The two armies clash on the eastern border.
The Dream Kingdom's fortifications thunder to life, lines of artillery unleashing fire that turns the horizon into storms of steel and flame.
Missiles streak upward, their trails glowing before erupting among the oncoming mass like falling suns.
Rune-engraved cannons pulse with light, hurling blasts that tear holes through the advancing tide.
Machine guns roar, their runes glowing faintly as each bullet tears through shadows, ripping flesh and armour apart.
For every hundred that fall, another thousand rise behind them, surging like a dark ocean determined to drown the world.
The enemy does not hesitate, does not fear—their bodies march straight through explosions, their dark shields flickering but never faltering for long.
Blood soaks the plain, yet still they advance.
Above, the sky becomes its own battlefield.
Flying drones dart and weave, spitting fire down into the dark ranks, their vision feeding Tillie's command screens.
From the clouds descend flying beasts, wings stretched wide, carrying riders clad in black armour.
The two sides meet in midair with thunderous collisions.
Drones are shredded by claws and magic, and beasts are pierced by rune-guided rockets and torn apart in explosions.
Knights astride their own flying steeds charge into the melee, lances glowing with radiant power.
They clash midair with the black riders, steel ringing, wings beating, spells flashing bright against the storming sky.
Each duel is brutal, grappling in the air, blades biting through flesh and armour before both combatants spiral to their deaths below.
On the ground, the Dream Kingdom's infantry hold the lines, shields locked, power armour braced against the relentless waves.
Priests chant, their voices weaving blessings that strengthen the soldiers' bodies and mend their wounds even as the dark magic lashes against them.
The enemy's soldiers, clad in shadow, hurl their own spells and charge with blackened blades, every strike aimed to shatter faith itself.
The battlefield stretches into chaos, fire and shadow locked in endless collision.
It is a war fought not only with weapons but with will.
And yet, a silent rule holds over all—the higher stage extraordinaries of both sides remain absent.
Neither side dares unleash their peak powers, as if bound by an unwritten pact.
This is a clash of zero-stage extraordinary, the strength of armies, the tide of nations tested against each other.
Tillie stands behind her screens, issuing commands with steel in her voice, her eyes burning with resolve as the war rages on.
The border shakes, the plains are drowned in fire and blood, and the future of the Dream Kingdom hangs on every clash of steel.
The throne room's doors open after six long months.
The guards rush inside, their voices urgent as they fall to their knees and deliver the grim news of the Eastern front.
Merin, who has been seated motionless in cultivation, slowly rises, his aura changed, heavier, his blood burning with a new rhythm.
He has advanced into the Blood Sigil Realm, the single sigil glowing deep within his sea of consciousness, illuminating the dream space itself.
His control over the dream space has sharpened, each thread of its power bending naturally to his will.
And as the priests and knights draw strength from the dream space, their link has tied them closer to him than ever before.
Through that link, Merin closes his eyes and peers outward, his spirit stretching across the realm.
In an instant, he sees it—the eastern battlefield, forts and bunkers lined with soldiers of the Dream Kingdom.
Artillery flashes, rune-shields shimmer, and walls stand firm against wave after wave of the dark host.
The enemy surges like a tide, but the defenders refuse to break, their faith bound to the dream space that now pulses with Merin's strengthened presence.
Yet despite all their efforts, the battle remains locked in a stalemate.
Neither side yields, the land itself scarred by endless assaults, trenches filled with blood and fire.
Merin exhales and opens his eyes, the vision fading like smoke.
Before him, the throne room is filled—ministers, generals, and court officials have gathered, their faces a mix of hope, fear, and desperation.
Their gazes fall on him, waiting for his word, for his decision, for the path that only their god can choose.
One of the ministers steps forward, his voice solemn, "Lord, the eastern battlefield is in dire need of help, but we cannot spare one more man because of the beasts attacking on the other three fronts."
Merin's eyes narrow, his tone calm yet piercing, "I see only priests and knights holding the eastern front—what about the blood cultivators?"
Another minister bows slightly, speaking with hesitation, "Lord, the highest blood cultivator only recently advanced to the Blood Crystal Realm, and most are not part of the army. We cannot draft them without your approval."
Merin leans back on the throne, his gaze heavy, weighing the future in silence.
He knows he can order their drafting, but forcing them may poison morale, their strength dulled by unwilling hearts.
So instead, he says coldly, "The next realm of Blood Cultivation—the Blood Formation—will not be taught for free. They must earn it through war merit."
A smile spreads across the faces of the ministers, sharp and satisfied.
One of them chuckles darkly, "A fine move, Lord. Everyone of them will now rush to the battlefield if they wish to advance."
Another minister immediately asks, "How much merit will be required to exchange?"
Merin waves a hand, his voice even, "That you decide—but they must spend at least two years on the battlefield to earn it."
At this, one minister shakes his head and speaks firmly, "After entering the Blood Formation Realm, they will step into the second stage of extraordinary, their lifespan extending to at least three hundred years. Two years is too little—they should spend five years on the battlefield."
The others murmur in agreement, voices blending in a chorus of approval.
Merin listens, and though his heart grows colder at their callousness, a thought stirs bitterly—he had believed himself dark, yet compared to them, he seems merciful.
His voice cuts through the chamber, "What do you know about the enemy?"
The ministers exchange glances, unease flickering in their eyes, and finally one admits, "Nothing, my lord. They do not communicate with us."
Merin's gaze sharpens, "Did you not capture any of them?"
Another minister nods reluctantly, "Yes, we did—but they struggle fiercely or sit in silence when questioned."
Merin's eyes glint with decision as he turns to the palace guards, "Are there enemy prisoners in the capital?"
The ministers nod together, confirming.
Merin's voice becomes an order, steady and absolute, "Bring one to me."
The guards drag the grey-skinned prisoner into the throne room.
Its body is hairless, its nose upturned, ears sharp like an elf's, eyes vast and black without pupils, canine teeth glinting when it snarls.
Merin sweeps it with his spiritual sense, probing deeper until the truth forces him still.
He attempts to draw the creature's consciousness into the dream space, yet nothing stirs—it is empty.
The silence confirms his suspicion, and when another prisoner is brought in, the result is the same.
These enemies are not alive.
They are biological war machines.
He tells the ministers his discovery, but they fail to grasp its meaning.
So he explains—these beings are like drones, endless, replaceable, created only for war.
The ministers turn grim, for such a foe cannot be exhausted.
Their eyes fix on Merin again, silently demanding guidance.
Merin dismisses them, already shaping a plan.
Alone with the two prisoners, he dives into their bodies once more, mapping their inner structure.
They are similar, but not identical, making poisons unreliable on a large scale.
Still, one weakness binds them—their vitality.
If he can transform the Vitality Law he comprehended in the Dragon World into this world's law, he can strike directly at their life force.
He sits cross-legged, sinking into meditation, bending the law to this world's rules.
Days blur, and after a week, two new techniques form in his hands.
Life Strike.
Life Mist.
Through the dream space, he sends these to every priest and knight in the kingdom.
It takes two days for them to adapt, their mastery clumsy but enough.
On the battlefield, green mist floods from the priests, seeping into the machines, weakening and killing them.
Knights descend, blades glowing with vitality, cleaving the machines apart in one strike.
The tide halts.
The enemy recalls its machines, and for the first time, second-stage extraordinary figures step forward.
Tillie and her own second-stage priests and knights move to intercept, clashing in brilliance above the field.
Then, astonishingly, an envoy of the enemy emerges.
They speak.
When the parley ends, the enemy retreats, their weakness exposed, yet their words leave Merin's heart heavy.
Through the dream space, he listens to the report, his face solemn.
If their envoy spoke true, the enemy is but a fragment of something far greater.
He orders Tillie to send scouts east to confirm the claims.
To the northern and western fronts, he commands the priests and knights to send scouts beyond their lines, searching for any trace of wisdom races.
And to the south, where the river blocks all passage, he commands the construction of boats and ships—vessels capable of crossing into the unknown.
The eastern invaders are from the Ngurut Empire, ruled by a four-stage god.
And what they have faced so far is only a duke's strength.