Prince Balek's eyes hardened, a storm raging within them as he stared at the dark, rolling clouds forming above—the omen of an Emperor's wrath. The sky itself seemed to bend under the pressure of Cailan Gravis' aura, a tempestuous force that made the ground tremble and the air taste like iron. Soldiers on both sides could feel it—the prelude to devastation.
One might expect prince Balek to falter, to pull his forces back into the shadows and wage a desperate war of attrition, but no—there was fire in his veins tonight. Instead of retreating, he stepped forward, boots pounding the earth with the rhythm of defiance.
"If I take down this emperor, this war ends tonight…" Balek's thoughts were sharp as blades. Every nerve in his body burned with purpose. Every breath was a vow.
What he didn't know—what the fates had cruelly hidden—was that Emperor Cailan Gravis harbored a similar resolve: "The Aratat bloodline dies here, and it begins with you, little prince."
Destiny drew its battle lines. The earth itself seemed to shrink as two titans of will prepared to clash.
Balek launched forward, a crimson blur slicing through the chaos, fifty loyal soldiers surging in his wake like a tide of iron. With a roar that split the battlefield, he vaulted high into the air, channeling every ounce of his mighty cultivation into his clenched fist. The strike descended like judgment from the heavens, sending rippling arcs of invisible force tearing across the plains.
The front ranks of the Imperial guard staggered under the pressure, but before the blow could reach Cailan, ten mages clad in golden-brown chestplates and robes of dazzling hues leaped forward, their hands weaving intricate sigils mid-air.
"Form the Seal of Ten!" their leader barked, his voice trembling yet resolute.
Light exploded as a barrier of shimmering glyphs rose to meet Balek's wrath. The collision was cataclysmic—a thunderclap that shattered bones and sundered steel. Four mages screamed as their bodies were obliterated instantly, reduced to little more than ash and torn fabric. The remaining six were hurled back, blood trailing from their lips, their boots carving trenches in the dirt as they fought to stabilize their stance.
Prince Balek landed amidst the smoking remnants of his assault, eyes burning like twin suns. He wasn't winded. He wasn't shaken. If anything, the feral grin curling on his lips spoke volumes.
He was no spring chicken. He was a predator—and the hunt had only just begun.
Emperor Cailan Gravis suddenly reined in his warhorse, the beast stamping impatiently beneath him as the clash of steel echoed like thunder across the battlefield. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's, followed the chaos where his men locked blades with Prince Balek Aratat's personal guard. He saw the prince at the center of the storm—a figure of raw fury and reckless valor—carving through his ranks like a scythe through wheat.
A lesser man might have panicked at the sight. Cailan did not. His lips curled in a faint, cold smile. So, this is the lion cub of the Aratat bloodline… savage, yet blind. He could already read the prince's mind—thinking victory was within reach, mistaking strategy for fear or weakness.
"Too much strength..too little wisdom...hehehe...Let him burn his strength," Cailan muttered under his breath, the words carried away by the wind as his crimson cloak stocked with pelts of exctint creatures fluttered like a banner of doom. He raised a gauntleted hand, signaling to his captains. "Drown him in waves of attacks. Tire him until his blade feels like lead."
The orders rippled across the line, and already, fresh troops began to stir—masses of steel and flesh, waiting for the storm to call them forward.
Meanwhile, Prince Balek roared like a god of war descending upon mortals. His sword cleaved through bone and plate alike, spraying blood in crimson arcs. Every strike was a statement: 'I am inevitable, and every single one of you heathens would feel my wrath'. The men behind him—fifty of Balek Aratat's fiercest—followed like shadows of death, cutting down anything that dared to move. For every soldier that fell, Balek's fury grew hotter, blazing like a forge of vengeance.
"They are losing momentum!" one of his guards shouted, seeing the enemy stagger backward.
Balek's grin split wide, teeth bared, eyes wild with battle-lust. "Then we push! Drive them into the dust!"
With renewed vigor, they surged ahead. Fifty men against a hundred. Yet the hundred crumbled before them like brittle reeds before the tempest. Blood sprayed. Armor crunched. Limbs fell. The sand drank greedily, turning into a muddy paste of crimson and gold.
But then—the earth trembled. Hooves thundered in the distance, a sound that rolled across the battlefield like an oncoming storm. Balek's victorious roar faltered as he turned to see it—a wall of steel and death riding toward him. Two hundred more riders, armored in black cloaks and golden brown armor, lances glinting under the pale sun.
The fresh wave of two hundred soldiers stormed the battlefield, their boots pounding like war drums as they replaced the hundred who had just fallen. This wasn't an act of desperation—it was a strategy, a deliberate attempt to grind Prince Balek down, to drown him in sheer numbers until his strength withered.
Balek stood with only fifty warriors at his side, each man hardened by loyalty and blood. Yet even their steel resolve seemed fragile against the tidal wave ahead. The Nazare Blade Empire, stripped of the five hundred and eighty-six who had perished in folly, now commanded fewer than 9,500 men.
A short distance away, Emperor Cailan Gravis reigned like a storm unchained, with nearly four hundred thousand soldiers under his banner. The difference was staggering—an ocean against a stream. The Emperor held the freedom of a god on the battlefield, free to shape the tide of war as he pleased.
And still, Balek gripped his blade tighter. If this was a game of exhaustion, then he would bleed every last drop before bending his knee, and even at that, he would rather die than bend the knee.
Behind the 200 soldiers, banners whipped violently in the wind, bearing the Scorpion sigil that had haunted his dreams since the war began.
At their rear, like a dark sun in the heart of the storm, rode Emperor Cailan Gravis himself.
The emperor's voice cracked like a whip: "Advance!"
The cavalry surged forward, a monstrous tide that shook the very bones of the earth. Dust billowed in choking clouds as the ground quaked under iron hooves.
Balek tightened his grip on his sword, his knuckles white beneath the gore. His chest heaved, his breath ragged—but his eyes blazed defiance. "So be it," he whispered, a prayer and a curse in one breath.
The clash came like the wrath of gods. Steel screamed. Men died roaring. Horses shrieked as spears shattered and bodies were crushed into the blood-soaked earth. The battlefield became an endless ocean of carnage, waves of men crashing, breaking, and drowning in each other.
The smell of blood choked the air, mingling with sweat and burnt leather. The ground was slick with gore, the sand and blood fusing into a dark, sticky mire that clung to boots and hooves alike. Severed limbs littered the path where Balek fought like a beast cornered by hunters, his blade singing death with every desperate stroke.
Above it all, the emperor watched, his eyes cold and merciless, already calling for the next wave.
Because to him, this was not a battle. This was a hunt.