for his heart. <Move your sword to the fucker's knee! Quickly! > A voice echoed within his mind, snapping his focus away from the paralyzing grip of death. It wasn't a familiar voice, but he had heard it at least once before. Acting on instinct, he obeyed the command—dropping his blade in a desperate, downward sweep toward the enemy's knee instead of struggling to raise it for a block.

The Aurelyth knight faltered as the steel bit into his joint. Though the wound wasn't fatal, the sudden burst of pain threw off his execution, causing his descending strike to merely pierce the Crimvane knight's shoulder rather than cleaving his chest open. Grab! The moment blood sprayed from the wound, a fellow knight seized him from behind and hauled him backward, stepping into the fray to take his place against the enemy.

"Get healed, quickly!" the female knight ordered as she engaged the staggered foe. <Go, you idiot! > the voice from before snapped in irritation. <Y-yes! > The injured knight stumbled backward, retreating toward an available healer. As he ran, the realization of who that voice belonged to finally struck him—their queen. Her… Majesty? How can she see our movements from all the way up there? This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

"Knights! Rotate out the moment you're injured! Make it fast!" A warhorse galloped past the retreating soldier. The man atop the saddle was Duke Valric, weaving through the carnage with a bloodied sword in hand, barking commands to his men—troops renowned as the finest in the kingdom, second only to the royal knights.

"Swordsmen, push them back! Shield wielders, layer your defensive skills!" he bellowed, riding relentlessly from one flank to the other. This is too much… Valric clicked his tongue. We possess comparable armor, but having to pull our men back after an injury while being outnumbered puts us at a disadvantage! Lucien, I'm trusting your word… I'm trusting Her Majesty's judgment… Meanwhile, occupying the space between the vanguard and the spellcasters, Duke Korneas orchestrated his mages and infantry.

"Mages, concentrate your magic on the right side where their ranks are tightest!" he commanded.

"The rest of you, split into two groups and fire upon their flanks!" The spellcasters gripped their staves with white-knuckled intensity; some hastily downed glowing Aether potions to replenish their reserves. They were already drenched in sweat from the cycle of expelling vast amounts of magic and forcing it back into their Aether Cores.

"Oh, the great spirits of fire, grant thee…" A circle of mages chanted, manifesting a massive, radiant magic circle above their heads. But as they synchronized their incantation, one of the casters suddenly snapped his eyes wide open in sheer terror.

"AHHHHH!" The mage shrieked as jagged, dark blue veins bulged along his wrists, neck, and the edges of his eyes. His internal Aether flow ruptured—the volatile energy fighting to tear its way out of his body while simultaneously crashing back into his overloaded Aether Core. <Quick, get him to an Aether Body healer! > The telepathic command pierced the minds of two nearby soldiers, spurring them into immediate action.

"HELP ME! HELP—AHHHH!!!" The soldiers rushed over with a canvas stretcher, hauling the mage onto it before sprinting back toward the white medical tents. The mage howled with maddened eyes, his pupils reflecting the unforgiving sun above. The healing camps had become a bloody theater of their own. Even with the protection of Relic-grade gear, the volume of the Aurelyth numbers meant the wounded were being carried in on blood-soaked rags and makeshift stretchers by the dozens.

The healers from Cyradis, their robes stained, worked with a focused desperation to uphold Vionette's 'zero deaths' mandate. <Separate into groups of five and separate into the eight tents. If there's nothing to do in your tent, go into the busy ones. > Vionette's voice echoed through the minds of the commander and every head medic on the field, orchestrating the chaos of the battlefield like a macabre symphony. Following her lead, Isla barked orders at the healer units.

"Move the last two to tent three, there's space!" she shouted to a pair of sweating knights hauling a fallen comrade.

"We need a regeneration user here! Aether Body healers, to this station, quickly!" The Aether Body—the ethereal layer that reinforced a person's physical frame—was under strain. For the mages, who were forcefully channeling Aether beyond their natural limits to counter the volume of Aurelyth soldiers, injuries to this layer were becoming disastrously common. [Circulation Override (Rare)] A healer pressed his glowing palm against the newly arrived mage's stomach and activated his skill.

A soothing green light erupted from his hand, sinking deep into the seizing man's flesh. Oh no! His state is critical! I'm afraid—"Move!" Suddenly, Isla shoved the man aside and planted her own hands firmly against the screaming mage's abdomen. As the displaced healer watched in stunned silence, the chaotic, raging Aether flowing through the dying man's veins began to pacify, settling down like a god-given miracle. What the—! He stared at Isla, his eyes wide with disbelief. Where did this woman come from?

I know she commands us, but… but techniques like this are only possible for… Outside, another healer who had just stabilized an injured knight stepped beyond the tent's flap. He gazed up at the elevated rise of the plains where Crimvane's rulers sat comfortably in their pavilion. He narrowed his eyes, his expression painted with a quiet, tragic pity. Can they really win a war by fighting like this? he wondered, turning his attention back as yet another bloodied stretcher was rushed in.

The Cyradis healers didn't fully comprehend why they had been dragged into this foreign slaughter, nor did they place their faith in the grand promises of Crimvane's 'crazy queen.' But they were loyal to the orders of their lord—Count Fain—and for now, that order meant saving every life that crossed their threshold.

Duke Korneas had now thrust himself entirely into the vanguard, his shield battering into Aurelyth knights while his sword bit into any opening he could find. His warhorse lunged forward, acting as a living battering ram of muscle and steel, yet the Duke's heart grew heavy at the sight of his men slowly being ground down. <Korneas, change your knights' positions. Take over the left wing immediately, > Vionette's telepathic voice commanded, her tone sounding too serene for the carnage unfolding below. <What?!

Your Majesty, that will make the front lines lose their ground! > Korneas shouted back in his mind. <We're already being—> <Shut the fuck up and do it! > <Y-yes! > The aggression lacing her mental voice left him no room to argue. Left without a choice, Korneas signaled his captains to redirect the troops. He realized that Vionette wasn't merely guessing; she was weaving a strategy that demanded blind obedience. If he hesitated for even a second, the entire house of cards would crumble.

"Knights of Highfen! To the left flank! Quickly!" he roared. As he yanked his horse's reins to the left, he cast one final look back at the hill where his queen sat. Will this really work? The memory of Crimvane's previous fall was a lingering ghost that haunted his every waking thought, and only a total victory today could fully exorcise it.

<Valric, move your knights to the right wing, quickly. > Duke Valric heard the voice resonate in his skull and didn't so much as flinch. His eyebrows twitched in a brief moment of confusion at the abrupt tactical shift, but the memory of his son's unwavering faith in this 'crazy pair' anchored him. If Lucien believed in their madness, Valric would gladly follow suit. <By your command, > he replied.

"Knights of Blackmoor! Advance to the right flank immediately!" With both dukes withdrawing their forces to the sides of the battlefield, the center of the Crimvane formation was left dangerously hollowed out, held together by nothing more than a handful of scattered units and the Royal Knights.

On the opposing hill, nestled within a luxurious red-tasseled tent that reeked of expensive incense, King Kahen Aurelyth lounged in a carved wooden throne, lazily swirling a glass of vintage wine.

"Sire, Crimvane's vanguard has begun to collapse! They are pulling their dukes to the flanks in desperation, and Duke Caldris' hidden forces are rapidly closing in on their rear," a scout reported, dropping to one knee with a triumphant grin. Delighted by the news, Kahen let out a boisterous, rumbling laugh, slamming his goblet down onto a map table scattered with carved tactical markers.

"Kahahah! Crimvane will turn to ash before sunset, and this continent will be ours! That little princess is nothing more than a foolish child playing at war." Pointing a ringed finger at the kneeling scout, he commanded, "Order our men to push through their center! Ignore the flanks entirely!" As the messenger hurried from the tent, a slender figure emerged from the pavilion's shadows. His blonde hair was styled, and his emerald eyes gleamed with a calculating malice. It was Duke Gemsh Caldris.

"Though she changed her style, she's still that stupid doll princess," Gemsh mused, his voice dripping with aristocratic condescension.

"Falling for my provocation and executing Carvan was predictable, but rejecting Eryndor's military aid was pure idiocy. She has isolated her kingdom perfectly for us."

"Heheh! You can't blame her, Gemsh. We planned this trap so flawlessly that there was no chance her mind could predict the pincer," Kahen agreed, pouring a fresh glass and offering it to the traitorous duke. Gemsh smiled a razor-thin smile, staring out toward the blood-soaked plains through the slit in the canvas. Heheh… Vionette Crimvane, I am the genius of Caldris. You were nothing more than a disposable pawn on my board.

"Commence the annihilation immediately!" Gemsh barked at the remaining lieutenant inside the tent, his hand sweeping dramatically across the tactical map.

"Order the hidden forces to strike!"

"Hold the line until the injured can be healed! Do not give them a single inch!" Numael bellowed, his voice ragged and hoarse. As the second-in-command, the burden of anchoring the rapidly thinning center had fallen onto his shoulders while Kaelen remained locked in his death match. CLANG! Numael gritted his teeth, parrying a synchronized dual-strike from two Aurelyth knights. His armor was drenched in sweat, his lungs searing with every desperate intake of air, while his enemies seemed endlessly fresh.

With the dukes abandoning the center for the flanks, the pressure here has become unbearable! Numael clenched his jaw, his muscles screaming in protest.

"What is Her Majesty doing?!" a soldier cried out in despair as he stepped in to help Numael repel the attackers, his own shield loudly splintering under a blow.

"Why would she abandon the vanguard like this?!" Hearing the man's terrified scream, another knight exchanged a hollow, doomed look with him before turning back to face the encroaching enemy. Is this really how it ends…?

"WHAT THE HELL?! I DIDN'T COME HERE TO DIE LIKE THIS!" another soldier shrieked, panic clawing at his throat.

"Is she offering us up as sacrifices?!" The hope that had carried them into battle was now rapidly evaporating like morning mist beneath a scorching sun. Their Relic armor was battered, their limbs felt like lead, and the weight of the enemy's numbers was slowly crushing them into the dirt. SHROOOM! A massive fireball conjured by the Aurelyth mages tore through the sky, detonating in the very center of a Crimvane squad.

"Hahah! You stubborn idiots are all going to rot today!" the Aurelyth knights mocked as they pressed their advantage.

"Crimvane falls today!" While his comrades taunted the struggling defenders, the swordsman whom Numael had just wounded spat a mouthful of blood and leveled a cruel, jagged grin at the weary commander.

"Go ahead and look behind you… you might be able to hold us off for a few more minutes, but a whole new hell is coming for your backs!" Numael's stomach plummeted in horror as he followed the enemy's gaze. Peering past his own crumbling lines, he—along with the rest of the Crimvane vanguard—turned to look at their rear. As if intentionally giving them a moment to marinate in their own despair, the Aurelyth front line briefly halted their assault.

There, rising ominously from the tall, wind-swept grass directly behind Crimvane's formation, were the banners of Duke Gemsh Caldris. For a fleeting second, the soldiers prayed it was a delayed reinforcement. But seeing the sickeningly triumphant smiles plastered across the Aurelyth invaders' faces, that frail hope was extinguished faster than it had sparked. The supposed 'support' from within their own borders was, in reality, a venomous dagger aimed at their exposed backs.

One bloodied knight stared blankly at the marching ranks of Caldris cavalry. Slowly, his hollow expression completely shattered—his jaw trembled, his teeth clenched in helpless agony, and hot tears spilled from his eyes, dripping onto the blood-soaked soil beneath his boots.

"I… I don't want to die…" he choked out, his voice muffled by despair.

"Please… Your Majesty—" I'm so sorry, Kya. He squeezed his tear-filled eyes shut. I won't be able to see our new baby after all. All around him, the remaining soldiers stared at the traitorous army, their varied expressions painting a singular portrait of hopeless, paralyzing horror.

"No way… Caldris betrayed us?"

"How... why do it now?" The last shred of their fighting spirit disintegrated into the wind. They were being mercilessly crushed from the front and skewered from behind. It was no longer a battle; it was a localized massacre in the making. And yet, the telepathic voice of their queen remained silent. Only a miracle—or a god—could possibly pull them from the abyss now.

High above on the pavilion, Lina stared down at the unfolding disaster as the Caldris knights closed the jaws of the trap from the rear, while the Aurelyth vanguard dominated the weakened center and pushed forward. She darted a glance at Vionette's calm profile, then back at the slaughter below. This… could it be…? she wondered, the fragments of Vionette's strategy slowly clicking into place in her mind.

Beside her, Livora watched the battlefield with confusion, her mind racing in circles as she stared at Crimvane's queen. She couldn't understand why their rulers were simply sitting there, entirely unbothered, while their loyal subjects were being herded into a meat grinder. Even Rose, standing quietly at the edge, allowed a rare flicker of concern to ripple across her features. Finally, releasing an exhale, Roswell bolted upright from his chair.

"I will order Eryndor's forces to intervene immediately. This is no longer a battle; it is a slaughter," he declared, his voice tight with urgency.

"Hold your horses," Vionette commanded softly, raising a single, white-gloved hand to halt his advance. She didn't even bother to look at the king; her gaze remained locked on the sprawling chaos below, dark, amused flames dancing within her eyes.

"The real fight has only just begun." Roswell froze in his tracks, his eyes wide with disbelief. He looked between Vionette and Noa, then cast a quick, unsettled glance at the pink-haired girl, who appeared less concerned and more calculating. At last, Noa moved. He gripped the scabbard of his blade, Acheron, by the middle, set his military cap upon the armrest, and rose from his seat. His dark hair whipped in the wind as he stepped toward the edge of the pavilion. [Blink] In a heartbeat, he vanished from sight.

Elina shifted her draconic gaze from the empty space Noa had just occupied down to the plains below, a small, dangerous smile stretching across her face.

"Guess it's time."