The war had begun.
Dawn over Dara did not bring light… but an omen.
The wind, heavy with dust and the scent of iron, swept down from the southern hills where the Empire had raised its camp. From the walls, the horizon seemed swallowed by shadows: golden pavilions, crimson standards, and endless ranks of spears catching the first rays of the sun.
The imperial army stretched as far as the eye could see.
One hundred thousand men—disciplined, immaculate in formation—Ferrussi's eagles snapping in the wind. Each division moved with purpose: heavy vanguard, shock cavalry, arcane artillery, and the magical cohorts—the imperial mages shielded in translucent barriers of energy, already preparing the power-seals that would soon make the earth tremble.
But Dara was no ordinary city.
It was a bastion raised upon living stone, hardened by generations of war against the Empire. Its walls were etched with ancient runes that absorbed the brunt of magical impact; its towers served both archers and spell-channelers alike.
Its people knew how to endure.
And how to make a stronger enemy bleed.
King Felipe Erkhan stood atop the central keep, his gaze sweeping the field, measuring every movement of the foe.
Beside him, Laurence Douglas studied the western road maps.
"If they advance head-on, they expose their rear," Laurence said. "Our riders can strike the imperial convoys."
"Precisely," the king replied. "They trust in their strength. We trust in their hunger."
And so began the invisible dance of war.
While the Empire deployed its siege engines, Caparthia's light squadrons slipped through forests and ravines, burning supply carts, destroying provisions, cutting down messengers. It was a war of attrition—of wit and patience—where a single sack of grain was worth more than a captured banner.
The Empire, for all its might, could not sustain such monstrous numbers for long without food or a steady flow of mana.
And the Kingdom knew it.
By midday, the imperial war drums thundered.
The lines advanced.
Golden standards rose, and behind them the high-ranking mages began their arcane chants. Their bodies hovered inches above the ground, wreathed in radiance.
Then the sky split open.
Bolts of lightning fell like divine spears, carving craters into the fields before Dara. The roar shook the walls, and for a moment the air itself became fire and ash.
The Kingdom's answer came swiftly.
From the highest towers, runic circles flared to life, unfurling vast domes of blue energy that shielded entire sections of the battlements. At the same time, from within the city, the Kingdom's mages—most of them women clad in black and blue—launched their counterattack.
The ground shuddered.
Comets of ice rained from the firmament, and a tempest of flame tore through the nearest imperial positions.
The heavens became a canvas of power—a battle of light and fury.
The soldiers below, mere men between gods, shielded their faces as the world burned around them.
Near the base of the northern wall, Dara's containment seals began to glow.
It was the city's hidden lattice: a network of runes designed to slowly drain enemy mana the closer they advanced. The imperial mages realized it too late. Their spells faltered. Their seals fractured before completion.
From the ramparts, Laurence Douglas watched the unfolding chaos—and smiled.
Laurence advanced at the head of his men.
The black lion emblem rippled above his Ætherion armor, its dark engravings seeming to drink the light itself. His breathing was steady; his eyes, unshaken.
Around him stood the Douglas warriors—old wolves tempered by a hundred wars. None feared. All had been born and blooded beneath his banner.
When the Empire's first lines charged, the ground trembled.
They were men from conquered realms, driven toward death by hollow promises. Spears collided. Screams fused with the shriek of steel.
The Douglas line did not give a single step.
Laurence raised his sword—and a dark pulse rippled across the field.
The shadow of his blade extended outward, cutting before steel ever touched flesh. Enemy soldiers fell in silence, unable to comprehend how they had died.
It was not combat.
It was execution.
"Hold the line," he ordered calmly, almost absently.
His style was austere. Elegant. Without waste.
Every strike was fatal. Every motion precise.
He killed without hatred—as though death were merely a natural consequence of duty.
As he advanced, his aura expanded.
Imperial sorcerers hurled fire and lightning to halt him, but his Ætherion armor absorbed the impact, transmuting arcane force into raw physical strength.
Laurence walked on through the ruin of his enemies, the sun bathing his silhouette in red.
From the southern hills, Princess Naira Ferrussi observed the battle through an arcane crystal.
Her eyes—accustomed to weighing men as one weighs gold—widened in surprise.
"Who is that man?" she asked.
"Duke Douglas, Your Highness," her general replied. "Father of the boy you seek."
The name echoed in her mind.
Douglas.
She had read it in the War Council reports: an ancient house, its bloodline steeped in Delta-affinity magic—a rarity so refined it would be considered high nobility even within the Empire.
Watching Laurence fight, Naira understood why her father prized blood purity above all.
That man's strength was not mere skill or experience.
It was generations compressed into flesh and bone. A lineage honed by mana itself.
A memory pierced her.
At the Imperial Academy, she had faced the most gifted heirs of her generation. None had defeated her. Some had cornered her briefly—but sooner or later, their mana reserves failed.
Hers did not.
Her Epsilon affinity allowed her to continue when others collapsed.
Such was the power of lineage. The reason the weak must serve and the strong must rule.
And yet… as she watched Laurence, she felt something new.
Not doubt.
Anticipation.
If his son possesses even half that strength…
The thought lingered. Her lips curved into a faint smile.
For the first time, Naira felt curiosity—a dangerous curiosity born of respect.
Perhaps Lusian Douglas would not be merely a political instrument… but someone worthy of her attention.
Perhaps, she thought with mingled arrogance and intrigue, he might even challenge her.
At the heart of the field, Duke Bourlance wielded his mace wreathed in golden energy.
Nearly two meters tall, with a torso broad as a shield, his presence alone inspired dread.
Each time his hammer fell, the earth cracked and bodies were hurled skyward like dry leaves in a storm. Skulls shattered beneath its weight; the echo of impact dissolved into screams and clashing metal.
His magical affinity—Delta-level physical augmentation—turned every muscle into a weapon. The air warped around him under the pressure of his power.
And yet, despite such might, frustration consumed him.
The central front wavered.
The lesser houses' formations were chaos: shields misaligned, spearmen retreating without order, mages too slow to raise defensive circles.
Bourlance ran from flank to flank, shouting commands, blocking blows not meant for him, plugging every breach with his own body.
Sweat streamed down his brow, mingling with dust and blood.
An explosion of fire rose to his right.
"Hold the line, damn you!" he roared, his voice louder than the magic's thunder.
Even with all his power, he knew the formation was close to breaking.
And if it did, the center would collapse—and the imperial army would encircle them within minutes.
He saw it in his soldiers' faces: fear, fatigue, disorder.
Through smoke and dust, he looked toward the right flank.
In the distance, the Douglas black-wolf standards stood firm.
Their ranks moved as one entity—a flawless engine of war. Every strike, every step, every shout synchronized as if sharing a single pulse.
Laurence Douglas advanced at the forefront, serene and merciless.
Bourlance ground his teeth.
A spark of envy—laced with respect—cut through him.
While he struggled to hold together a fractured army, Laurence and his wolves were a living wall, a dark storm sweeping everything aside.
"Elegant old bastard…" Bourlance muttered, raising his hammer once more. "I won't be outshone so easily."
The ground quaked beneath him.
He struck with crushing force, releasing a ring of golden energy that surged through the front lines.
Nearby warriors felt magic flood their bones; muscles tightened, exhaustion lifted—if only for a moment.
"Caparthia will not fall today!" the duke bellowed.
And with that roar, he hurled himself back into the fray, smashing iron and flesh with the fury of a forgotten god.
King Felipe Erkhan held the left flank.
Where Laurence was quiet inevitability, the king was living storm.
The air around him vibrated, saturated with power. Lightning runes etched into his skin and armor flared with each breath, and his spear shone as though it held a tempest's heart within its shaft.
A bolt of lightning descended from the heavens, striking his weapon and unleashing a discharge that tore through enemy ranks.
Imperial soldiers fell charred and convulsing upon blackened soil.
The scent of ozone and metallic blood thickened the air.
The earth itself smoked at his feet.
"For Caparthia!" the king roared.
His voice cracked like thunder, shaking the hearts of his men.
They answered in unison, raising weapons beneath lightning and flame.
Felipe surveyed the battlefield without losing control.
His posture remained upright, unyielding—the very image of royal pride.
He knew his troops lacked the lethal coordination of the Douglas host, but they possessed discipline and belief.
They were a wall.
And walls endure.
Still, the king did not deceive himself.
Where the Douglas annihilated foes in minutes, his own front barely held. Every enemy felled demanded double the effort—triple the mana.
Each clash of steel drained their reserves.
Fatigue gathered beneath armor and fear.
Felipe clenched his jaw.
At this pace, within the hour, many would begin to falter.
And when a warrior exhausts his mana mid-battle…
Death is the only outcome.
He glanced toward the center, where Bourlance roared like a chained beast.
The duke endured—but his formation frayed.
Far to the right, the black lion banner still stood amidst a sea of corpses.
The Douglas did not retreat. They did not hesitate.
Laurence advanced as though death were his companion.
Felipe exhaled, half respect, half resignation.
"Tch… that northern devil," he muttered, watching the duke's dark silhouette amid bursts of magic. "If the center breaks, I'll have to ask him to save it again."
His lightning-bright eyes swept the horizon.
The storm around him intensified.
The sky roared, as though recognizing in him a favored son.
For a moment, the King of Caparthia seemed a god wrapped in thunder—
a man prepared to stand until the world itself shattered around him.
When the sun began its descent, the battlefield had been painted red.
The plains before Dara had become a sea of still bodies—a mosaic of blood and steel.
All three fronts of the Kingdom yet held.
Exhausted though they were, their banners still flew amid pillars of smoke and dust.