Screams tore across the plains.
Metal collided violently amidst the smoke while men vanished beneath horses, spears, and mud.
The smell of blood suffocated the air.
"FALL BACK WITH THE WOUNDED!"
"DON'T LET THE CAVALRY THROUGH!"
"HOLD THE LINE!"
Another man fell screaming against the dark earth while soldiers desperately tried to stop the formation from collapsing.
The shield split in half.
A Northern soldier was crushed against the mud while Arkhel cavalry violently tore through the third flank.
Spears pierced shields.
Horses trampled fallen men.
The formation was beginning to collapse amidst smoke and blood.
"HOLD THE LINE!"
"CLOSE THE BREACH!"
"THEY'RE BREAKING THROUGH!"
Another collision threw soldiers against the muddy ground.
Men screamed beneath the hooves.
Shields shattered.
The third flank was giving way.
Arkhel's detached force kept advancing.
Fifty heavy cavalry had broken through the center of the third flank.
And now they were tearing through the Northern formation like rabid beasts.
Relentless.
Heavy.
Hooves crushed bodies while soldiers retreated step by step across the devastated field.
The commander of the third flank raised his eyes.
Felt his own body go cold.
The line was dying.
Then—
something violently tore through the smoke of war.
CRAAASHH—
The impact exploded in the center of the enemy cavalry.
A horse was hurled into its own men while armor brutally warped beneath an enormous black mace.
Another strike tore through the mud right after.
Dry.
Heavy.
An Arkhel rider was ripped from the saddle together with his own shield.
The enormous black mace crushed down again immediately after.
CRAAASHH—
Man and horse were crushed together against the blood-soaked earth while the enemy formation finally began to break at the center of the advance.
The enormous silhouette tore through the cavalry without slowing down.
Light steel armor.
A gray cloak covered in blood and mud.
Arkhel riders were crushed one after another before it.
The screams began to rise across the third flank.
"LORD GARRICK!!"
"IT'S LORD GARRICK!!"
"THE WALL OF THE NORTH HAS ARRIVED!!"
Despair began disappearing from blood-covered faces.
Soldiers raised their shields again.
Men retreating through the mud stopped once more.
Ahead of them—
the last riders of Arkhel's breakthrough force tried reorganizing the charge.
Too late.
CRAAASHH—
The enormous black mace tore through another suit of armor together with the horse.
The impact hurled bodies against their own men while the enemy formation finally shattered completely.
The Northern soldiers stared at the colossal figure standing amidst smoke and crushed corpses.
Arkhel's detached cavalry had been destroyed.
Garrick stepped forward.
The black mace came down heavily against the plain.
DOOOOM—
The ground trembled beneath the impact.
And the earth answered.
Stones began climbing the black shaft.
Blood-soaked dirt.
Broken iron.
Fragments of destroyed shields.
Everything compressing brutally around the end of the weapon.
Until it formed a monstrous war hammer.
Heavy.
Irregular.
Like a piece torn from the Northern Wall itself.
Dark eyes swept across the soldiers of the third flank.
Wounded men.
Broken shields.
Too young.
Always too young.
Soldiers covered in mud and blood.
His voice crossed the field:
"The third flank is still breathing."
Silence.
The soldiers tightened their grip on their shields.
"...YES, SIR!"
"THE THIRD FLANK IS STILL BREATHING!!"
The hammer rested upon his shoulder.
"Then stop acting like dead men."
The soldiers tightened their grips on their swords.
Their eyes began to change.
Garrick raised the monstrous weapon toward the distant enemy lines.
"Prepare to advance."
The sound of war crossed the plains with the advance of the third flank.
Far beyond the third flank—
other fronts remained drowned in smoke and blood.
Cavalry advanced through the darkened earth.
Spears collided.
Men fell.
And at the center of the western line—
Roven watched everything in absolute silence atop the brown horse.
Dark brown hair moved beneath the wind of war.
Dull brown eyes swept across the distant battlefield.
Far too calm.
Behind him—
the Northern riders held a rigid formation.
Tense.
Arkhel's soldiers were already advancing directly toward them.
But Roven kept looking elsewhere.
Toward the distant direction of the third flank.
One of the riders tightened the reins.
"Lord Roven..."
"They're already entering collision range."
No answer came immediately.
His gaze remained distant for a few more seconds.
A low breath escaped through his nose.
Almost a humorless laugh.
"Garrick started already."
His eyes moved back toward the battlefield ahead.
Enemy infantry advanced through the smoke.
Shields raised.
Spears lowered.
A wall of steel moved across the plains.
Roven tilted his head slightly.
As though observing something disappointing.
"He always makes war look far too simple."
The riders behind him remained silent.
The sound of enemy hooves was rapidly approaching now.
Heavy.
Violent.
Roven slowly raised his hand.
His fingers formed something resembling a weapon.
Pointing directly at the enemy line.
Arkhel's soldiers hesitated for an instant.
Confused.
"...Poom."
The man at the front line exploded.
Blood burst through the air together with fragments of armor.
The soldiers' eyes widened.
The horse kept running alone for a few meters before collapsing into the mud.
"Poom."
Another man exploded at the center of the enemy formation.
Roven watched the body fall for one second longer.
As though he still expected to feel something.
"Poom."
Another one.
Heads exploded.
Ribs collapsed inward.
Bodies began falling throughout the enemy formation without anyone understanding what was happening.
The advance slowed instantly.
The horses reared in panic.
The formation lost rhythm.
And then the screams began.
"WHAT IS HAPPENING?!"
"PROTECT THE COMMANDER!"
"AWAKENED!"
"IT'S AN AWAKENED!"
Roven watched everything in absolute silence.
Fingers still raised toward them.
Calm.
Almost lazy.
A low breath escaped through his nose.
"Useless."
Dull brown eyes swept across the enemy formation.
"You were already within range."
"Poom."
Another man exploded at the center of the enemy formation.
The horses began rearing.
Arkhel soldiers screamed while trying to reorganize their shields as the Northern riders advanced to intercept the destabilized line.
But Roven remained motionless atop the horse.
His fingers remained raised.
Like someone watching rain.
"Your style is still far too crude for war."
The voice came out calm.
Elegant.
Almost disappointed.
Dull brown eyes slid sideways.
"Kaizer..."
Another horse stopped beside him.
Kaizer watched the field in silence.
Perfectly aligned black hair moved slightly beneath the smoke-laden wind.
"But there isn't much to expect from a former bandit."
A brief pause.
"I imagine any execution looks like strategy to you."
Roven let out a low breath through his nose.
Almost tired.
"You should be on the southern front."
In the distance—
a group of enemy soldiers began reorganizing the broken line.
Roven's fingers moved slightly.
"...Poom."
One of the men's heads vanished.
The formation hesitated again.
His gaze remained ahead.
"Our fronts aren't close enough for you to appear here by accident."
Kaizer did not answer.
Enemy horses kept advancing through the smoke.
Roven watched it for a few seconds.
Tilted his head slightly.
"Ah..."
His fingers moved again.
"Poom."
Another body fell amidst the infantry.
"So the report really got to you."
Kaizer's red eyes shifted toward him.
Roven finally turned his face.
"You think Alaric is going to appear on this front."
No answer came.
Roven's fingers moved slowly.
Now pointing toward Kaizer.
"Interesting..."
Kaizer dismounted from the horse.
Boots sank into the blood-soaked mud.
"Be careful with those conclusions."
His hand calmly slid toward the kriegsmesser strapped to his waist.
"You may lose your head before you finish thinking."
Roven's fingers still remained raised toward him.
"So that's it."
"You're not even here for the North."
Kaizer began walking toward the enemy line.
Calm.
As though the soldiers ahead did not even exist.
"I'm here for two reasons."
"Selvaria can handle two fronts."
A brief pause.
"And if Alaric appears..."
His fingers discreetly tightened around the kriegsmesser's grip.
"...it will be on this front."
"And out of the five..."
A crushing pressure rolled across the battlefield.
Heavy.
Suffocating.
"...you're the only one capable of dying before I reach Alaric."
Roven watched it in silence.
A low breath escaped through his nose.
Almost a tired laugh.
"I wonder if you really can kill him."
Kaizer advanced.
Far too fast.
Mud exploded beneath his feet while the red silhouette tore across the plain.
Arkhel's soldiers did not even have time to raise their shields.
Blood tore through the formation an instant later.
Far beyond the western front—
the sound of war crossed the southern front.
More distant now.
Fragmented.
The hooves slowed as the rider crossed the plain covered in white mist.
Bodies remained scattered throughout the field.
Frozen.
Arkhel soldiers still held expressions of despair trapped beneath thin layers of ice.
Broken spears remained partially crystallized beside hardened mud.
The rider took a deep breath.
The air burned his lungs.
Ahead—
Selvaria remained motionless atop the white horse.
Long black hair moved beneath the cold wind.
The enormous claymore rested beside the saddle.
Thin.
Long.
Far too elegant for a field covered in frozen corpses.
A nearby soldier observed the frozen plain.
"The wounded are already being removed."
"The reorganization of the southern front has been completed."
Selvaria's pale eyes remained fixed upon the distant plains.
Calm.
Coldly calm.
"How many can still ride?"
The man hesitated for an instant.
"Three hundred and twenty fit for immediate combat."
Selvaria slowly tightened the reins.
"One hundred will ride with me."
The rider raised his eyes.
She continued:
"The rest will immediately move to assist the third flank."
The cold wind crossed the frozen plain once again.
"Garrick should already have stabilized the line."
Her gaze swept across the plains.
Toward the furthest edge of the war line.
Where the banners still remained motionless.
"Lord Reinhardt still hasn't advanced..."
The cold wind crossed the southern front once again.
The riders remained silent.
One of them calmly approached on horseback.
"What are your orders, Lady Selvaria?"
She gently pulled the white horse's reins.
Her pale eyes still held the distant banners.
"We will move directly toward Arkhel's gates."
No hesitation appeared among the soldiers.
The hundred riders immediately began reorganizing formation.
Selvaria moved the white horse.
A frozen soldier still breathed weakly beneath the ice.
She passed by him without looking.
The ice split in half behind her.
The smoke of war crossed the horizon.
At the eastern edge of the plains—
the ivory-white banners still remained motionless through the smoke.
The white dragon marked upon the heavy fabric barely moved beneath the wind of war.
And beneath them—
the entire army remained still.
Motionless.
As though waiting for something.
At the front of the formation—
Reinhardt walked alone across the blood-soaked plain.
Step after step.
Calm.
Boots crossed mud, blood, and broken arrows without the slightest hurry.
Far ahead—
Arkhel's archers finally fired.
SHHHHKKK—
The rain of arrows tore through the smoke directly toward him.
Not a single soldier of the Order moved.
The arrows rapidly approached.
Then—
the first one veered away.
The arrowhead changed direction at the last instant.
As though pushed by something invisible.
Another violently spun through the air.
A third passed beside his face before plunging into the mud.
And then the entire rain of arrows began warping around the advancing silhouette.
Veering away.
Spinning.
Being repelled before they could even touch his armor.
Reinhardt kept walking.
In the distance—
Arkhel's soldiers began slowing down.
Confused.
"...What?"
"Why didn't they hit him?"
"Fire again!"
Another volley of arrows crossed the sky.
And again—
every single one veered away from the figure walking alone across the plain.
Reinhardt's eyes remained fixed ahead.
Cold.
Motionless.
Like someone observing something far beneath himself.
Arkhel's soldiers instinctively began stepping back.
Without even understanding why.
Reinhardt kept walking.
His right hand slid toward the saber at his waist.
The black sheath bore silver details aged by time.
The blade began to emerge—
SHIIIIIING—
The metallic sound crossed the plain.
Reinhardt moved the saber a single time.
Long.
Slightly curved.
The smoke ahead split open.So did the enemy line.
CRAAAAASHHH—
The impact crossed the entire plain.
Earth exploded.
Men vanished together with horses and shields while a colossal scar violently tore across the battlefield all the way to the horizon.
The thunder came after.
Arkhel's soldiers froze.
The Order's did too.
No one spoke.
Because in that instant—
everyone understood Reinhardt had not even begun.