Dawn broke over the advancing Dragunov forces like a blade across the throat of night.
Hoooooooo—
War horns echoed across the plains, and the earth shuddered beneath marching feet in a rhythm that spoke of inevitable death.
Three thousand troops. Not the largest army ever assembled, but enough to crush most Houses.
Count Dragunov had gathered his own thousand soldiers, then hired every mercenary company willing to take his coin. The result was a force near three-thousand strong.
Count Dragunov gripped his throbbing skull as he mounted his warhorse. Wine fumes leaked from his pores with each breath, yet his eyes remained sharp as winter steel.
Huff.
The Count drew a measured breath, burning away the alcohol in his system with practiced efficiency. His flushed face paled to its natural color, and his swaying posture straightened into military precision.
“Damned sun,” he muttered, squinting against the morning light.
As sobriety returned, so did the revolting grief. It crashed into him like a tide against cliffs—the very emotion he’d drowned in wine the night before. Some pain, it seemed, refused to stay buried.
Ignoring the ache in his chest, Count Dragunov bellowed to his assembled forces.
“Warriors of Dragunov! Today we fight a war written in blood! Are you afraid? Are you terrified?” His voice cracked like a whip. “What could frighten men who march for vengeance alone?”
“We are not afraid!” came the thunderous response.
“That’s right—fear means nothing to us! We would drink our enemies’ blood after taking their heads! Even if my body were torn apart, I wouldn’t hesitate if I could still sever an enemy’s throat! Isn’t that so?”
“Yes, my lord!”
“Knights! Forward! Let us take the heads of those wretched murderers and set the world right! Let us unleash our righteous fury!”
Flutter!
The standard snapped in the wind as the bearer raised it high.
Count Dragunov’s eyes blazed as he lifted his sword toward the sky.
“Let the war begin!”
“YAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!”
The roar shattered the morning calm. Knights surged forward with thundering steps, their eyes bright with bloodlust as steel sang from sheaths.
Dragunov versus Berg.
The war that would stain the histories had begun.
* * *
“YAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!”
The distant roar made Berg soldiers swallow hard.
Thump! Thump!
Dust clouds billowed on the horizon, and the earth drummed beneath countless marching feet. The approaching army stretched across their vision like a dark tide, the sort of sight that could break a man’s spirit just by existing.
“…Shit,” someone muttered.
“How are we supposed to fight that?”
The soldiers voiced their fears through gritted teeth.
House Berg’s warriors were superior individually—every man knew that. But their enemies came from the continent’s wealthiest family.
Each enemy soldier wore armor fit for knights, carried weapons worthy of the Imperial Guard. Worse, they outnumbered Berg’s forces two to one.
Terror was a reasonable response.
Fingers tightened on spear shafts. Even knowing retreat meant death, feet shuffled backward of their own accord.
Then a voice cut through their fear.
“Running will get us all killed. Want to test that?”
The tone was light, almost conversational—as if discussing the weather rather than imminent death. The sort of voice that suggested its owner found humor in the darkest places.
The soldiers turned.
“Ah, sir!” they said, snapping to attention.
The speaker wore a knight’s armor, though his bearing suggested nobility sat uncomfortably on his shoulders. Word had spread that the youngest master’s escort knight had arrived...
“Relax,” the knight—Lancelot—said, patting shoulders with casual familiarity. “I’m not here to lecture you.”
“Yes, sir!”
“And keep your voices down. Did you all swallow war horns? Everyone around here shouts like they’re calling across canyons.”
Lancelot settled beside them, leaning against the wall with practiced ease.
“Scared?” he asked.
“N-no, sir!” came the automatic response.
“I told you to relax. Besides, I’m terrified too, so why would I fault you for honest fear?”
“...You’re frightened, Sir Knight?”
“Of course I’m scared. Do I look like I have spare lives tucked away somewhere?” Lancelot spoke as if stating obvious truth.
Training could sharpen skills and strengthen bodies, but every man still had only one life to lose.
War remained terrifying, and killing still felt wrong—these were immutable facts, like sunrise or the changing seasons.
“I’m… only here because I’m a knight. If I don’t protect them—our people, my comrades—they’ll all die. You’re here for your families too, aren’t you?”
“...Yes, sir.”
“Then we protect them. Whatever stories our enemies tell themselves, whatever justifications they carry—we still have to kill them first. Show no mercy on the battlefield.”
The soldiers found no words to respond.
Rumors had been spreading through the ranks—whispers that House Berg’s leadership had murdered House Dragunov’s direct line, that their enemies came seeking righteous vengeance.
Most didn’t believe it, but doubt poisoned morale like slow venom. Some had even expressed sympathy for their foes.
This knight was addressing exactly that weakness.
“...Yes, understood,” a soldier replied, nodding slowly.
Lancelot grinned and clapped his back.
“Good. One last thing...” He paused, meeting each man’s eyes. “Stay alive.”
“...Sir?”
The soldiers stared in confusion. Stay alive?
Every commander treated soldiers as expendable resources. If twenty men could die to wound a single enemy knight, any general would gladly pay that price.
What was this knight thinking?
“I can’t ask you to throw your lives away to scratch our enemies. You need to live to save others. So long as you don’t betray us, survive however you can. Run if death comes calling. Got that?”
“...Yes, sir.”
The soldiers nodded, still bewildered.
Lancelot smiled with satisfaction and turned toward the horizon, where black dots advanced like approaching storm clouds.
“Tell the others to prepare for battle. Have the archers ready their volleys.”
“Yes, sir!”
The soldiers hurried away to relay orders, leaving Lancelot alone with his spear and the approaching tide of death.
* * *
CLANG! CLANG!
War erupted in a symphony of steel and screaming.
As expected, House Berg dominated in individual combat. A single knight could carve through dozens of enemy soldiers, cut down three or four enemy knights before breathing hard.
But numbers told their own story. Against such overwhelming odds, Berg warriors began falling one by one. Eventually, even their superior skill couldn’t hold the front line.
“Fall back! Retreat to the walls!” A mid-ranking knight shouted the order.
It should have come from Berg’s direct family, but they fought on the front lines alongside their men. Only Dreck Berg remained at the rear, commanding from the castle walls.
Dreck didn’t acknowledge the knight’s orders. He stood silent on the battlements, watching enemy forces with calculating eyes.
The commanding knight bit his lip, glancing up at the heir apparent. Each knight’s death was a devastating loss—they needed to regroup, consolidate their strength.
But without explicit orders from above...
“Goddamn! Reorganize behind the walls once you’ve pulled back! Wait for the supreme commander’s word!” The knight shouted until his voice cracked.
Then the earth began to shake.
THOOM—THOOM—
Massive tremors rolled across the battlefield—the sort that suggested giants walking the earth. Even atop the castle walls, men struggled to keep their footing as stone shuddered beneath them.
“What in hell is—”
House Berg’s forces turned as one, confusion written across every face.
Then came the expressions of pure, undiluted terror.
Height that seemed to pierce the sky itself. Gray skin like weathered stone. A single eye burning with primal hunger, and a boulder clutched in one massive fist.
A Cyclops.
Though ranked below Gargoyles in the monster hierarchy, this was still a Lord-class creature—the sort of beast that destroyed armies.
Iron chains wrapped its limbs, and a collar bound its throat, but even restrained...
“Grrrrrr—”
The presence it radiated was overwhelming.
“GRAAAAAAHHHHHHH!”
The Cyclops roared and hurled its boulder. The stone flew like a catapult shot, striking Berg’s castle wall and collapsing an entire section in a cascade of rubble and dust.
KRAAAAAAAANG!
Rumble rumble rumble—
Death came instantly.
Warriors clinging to the wall died from the boulder’s impact. Those fighting below were crushed beneath falling stone.
In a single moment, dozens of lives were snuffed out like candle flames.
“GRWAAAAAAHHHHHHH!”
The Cyclops roared its triumph skyward. Witnessing this display of raw power, Berg soldiers trembled with primal fear.
“No... no, no, no...”
“I want to live... please, I want to live...”
Clatter. Thunk.
Weapons fell from nerveless fingers.
That thing—they couldn’t fight that. This place would become their tomb, their names forgotten, their bones ground to powder.
They would simply become the monster’s meal.
Terror seized them completely. Soldiers backed away, then turned to flee outright.
The Cyclops charged.
THOOM! THOOM! THOOM! THOOM!
It swung one massive fist at the fleeing men, death descending like a falling mountain.
Whoooosh!
The soldiers sensed their end approaching. Eyes squeezed shut, waiting for oblivion—
CRAAASHHH!
A battered spear intercepted the blow.
Its wielder, hands trembling from the impact, pushed back against the monster’s fist with desperate strength.
“Bloody hell! Get out of the way!”
“Wh-what?”
“I said get lost!” the spear-wielder yelled.
The soldiers snapped from their paralysis, scrambling clear as fast as their legs could carry them.
The warrior steadied his breathing and twisted his weapon, deflecting the Cyclops’s fist with fluid precision.
CRAAASHHH!
“Fffu... nearly died there.”
The shabby spear’s owner—Lancelot—caught his breath and muttered a curse. Wind swirled around his weapon, and unmistakable power flowed through the steel.
Lancelot—inheritor of the Berg Spear Arts, bearing the mysteries of the storm—gripped his weapon and met the Cyclops’s gaze without flinching.
“Damned thing’s enormous. Hell, where’s our captain when we actually need him?”
Lancelot snarled in frustration and struck. A fierce whirlwind erupted from his spear, tearing into the Cyclops’s fist and shredding flesh to expose muscle and bone.
“GRWAAAAAAHHHHHHH!”
The monster’s scream split the air.
Lancelot repositioned, drew back his spear, and thrust with every ounce of strength toward the creature’s belly.
<Tempest Lance>
Shaaaaaaaaak—!
A massive storm erupted from the spear’s point, rushing toward the Cyclops’s abdomen and tearing through its torso like a hurricane through wheat.
Chunks of flesh scattered in all directions, painting the battlefield crimson.
“GRWAAAAAAHHHHHHH!”
Pain beyond description tore from the monster’s throat.
Finally…
“Die, you fuckin’ monster.”
Thunk!
Lancelot drove his spear into the Cyclops’s neck.
Blood erupted like a geyser, drenching him head to toe as he twisted the blade, ensuring the windpipe was completely severed.
Thud.
The Cyclops shuddered once and died.
Only when its struggles ceased completely did Lancelot exhale and climb down from the corpse.
“Nearly got myself killed there.”
His casual words and relaxed posture made him look like some common street fighter, but the Aura radiating from his form made even veteran knights step back in respect.
He was a high-level Aura Expert, no question.
In that moment, a knight capable of challenging the world’s hundred greatest had announced himself to the battlefield.