Everyone on the battlefield was struck dumb by the sudden change. Even the Sarkaz mercenaries, who had been locked in a wild, bloodthirsty frenzy just a second ago, stared down at their own hands in utter disbelief as the unnatural rage drained from their bodies, leaving them completely normal once more.
Their sudden madness had been caused by the spells of the Casters hidden in their backlines. Yet, in a single flash, that powerful magic had been cleanly erased, leaving even the enemy Casters staring blankly, completely unable to comprehend what had just happened.
While the grunt soldiers were left completely in the dark, Kal'tsit knew this phenomenon all too well. Standing within the shattered perimeter of the camp, she bit her lower lip as her eyes frantically scanned the smoke-choked valley. A sharp spike of anxiety shot through her chest.
"How could this... What on earth was she thinking?!" Kal'tsit muttered under her breath. "Allowing her to come to a dangerous place like this—what if she actually ran into real danger?!"
She desperately scanned the terrain, trying to pinpoint the exact location of the white Sarkaz, but amidst the rising dust and burning trucks, she couldn't find her yet.
Meanwhile, Jeanne was staring at the mercenary squads with a look of pure bewilderment. Just a second ago, these guys looked like they were running a maximum-level bloodlust buff, and now they were suddenly standing there, frozen and silent. What was that supposed to mean?
Was this a blatant display of contempt for her combat skills? Or did they honestly believe that just because they had suddenly gone quiet, she wouldn't seize the opportunity to wipe them out? No matter how arrogant an enemy was, acting like a flock of stunned sheep in front of an active vanguard was pushing it.
A vein throbbed slightly on Jeanne's forehead. Deciding she had spent enough time parsing their strange behavior, she tightened her grip on her banner, fully prepared to take advantage of their hesitation and eliminate these disrespectful fools in one clean sweep.
Was launching a sudden assault while the enemy was dazed considered a breach of battlefield manners? Please. This wasn't a formal duel between knights; this was a brutal fight for survival. These exact same mercenaries hadn't shown a shred of honor when they launched a cowardly midnight ambush on a civilian convoy, so why should she show them any mercy now?
Besides, in a lawless wasteland like Kazdel, wondering whether a fight had traditional honor was just silly. Jeanne certainly didn't expect a band of regional bandits to politely announce their family names before trading blows, and mercenaries had zero use for such romantic nonsense anyway.
But the moment Jeanne took her very first step forward, the subtle shift in her weight seemed to violently snap the mercenaries back to reality. The illusion of safety shattered. They stared at Jeanne with the wide, trembling eyes of men looking right at a living nightmare, their boots instinctively shuffling backward into the mud with every single inch she advanced.
As they locked in this tense standoff, the long-awaited sun finally breached the jagged eastern horizon, casting its first pale, golden rays across the battlefield. Against all odds, Jeanne and the surviving logistics crew had successfully made it through the brutal midnight assault using nothing but their own raw grit and strength. To the civilian drivers watching from behind the barricades, their survival was nothing short of a literal miracle!
Yet, looking out at the clearing sky, a heavy wave of confusion began to ripple through the transport workers. Where exactly were the reinforcements Kal'tsit had promised hours ago? Why hadn't a single Babel fighter showed up on the ridge?
Lacking the tactical knowledge to recognize that the abrupt silencing of the enemy's frenzy was the direct result of a high-level intervention, the drivers naturally assumed the spell had simply worn off because the night was over. After all, the timing between the sudden calm and the rising sun was just too perfect to be a coincidence.
But their fragile moment of relief was short-lived. The surrounding mercenaries were quickly shaking off the remnants of their stupor. The sun might have risen, but these were hardened Sarkaz killers—they weren't vampires or mythical night-beasts bound by the dark. They weren't going to tuck their tails and run just because the clock struck morning. A shift in daylight wasn't going to make a professional mercenary group abandon a high-paying contract.
Far across the ridge, inside the hidden command post, the armored Sarkaz military officer was currently staring at the distant battlefield with his jaw dropped in absolute, paralyzed shock. He stood frozen at the entrance of his tent, his voice a trembling whisper as he stammered to himself:
"This is impossible... Why would she show up in a place like this? Isn't she supposed to be safely hidden away deep inside Babel? Why would someone of her stature risk her life in a worthless border skirmish..."
The reality of her presence was a massive shock to his system. But his military training kicked in a split second later. Turning back to his communication array, he immediately began drafting a maximum-priority encrypted report to Theresis. To their faction, the exact location of this specific individual was a monumental piece of intelligence that could change the entire course of the civil war!
While the hidden commander was frantically sending his data to Theresis's high command, the active fighting on the valley floor ground to a complete, staggering halt. The sudden pause was triggered by the arrival of a single person—or more accurately, the grand entrance of a heavily armed escort fleet.
A high-speed vehicle bearing the clean, unmistakable crest of Babel cut through the burning perimeter at terrifying speed. Like a sharp blade slicing through a raging ocean tide, the armored truck jammed itself straight into the narrow space separating the two opposing sides, forcefully disrupting their impending collision.
Several veteran mercenary Casters instinctively raised their staves, intending to shoot high-velocity curse spells to obliterate the vehicle, only to experience a sudden, sickening jolt within their own bodies. They discovered to their horror that their internal energy had completely lost its precision, the volatile spells threatening to go completely haywire. They knew instantly that if they dared to force the cast, the magic would violently explode right inside their own hands!
Someone was actively projecting a massive, localized disruption field across the entire area, making it nearly impossible to use Arts. While the interference wasn't sophisticated enough to suppress a high-tier master, it was more than enough to completely neutralize a band of self-taught, rough-around-the-edges mercenary casters.
In that brief window of absolute silence, the heavy armored doors of the transport flew open. A disciplined group of Babel's premier elite operators spilled onto the mud, instantly forming a tight, impenetrable defensive ring around the vehicle. The cold, practiced efficiency with which they leveled their weapons left zero doubt that they were fully prepared to use lethal force should any enemy make a sudden move.
The surrounding mercenaries understood the situation perfectly. Against a battle-hardened group of Babel's finest elite units, a disorganized rabble of regional bandits like them stood a snowball's chance in hell. Trying to fight these professionals would result in a total, effortless slaughter.
A profound question hung in the damp air: why had these elite operators chosen to deploy a non-lethal standoff strategy instead of executing the ruthless, total purge that standard Sarkaz doctrine demanded? The answer to that mystery rested entirely on the desires of the singular person stepping out from the center of the vehicle.
Shielded by the overlapping shields of her elite guard, a white Sarkaz woman finally came into view. The precise second her feet touched the parched earth, a strange, breathless silence swept across the battlefield. Every single mercenary, regardless of his allegiance or bloodlust, stood completely paralyzed, their eyes locked onto the elegant figure standing at the center of the world.
Standing on the roof of her truck, Jeanne watched the scene unfold, a look of quiet fascination crossing her face. For a brief, surreal second, she could have sworn she saw a soft, pristine white light radiating from the woman's form, its gentle brilliance growing even more radiant against the backdrop of the morning sun.
For the first time in her journey across Terra, Jeanne truly understood what it meant for a person's very presence to emit a visible glow. Historically, she had only heard rumors of such things from Patriot and a few other seasoned veterans, who had cryptically mentioned that under specific circumstances, Jeanne's own body would cast a brilliant light.
Jeanne had never fully understood those comments. She wasn't a firefly, after all; why on earth would her skin emit a faint light without the active use of her Noble Phantasm?
But seeing the woman before her, the concept of a living aura finally clicked in her mind. A sudden, idle curiosity flitted through her thoughts—she found herself wondering about the golden light the others had described seeing around her own shoulders. If she could figure out how to voluntarily use that ability, she wouldn't have to worry about losing her way whenever she explored dark, unlit ruins.
As her focus locked back onto the white Sarkaz, Jeanne's casual thoughts vanished, replaced by a sudden tightening in her chest. She noticed the eyes of the woman—or rather, the profound, unmitigated depth of sorrow reflecting within them. It was a heavy, perpetual grief that seemed to seep from her very pores, so dark and constant that Jeanne couldn't help but wonder if this legendary figure was suffering from a severe case of clinical depression.
Was this sad disposition a mandatory trait for anyone carrying the mantle of the Demon King? Looking at the profound sorrow radiating from the Sarkaz's eyes, Jeanne felt the heavy emotional weight of the field press down upon her own mind, causing her own high spirits to instantly dip into a somber, gloomy shadow.
It felt tight... uncomfortable... as if she wanted to weep for a tragedy she didn't even understand.
This wasn't the result of a hostile Originium Art or a hidden mental curse; it was simply the passive byproduct of an incredibly powerful soul. The Demon King's internal emotions were so massive, pure, and uninhibited that they naturally overflowed into the environment, forcefully imprinting her own heartbreaking grief onto the hearts of everyone within her presence.
Fortunately, Jeanne's disciplined mind reasserted itself a second later. Shaking off the foreign melancholy, she sharpened her focus, carefully analyzing the legendary Lord of the Sarkaz—the mythical hero of Kazdel whom so many of her acquaintances had spoken of with reverent awe.
The woman before her possessed a magnificent cascade of long, pale pink hair, her royal status immediately confirmed by the distinct, dark obsidian horns curling from her brow. To Jeanne, her very first impression of Theresa was that of an incredibly graceful, profoundly beautiful noblewoman.
Yet, alongside that breathtaking beauty rested a terrifying, unavoidable horror. Tracing down Theresa's left shoulder, Jeanne spotted a severe, late-stage case of Oripathy. The infection was so advanced that even a total medical novice could see its severity; jagged, crystalline clusters of black Originium had aggressively ruptured through her flesh, systematically devouring the entire left side of her upper torso.
To make a harsh, high-speed journey across the brutal badlands while carrying an infection profile of that catastrophic size—instead of being permanently confined to a hospital bed awaiting her final hour—offered undeniable, silent proof of the monumental resilience anchoring Theresa's physical body.
It was a sobering sight. In Jeanne's memory, the only other person who carried a layer of Oripathy that severe while maintaining active combat operations was Patriot himself. It seemed the physical blueprints of the Sarkaz race truly possessed a terrifying level of baseline durability.
"Everyone, let us bring an end to this fight here!" Theresa announced. She looked across the ruined camp, her voice carrying an ethereal, bell-like clarity that resonated perfectly through the quiet valley. "I believe everyone present has the intelligence to recognize that this battle is fundamentally completely meaningless. Even if you choose to continue your attack, your chances of victory are remarkably slim."
It was crystal clear from her opening words that the pink-haired Lord harbored absolutely zero desire to execute a mass slaughter today. She hadn't traveled all this way to play the executioner; she had come exclusively to act as the peacekeeper.
An extraordinary, tense atmosphere settled over the entire valley. Not a single blade was raised, and not a single trigger was pulled. The two sides simply stood frozen in their tracks, their eyes locked onto one another in a state of hyper-vigilant standoff, each side desperately waiting to see if the other would dare to make the first fatal move.