The battlefield was silent—not because the war had ended, but because even the wind feared to breathe. The atmosphere, intense.
Sixty thousand soldiers stood beneath a sky stained red by ash and dying embers. The earth was split open by craters, soaked with blood so deeply that the soil itself had turned black. Weapons lay abandoned where hands had been severed. Banners burned without flames, consumed instead by hatred.
This was the "Battle of the Sixty Thousand."
At the center of it all stood the Migardians—fewer than ten thousand, surrounded on all sides by the overwhelming forces of Hizosshu. Steel-clad legions stretched to the horizon, an ocean of armor and raised spears. There was no escape. No reinforcement. No miracle waiting to arrive
Only resolve.
"This is our victory!"
"Time to show them the might of Hizosshu"
Few defenders shouted from the rear as they surrounded the Migardians forces that were less than a thousand.
Laiman stood among the Hizosshu ranks, his heart hammering against his ribs. He had been warned—no, commanded—not to come. Master Tarus' words echoed in his mind like a curse.
If you step onto that battlefield, you will survive when you should not… and you will regret it.
Laiman clenched his fists.
" So what? ... This is already our victory, in a matter of moments, we would inevitably crush the remaining vermins."
He smirks.
"What are they doing?" a soldier beside him whispered.
The Migardians were not retreating.
They were gathering. Gradually forming a circle of three waves. The first line of defense, clad in heavy armor , held up their shield for defense and their spears pointing forward for offense.
"Hurry up!"
The commander ordered.
Regular defenders, men and women dropped their weapons, forming tight circles across the battlefield. Wounded warriors dragged themselves forward, leaving trails of blood behind them. Those missing limbs were carried by others. Those who could no longer see were guided by hand.
No fear was visible on their faces.
Only unity.
At the center of each circle, Migardian leaders raised their arms. Their voices rose—not in panic, but in calm, synchronized chants. The air began to vibrate, as if the world itself was resisting what was about to be born.
"This is our final stand ...witness the brilliance of Migardian resolve"
Laiman's breath caught at the sight of the outrageous amount of mana gathering around them.
"No…" he murmured. "They wouldn't—"
The ground answered first.
A deep, unnatural rumble shook the battlefield. Cracks spread beneath the Migardians' feet, glowing with a dull crimson light. The smell of sulfur and burning flesh flooded the air.
Then the Watchers' forbidden words surfaced in Laiman's memory.
Entrance to Hell.
A secret Migardian technique, spoken of only in whispers. A power never meant to be used lightly—because it demanded something no army should ever give.
Not mana.
Not blood.
But shared will.
Entrance to Hell could only be activated by those who possessed the same desire, the same belief, the same purpose. Individual strength meant nothing. Survival was irrelevant. Once activated, the technique consumed everyone bound to that shared intent.
Secret technique capable of obliterating and entire nation to nothingness.
A technique that delivers absolute victory, at the cost of existence.
The Migardians did not scream when the ritual began.
They smiled.
Flames erupted from the ground—not wild, but controlled, spiraling upward into massive crimson gates etched with ancient symbols. The sky darkened as if a veil had been pulled over the sun. Heat pressed down on the battlefield, so intense that Hizosshu soldiers staggered back, armor glowing red-hot.
"What kind of madness is this?!" a commander shouted.
" I've always known Migardians are demons, but this is in a class on it's own"
Another commander murmured inaudibly
Entrace to hell, the gates opened.
From within poured destruction—not demons, not creatures, but pure annihilation. Waves of compressed fire and distorted space tore through the Hizosshu front lines. Thousands were erased in seconds, their bodies collapsing into ash before they could even scream.
And still, the Migardians held their formation.
Their bodies began to burn—not painfully, but peacefully. One by one, they were consumed by the technique they had chosen to activate. Faces turned to embers. Flesh to light. Souls to fuel.
They were not fighting to win but were fighting to end everything.
Laiman fell to his knees, eyes wide, as the realization crushed him.
"They're sacrificing themselves…" he whispered. "All of them. Every single one. This is insane, I know they were going to die, but taking down everyone ... That's just demonic"
The Hizosshu army broke. Soldiers fled, trampled by their own ranks as the battlefield became hell itself. Commanders shouted orders that no one obeyed. Fear ruled where discipline once stood.
And at the heart of the carnage, Laiman felt his Field Dimension react.
Space folded around him.
The flames reached his position—but did not touch him.
In an instant, the world shattered and reformed.
When the light faded, the battlefield was gone.
No Migardians.
No Hizosshu army.
No screams.
Only scorched earth stretching endlessly beneath a silent sky.
Laiman stood alone.
The only survivor.
His knees buckled. A sound escaped his throat—half sob, half laugh—as the weight of what he had witnessed finally crushed him.
"I lived…" he whispered. "Why did I live ? ... What did I just witness? ... Ah, am definitely going crazy"
Then, deep within him, something shifted.
A sharp, tearing sensation ripped through his core, as if a part of his very existence was being pulled away. His Field Dimension—his greatest power, a unique power that took his years to gain mastery of —began to unravel, drawn toward something unseen, something unborn.
Laiman screamed. The pain was absolutely unbearable. He it felt like his soul was getting ripped from him. He soon collapsed , face to the ground.
Far away, from the chaos of the battlefield, a lady sat beneath a tree, rubbing her stomach. Beyond fire and fate, twitching and shifting, a child stirred in the womb— and claimed the power meant for survival. A legacy of a man who should have never survived a battle he never should've participated.