Shrouded Light

by LegionaryTitus

As the laughter of the thirsting Gods echoes across the galaxy, so too the echoes of men dreaming of victory. Those men and women who held out on hope that there will be salvation. A hero. As the Empyrean opened above a new world, one dreams zealously of not going gentle into that good night. Well, unless his companion who helps him in the dark has anything to say about it.

14. Chapter VIII

Chapter VIII: And his brightness was as the light…

"Even if the cycles of life were to repeat endlessly, I would embrace my chosen path without a shred of regret. Even if I were to be reborn a thousandfold, the path I would tread remains unwavering, for it is etched upon the depths of my being. This path, born from the whispers of my heart, leads me to the essence of my truest self."

-The opening words on the memoir of the Royal Princess of the Holy Midgar Kingdom, Alexia Midgar. Imperial Archives. M30. Archived at the behest of XVII Primarch and his "Soul Brother".

=I=

Nestled amidst a picturesque landscape, the Village of Ashborn emerges as a hidden gem in the vast tapestry of the land. Surrounded by rolling hills blanketed in lush emerald greenery and adorned with vibrant wildflowers that sway in harmony with the gentle breeze, this enchanting hamlet beckons any wanderer to explore its secrets.

Lush and simple.

The village, born from the annals of time, holds a poignant tale of resilience and tenacity. Over the centuries, it has endured the apathy of nobles, left unnoticed and neglected in the shadows of grand castles and opulent estates. Its humble inhabitants, ordinary folk bound by a strong sense of community, have weathered the storms of indifference with stoic determination, fostering a spirit of self-reliance that is interwoven into the fabric of their lives.

Like a Phoenix born out of Ashes.

Though seemingly inconspicuous, the Village of Ashborn reveals an intriguing facet concealed within its seemingly ordinary facade. The Solar Legionaries present at the village harnessed their collective brilliance to create an intricate web of makeshift defenses that epitomize strategic genius. Like masterful architects, they have ingeniously woven these defenses into the village's very essence, transforming it into a fortress that belies its humble origins.

Stronghold that boast strength and resilience.

The village, akin to a cunning chessboard, boasts a network of entrances and exits strategically positioned to grant access while ensuring the utmost security. The main entrance, flanked by towering stone walls entwined with verdant ivy, stands as a majestic gateway that welcomes both friend and foe. Guarded by watchful sentinels, it offers a glimpse into the heart of Ashborn, while hinting at the unyielding vigilance that underlies its tranquil facade.

A labyrinth of narrow, winding alleys intertwines like the veins of a living organism, meandering through the village's core. These age-old paths, paved with worn cobblestones, lead to concealed exits cleverly concealed amidst the rustic architecture. Hidden within the very fabric of Ashborn, these clandestine passages provide a means of escape when the need arises, confounding any would-be assailant with their intricate design.

The village's total defense layout, a harmonious symphony of practicality and beauty, is a testament to the resourcefulness of its people. Wooden barricades, cunningly disguised as ornate arbors adorned with cascading flowers, serve as both decoration and fortification. Stone towers, seamlessly integrated into the village's architecture, afford vantage points that offer commanding views of the surrounding landscape, ensuring any approaching threat is detected well in advance.

A verdant canopy of ancient trees stretches its protective branches over the village, acting as a living shield against prying eyes and lurking dangers. Thick foliage, vibrant with hues of emerald and jade, conceals the village from aerial threats, serving as a visual testament to the harmony between humanity and the natural world.

In the Village of Ashborn, beauty and resilience intertwine, weaving a captivating tale of a community that has forged its destiny in the crucible of adversity. It stands as a testament to the indomitable human spirit, proving that even the most overlooked of places can harbor profound strength and unwavering determination.

And now, this humble village is undergoing a siege.

The machinations of the dark.

=I=

Perched atop the watchtower, nestled within the intricate labyrinthine stronghold, Acting Solar Guardian Alaric attentively observed the ongoing assault by the mercenaries. His purple hair billowed in the wind, while his Legionary uniform was reinforced with light armor plating complementing the bladed arm band present at this left arm. A flintlock could be seen on his right hip, and on his back hip, the familiar Solar Blade rested horizontally, its sheath glinting against the sun.

Undeterred youthful face and disposition.

"….The mercenaries are inexhaustible" Guardian Alaric remarked, his voice resonating with stoicism. His demeanor remained composed and authoritative, undeterred by the relentless nature of the assault.

Absolute stoicism.

"Aye, sir," replied the man donning the distinctive armband and adorned in a striking uniform of gold and obsidian. His attire was complemented by lightweight armor and shimmering plating. "It appears they have no intentions of ceasing their efforts anytime soon." His response conveyed a sense of awareness and readiness for the continued battle.

"Let the 2nd Photon reinforce the 4th Photon and at the 'Charred Gates.' Let the 1st Photon withdraw from the western flank of the stronghold. The enemies won't attack there. The labyrinthine routes of the stronghold are too much of a hassle for them to attack." Alaric ordered tonelessly while keeping a watchful eye on the field.

Strategic eyes. Looking for openings and possible further reinforcing.

The man at his side raised his left arm in salute, "By your orders!" He immediately dismisses himself.

Then, the purple-haired commander closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, scenting the air from his perch atop the watchtower. Sniffing at something.

Olfactory Instincts.

"It reeks of schemes and dark arcane," the commander muttered, reopening his eyes and narrowing them for a brief moment.

The scent of the lurking darkness is strong.

"Moreover, the commander of the assault has yet to reveal themselves," an analyzing tone replaced the previous stoicism of the Solar Guardian as he placed his right hand beneath his chin in contemplation.

Too suspicious.

For now, the purple-haired commander continued to observe from atop the watchtower of the labyrinthine stronghold.

=I=

The main gate of Ashborn is called the "Charred Gate". It earned its name as a tribute to its ebony hue and in honor of the village it represented.

The Charred Gate stands as a testament to the architectural prowess of the Solar Guard and their unwavering commitment to defense, rising before the eyes like a formidable guardian. Crafted within a remarkably short span of three years, its construction bears witness to the collective dedication and tireless labor of the village and the legionaries. Yet, these gates are more than mere aesthetics; they embody a seamless fusion of beauty and fortification.

The gates' grandeur is immediately apparent, as intricate carvings and embellishments adorn their surface, depicting scenes of heroic triumphs and mythical creatures. The stone, weathered and aged, tells a story of endurance and resilience, standing resolute against the test of time. The craftsmanship is evident in every detail, from the fine etchings that dance along the arches to the meticulously placed stones that create a harmonious mosaic. Each element serves a purpose, both practical and symbolic, ensuring that the gates not only captivate the eye but also fulfill their intended role as a formidable defense.

Built to withstand the trials of siege, the gates of Ashborn possess formidable defensive features. Massive iron hinges, carefully forged and reinforced, allow them to swing open with unwavering strength, or close with a resounding thud that echoes a warning to would-be intruders. Sturdy bars and bolts, intricately integrated into the gates' framework, provide additional layers of security, ensuring that they can withstand the relentless onslaught of battering rams or attempts at forced entry.

The gates are flanked by robust towers, rising tall and imposing on either side. From their elevated vantage points, Legionaries can survey the surrounding landscape, their watchful eyes scanning for any signs of approaching danger. These towers, with their arrow slits and battlements, not only grant a strategic advantage in defense but also enhance the visual grandeur of the gates, casting an air of authority and vigilance.

In the face of adversity, the main gates of Ashborn embody a seamless blend of visual splendor and impenetrable defense. They stand as a testament to the village's ingenuity and determination, a tangible representation of their commitment to protect and preserve the cherished community that lies beyond their majestic threshold.

As he stands above the left stone tower of the gate, Photonar Tarandis smiled in satisfaction.

"Those heretics actually thought that this stronghold can be easily besieged." He stated with derision and disgust.

Zeal present in the eyes.

Photonar Tarandis is a young adult, aged 24. He is currently the assigned Photonar of the 4th Ashborn Photon. There are currently six photons present at the stronghold village of Ashborn.

The 1st Photon has been entrusted with the responsibility of defending the left flank of the stronghold, including one of the entrances to the confusing labyrinth within the Village of Ashborn.

While the defense of the left flank and its corresponding entrance is of utmost importance, it is not necessarily considered the highest priority in terms of immediate threat or vulnerability. The Village of Ashborn, with its intricate network of defenses and strategic layout, boasts multiple entrances and avenues that require protection. Each entrance presents its own set of challenges and potential risks, requiring a distributed defense strategy to ensure comprehensive coverage and effective protection.

An artificial maze.

The 2nd Photon, masters of reinforcement and communication, play a vital role in the defense of Ashborn. They swiftly reinforce vulnerable positions, fortifying the left-flank of the stronghold with precision and resourcefulness. Meanwhile, their adept communication skills establish a seamless network, enabling the scattered defenders to stay connected and adapt swiftly to the enemy's movements. In the crucible of the siege, the 2nd Photon stands as a beacon of resilience, fortifying Ashborn's defense and empowering its defenders to unite and triumph.

Adept in Mobility. Flexible and fast-reactive.

The Solar Guardian assigned the 3rd Photon to the right flank of the stronghold. The right flank acts as a gateway to the heart of the stronghold, connecting key areas within Ashborn. Its defense is essential for maintaining the integrity of the village's inner sanctum, where vital resources, infrastructure, and the safety of its inhabitants are concentrated. By securing the right flank, the 3rd Photon effectively safeguards the core of Ashborn, preventing any enemy forces from infiltrating and disrupting the harmonious balance that the village has painstakingly nurtured.

While not as paramount as the Charred Gate, the right flank remains crucial, as it serves as one of the routes leading to the heart of the village.

While the 4th Photon has been assigned the responsibility of guarding and defending the Charred Gate due to their unique set of skills, specialized training, and strategic expertise that aligns with the specific challenges posed by this particular entrance. Their proficiency in tactical maneuvers and situational awareness makes them well-suited to handle the complexities associated with the Charred Gate's defense.

The Charred Gate is a critical access point that requires vigilant protection due to its strategic location and potential vulnerability.

Adding to that, Solar Guardian Alaric assigned Sunbeams adept in magic to the 4th Photon, empowering them to defend against the assault of hundreds of mercenaries.

Men proficient in the ways of the Arcane.

The 5th Photon was assigned to the rear, although in comparison to other potential frontlines, the rear held lesser importance as it mainly consisted of rocks and dust. There were no inhabitants or strategically significant elements for either the attackers or defenders. Consequently, the photon assigned to this area had the smallest number of legionaries.

However, as Solar Guardian Alaric was a cautious man, he still deployed some of the Legionaries there to ensure comprehensive coverage. The acting commander clearly did not wish to risk losing the village due to a minor oversight.

The final photon, the 6th Photon, bore the responsibility of defending the evacuated citizens located in the heart of the stronghold. Serving as the last line of defense, they also held the crucial role of managing medical activities. The 6th Photon attended to the well-being of the citizens, tending to the wounded, and overseeing other essential medical duties. The purple-haired commander personally assigned Sunbeams with medical expertise and proficiency in emergency aid to the 6th Photon, recognizing the significance of their role.

As Photonar Tarandis recalled all the positionings, he made a grim smile.

"It seems Commander Alaric was not mistaken. The heretics' primary target is indeed the Charred Gate itself. Foolish... yet cunning," Tarandis remarked, his previously smiling face transitioning into an intense neutral expression. His lips formed a thin line, betraying his contemplative state.

The Photonar of the 4th watched as the assault unfolded with a mesmerizing blend of precision and aggression. The enemy forces, far from being incompetent, showcased their formidable skills and unwavering determination. They moved with calculated coordination, their formations resembling a relentless tide crashing against the village's outpost defenses. Their arms, glinting ominously in the fading light, struck with ruthless efficiency, seeking to breach the fortress that had withstood the test of time.

Despite being mercenaries, it is apparent that they are skilled in warfare.

Their weapons glinted in the sunlight, while the resounding echoes of their loud flintlocks reverberated across the battlefield.

The disciplined legionaries of the 4th Photon stood firm, their unwavering resolve shining like a beacon amidst the chaos of battle. Clad in gleaming armor adorned with sun crosses and golden etchings, they moved with a grace that belied their immense strength. With each calculated step, their boots struck the earth, creating a rhythmic cadence that resonated with the unwavering spirit of the defenders.

"...Do not underestimate us, you degenerate bastards…" Tarandis proclaimed, a fierce glint in his eyes. The sight of his Photon brought a smile to his face. The Sunbeams of Ashborn had been far from idle during all these years. They had diligently trained and constructed, day after day, in preparation for moments like this.

Discipline and duty to fellow men.

Their shields, polished to a mirror-like sheen, became impenetrable barriers against the onslaught. Like ancient guardians, they deflected the enemy's relentless blows, their sturdy frames absorbing the impact with unyielding determination. The clash of metal against metal reverberated through the air, a symphony of steel that echoed the valor of the defenders.

As the mercenaries pressed forward, the legionaries responded with unwavering precision. Their swords, honed to razor-sharp perfection, sliced through the air with lethal grace. Each swing was a testament to their years of training, their movements like a mesmerizing dance of skill and precision. With each strike, they carved a path of defiance, forcing the enemy to recoil, their ranks shaken by the resolute determination of their opponents.

Behind the armored legionaries, men in gold and black uniforms stood in disciplined lines. In their hands, polished muskets can be found.

Supplies from a certain noble house.

At this, Photonar Tarandis smiled, his azure hair fluttering in the wind as he stood atop the tower beside the Charred Gate.

At the ground, commandeering voices can be heard.

"MAKE READY!" roared one such man behind the Armored Legionaries.

Commanding the musketeers.

At that command, the legionaries swiftly positioned their muskets in front of their bodies. As they do this, the armored legionaries shielded them from the attacks of the mercenaries.

"AIM!" the commandeering voice roared once more.

The gold and black legionaries now aimed their muskets, their eyes filled with steely determination and ruthless resolve.

"FIRE!" and the command was roared.

Violent roars were unleashed.

The air was thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder as the legionaries unleashed a hail of well-aimed shots. The thunderous roar of muskets filled the battlefield, their deadly projectiles finding their mark with uncanny accuracy.

The mercenaries faltered under the onslaught, their ranks thinning with every volley. Yet, their resolve remained unbroken, and they pressed on, determined to breach the defenses that stood as an unyielding barrier before them.

In this titanic clash of wills, the disciplined legionaries of the 4th Photonar fought with unyielding valor. Their unwavering discipline and mastery of warfare were evident in every move, every strike, as they stood as the bulwark against the relentless tide of the enemy.

With each passing moment, their prowess and determination shone brighter, a testament to the indomitable spirit that dwelled within the Village of Ashborn.

But the assault didn't relent. In fact, it got more intense.

Then, as the clashing of steel continued, something can be seen at the rear of the attacking mercenaries.

Wheels. Trembling of the ground due to weight.

Siege engines have come.

The ground quivered beneath the weight of the approaching siege engines. Massive wooden structures on wheels rumbled forward, their imposing presence casting a shadow over the battlefield. Towering trebuchets and battering rams, adorned with dark metal and spiked edges, loomed in the distance.

The Legionaries outside the gates assigned on the outposts makeshift defenses looked at the engines from far distance.

"…Order the retreat of the Photon from the makeshift outpost defenses…Let them man the Charred Gate." Photonar Tarandis ordered a Beam Marshal at his side.

The Beam Marshal saluted and ran to deliver the order.

The assault is now approaching the Charred Gate itself.

=I=

The siege engines moved with deliberate purpose, guided by skilled operators who maneuvered them into position. Creaking wheels rolled over the uneven terrain, leaving deep tracks in their wake. The relentless advance of these formidable war machines sent a shiver of anticipation through the defenders' ranks.

As Photonar Tarandis witnessed this, his expression remained unchanged, not even a bit.

Unaffected.

As the siege engines drew nearer, their intimidating forms became more distinct. The trebuchets, their massive arms raised high, were primed to launch deadly projectiles through the air. The battering rams, equipped with sturdy frames and sharpened tips, seemed ready to tear down the strongest of fortifications.

There are no more Legionaries present at the outposts outside. The entire Photon is now manning the walls and the towers. There are two Photon present at the gates. The 4th Photon and the newly reinforced 1st Photon.

The Legionaries manning the obsidian gate braced themselves, their eyes fixed upon the approaching siege engines. They knew the true test of their defenses was about to begin. The clatter of armor and the hum of whispered prayers to the Divine Tradition filled the air as they prepared to face the imminent assault, determined to withstand the onslaught and protect what was theirs.

And then, the siege engines were locked and loaded. The payloads are glowing with psi-arcane essence.

Multiplication of Force. Element inscribing.

As the enemy siege engines unleashed their wrath upon the village, chaos erupted on the battlefield. The trebuchets, with their massive wooden arms extended high, groaned and strained under the weight of their deadly payloads. The defenders watched in awe and trepidation as the projectiles were launched into the sky, soaring with a grace that belied their destructive potential.

But even at this, Photonar Tarandis is still stoic. Though within that stoicness, zeal can be seen in his eyes.

Like he is certain of something.

With a thunderous whoosh, the projectiles arched through the air, leaving behind a trail of anticipation and dread.

"Didn't I tell you not to underestimate us, you heretical bastards?" Tarandis's voice carried a mix of triumph and defiance as the payload closed in on the gates. His lips curled into a smile, a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes.

As the payload hits the obsidian gate, something happened.

The runes on the gate glowed.

Reinforced with Psi-Arcane essence.

A thunderous thud can be heard. Only a thud.

And with a resounding thud, the gate stood firm, not a single mark gracing its sturdy front. The assault of the payload had been repelled, leaving the gate unyielding and unscathed.

Uselessness of the Force.

"…Do you really think you bastards are the only ones that can use arcane techniques?" At that, Tarandis smiled.

The assault continued as the casualty of the enemy forces are being picked by the muskets, crossbows, and other payloads hurled by the defending Legionaries.

=I=

Perched atop his majestic stallion, Nathaniel Balotelli gazed upon the relentless assault on the Charred Gate. The battle unfolded before him like a grand tapestry of chaos and destruction. A subtle transformation overcame his once-neutral countenance, contorting it into a sinister visage of pleasure and wicked delight. A malevolent smile, tinged with ecstasy, curled upon his lips, as if he found immeasurable joy in the bloodshed and mayhem.

"...Kekekekekeke! How delightful it is to witness such an early feast," he crooned, his voice laced with a chilling undertone that sent shivers down the spines of those nearby. The sound of his laughter carried an eerie melody, a symphony of malice and anticipation that echoed through the air.

In that moment, Nathaniel's eyes narrowed with a glint of malicious intent, and he issued a simple yet profound command to the mercenary commander positioned at his right flank. His voice dripped with a calculated malevolence as he spoke, his words punctuated by a predatory excitement, "Assault the flanks."

The mercenary commander responded to Nathaniel's order with a mix of weariness and unrestrained enthusiasm. "Very well, my Lord," he acknowledged, a hint of exhaustion underlying his voice, yet his eyes gleamed with a gleeful anticipation that mirrored his lord's sadistic pleasure. "The gold won't acquire itself."

Nathaniel's grin widened, reflecting the darkness that resided within his soul. From his vantage point, he continued to watch the battle unfold, his eyes dancing with maleficent delight as his meticulously orchestrated plan began to take shape.

The mercenary commander gathered hundreds of his force. Ready to march towards the flanks of the stronghold.

Men trained for war.

=I=

Demetrius just became a Beam Marshal a year ago after he formed his own Sunbeam with his comrades.

He may be inexperienced compared to other Beam Marshals or officers of the Legion, but nonetheless, he maintains the same level of discipline and composure as a seasoned legionary officer should during the Ironheart Policy.

Well, he strives to do so, putting in his best effort to uphold the standards of discipline and composure, even if he may occasionally falter.

Despite his youth, when the Ironheart Policy was implemented by the revered First Brother, may his name be honored, he followed it with unwavering dedication, duty firmly embedded in his heart. The fires of youthful glory blazed in his mind, driving his commitment to the cause.

The vigor of the youth.

The fires within his heart burned even brighter as he came to the realization that his home village, Ashborn, stood as the prime target of the nefarious forces of the Primordial Abominations themselves. The weight of this knowledge only fueled his determination and steeled his resolve to protect his cherished village at all costs.

Hence, when the 3rd Photon was assigned to the right flank, he took his trusted sunbeam with him and faithfully followed the orders of his Photonar. The bonds forged through shared trials and unwavering loyalty fueled their actions as they stood united in their commitment to fulfill their duty.

That is why, right now, he is sprinting along the top of the walls in the right flank of the stronghold. When faced with the sight of hundreds of heavily armored individuals and siege engines, it is only natural for him to rush towards his commanding officer, eager to relay what he has just witnessed.

"By the Gestalt! I thought the assault was primarily focused on the Charred Gate! So why are there hundreds of those damned mercenaries, possibly some of them even adept in the arts of Magic, marching along these decrepit walls?" Beam Marshal Demetrius thought, his mind racing with frantic thoughts.

The unexpected sight of the mercenaries breaching the supposed stronghold's weak points filled him with a sense of urgency and the realization that their defenses were being tested from multiple angles.

Upon reaching his commanding Photonar, a dark-haired man bearing a scar on his face, the marks of his experiences making him appear older than his years, Beam Marshal Demetrius swiftly snapped to attention and rendered a sharp solar salute. Clearly in a rush to report the unfolding events, his breath came in hurried gasps as he prepared to deliver his urgent account.

"Photonar! There are hundreds of heavily armored mercenaries, and it appears that some of them possess magical abilities. They have positioned themselves a significant distance from the walls of the right flank. Furthermore, they have brought siege engines with them, indicating their intention to breach and destroy the walls on this side!" Demetrius concluded his report, his voice tinged with nervousness and a clear discomfort with the situation at hand.

The scar-faced Photonar pursed his lips, his expression reflecting a mixture of determination and focus. The bladed Sun Cross armband adorning his arm added an undeniable aesthetic appeal. He meticulously assessed the situation.

"Tell the Beam Marshals of the 3rd Photon to order their sunbeams to man the walls," the scar-faced man commanded, his voice carrying a sense of urgency. "Ensure they are armed with their blades and muskets. Instruct them to gather the necessary siege deterrents. You have my permission."

Seated atop an empty barrel of wine, the scar-faced man remained composed, his scarred visage contrasting with the air of authority he exuded. His orders were given with clarity and purpose, underscoring the gravity of the situation yet, at the same time, emanates an aura of authority.

"By your orders!" Demetrius saluted and was about to leave.

"…Are some of the Sunbeams of the 2nd Photon still present in this side of the stronghold?" The dark-haired Photonar asked.

"…Yes sir. In fact, I've seen them scaling the walls just now. Probably analyzing the integrity to report back to Solar Guardian Alaric." Demetrius, once more, hypothesized.

"Then inform the Beam Marshals of the 2nd Photon who are present to convey a message to Solar Guardian Alaric. They are to report the presence of a significant enemy force planning to assault the right flank, which includes magic users. Present this spare armband, bearing my sigil, as proof. After you deliver my order, immediately get your Sunbeam and join the 3rd Photon to man the posts." the Photonar instructed, handing over the specially adorned armband. It bore the same bladed Sun Cross emblem worn by the Divine Sun Legionaries, but with additional stripes of gold and white.

The Armband of a Photonar. Symbolize command and authority.

At first, Demetrius was disoriented. 'The sigil of command! Only Photonars during the Ironheart Policy get armbands like this!'

But soon enough, he crisply saluted and followed his orders, saying, "By your orders!"

"Oh, and one last thing," the scarred Photonar stated.

"Sir?" Demetrius asked, his face reflecting confusion.

"Good job on the hypothesizing," the scarred Photonar said, his gaze moving away from Demetrius.

"Thank you, sir," Demetrius replied, conveying his gratitude and respect.

And then, he ran off. After all, he had a job to do.

=I=

At the watchtower placed at the very center of the stronghold, Alaric once more sniffed in the air.

"Tch! So that's your plan huh…" The purple-haired commander stated with a serious tone as he pinched his nose out of disgust.

His aide at his side merely looked at his superior with a stoic face. Clearly used to his mannerisms and strange way of commanding.

"What's happening sir?" his aide asked.

"….The Charred Gate assault is a diversion." The acting Solar Guardian stated.

"…What? But didn't they attack the Charred Gate because it's the critical point for the defeat of this stronghold?" His aide asked with confusion.

"...No, there are four main points in this stronghold," the purple-haired commander explained to his aide. "First is the Charred Gate, which offers the fastest route to victory but will also be the site of the most intense fighting. Second is the Labyrinthine Maze on the left flank. While the defenses there may be sparse, the maze itself serves as a formidable defense. The assaulting force will be greatly disoriented, as First Brother himself meticulously crafted its layout."

The aide nodded, clearly listening to the explanation of his commander.

"Third is our rear," the Solar Guardian continued, emphasizing the strategic imprudence of attacking that particular area. "While the rear may appear to be an unfavorable target with its rugged terrain, scattered rocks, and dusty landscape, it would be a strategic blunder for any assailant to direct their forces there. It lacks any significant strategic advantage, and stationing a considerable number of Legionaries in that area may seem unnecessary." He stated. The cautious tone implied that despite its perceived insignificance, the Solar Guardian still recognized the importance of remaining vigilant and prepared for any potential threats from unexpected directions.

His aide simply nodded.

"Fourth is our right flank," the commander of the makeshift Solar Wing of Ashborn stated, his tone filled with a sense of consideration. "While the right flank serves as the pathway to the vital resources of the stronghold and ultimately leads to the center itself, it presents a more challenging and demanding march compared to the front. The front, being the fastest route to the center where the citizens of Ashborn are located and where our crucial resources are housed, boasts stronger defenses in comparison. However, if the enemy were to direct their assault towards the right flank..."

The Solar Guardian paused, his chin cupped by his right hand, as contemplative eyes adorned his handsome face. The expression hinted at the weight of the potential consequences and the need for strategic analysis.

"…" Silence reigned at the top of the watchtower for few moments.

Well, that is, until a runner from the 2nd Photon appeared and broke the silence.

The runner looks tired. Clearly, he is on a rush and probably tired himself marching the steps to the top of the watchtower.

The aide of the purple-haired Solar Guardian halted him.

"Halt!" He crisply ordered.

The runner with a light armor covering his gold and obsidian uniform crisply saluted, "Lord Guardian! I have something to report!" the runner stated.

"…Speak" The stoic commander simply stated.

"The 1st Photon has reported enemy sightings at a considerable distance from the left flank. Their numbers are estimated to be over a hundred, all equipped with heavy armaments and accompanied by siege engines. On the other hand, the 3rd Photon has encountered a significant force of assaulting mercenaries on the right flank. Interestingly, these forces appear to be advancing at a swifter pace than those on the left flank, and they possess a larger quantity of siege engines," the runner conveyed, his voice resolute and unwavering.

Discipline and Mental stability amidst Chaos.

At that report the Solar Guardian squinted his eyes in suspicion.

"Order the 2nd Photon to withdraw from the Charred Gate and reinforce the 4th Photon. Redirect any available Legionaries from the 2nd to the right flank. Recall half of the Legionaries from the 1st Photon stationed at the left flank. Our focus should be on reinforcing the right flank, as the Labyrinth provides sufficient defense for the left flank. Make the actions swift and decisive," the aide commanded.

"I will personally inform the left flank. As for you, runner, your task is to recall the 2nd Photon from the Charred Gate and have them reinforce the right flank," the aide instructed the runner.

"By your orders!" the runner saluted crisply before swiftly exiting the watchtower to carry out his mission.

"Well then, commander. May the Divine Tradition guide your path," the aide said, raising his left hand in a respectful Solar Salute.

"And may it guide yours as well. Now go." the purple-haired Solar Guardian responded, returning the salute.

The aide nodded in acknowledgement and left to fulfill his duties.

The Solar Guardian of Ashborn strode along the parapet, his keen eyes scanning the surroundings once more. He took in a deep breath, sniffing the air for any telltale signs.

"Is the right flank truly their intended target?" he mused aloud, his suspicions growing. A furrow appeared on his forehead as he pondered the situation.

With a look of disgust, he pinched his nose, the foul stench assaulting his senses once again. His handsome face twisted in revulsion.

Mind and Instincts.

"Tsk! But this odor is more than it seems. There is something deeper at play…" he muttered, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. He was both a skeptic and a strategist, never one to dismiss his instincts.

Machinations at play.

=I=

Lyra was a seasoned mercenary, a veteran of countless battles.

She had honed her skills on the bloody fields, amassing a wealth of experience and a pocketful of coins as payment for her services to noble patrons.

The knightly Kingdom of Midgar, a land teeming with nobles, attracted both the competent and the degenerate. Their insatiable desire for land, wealth, power, and love fueled an endless cycle of conflict. In this tumultuous landscape, Lyra thrived. She reveled in the chaos, carving her way through the tumult and emerging victorious, her reward being the gleaming gold that lined her pockets.

Along the way, she had even learned to harness magical essences within her nodes. However, don't mistake her for being as adept as the Dark Knights in terms of magical combat. Nevertheless, the magical arts proved helpful to her in battles, especially in the current circumstances.

"Guh!" The man in front of her grunted in pain, a bloody hole appearing in the center of his obsidian uniform trimmed with gold.

Increased sharpness. Magical amplification.

Lyra pulled her sword, which glowed with a vibrant green hue, out from the body of the Legionary who now gasped for breath, teetering on the brink of death.

"...I have... gained the crown..." the Legionary uttered, his youthful face turned toward the sky, a smile gracing his lips. His eyes, however, were fading, their light slowly dimming. Death swiftly claimed the life of the young legionary.

The Crown of Martyrdom. The most noble of all crowns.

"...Damn zealot," Lyra sneered as she walked past the lifeless body of the Legionary.

"...A zealot and a barbarian heathen... no matter," Lyra thought as she continued on with her cohort. Such things never concerned her anyway. The coin was good, and that's what mattered.

Her client had ordered her and her brigand to march towards the goddess-forsaken left flank of the stronghold.

And now they were dutifully marching there, oh so thrilled by the promise of gold and riches. If only the prospect hadn't been so irresistibly tempting, she would have gladly taken matters into her own hands and personally severed her client's head from their body.

"Captain! The Taros assault group has been wiped out! It appears they got separated while navigating this disgusting place. The zealots have been picking them off, one by one!" Her comrade-in-arms exclaimed, his voice filled with urgency, as she skillfully blocked the incoming arrows with her shield. The intensity of the situation weighed heavily upon them.

Lyra's face contorted with annoyance, her frustration evident in her expression.

Before she and her company entered the maze, the Siege Engines they had brought destroyed the palisade and the wall defending the left flank. The heavy payloads did their work, easily reducing them to rubble. Unlike the reinforced arcane defenses of the Charred Gate, these walls were just like any other stronghold's walls—capable of holding for a while, but eventually susceptible to cracking.

As they witnessed the multitude of black and gold armor-clad warriors retreating deeper into the flank, a sense of celebration washed over them, believing that the hardest part was behind them. After all, once the wall was breached, wasn't the strongest line of defense already considered compromised?

Oh, how wrong she was.

It became evident that the true defense lay in the perplexing labyrinthine routes they were currently navigating.

With each step, Lyra begrudgingly ascended the infuriatingly clever maze, seething with annoyance and anger. The maze's walls, composed of cunningly arranged stones and bricks, seemed to taunt her at every turn. The height of the walls only served to amplify her frustration, making her feel like an insignificant intruder in this architectural masterpiece.

As she climbed higher, her appreciation for the maze's genius was overshadowed by her growing irritation. The precision with which the stones were aligned and the bricks interlocked only fueled her anger. It was as if the maze itself was designed to mock her, presenting an impenetrable challenge that tested her patience and determination.

The craftsmanship, although admirable, became a source of aggravation as she realized the deliberate intent behind its creation. The architects behind this labyrinth had crafted a structure that defied straightforward navigation, ensuring that anyone who dared to enter would be ensnared in its confounding paths.

While part of her acknowledged the brilliance of the design, her overwhelming annoyance pushed those thoughts aside. She cursed the architects silently, longing for a swift and straightforward path to her destination, free from the vexing twists and turns of the maze.

When they entered the narrow pathways, they didn't expect to find so many diverging paths, each leading to a different destination. She was convinced that this was nothing more than a deliberate tactic designed to confound and frustrate them.

She was proven right. The labyrinthine maze succeeded in confounding her entire company. Before entering, she had hundreds of men standing beside her, but now, she found herself with no more than a dozen remaining. The other companies had become divided, scattered in their attempts to navigate and decipher the true path leading to the heart of the stronghold.

She and her dozen men looked at the walls of the countless narrow pathways once more.The walls were constructed of practical greyish stones, sturdy and solid. The wooden beams supporting the structure added a touch of rustic charm.

They could have burned it or most likely destroyed these narrow ways but they can't.

After all, the walls and wooden beams that constricted the countless narrow pathways were glowing, adorned with extremely thin and complicated slithering patterns. These patterns spread across the surfaces with a golden vibrancy, creating a contradictory art of magical and material elements.

Anti-inflammatory defense. Damage reduction. Magic runes.

Only a person adept in the wielding of magic could hope to unravel such enchantments. Unfortunately, the most skilled practitioners of the arcane arts had been deployed at the Charred Gate, leaving Lyra and her company without their expertise.

So now, all Lyra and her company could do was navigate the labyrinthine maze, a testament to mathematical genius, and hope that they would stumble upon the true path leading to the heart of the stronghold. They relied on their instincts and fervently prayed to the Goddess for guidance.

And yet their musings and careful steps were abruptly interrupted once more, for the labyrinthine maze was not only a product of intricate design but also imbued with treacherous traps. Hidden mechanisms lay dormant, waiting for an unsuspecting footfall to trigger their malevolent effects. The very floor they tread upon could shift beneath them, revealing spiked pits or releasing deadly projectiles.

The walls themselves held secret compartments that spat forth torrents of scorching flames or unleashed torrents of noxious fumes. Every step, every turn was fraught with danger and uncertainty, testing their resilience and resourcefulness. Survival depended not only on their skill in arms but also their wits and intuition to detect and disarm these hidden threats. It was a constant battle against the unseen, a dance with death in the winding corridors of the maze.

Not only that, but the relentless Zealot Legionaries also doggedly harassed them at every turn within the expansive sections of the maze. They unleashed volleys of musket fire or arrows from their bows, seeking to whittle down the numbers of Lyra's company. Yet, amidst the chaotic skirmishes, there were instances when the black and gold-clad assailants engaged them in close-quarters combat, driven by their own hotheadedness and prowess in magical arts. These encounters were marked by fierce clashes, where victory or martyrdom hung in the balance. At times, the attackers succeeded in thinning her ranks, while other times, their impetuousness proved to be their downfall, sealing their fate as martyrs of their own misguided zeal.

"Fuck this goddess-forsaken maze. Fuck this goddess forsaken flank. Fuck its defenders and fuck everyone in it!" Lyra cursed with such hate and venom in her voice.

Then once again, with her shield raised high and her magical powers pulsating with energy, Lyra and her company boldly took a sharp left turn, breaking free from the confines of the impossibly narrow path.

And lo and behold, before them stretched an expansive clearing, wider than the wildest imaginations could conjure. The sudden revelation struck them like a bolt of exhilaration, their spirits lifted as they ventured into the open expanse, basking in the newfound freedom of movement. The world seemed to open up, allowing them to spread their wings and embrace the potential that lay ahead.

An expansive space.

And that is a mistake. A fatal mistake.

As they walked in the middle of the expansive space, a violent roar echoed.

"CAPTAIN! Watch ou—" Her subordinate in heavy armor screamed in alarm. But it was too late. A hole was already present in his head.

Musket volley. Surprise attack.

As the body of her subordinate fell to the ground, the company was disoriented for a bit.

Then the real hell starts.

Bodies of obsidian and gold emerged abruptly from the shadows of the expansive space, a few distances away from the center where Lyra and her dozens of men stood.

Coordinated movements.

The zealous legionaries, full of wrath, unleashed their deadly tactics upon Lyra's unsuspecting company with a terrifying efficiency. As if choreographed by an unseen hand, their assault began with a volley of musket fire from carefully concealed positions.

The air crackled with the explosive discharge of firearms, bullets whizzing through the open space with deadly accuracy. The unfortunate members of Lyra's company were cut down in a hail of lead, their bodies crumpling to the ground, life extinguished in an instant.

Lyra, against all odds, survived. After all, those things proved ineffective against her. Her magical capabilities shielded her from their grasp.

But she can't say the same for her men.

The legionaries' onslaught didn't end with their muskets. With a swift transition, they closed the distance with an almost unnatural swiftness, their enchanted swords shimmering with magical essence.

With every strike, they demonstrated a mastery of the arcane arts, their blades slashing through the air in blinding arcs of deadly beauty. Each stroke brought forth a torrent of magic, lashing out with an ethereal force that tore through flesh and bone, leaving behind a wake of destruction.

Increased muscular strength. Greater Power output. Utilization of Magical essence.

Lyra stood frozen in terror, her eyes locked on the grisly spectacle unfolding before her. Her men, like mere packs of livestock on a cruel chopping board, were being ruthlessly ground down, their lives extinguished without mercy.

With each swing of their blades, waves of destructive power rippled outward, obliterating everything in their path. Shields shattered like glass, bodies were rent asunder, and the battlefield became a cauldron of chaos and despair.

"HUDDLE AROUND ME!" Lyra's voice roared with commanding urgency. "They'll whittle you down like flies!" She swiftly surveyed her surroundings, her instincts sharp. With a swift motion, her shield deflected one of the incoming attacks, its protective embrace guarding against imminent danger.

Tempered by countless skirmishes, Lyra's men swiftly responded to her rallying cry. Their feet carried them with purpose towards the center, where their captain stood resolute. They tried to close ranks around their leader amidst the chaos and peril.

Another fatal mistake.

When capturing a prey, one must always give their all.

To further ensnare their prey, the legionaries had meticulously placed traps throughout the expansive space. Unseen snares and pitfalls lay hidden, waiting to ensnare the unwary.

In their frenzied attempts to evade the relentless onslaught and rally at the center, members of Lyra's company stumbled into these insidious traps, their screams of agony mingling with the clashing of steel and crackling of magic.

The legionaries' tactics were a symphony of death, a convergence of musket volleys, magical swordplay, and treacherous traps. They fought with a ruthlessness born of zealous fervor, leaving no room for mercy or escape. Each maneuver was executed with a calculated precision, designed to inflict maximum suffering upon their adversaries.

A true killing field.

"No! Nonononono!" Lyra's composure wavered, her emotions threatening to overwhelm her. Nevertheless, her body acted on instinct, fighting off the relentless enemies with every fiber of her being.

Martial body trained through many battlefields.

But nevertheless, it was useless.

The musket wielding Legionaries just finished reloading. They are aiming at her.

Unlike the disciplined mythical knights of Midgar, Lyra was not a trained Dark Knight. Her lack of rigorous training and the turmoil within her mind, combined with the exhaustion coursing through her tired body, caused the once potent magical essences that bolstered her defenses and offense to dwindle like winds on the vast sea.

Magical dispersion. Lack of control and discipline.

The Legionaries regrouped with a tactical cunning that bordered on ruthlessness. Their muskets were brought to bear, and a hail of bullets tore through the air, finding their mark with deadly accuracy.

Squelching sound can be heard.

Lyra's body convulsed as the projectiles pierced her flesh, leaving behind a trail of devastation. Blood spurted from her wounds, mingling with the cries of pain that escaped her lips. Despite the agony, she pressed on, her magical abilities flickering in and out of effectiveness.

But the zealous legionaries, undeterred by the display of magic, closed in with relentless determination.

Their weapons glowing with vibrant hues danced through the air with deadly precision. Lyra's martial prowess, once a formidable force, could no longer match the coordinated assault of her foes. With each strike, her body bore the marks of their brutal efficiency.

Wrathful calculated strikes.

Exhaustion weighed heavily upon Lyra, her movements slowing, her senses dulled. The legionaries, sensing victory within their grasp, closed in for the final blow. Their blades descended upon her, cutting through her defenses and carving a path of destruction.

In a gruesome tableau of violence, Lyra's body became a canvas of carnage. Blood mingled with the dirt beneath her, her life force seeping away with each passing moment. The zealous legionaries, consumed by their fanaticism, showed no mercy, ensuring that her death would be a brutal and merciless one.

Ruthlessness born out of hate and zeal.

Her body crumpled to the ground, joining her fallen comrades. Wounds and punctures adorned her battered form, as blood spilled, bathing her once resolute constitution.

'Ah... Is this how I meet my end?' Lyra thought as her gaze shifted to the lifeless bodies of her comrades, her friends.

Yet, the legionaries were not satisfied. Fueled by sheer anger, they continued to stab her already wounded body. Some legionaries even kicked her face with savage brutality.

Each blow was delivered with unbridled fury, their actions driven by a profound sense of vengeance and a burning desire to reclaim what had been taken from them. No mercy was shown, only an unyielding determination to rid their homeland of the vile presence that defiled their traditions and beliefs.

Absolute contempt and hate towards the heretical invaders of their lands.

As life ebbed away from her eyes, a chilling sensation brushed against her face. She felt something splatter upon her.

The legionary who mercilessly stomped upon her battered body leaned over, his twisted rage contorting his features. With utter contempt, he spat upon her, his saliva mingling with the blood that coated her face. In that vile act of degradation, he sought to degrade her further, to display his disdain for her defiance even in the face of imminent death.

"Die a miserable death you fucking heretic!" The legionary, consumed by an inferno of anger and rage towards the invaders, spewed his words with absolute contempt. In his eyes burned a fire fueled by a deep-seated loathing, seeking to inflict maximum suffering upon the object of his scorn.

And thus, Lyra, the once-mercenary who fought for gold, met her demise, reduced to naught but dust, her death paralleled to that of a lowly sewer rat.

=I=

As the sun sets, casting long shadows across the battlefield, a figure emerges, commanding attention with their imposing stature. The young adult stands out among the crowd with his commanding presence, his vibrant green hair cascading in the wind. Towering over those around him, he exudes an air of authority that is matched by his distinctive attire.

The striking contrast of his emerald locks against his uniform draws attention, further accentuating his unique appearance. His every movement is accompanied by a sense of purpose and confidence, capturing the gaze of those nearby.

Clad in a resplendent uniform adorned with a combination of gold and obsidian, he catches the sunlight, causing his presence to shine even brighter. At his left arm, an armband featuring a bladed sun cross is prominently displayed, symbolizing his affiliation with the Legion of the Sun.

The men under his command mirror his appearance, donning similar uniforms that reflect their allegiance. However, it is the blood-red Sun Cross armband adorning their right arms that sets them apart. This striking contrast signals their unique role and purpose within the ranks.

Blood Red Sun Cross. Death and Resurrection.

The young man with green hair is named Albert Blutmond, also known as Photonar Blutmond due to the striped Bladed Sun Cross armband he currently wears.

Photonar Blutmond, a remarkably resilient individual at just twenty-one years old, showcases a level of maturity beyond his years, especially when faced with challenging circumstances.

This exceptional trait played a significant role in him being bestowed the prestigious position of Photonar by the Solar Guardian of Ashborn as part of the current Ironheart Policy.

Notably, Blutmond's Photon demonstrates a clear focus on medical aid activities and the efficient facilitation of evacuation processes. This specialization was not a random occurrence but a deliberate choice made by Blutmond himself. Recognizing the shortage of dedicated medical units within the Solar Guard, despite an abundance of combat forces, he astutely directed his efforts toward rectifying this imbalance.

Blutmond purposefully designed his Photon to excel in medical aid activities, ensuring timely and effective care for the wounded. Additionally, he streamlined the evacuation processes, prioritizing the seamless movement of those in need. This strategic approach aimed to bolster the Solar Guard's capabilities and provide specialized medical support where it was critically needed.

While the full efficiency of the medical units within the Legion is still a work in progress, Blutmond remains resolute in his belief that his endeavors will yield fruitful results in the future. He dares to dream that even the esteemed First Brother may be impressed by the strides made toward a more efficient and effective medical infrastructure.

It is due to the recognition of Blutmond's unwavering dedication and the value of his contributions that Solar Guardian Alaric placed the 6th Photon at the heart of the stronghold. This Photon's pivotal role is to safeguard the citizens and noncombatants during evacuations while also providing vital medical treatments to the injured Legionaries within the stronghold.

Blutmond observed the procession of injured Legionaries being ferried from the various fronts of the strongholds to the center. The wounded soldiers, their faces etched with pain and exhaustion, were carefully transported on stretchers, their bodies battered and broken from the relentless battles they had fought.

"Marcius, get your Sunbeam and help treat the legionaries of the 3rd and 4th Photon." He instructed.

The young man, Marcius, crisply saluted his Photonar with his left-arm and immediately did his orders.

As the dust settled on the battlefield, a scene of disciplined order unfolded amidst the chaos. The cohorts of Legionaries, distinguished by their blood-red Sun Cross armband on their right arm, moved with purpose and precision. They formed a well-organized network of support, tending to the wounded with utmost care and efficiency.

In a designated medical area, the injured Legionaries were laid upon makeshift beds and stretchers. The Legionaries with medical training moved swiftly from one wounded comrade to another. Their movements were fluid and practiced, a testament to their rigorous training and unwavering dedication.

With gentle hands and focused expressions, the medical Legionaries attended to each injury, cleaning wounds, applying bandages, and administering life-saving treatments. They worked seamlessly as a cohesive unit, communicating in hushed tones and sharing their expertise with one another.

Outside the medical area, Legionaries acted as a protective perimeter, ensuring the safety and security of the wounded. They stood tall and vigilant, their weapons at the ready, ready to fend off any potential threats. Their watchful eyes scanned the surroundings, providing a shield of protection for their injured comrades.

Warriors and Healers.

With a sense of satisfaction, Blutmond nodded approvingly as he traversed the central thoroughfare of the stronghold.

In unison with the Legionaries, the valiant citizens of Ashborn stood shoulder to shoulder, lending their aid in tending to the wounded. As the green-haired Photonar walked, the citizens of Ashborn caught sight of him and nodded in his direction, their gestures filled with utmost respect and admiration.

Blutmond reciprocated the gesture of respect by nodding in return, acknowledging the gratitude of the citizens.

The citizens of Ashborn were far from idle, for they were not mere degenerate swines. With a deep sense of ownership and loyalty to their home, they wholeheartedly dedicated themselves to the protection and support of those who fought on their behalf.

The unyielding bond between the Solar Guard and the citizens of Ashborn served as a powerful foundation, forged through countless acts of mutual assistance and collaboration. The Legion, recognizing the integral role of the citizens in upholding the strength and vitality of their society, extended their aid beyond the realm of battle.

Whether it was lending a hand in construction endeavors or ensuring the efficient distribution of crucial medicines, the Legion stood by the citizens, bolstering their collective resilience. This symbiotic relationship, rooted in shared values and a common purpose, formed a formidable alliance, an unwavering alliance that fortified Ashborn against the encroaching threats.

The green-haired Photonar lifted their gaze, fixating on the imposing watchtower that stood tall and resolute at the very heart of the stronghold. Its towering presence commanded attention, symbolizing unwavering vigilance and an unwavering commitment to the protection of Ashborn.

Though invisible to his eyes, Blutmond harbored the unwavering certainty that Solar Guardian Alaric remained keenly aware of the unfolding events on the battlefield.

Blutmond turned his gaze away from the watchtower and strode purposefully towards his commanding tent.

It stood as a sanctuary amidst the chaos, a space where plans were forged and strategies devised. As he crossed the threshold, a sense of tranquility enveloped him, shielding him momentarily from the clamors of Legionaries screaming in pain as they get treated. Within the confines of his tent, adorned with maps, battle reports, schematics of human anatomy, Blutmond sought solace and a moment of respite. It was here that he would gather his thoughts, analyze the unfolding situation, and efficiently provide the Legionaries the necessary medical treatments.

And the battle for the day was finished. The night comes. The world was draped in darkness.

A canvas for the unfolding drama.

=I=

Solar Guardian Alaric stood atop the towering watchtower, a sentinel overlooking the vast expanse of Ashborn. With a commanding presence, he cast his gaze upon the meticulously crafted map that sprawled across the table before him.

Alaric's eyes traversed the map with unwavering focus, his mind a symphony of calculations and tactical considerations. He surveyed the unfolding situation, tracing the movements of Legionaries and enemies alike, deciphering the ebb and flow of the conflict.

"…The skirmish at the Charred Gates is as intense as ever since yesterday. The left flank, fortified by the labyrinthine maze, valiantly holds its ground despite facing numerical disadvantage. The right flank, bolstered by reinforcements from the 1st and 2nd Photon, stands resolute, their determination unwavering. The logistics and medical operations proceed with commendable efficiency," Alaric murmured, his brow furrowed in concentration. He narrowed his eyes, scanning the intricate details on the map before him, his hands resting thoughtfully on his chin.

Analyzing the situation.

"…But something is strange….where is the enemy commander?" Alaric asked out loud.

Once again, he meticulously analyzed every side, meticulously dissecting the map with his discerning gaze. His piercing eyes darted from left to right, assessing the front lines, the flanks, and the periphery. Each movement, each formation, held his unwavering attention as he sought to unravel the intricate fabric of the ongoing conflict. But then, his gaze shifted, as if drawn by an invisible force, to the rear.

"….The rear…. Is it really possible that they…." The purple-haired commander squinted his eyes once more.

"...No. It is strategically foolish. There are only rocks, mud, and treacherous terrain there. The enemy won't gain any advantage by doing that. That's why I—" Alaric stopped abruptly, a sudden realization dawning upon him.

And then, the previously stoic disposition that he usually maintained crumbled.

"No... no no no no no! The Leylines!" It finally clicked in the mind of the Solar Guardian.

"Those rock-filled terrains contain Solar Leylines!" Alaric realized.

"If the enemy is an agent of the Primordial Enemy, then he needs a conduit to perform his blasphemous rituals and increase his arcane capabilities! That's why... the agent needs the Leylines! With them, he can pervert the Solar Essence flowing in Ashborn and possibly the surrounding lands while increasing his own magical output using the Ruinous Light!" Alaric finally realized. He had been outwitted, and the gravity of the situation sank in.

With that, Alaric rushed down from the watchtower, his mind consumed by a sense of urgency. On reaching the ground, he came face to face with his aide, who was stationed nearby, and immediately noticed the concern etched on the aide's face. "Sir, what's the matter?" the aide asked, eager to understand the reason behind Alaric's distress.

"Fetch my horse without delay! Gather the reserves! We must make our way to the rear," Alaric commanded, his voice brimming with a resolute determination.

Caught off guard by the sudden urgency in Alaric's tone, the aide hesitated momentarily before responding, "But, sir, the reserves..."

Alaric cut off any further objections, his impatience leaving no room for discussion. "I have given you an order. Carry it out immediately!" he bellowed, leaving no doubt about the importance of his directive.

Taken aback but recognizing the weight of the situation, the aide swiftly composed himself and offered a crisp salute. "By your Order—" His words were abruptly interrupted as Alaric, the seasoned commander, looked up with a mixture of astonishment and dread etched on his face.

The skies that were once bathed in the gentle glow of the morning sun now darkened, as if a shroud had been cast upon the world. The air became heavy with a foreboding presence, and an unsettling silence settled over the battlefield. It was in this eerie atmosphere that a beam of dark bluish light slowly ascended from the ground, defying the laws of nature.

Darkness cloaked in light.

Alaric's heart sank, his mind racing to comprehend the implications of what he was witnessing. He had heard tales of such phenomena, whispered rumors of ancient powers and forbidden rituals. It was a sight that could only mean one thing: the forces of dark magic had been unleashed.

The opening of the Empyrean.

The dark bluish beam, its sinister hue contrasting starkly against the fading light, seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy. It reached towards the heavens, defying the boundaries of the mortal realm, and in its ascent, it cast an eerie glow upon the faces of those present. The soldiers, hardened warriors who had braved countless battles, now stood frozen in a mixture of awe and trepidation.

Alaric's voice broke through the tense silence. "No! It was too late..." His voice trembled, betraying the weight of despair that settled upon his shoulders. He understood the gravity of the situation all too well.

=I=

Moments before…

The defensive outpost lay in ruins, its once sturdy fortifications now reduced to rubble and smoldering debris. The air was heavy with the acrid scent of smoke and the stench of burning wood. Scattered throughout the desolate outpost were the charred remains of barricades, shattered weaponry, and the twisted remnants of what were once formidable defensive structures.

Amidst the desolation, ten battered and weary Legionaries stood, their armor dented and scorched from the relentless onslaught. They were surrounded by a group of ruthless mercenaries, their faces hidden beneath scarred masks and adorned in tattered black armor. The mercenaries, hardened by countless battles, held the Legionaries down with a vice-like grip, their strength amplified by magic.

The rocky terrains beneath their feet served as a harsh reminder of the unforgiving nature of the battlefield. Jagged rocks jutted out from the scorched earth, serving as a testament to the violence that had unfolded in this once tranquil outpost. The ground itself seemed to bear witness to the horrors that had transpired, scarred and cracked from explosions and the heavy footfalls of armored combatants.

A man in a dark-robed walked in front of the captured Legionaries.

In his hand, a blade can be found.

Blade for Sacrifice.

When one Legionary looked at the visage of the robed man, he screamed.

"You wretched heretic! I promise that when the First Brother arrives, you will be a dead corp—" The young Legionary's words were abruptly silenced as the mercenary gripping him delivered a resounding blow to his face.

"Heretic, huh….. KEKEKEKEKEKEKEKE! Heresy and Orthodoxy, Light and Dark, Gods and Demons, Right and Wrong, Good and Evil... These are but fleeting shadows, ephemeral as the whispers of the wind. The boundaries between them blur, shifting like sand dunes beneath an unforgiving sun. What is hailed as righteous in the light of dawn may be condemned as abominable by the fall of dusk." The man's countenance twisted with a sinister gleam, his voice laden with the madness that festers within the depths of his soul.

The mercenary holding one of the ten legionaries asked, "Oi Lord-san, what do you plan to do with them? Shall I execute them?"

The madman, his noble robes billowing in the wind, strode purposefully towards the circle of ten legionaries, his hands tightly clutching a gleaming knife. A wicked grin twisted his lips as he uttered his chilling proclamation, "No... I have far more exquisite plans in store for each and every one of them."

Nathaniel Balotelli, his presence commanding and his gaze piercing, stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and the kneeling legionary, the one who had dared to speak first earlier. His footsteps echoed with a quiet intensity, each step punctuating the gravity of the moment. As he stood before the legionary, a haunting stillness settled over the scene.

The swollen face of the legionary looked up at the mad visage of man in front of him, "Suck my cock hereti—"

He wasn't able to finish his sentence as the knife swiftly found its mark, lodging deep into his throat, silencing him permanently.

The blood dripped from the knife, cascading down in crimson streams, as the legionary gurgled and choked, drowning in his own life essence. The precious obsidian and gold uniform that once symbolized his allegiance now bore the gruesome stain of his demise.

The remaining Legionaries stood frozen in terror, their eyes transfixed on the brutal scene unfolding before them.

"Light save me! Gestalt save me!" One of the captive Legionaries suddenly prayed.

A sinister smile crept across Nathaniel Balotelli's face, his eyes gleaming with wicked delight. His voice dripped with malevolence as he leaned closer to the captive Legionary "….There is no light in here boy."

And with that, the knife found its second victim.

And the third…

And the fourth….

And so on….

And in that gruesome dance of death, the knife in Nathaniel Balotelli's hand became an instrument of cruel fate. With every strike, it carved its path through flesh and bone, claiming the lives of the Legionaries one by one. Their bodies crumpled to the ground, like discarded puppets whose strings had been severed, their life force drained away into the earth below.

The scene was a macabre display of violence, a symphony of screams and gurgling breaths that echoed through the air. Blood sprayed and spattered, painting a horrific tableau of crimson on the surrounding walls and ground. The once proud and disciplined Legionaries, now reduced to broken and lifeless forms, bore witness to the ruthless efficiency of their tormentor.

Nathaniel's smile widened, revealing a glint of madness in his eyes as he reveled in the carnage he had wrought. Each life extinguished fueled his sadistic pleasure, a testament to the darkness that had consumed his soul. There was no mercy to be found in his actions, only the insatiable hunger for power and dominance.

As the last Legionary drew his final breath, the deafening silence that followed was pregnant with the weight of the atrocity that had unfolded. Nathaniel stood amidst the sea of lifeless bodies, bathed in their collective blood, a haunting figure of malevolence. The echoes of his laughter mingled with the cries of the fallen, a chilling reminder of the horrors that lurked within the hearts of men.

The mercenaries, their once confident facade shattered, trembled in the presence of Nathaniel Balotelli. Their eyes, wide with terror, betrayed their innermost fears as they witnessed the depths of depravity before them. The realization had struck them like a thunderbolt—this man standing before them was no mere mortal, but a monster in human form.

As one of the mercenaries found his voice, his trembling words reverberated through the air, a desperate attempt to cling to his shattered sense of reality. "Y-y-you're not human!" he exclaimed, his voice quivering with a mix of disbelief and horror. But his outcry was met with a chilling response from Nathaniel, whose gaze bore into his very soul.

The speaker, overwhelmed by a sudden surge of terror, instinctively covered his mouth, as if trying to suppress the words that had escaped his lips. It was a futile gesture, for the truth had already been spoken. Nathaniel, with a deranged grin etched upon his face, reveled in the proclamation of his inhumanity.

"Inhuman, huh?" Nathaniel's voice dripped with malice, each syllable laced with a manic delight. "KEKEKEKEKEKEKEKEKEKE! I will become greater than that!" His laughter, filled with madness and the promise of even greater horrors to come, echoed through the blood-stained chamber, chilling the hearts of all who heard it.

The mercenaries, their souls gripped by paralyzing fear, dared not move. They had glimpsed the depths of darkness that resided within Nathaniel Balotelli, and it was a darkness that defied all reason and humanity. In that moment, they knew that they stood in the presence of a force that transcended mortal boundaries, a force driven by its insatiable thirst for power and domination.

As his laughter echoes, Nathaniel recalled his Arcane lessons. He started speaking.

Art of Diabolos.

Nathaniel, his eyes gleaming with an unholy fervor, stood amidst the lifeless bodies of the fallen Legionaries. Their once proud forms now lay strewn across the blood-soaked ground, mere vessels for the macabre ritual that was about to unfold. With each step he took, his chants grew louder, resonating with a sinister energy that seemed to permeate the very air around him.

The Leylines.

As Nathaniel raised his hands towards the heavens, his fingers traced intricate patterns through the air, invoking ancient words of power that echoed through the howling of the wind. The lifeless bodies responded to his call, their limbs twitching with unnatural movements, as if compelled by an unseen force. The field of rocks became charged with a palpable darkness, a foreboding presence that sent shivers down the spines of any who dared to witness the scene.

With meticulous precision, Nathaniel positioned the bodies in a twisted arrangement, forming a macabre tableau of death. His eyes, burning with an otherworldly intensity, surveyed the scene before him, seeking perfection in the grotesque tapestry he was weaving. Each corpse became a mere puzzle piece, a cog in his demented design.

And then, as if guided by some unseen conductor, the bodies began to move. Limbs jerked and contorted in unnatural ways, as if animated by an unseen puppeteer. The lifeless eyes of the fallen Legionaries flickered with a perverse semblance of life, their vacant gazes seemingly fixed upon Nathaniel himself. It was a chilling spectacle, a dance of death orchestrated by a man consumed by his own madness.

As Nathaniel continued his incantations, the terrain seemed to pulse with an eerie energy. Shadows writhed and twisted, as if taking on a life of their own. The very fabric of reality appeared to warp and distort, bending to the will of the sorcerer before them. It was a sight that defied reason, a grotesque fusion of life and death, of forbidden knowledge and unspeakable power.

With each passing moment, Nathaniel's chant grew more fervent, his voice filled with a sinister cadence that sent chills down the spines of those who dared to listen. He had tapped into forces far beyond mortal comprehension, harnessing the very essence of darkness and decay. The boundary between life and death blurred, as the fallen Legionaries became pawns in his twisted game.

And in that unholy field of rock, Nathaniel reveled in his mastery over life's delicate balance. He had defied the natural order, manipulating the fabric of existence itself for his own sinister purposes. His eyes burned with a malevolent satisfaction, a reflection of the depths of his depravity.

The ritual continued, its culmination drawing nearer with each passing moment.

And as the final verse of his incantation escaped his lips, a chilling silence descended upon the rear of Ashborn. The air crackled with an otherworldly energy, pregnant with anticipation. Nathaniel, his form surrounded by an ethereal aura, stood at the precipice of his twisted ambition, ready to claim the forbidden knowledge that lay beyond.

The bodies of the Legionaries then, melted.

Their flesh began to warp and liquefy, as if subjected to an unseen inferno from within. A sickening stench of burning flesh filled the air, mingling with the acrid scent of dark magic.

The echoes of their sacrifice reverberated through the chamber, a haunting reminder of the depths to which humanity could descend when consumed by darkness.

And with the final syllable of his incantation, Nathaniel unleashed a surge of unholy power that tore through the terrain with dark bluish beam, shattering the remnants of sanity that clung to the fringes of his consciousness. The dead bodies of the Legionaries served as instruments to violate the divine light.

As Nathaniel stood amidst the aftermath of his dark ritual, a malevolent grin stretched across his face. He had achieved a twisted victory, a conquest of the darkest recesses of the human soul. The dead Legionaries, who became dark fuels, served as a chilling testament to the depths of his depravity and the extent of his power.

"THIS! THIS IS THE TRUTH! OH, THE FEAST I PREPARED FOR YOU EXALTED DIABOLOS!" The man in noble robes cackled in absolute madness.

The Empyrean opened its eye to the material.

Amidst the bluish beam, something can be found. Something sinister.

The horrors of the unknown.

All the fighting in the Ashborn stopped. All of them looked at the gathering tempest above the bluish beam. All of them looked at the gathering dark storm.

All of them looked at the heart of darkness.

Silence fell upon the battlefield of Ashborn as if time itself had frozen. The clash of swords, the cries of war, and the roar of flames ceased abruptly, giving way to an eerie stillness. All eyes turned upward, drawn to the ominous spectacle unfolding in the sky.

A gathering tempest swirled above, its dark clouds coalescing into a seething mass of malevolence. The air crackled with an otherworldly energy, and a sense of foreboding hung heavy in the atmosphere. The bluish beam that had ascended from the depths of the earth now merged with the roiling storm, intertwining the forces of light and darkness.

As the tempest grew in intensity, its center became the focal point of all gazes. There, amidst the churning maelstrom, a heart of darkness materialized—a vortex of swirling shadows and ethereal whispers. It pulsed with a sinister rhythm, drawing the attention and fear of all who beheld it.

For the night is dark and full of terrors.

Nathaniel Balotelli, his countenance twisted with a mix of triumph and madness, let out a cacophony of unhinged laughter that echoed across the violated terrain. His eyes, filled with tears of deranged ecstasy, gazed upon the unfolding spectacle with a fervor bordering on fanaticism.

"In this moment of revelation," he proclaimed, his voice dripping with fervent conviction, "the true meaning of existence reveals itself! The petty rounds of life, the feeble tears shed by mortal men, all pale in comparison to this grand unveiling!"

His words, laced with fervor and madness, resonated through the air like a demented chant. His laughter blended with the tumultuous atmosphere, a symphony of wicked delight and delusion. With each exultant cry, his belief in the righteousness of his cause swelled, overpowering any remnants of reason or morality that may have lingered within him.

The tears streaming down his face mingled with the dust and soot that stained his cheeks, creating macabre streaks of darkness. To him, these tears were not a sign of sorrow or remorse; they were the tears of transcendence, the tears of a man who had embraced the path of absolute power and dominion.

As his laughter subsided, replaced by a sinister smile, Nathaniel Balotelli raised his arms, as if beckoning the very forces of darkness to consume him. His voice, now a sibilant whisper, carried a chilling conviction that sent shivers down the spines of all who heard it.

"You pompous, self-righteous relics of the Rounds! I'm not worthy to enter in your ranks you say!? Behold my triumph! Behold as I bring enlightenment to the world! Behold as I bestow honor upon Diabolos!" Nathaniel Balotelli's voice thundered across the battlefield, a proclamation of defiance and madness.

The dark-bluish light of the empyrean, swirling with eldritch power, held the promise of unlocking something unimaginable, something that could reshape the world if allowed to reach completion. It was a manifestation of Nathaniel Balotelli's twisted ambition and his delusions of grandeur. The beam reached higher and higher, a conduit of forbidden energies ready to unleash untold chaos upon the realm.

That is if it was completed.

But then, something happened.

As the dark bluish beam surged towards the heavens, carrying with it the ominous tempest of power and destruction, a sudden interruption shattered the momentum of the dark ritual. The roiling storm that had gathered atop the beam came to an abrupt halt, as if frozen in time, suspended in a moment of eerie stillness.

The turbulent energies, once twisting and writhing with malevolence, now hung motionless in the air. The storm's ferocious winds and crackling lightning stood silent, as if held captive by an unseen force. The very fabric of the tempest seemed to tremble, uncertain of its purpose in the face of this unexpected cessation.

The battlefield fell into a hushed awe as all eyes turned to the surreal sight above them. The swirling darkness, which had threatened to consume the world, now hung suspended like a suspended specter, its formidable power temporarily subdued. The eerie stillness carried an air of uncertainty, as both friend and foe alike grappled with the unprecedented turn of events.

In the midst of it, a ball of golden light can be seen.

The essence of the Divine Tradition.

Someone by himself, stopped the process.

=I=

Outside the gates of Ashborn, amidst the ruins and desolation, a faint but unmistakable sound began to echo through the air. The rhythmic cadence of marching feet reverberated, growing louder with each passing moment. It was a sound that carried both determination and purpose, heralding the arrival of an unseen force.

The march of the light.

A sea of Obsidian and Gold became apparent.

When the dark falls,

The sea got closer and closer. Flags of Bladed Sun Cross can be seen. Thousands of feet marching in unison can be heard.

And the skies blacken,

Different Flags can be seen alongside the Bladed Sun Cross.

And the seas boil,

The Golden Spear above the Sun. The White Falcon on an Azure Flag. The Golden Lion.

And the earth burns,

The march of the thousand boots complemented the howling of the wind.

The greatest of men will rise,

At the forefront of the advancing army, amidst the sea of golden and obsidian-clad warriors, a figure emerged that commanded attention and awe. Towering above his comrades, the giant stood as a living testament to strength and power. Clad in a simple red tunic that billowed in the wind, he exuded an aura of humility juxtaposed with his colossal stature.

The Men of Destiny,

In his right hand, he wielded a weapon that mirrored his own enormity. A massive mace, adorned with intricate engravings and emanating an aura of raw might, swung effortlessly by his side. The weight of the weapon seemed inconsequential in his grasp, as if it were an extension of his very being.

They are called—

The gigantic man stood out from the multitude of warriors surrounding him, his unique distinction setting him apart a thousandfold. Amidst the uniformity of the soldiers, there was one stark difference that made him truly extraordinary.

—Heroes.

His entire being is glowing.

=I=

Holy shit! That was fucking long! Anyways, thank you for your support!