Vandoria, Dawn Province
After days of forced marching, Duke Pierre and what remained of his army finally reached the border of Dawn Province.
What had once been a proud force of thirty thousand Vandorian troops had withered into a ragged column of barely a few thousand—men limping on makeshift crutches, bandages soaked through, armor dented and cracked, banners torn and stained. Exhaustion clung to them like rot. Pride had long since bled out onto the road.
"Sir," an officer reported, voice hoarse, "we should reach the city by nightfall."
"Good," Pierre replied. His voice was gravelly, scraped raw by fatigue and humiliation. "Once we arrive, we'll contact the capital. Tell the men to keep moving."
They marched onward.
The countryside of Dawn Province was serene. Fertile. Almost offensively peaceful.
Green pastures stretched beneath open skies. Rolling hills flowed gently into one another. Quiet streams reflected the afternoon light as if nothing in the world had gone wrong.
And yet, the land watched them.
Beastmen and human farmers paused in their work as the column passed. These people—originally citizens of Ravendawn—had endured Vandoria's taxes and levies for years. They did not look away.
They stared.
Some whispered.
Some folded their arms.
Some smirked.
No pity. No fear.
Pierre noticed.
Laugh while you still can, you cowards.
His jaw tightened.
When my army is reinforced, you'll be the first to pay. You'll regret betraying Vandoria.
The thoughts churned, hot and vindictive, sustaining him far better than rest ever could.
Hours later, the column halted.
An army stood across their path.
Thousands strong.
Ravendawn banners fluttered proudly in the wind. Wyvern riders circled overhead, their shadows sweeping across the ground like carrion birds. Behind them, smoke rose from the city of Dawn—thick, dark, unmistakable.
At the front of the formation, mounted upon a white steed, stood Prince Luxius.
Pierre's face twisted in fury.
"Y–You damned prince!" he shouted. "You abandoned your position and cost us the battle!"
Luxius raised his chin calmly.
"What do you mean?" he said evenly. "I am exactly where I am supposed to be—standing in a city that belongs to my people."
His gaze hardened.
"And my battle is just about to begin."
"You made a deal with the demons?!" Pierre snarled.
"I'll make a deal with any demon," Luxius replied without hesitation, "if it allows me to punish you."
"You traitor!"
Luxius raised his sword.
"RAVENDAWN—CHARGE!"
The field erupted in a thunderous roar as the army surged forward
---
Valinor, Capital City of Elvandar
Valinor was a beautiful, textbook example of a fantasy elven capital—one of those places where a sprawling metropolis and an ancient forest somehow coexisted without either one feeling inconvenienced.
Towering trees doubled as skyscrapers, their immense trunks carved into elegant dwellings and spiraled balconies. Delicate hanging bridges connected branch to branch high above the forest floor. Floating islands drifted lazily overhead, as though the sky itself had decided to participate in urban planning.
And of course, at the very center stood THE tree.
A single, colossal, almost obscene monument of bark and divinity, so tall its crown disappeared into the clouds. Some called it Yggdrasil. Others preferred the Tree of Life. The name didn't matter. Everyone knew which tree you meant.
Graceful perytons—essentially deer with wings, because elegance required aviation—carried elves through the air. Massive roc birds transported goods between districts with dignified wingbeats. Magic hummed gently through the leaves, and sunlight filtered through enchanted canopies, casting everything in a permanent emerald glow.
Elvandar wasn't just green.
It was aggressively green.
Clean energy.
Clean magic.
Clean souls.
Which translates to
No meat.
No alcohol.
And as expected from vegans in any universe, they were absolutely convinced this made them better than everyone else.
Their perfection had turned them into an isolated kingdom in some degree—not because they were weak, but because constant lectures about their moral superiority was exhausting for any visitors. Even so, no nation dared openly oppose Elvandar. Not only they were masters of beauty care and anti-aging, they were also masters of environmental warfare.
Inside the gleaming white palace built around Yggdrasil's massive trunk, the elven leadership gathered around a mana-comm crystal.
Present were:
The beautiful and flawless elf Queen, Thessalia Ulmaris The handsome and flawless Grand Druid, Vulred Neremin The equally handsome and equally flawless Grand Magus, Paerith Elkhazel Several Great Druids and Archmages, all on the same angelic level in appearance
Beside the crystal, a sweating technician crouched on the polished floor, surrounded by bubble wrap and an open box. He held an iPod in one hand and a folded instruction manual in the other.
"Let's see…" he muttered under his breath. "Scroll until I find the Bluetooth setting…"
"How much longer?" Queen Thessalia asked.
Her title and beauty was so radiant that it somehow intensified the technician's panic sweats.
"Y–Yes, my queen, I'm still trying to activate it."
The Grand Druid wrinkled his perfectly sculpted nose. "Ugh. A demonic device within our sacred halls…"
"At least it is better than allowing an actual demon to step inside," the Grand Magus replied calmly. "Though I sense no mana from the device."
After firmly rejecting Murica's offer to assist with the setup—because obviously no demon was permitted inside Elvandar—the technician finally managed to make it work.
"Bluetooth connected… done. I think… I think it's ready, my queen."
Instantly, every druid and magus raised a shimmering protective barrier, sealing themselves—and the queen—behind layers of defensive magic against any potential demonic trickery.
The technician was, notably, not included in this consideration.
Queen Thessalia lifted her hand in a graceful gesture. "Turn it on."
Gulping, the technician pressed the sideways triangle button.
The crystal flickered.
Music played.
A triumphant fanfare—suspiciously similar to Hail to the Chief—filled the hall as a projection formed. Solo appeared within the crystal.
"Greetings, leaders of Elvandar. I am Alex Solomon, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Murica."
The elves straightened at once.
"That is the demon leader other than the Demon King?" the queen asked coolly.
"Yes, Your Majesty," the Grand Druid replied.
The Grand Druid and Grand Magus stepped forward in perfect synchronization, their robes flowing with practiced gravitas.
"Greetings, Alex Solomon. I am Elvandar Grand Druid, Vulred Neremin."
"And I am Elvandar Grand Magus, Paerith Elkhazel."
"We present to you the Queen of Elvandar."
"Protector of the Elves."
"Keeper of the great Tree of Life, Yggdrasil."
"Thessalia the Third."
The technician panicked—and hit pause.
"U–Um… excuse me, sires. My queen…" He flipped through the manual, scratching his head. "This isn't a normal mana-comm transmission. This is called a video. A recording. So… basically, it's like a letter. With pictures."
Silence.
The elven nobles struggled visibly to maintain their dignity.
The queen cleared her throat.
"T–Then carry on. Continue that… thing."
The recording resumed, displaying scenes of peaceful Murican life and technological marvels.
The elves watched in silence.
With unfamiliar discomfort.
---
Hearthguard Cairn, Capital City of Dwargonia
Deep beneath the mighty Tambora Mountains sprawled Hearthguard Cairn—a vast steampunk metropolis carved into stone and lit by copper lanterns and glowing magma veins that pulsed through the rock like the mountain itself had a heartbeat.
Steam trains thundered through iron tunnels. Steam automobiles rattled across reinforced metal roads. Steamships docked in cavern harbors carved straight into underground lakes. Steam airships launched from colossal hangars hollowed into the mountain heights, vanishing upward through shafts that pierced the peaks.
If Elvandar was elegance in harmony with nature, Dwargonia was industry in open defiance of it.
The dwarves were the antithesis of the elves.
Elves embodied natural grace.
Dwarves embodied industrial enthusiasm.
Elves were tall, statuesque, flawless.
Dwarves were short, rugged, and aesthetically negotiable.
Elves cherished trees.
Dwarves cherished chopping trees.
Elves avoided meat and alcohol.
Dwarves held barbecue parties every weekend.
They hated each other with cultural consistency.
But no one dared provoke Dwargonia. Not only were they masters of brewery and barbecue, they were also masters of building extremely efficient fantasy killing machines.
Inside the Grand Fortress, the five clan leaders of the Grand Council watched the same Murican video projection.
Present were:
Clan Silverfist leader, Tubrat Silverfist Clan Axebreaker leader, Dwordoug Axebreaker Clan Oakenbrew leader, Calgirra Oakenbrew Clan Bluespire leader, Nelfilyn Bluespire Clan Sandbeards leader, Orroth Sandbeards
Mara, the Murican ambassador, sat at the center of the chamber. Six dwarven soldiers in armored steam suits surrounded him, each one armed heavily enough to qualify as mobile artillery.
He did not seem bothered.
"So," Tubrat grunted, arms crossed, "the demon kingdom is now a mechanical nation like us?"
"Correct, Council Member Silverfist," Mara replied politely.
Dwordoug Axebreaker leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
"Then answer me—between your machines and ours… which is stronger?"
It was a trap question.
Diplomatically unsolvable for anyone.
But Mara smiled.
"Ours, of course."
Silence.
Then—
"BUAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
The council erupted into roaring laughter that shook the stone chamber.
"You've only been mechanical for what—one century?" Nelfilyn cackled.
"Maybe we should test it someday," Orroth snorted.
"HAHAHA! We like your honesty, ambassador," Calgirra said, slapping the armrest of his throne.
Mara inclined his head slightly. "Thank you."
Dwarves appreciated bluntness. Flowery diplomacy only wasted oxygen.
"Play the rest of the…" Orroth waved a hand vaguely. "Whaddya call it? Video."
The recording continued.
DMZ Village appeared—demons and other races coexisting peacefully. Civilian chatting amiably. Convicts and prostitutes shown as loving husbands and wives. Jehovah Accusess smiled everytime a house opened its door for them.
The dwarves leaned forward as the Vandorian raid began.
Their eyes darkened.
On screen, a female Murican soldier rushed into frame, shouting:
"OH NO! THEY'RE KILLING CIVILIANS! WE HAVE TO STOP THEM!" (Belphy had dubbed this part.)
The dwarves grunted approvingly as Murican forces gunned down the raiders.
No one laughed this time.