Soon after, Pritty joined them on the podium after ensuring the church forces she brought were in their respective positions. But this time, she was not alone.
Beside her stepped an Elven woman with light movements yet full of arrogance; her chin was tilted slightly as if the world before her were too lowly to meet her gaze. Every step was calm, measured, and seemingly calculated to be noticed.
Her body was draped in green attire that looked like a weave of living leaves, arranged neatly only to cover vital areas. Much of her skin—pure white like untainted snow—was exposed without shame. Yet Mujun knew that fabric was not mere ornament or a display of flesh. It was high-tier armor of the Elven Kingdom, magical technology with durability equal to Reina's diagram-etched steel plate.
Her body was lithe, her waist slender, her curves beautiful in an almost perfect way. However, standing beside the curvaceous and mature Pritty, the Elf seemed to lose some of her allure. Even so, her long legs gave her an advantage that even other women could hardly deny.
Her face was flawless. Her large green eyes were clear like emerald gems, her nose small, her lips thin—everything about her spoke of a race that called itself the most beautiful in Crocus. Unfortunately, the arrogance etched onto her face was too blatant to be masked by beauty.
She was Brienna, the Elven Queen.
Her age might have surpassed two centuries, but time seemed to have treated her far too well. A longbow was strapped to her back, while a quiver of arrows hung at her waist, positioned neatly and ready for use at any moment.
Pritty gave a respectful nod to Reina as a greeting. Brienna did not. She didn't even glance at the human princess, as if Reina's existence were not significant enough to acknowledge. With the arrival of these two women, the Hero's Party was finally complete.
In the eyes of the world, the Hero and the Demon King were considered the pinnacle of power in Crocus. But in reality, history recorded that only a handful of them truly surpassed the limits of a Tier 10 mage. Most Heroes and Demon Kings sat just at that threshold—slightly stronger, but not absolutely superior.
Because of this, a duel between a Hero and a Demon King was always vulnerable to third-party intervention. A single Tier 10 mage entering the fray could drastically shift the balance.
Thus, every time a world war began, both factions prepared a support group: a collection of the strongest Tier 10 mages tasked with guarding, supporting, and—if necessary—sacrificing themselves for the victory of their primary symbol.
On the human side, this group was known as the Hero's Party.
On the enemy side, they were called the Demon Generals.
Their number never exceeded four. Not due to a lack of power, but because of broader strategic needs. Aside from the climactic duel, both factions still had to battle across the entire global front. Gathering too many Tier 10 mages in one spot meant weakening other lines. Thus, an unwritten agreement was reached: four people. No more, no less.
The silence atop the podium broke when Brienna scoffed softly.
"I truly do not understand," she said, her voice light yet laden with disgust, "why my noble self must stand level with a slave."
Her green gaze flicked toward Mujun momentarily—like someone who had just spotted a stain on their clothes. Mujun did not react. He remained standing calmly, as if the words had never been directed at him.
But Reina moved.
"Mujun is the strongest pure mage currently in existence," she stated flatly. No emotion, no anger—just a statement of fact. "Recognized not only by the Hero's faction but even the Demon King's faction acknowledges it."
She turned slightly toward Brienna.
"If you have another candidate," she continued, her tone unchanging, "I would be happy to give them the chance to duel Mujun. I, too, would like to see… if the 'noble' Elven race is truly stronger than a slave you deem so beneath you."
There was no sarcasm in her voice. Instead, there was a cold curiosity—and a hint of impatience, as if the duel were something she genuinely wished to witness.
Pritty coughed slightly, clearly stifling a laugh.
"Tch."
Brienna clicked her tongue in annoyance and turned her face away. She did not take the bait.
Mujun's identity as a slave indeed made him a target for scorn and hatred. Yet no one in that place could deny his power. Perhaps, aside from the Hero and the Demon King, only the Demi-human King was capable of exchanging spells with him without being immediately overwhelmed.
That was why—even if his presence was considered an insult—no one could shake Mujun's position in the Hero's Party. At least, for as long as this world war lasted. What would happen afterward… was another story.
The four of them stood in a row atop the podium, looking out at the Hero's faction army that had long been lined up under the open sky. Not a single complaint was heard, despite the passing time. Everyone knew—they were waiting for the world's protagonist.
Before long, that figure finally appeared.
Nestal, the Hero.
He arrived in full gear, high-tier steel armor and his magic sword hanging firmly at his side. His appearance was gallant, his stride confident, and every movement radiated authority. The haggard, sour face Mujun had seen earlier in the tent seemed to have never existed. At this moment, Nestal was the perfect image of the figure the world had been waiting for.
Anyone seeing him would not hesitate to admit—this was the Hero.
With a steady step, Nestal ascended the podium and smiled warmly at the four people waiting for him. Brienna's gaze sparkled with adoration. Pritty returned it with a thin smile. Reina remained stoic without change. Mujun merely gave a short nod.
Though the relationship between these five was far from intimate, they all understood one thing: in front of millions of soldiers, the theater must go on. The decisive war was about to begin, and no one knew how many of them would still see the sun rise tomorrow.
Nestal stepped forward and began his speech.
His words flowed smoothly, full of conviction, neatly arranged to touch hearts and ignite spirits. Cries of hope, sacrifice, and victory echoed through the air. One by one, the soldiers' faces transformed—doubt faded, fear eroded, replaced by a passion for combat.
Even though Nestal never fought on the front lines, no one could rival his ability to rouse spirits. Beyond his status as a Hero, he had been trained since childhood to speak before the masses, to sell hope to those who would risk their lives. It was only natural that every word from his mouth lifted the army's morale.
Cheers exploded as his speech ended.
The shouting echoed like a wave, making blood boil and chests vibrate. Flushed faces showed impatience—the desire to immediately draw spears and thrust them into the bodies of the Demon race.
Mujun took a long breath.
If only Nestal were truly like the image living in the minds of these soldiers, perhaps he wouldn't need to feel anxious. But unfortunately… Mujun knew the reality was not that simple.
No.
Perhaps if Nestal were truly a "True Hero" in every sense of the word, Mujun would still do what he had to do. Because this path was for the best. At least, according to him.
Shortly after, the army began to move out of the fortress. Their ranks were orderly, their steps in unison. The thundering footfalls of millions of soldiers made the ground tremble, as if the earth itself were responding to the call of war. From a distance, the formation looked like a giant snake slithering slowly, coiling around the world.
The distance between the fortress and the front line was not far. Within hours, the army had arrived at the designated battlefield. Commanders and strategists immediately set to work, dividing the forces into three parts: center, left wing, and right wing.
With their numbers reaching the millions, this arrangement took more than a full day. Tents began to rise as the first waves arrived, forming a massive encampment under the war-torn sky.
However, Mujun and the Hero's Party did not need to be involved in all that. Their task was simple—and far more dangerous.
Hold off the Demon Generals, then open a path for the Hero to face the Demon King directly. When and where that would happen depended entirely on the scouts' reports.
If the Demon King attacked the left wing, they would move. If the right wing, they would move as well. Whichever was attacked first would surely suffer massive losses before the Hero's Party arrived. The same applied in reverse if the Hero's Party attacked first.
But from Nestal's paling face and his subtly trembling body, it was clear—they would not be the ones taking the initiative.
The only thing Mujun truly feared right now was not the collapse of the front line, but the possibility of their Hero fleeing before the battle truly began. Because of this, Reina—who was thinking the same thing—ensured Nestal was confined within his tent under 24-hour guard.
But it seemed those worries were no longer relevant.
Just as the camp construction was completed, a deafening sound split the air, followed by screams of agony from the direction of the central forces.
Mujun didn't even need to hear the report from the soldier running breathlessly toward them. The wave of magic striking the air felt too distinct—too massive, too heavy, too cruel.
Mujun's body tensed instantly. His breath caught for a fraction of a second, and his eyes narrowed.
There was only one being in this world capable of leaving a magical signature like that.
The Demon King had arrived.