As the war council gathered in the Countess's chamber, the room held a grim silence. The scent of smoke still clung to their cloaks—fresh from the battlefield, from slaughter, from survival. Isla stood near the window, arms crossed, his eyes cold and calculating. Lucas sat at the center of the room, his sword Balmung leaning against the table, stained but gleaming in the torchlight.
August, ever composed, stood and presented the casualty report.
"Our side suffered… three hundred dead. Forty-seven injured, most recovering. Some won't see battle again," he said solemnly. "But on the enemy's side—" he paused, then continued, "—we estimate over four thousand dead. Two thousand more injured. Their cavalry is shattered, and two dragons lie rotting on the blood-soaked fields."
The Countess closed her eyes and muttered a short prayer. Isla said nothing. His mind was already moving.
Lucas didn't flinch. "That's not enough," he said bluntly. "They'll return. And next time, they won't underestimate us."
Isla nodded. "They'll send their cavalry next. A full frontal charge. With siege weapons. They'll want to reclaim honor—break our line and morale in one stroke."
"And we'll give them that chance," Lucas said, standing. "Right before we burn them again."
The next battle would be no shadow war. No more ambushes. This would be the clash of might—an iron storm of medieval tactics, siege warfare, and brute force. Valte was gathering its elite: heavy cavalry, veteran footmen, and siege weapons like catapults and ballista hauled by oxen and horses.
But Lucas had no intention of backing down. He would meet them head-on—on open ground.
...............…
The morning fog still clung to the field as Isla overlooked the wide-open terrain from a ridge. The battlefield was chosen deliberately: flat land, perfect for cavalry to charge—too perfect. Valte would see it as an opportunity to crush the Empire's weakened forces in one sweeping push. But Isla and Lucas had other plans.
All across the plain, trenches had been dug under the cover of night. Rows of pits camouflaged beneath weak wooden planks and a light layer of soil. Inside the pits—sharpened wooden spears, stakes, and debris lined to pierce any rider or mount unfortunate enough to fall in. Grass had been scattered on top to make it indistinguishable from the ground.
"Make sure the central lane looks untouched," Isla ordered, pointing at the path they'd left deliberately open—an invitation to the enemy cavalry to charge through.
Lucas stood not far behind him, armored in silver and crimson, his white hair tied back. His sword, Balmung, rested sheathed for now, glowing faintly with restrained power.
"They'll use ballistae and catapults to cover their charge," said August. "We've dug auxiliary trenches along the sides. The forward squad will need to move fast before they set up."
Isla nodded. "Let them start their charge. Then trigger the fire signal. The sky must burn before they reach the middle line."
As the sun broke through the clouds, the thunder of hooves echoed in the distance.
The Valte cavalry had arrived.
Thousands of armored riders formed ranks, shining like a wall of steel beneath war banners. Siege weapons creaked forward, set atop ridges behind their line. The horns of war sounded from the enemy side.
"Here they come," Isla said.
Lucas stepped forward, his eyes calm but fierce.
The Empire's knights readied in disciplined ranks. Spearmen behind barricades. Archers on slight hills with oil-dipped arrows ready to ignite the battlefield if the signal was given.
Then the horns of Valte roared again—this time, forward. Their cavalry charged, a tide of destruction aimed to trample all beneath them. Lances lowered. Hooves thundered. The ground shook.
Lucas raised his hand.
A flare shot into the sky. A fiery bolt exploded above the field.
The front lines of the Empire split suddenly, falling back as if in retreat.
The cavalry rode harder.
Then—
CRACK.
The first line of horses hit the camouflaged trench.
The wooden planks collapsed under their weight. Screams echoed as dozens of riders plunged into the death pits, impaled on spears or crushed beneath falling mounts. The momentum of the charge worked against them—riders behind couldn't stop. They slammed into the chaos ahead, piling onto broken bodies and shattered formations.
"Archers! Fire!" Isla bellowed.
Flaming arrows soared into the sky, raining down on the siege crews still setting up. Ballistae burst into flames. Catapults tipped as their handlers screamed in confusion.
Then came Lucas.
He ran into the wreckage. Straight through fire and chaos. Balmung ignited in his hand.
Heavenly Flame Art, Second Form — Eternal Wall of Blaze.
A wall of fire roared behind the broken cavalry ranks, sealing their escape. Panic spread like wildfire. Those who hadn't been caught in the pits were now trapped between flame and blade.
Lucas dashed through them like a storm, cutting down riders, melting steel, and sending horses rearing in terror. His strikes were precise—measured destruction. This wasn't mindless bloodshed. This was controlled annihilation.
Heavenly Flame Art, Third Form — Blazing Tempest.
The heavens responded. Fire rained down in a controlled arc, striking clustered groups of enemies still trying to regroup. The smell of burnt metal and blood filled the air.
From the hills, Isla and Luna led the flanking unit, crashing into the enemy's exposed side. With twin daggers in hand, Isla danced among the chaos, eliminating enemy officers to crush their morale further.
Within an hour, the battlefield was no longer a war zone—it was a slaughterhouse.
Only a few enemy knights managed to flee, those who hadn't fallen to pits, fire, or blade. No dragon appeared this time.
Valte's great cavalry—decimated.
Their siege force—burned and broken.
As the dust settled, Lucas stood at the heart of the battlefield, Balmung buried into the ground, the last embers of his fire crackling around him.
The knights of the Empire stood victorious once again this time.