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3rd Person POV
In the very heart of the Kingdom of Lugunica, deep within the Royal Castle located in the Capital, a heavy silence hung over the grand council chamber.
Seated around the long, polished table were the Council of Wise Men, their expressions grim and filled with unease.
Tension rippled through the air like a physical force as they grappled with the gravity of the situation at hand—a catastrophe that had shaken the entire Kingdom to its core.
"This is madness... What the hell are we supposed to do now?" one of the wise men growled, his frustration barely contained as he slammed his fist on the table.
"Where the fuck is the Sword Saint?!" another shouted, rising to his feet in sheer exasperation, his voice echoing through the chamber.
"The entire force has been annihilated! How in the world are we expected to fight such monstrosities?!" Bordeaux burst out, unable to hold his tongue any longer. His clenched fists trembled with rage as he glared at the others.
Among them sat Miklotov—the oldest, wisest, and arguably the most intelligent man in the Kingdom.
He was known as the strategist who had steered Lugunica through several close brushes with ruin.
If there was anyone who could think clearly and devise a solution in the midst of this chaos, it was him.
But this time, even Miklotov wore a distant, troubled expression. He hadn't spoken a word during the outburst. For once, even he seemed to be at a loss.
Then, finally, his calm, deliberate voice cut through the rising tide of panic like a blade through silk.
"Please, everyone. Be silent. Let us first hear the full report before making any assumptions or hasty decisions," Miklotov said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried such weight and command that the room immediately fell quiet.
All eyes turned toward the Royal Knight who had delivered the dreadful news. He stood near the edge of the table, a hardened warrior by profession, but today he looked like he had seen the gates of hell themselves.
His face was pale, sweat trickled down his temples, and his hands trembled slightly.
"Proceed with the report," Miklotov instructed, his gaze unwavering.
The knight took a deep breath, trying to collect himself before speaking. "The combined military forces of Lugunica and Gusteko, along with a substantial number of hired mercenaries from Kararagi—including their elite Shinobi—launched a full-scale offensive on the target city. In total, our numbers were just over 20,000 strong."
A few among the council raised their brows at the number. It was a significant deployment, not something decided lightly.
The knight continued, "This wasn't a hastily assembled force. Every man present on the battlefield was an experienced, battle-hardened soldier. We didn't send in fresh recruits or untrained volunteers. These were the best of the best—elite units from both nations, reinforced by Kararagi's famed mercenary companies and deadly Shinobi assassins."
It was no exaggeration. The force they had assembled was capable of conquering any fortified city on the continent if not facing supernatural interference.
Every soldier had state-of-the-art armor, well-forged weapons, and extensive combat experience. By any logical assessment, this should have been a decisive strike.
However, the knight's expression only darkened as he continued.
"No matter how fiercely we fought... no matter what spells were cast, what advanced magical weaponry was used—none of it made a difference. He was unstoppable. A one-man army. Hundreds were slaughtered in an instant with a single swing of his hand, he wasn't even holding a weapon"
As the knight recounted the battle, his voice wavered. He was shaking, not from fear of reprimand, but from the sheer horror of what he had witnessed. He looked up, locking eyes with Miklotov for a brief second before continuing.
"We threw everything at him. Magic cannons struck him directly. Blades striked against his body. He was hit from all sides by coordinated magical attacks and physical assaults. But... nothing worked. Not a single wound. It was as if he stood outside the laws of this world—as if he were some kind of god immune to pain, injury, or death."
The room went deathly silent again. Not a single cough or shuffle broke the atmosphere. Everyone sat frozen, the full weight of the knight's words settling in their minds like a boulder crushing the chest.
"Ultimately... we lost ninety percent of our forces. Those few of us who survived managed to escape, but barely," the knight finished, lowering his head in shame.
No one could speak.
"What do we do now?" one of the wise men finally whispered, almost too quietly to hear.
That was the question—one that hung over them like a dark cloud.
How could they possibly fight against an opponent like that? Against someone who defied every known law of warfare, magic, and human endurance? They had sent their finest, and even that hadn't been enough. What chance did they have now?
"A huge portion of Our army has already been crippled," another council member added, his voice hoarse. "If we try to muster what little remains and attempt another assault, we run the risk of leaving our borders vulnerable. The Vollachian Empire has been quiet lately... too quiet. If they catch wind of our weakened state, they could strike at any moment."
"So what are you suggesting?!" Bordeaux barked, his eyes wide with fury. He slammed his palm on the table hard enough to make the inkpots shake. "That we just abandon the people who are trapped?! That we let them die while we sit here twiddling our thumbs?!"
Silence followed his outburst once again.
Everyone was thinking the same thing. They were caught between a rock and a hard place. Doing nothing was unthinkable—but taking further action could doom the Kingdom.
Miklotov, however, was still composed. He hadn't raised his voice once, hadn't reacted emotionally. He simply turned his gaze back to the knight and asked what was possibly the most important question at this moment.
"...Is there any word on Reinhardt?" he asked quietly, his tone grave.
The Sword Saint—Reinhardt van Astrea. Their last hope.
Everyone in the room held their breath.
The knight slowly shook his head, his expression grim, before responding.
"All the information we were able to gather indicates that Reinhardt engaged that man in combat… but shortly after that, he vanished without a trace. It is now estimated—though we hope it's untrue—that the Sword Saint is dead."
His words dropped like a hammer onto the chamber.
The room fell into complete silence.
The Sword Saint… was dead.
No one dared to speak. The weight of that revelation was too much for anyone to immediately process.
Reinhardt wasn't just a warrior.
He wasn't just a figure of strength or a protector of the Kingdom. He was more than that—he was a living symbol of Lugunica's supremacy, a deterrent to any nation that even considered raising its sword against them.
His mere presence had kept enemies at bay. He had been their greatest weapon, their divine shield.
And now… he was gone.
The thought echoed in everyone's mind like a death knell.
Reinhardt van Astrea had always been a complicated subject. Despite being their strongest asset, the Council of Wise Men had placed strict limitations and protocols on his deployment. Not out of mistrust—but out of fear.
They understood too well: the one who commanded the Sword Saint essentially commanded the Kingdom itself.
That was the extent of his power.
He had always loyally obeyed the directives of the Council, and formerly the King himself.
That obedience alone was what kept their fragile balance intact.
They all knew—if Reinhardt had ever turned against them, if he had ever chosen to follow someone else, the entire Kingdom could have fallen in days.
He wasn't just a Sword Saint.
He was the Sword Saint—the most powerful bearer of the title since the original, the First Sword Saint, who had once stood with the shoulder to shoulder of the Divine Dragon and Great Sage himself.
And now, that same Sword Saint had fallen.
Killed.
Could they really hope to triumph now? Could they possibly win against that golden-eyed monster?
"By Volcanica… what in the hell are we supposed to do now?!" one of the wise men wailed, his voice cracking under the weight of despair.
Every single face around the council table reflected the same fear, the same helplessness. Eyes were wide, brows furrowed, lips trembling. These were supposed to be the wisest, most composed men in the kingdom—but they looked anything but strong right now.
Miklotov, watching the breakdown of his fellow council members, chose not to say anything immediately. He remained quiet, composed as ever, though his mind raced with calculations and concerns.
Normally, leaders—especially those leading a nation—were expected to maintain a level head under all circumstances.
Making emotional decisions in moments of panic could cost not just lives, but land, cities, and the very survival of their nation. One wrong decision could lead to irreversible damage.
But Miklotov understood the emotions now overwhelming the others. How could he not?
A significant portion of the Kingdom's elite military had been completely wiped out. The best warriors—Reinhardt, Wilhelm, Julius—all either confirmed dead or missing in action. Even their greatest healer, Blue, whether was still alive or dead was still unknown.
Lugunica had gambled heavily on this mission. Miklotov himself had negotiated an enormous trade deal with Gusteko, promising vast quantities of grain in exchange for their military aid.
On top of that, they had paid an exorbitant price to hire mercenaries from Kararagi, including the infamous Shinobi clans known for their ruthless efficiency.
Now that the operation had failed—utterly and completely—they still owed those payments.
There was no getting out of that.
Worse yet, their allies might now view Lugunica as a nation that led them into a trap.
The Council could soon face accusations of incompetence or, even worse, treachery. Gusteko and Kararagi would almost certainly demand greater compensation for the loss of their troops.
And lurking in the background was the ever-looming threat of Vollachia.
That brutal and opportunistic empire was always searching for weaknesses in neighboring nations.
If they caught wind of the current vulnerability plaguing Lugunica, they wouldn't hesitate to strike. War could come knocking at their gates at any moment.
"Is there any update from the Dragon Tablet? Why hasn't the Divine Dragon intervened yet?!" another of the Council members asked abruptly, turning to one of the palace maids who had been standing silently near the chamber's edge.
The maid bowed respectfully before responding in a quiet, formal tone. "Apologies, my lords. I checked the Dragon Tablet not long ago. No prophecy has been revealed. The tablet remains unchanged."
More murmurs of frustration and concern rippled across the room.
After several more minutes of debate, argument, and aimless theorizing, Miklotov finally spoke again—this time with resolution in his voice.
"We will abandon the mission to retake the Water City of Priestella. Our priority now must shift to preserving the forces we have left. We will regroup and fortify key defensive positions to prepare for any further assaults from the Witch Cult," he stated firmly, leaving no room for argument.
"The situation has not yet deteriorated to the point of total collapse. As long as we remain strong, as long as we preserve the core of our military, I believe the Divine Dragon will answer our call. He must. He will intervene."
But in the depths of Miklotov's mind, a different truth was gnawing at him.
'Because if the Dragon doesn't intervene… I genuinely don't know what will become of our Kingdom.'
It had only been two weeks since the disaster began—two short weeks that had plunged the entire world into fear and chaos.
The event that had triggered all this devastation wasn't a war between nations or a rebellion.
It was something far more terrifying.
For the first time in recorded history, the Sin Archbishops of the Witch Cult had gathered and launched a full-scale invasion of a major city. Their destination: Priestella, the famed Water City.
They attacked. They conquered. And they held it.
Their infamy, already enormous, had now multiplied tenfold. The entire world trembled at the mention of their names.
But among all the horror that emerged during that siege, one name now stood above the rest. One man had single-handedly devastated the alliance of nations. One being had crushed Reinhardt—the strongest of them all—and emerged without a scratch.
A man with golden eyes.
A monster who now inspired more fear than any creature in existence.
The Witch Cult's Cardinal.
The Sin Archbishop Representing Greed.
Regulus Corneas.
To be continued...
(A/N: GIVE ME ALL OF YOUR POWERSTONES!
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