Anonymous: Overconfidence is like dancing on the edge of a cliff, one loss of concentration and one could plunge to his death.
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The night was heavy with silence. The once lively camp of Emperor Cailan Gravis's army had grown eerily calm, lulled by the steady rhythm of snores that rolled across the tents like waves. No sentries paced the outskirts, no watchful eyes guarded the fires. The soldiers, drunk on numbers and blinded by arrogance, had chosen sleep over vigilance.
In the shadows beyond the campfires, Lola crouched, her gaze sharp as steel. She raised her hand, then brought it down in a clean, decisive arc—the signal. Attack.
Like wolves descending on a herd, the nearly three thousand subordinates of Josh Aratat moved. Silent, swift, merciless.
At the center of the storm, Ralia Amia glided forward, her expression calm, her eyes half-lidded, as if caught between dream and wakefulness. The orb of memories in her grasp shimmered faintly, resonating with the sleeping minds it touched. For her, this massacre required no blade. As she passed through the lines of tents, soldiers twitched once, sighed, and never breathed again. Thousands perished in their sleep, their dreams suffocated before they even realized death had touched them.
The others carved a quieter path. Daggers kissed throats, steel whispered through flesh, and silence swallowed cries before they could escape. It was not war—it was butchery.
And yet, in this silent carnage, there were moments of thunder. Two generals of fifty-thousand-strong units—men who would have been lions in battle—were reduced to lambs beneath Ralia's hand. By the time two hours had crawled by, the dead numbered one hundred thousand. A tide of blood had risen in the dark, and not a single drop belonged to Lola's force.
It was a staggering victory. Prince Balek, the fallen heir, had slain a little above the hundred thousand mark too, but his feat had come with wounds and ruin, a battle of attrition, and at the end of it, his life was the price. But Lola and her three thousand? They were unscathed, still shadows, still ghosts. Their confidence grew with every throat slit, every body fallen, every silent gasp of breath extinguished.
But shadows are fickle things. Confidence, when stretched too far, is no longer strength—it becomes blindness.
And as the massacre dragged on, somewhere deep within the southern edge of the camp, fate shifted.
A weary soldier stumbled out of his tent, half-asleep, seeking to relieve himself. He swayed as he finished, rubbed his eyes, and trudged back. That was when he noticed it—shadows darting where shadows shouldn't be. At first, he dismissed it as fatigue, but the blur sharpened as his mind cleared. His mouth opened, his chest filled with air.
"Intru—"
The word never left his lips. A dagger slit his throat clean, his life spilling in silence. But in that final twitch, he made just enough noise to stir a lion.
General Vance Hermit's eyes snapped open. Instinct honed by decades of war tore him from slumber. He burst from his tent, barefoot, clad only in his undergarments, sword in hand. Behind him, his legionary captains spilled out, blades already drawn.
The night cracked apart.
"Engage!" Vance roared, his sword cleaving through the skull of one assassin, then another. His undergarments turned red in moments, splattered by blood not his own. Even half-dressed, even caught by surprise, he fought like a storm unchained.
Lola's fury blazed as she saw her comrades fall under his blade. The sight of their bodies spilling across the dirt tore at her chest like fire, and rage burned away every ounce of restraint. She lunged forward, whip in hand, eyes locked on General Vance Hermit.
The general met her with a grim, battle-born calm. His bare feet dug into the earth, his bloodstained undergarments hanging loose, yet his presence was as immovable as a fortress wall. Each strike of his sword was a hurricane, sweeping arcs of steel that could cleave a man in two.
But Lola was no ordinary opponent. She was fast—terrifyingly fast. Her movements were sharp, erratic, unchained, as though fury itself had taken human form. She circled him, her whip cracking through the night, striking sparks against his blade as he deflected each strike.
Vance Hermit's lips curved into something that was neither smile nor scowl—an expression of grim amusement. "A circus act," he muttered under his breath, pivoting with dancer's grace, sword flashing in patterns that seemed choreographed. He twirled the weapon as if mocking her fury, his strikes flowing in rhythm, a warrior's ballet.
But Lola was not here to dance. She was here to kill.
Suddenly, she snapped her whip forward with a sharp flick of her wrist. The serpent-like coil shot through the air and wound itself tightly around his sword mid-swing, freezing its momentum with a metallic clang. The general's arm jerked as the weapon was yanked off-course, his body dragged forward half a step.
That was all she needed.
Her body moved like lightning—she vaulted high, twisting in the air with raw agility. The moonlight glinted against the blade she drew from her boot, a dagger no longer than her forearm but forged for death at close quarters. Time seemed to slow in that heartbeat, her hair whipping wildly behind her, her eyes glowing with the fire of vengeance.
She descended on him like a hawk.
The dagger arced low, too fast for his free hand to block. The steel kissed his throat in a clean, merciless slash.
General Vance Hermit's eyes widened in disbelief. His sword clattered to the ground as he staggered back, clutching his neck. A gurgle of blood spilled past his lips, staining the earth at his feet. The giant of a man—slayer of hundreds, master of legions—toppled to his knees, then collapsed, lifeless, into the crimson-soaked dirt.
The camp froze. For a moment, the clash of steel dulled, the cries of soldiers hushed, and all eyes turned to where Lola stood over the fallen general. Her chest heaved, her whip dripping with blood, her dagger glistening in the moonlight.
She had brought down the third general of Emperor Cailan's might.
Unknowingly, with that single strike, she had avenged the death of the First Prince of the empire, Prince Balek.
But there was no time to bask in vengeance. The air shimmered. The Trickster God descended.
His grin was wide, his eyes alight with mischief. Without warning, he snapped his fingers, and the survivors of Josh Aratat's force—including Lola—were yanked from the battlefield, sucked screaming into the pocket-space of his tote-bag dimension.
The slaughter halted. Silence fell, broken only by the groans of the wounded and the ragged breath of the living.
Barely Three thousand had entered. However , now, two thousand seven hundred eighty remained. About two hundred lives lost in an instant.
For Emperor Cailan Gravis, the cost was far greater. From his original 400,000, he had been reduced to 199,600. Nearly half his force—200,197 souls—erased by Balek and Lola's combined storms of blood.
When he arrived and beheld the carnage, his royal robes flared with his wrath. His voice tore the night apart.
"What happened here!?"
Vincent Kim, trembling, blood streaking his cheek, stumbled forward. He had survived by a hair's breadth, and his voice cracked with disbelief.
"My Emperor… I saw it! I saw General Vance struck down before my eyes. I would have been dead too—if not for him." He pointed toward the grinning figure standing calmly at the edge of the battlefield.
The Trickster God's aura radiated like wildfire, unmistakable, undeniable. Even without a name, no one mistook him for anything less than divine.
The god tilted his head, lips curling. "Don't look so sour. I may have saved your army from total ruin. Consider it… a little favor. Keep doing what you're doing—I enjoy the show."
And with a wink, he vanished, leaving only echoes of laughter behind.
Emperor Cailan's fury simmered beneath his skin, but he masked it with cold steel resolve. His hand clamped onto Vincent Kim's shoulder.
"From this day, you will inherit Vance Hermit's command. Fifty thousand men are yours. Carry word to the Empire. I demand reinforcements—another four hundred thousand."
Vincent Kim fell to one knee, trembling. He had been a newly minted legionary, barely used to leading ten thousand. Now, in the blink of an eye, he bore the mantle of a general. Authority, wealth, spoils, and prestige—rewards beyond dreams. But the weight of them pressed hard on his chest.
"Yes, my Emperor. Your will shall be done."
He rose, rallied a detachment, and departed into the night, the taste of promotion bitter on his tongue.
Behind him, the camp smoldered with the scent of death. The war had shifted yet again.