As Edward descended upon the lands of Eternia, a thunderous cheer erupted from the gathered masses. The roar of thousands carried across the lush plains, voices raised in reverence.
How could they not recognize the figure before them—the one they called The Father of Beginning? To them, he was no distant god perched above the heavens, but the being who had once walked these same grounds and turned a wasteland into paradise with his own hands.
The barren, cracked earth of old had become a thriving paradise of green, rivers, and fruit-bearing fields under his guidance. Unlike the fickle gods who demanded endless offerings, Edward had asked for nothing. He gave, and kept giving, expecting no worship in return.
Still, even now, as he stood with his cloak brushing against the warm winds, he could not stop them. Their cheers carried love, faith, and gratitude so sincere it pierced through him.
Despite his words over the years—I am no god, do not raise me higher than yourselves—their devotion never faded. They saw him in every heroic spirit that bore his likeness, interpreting them as his many divine aspects. To them, his legend had become inseparable from his existence.
Edward sighed, raising a hand to cover part of his face, though a helpless smile tugged at his lips. Their belief was overwhelming. He didn't wish for it, yet he couldn't harden himself against such sincere love.
But not all hearts in the crowd beat with joy.
Across the battlefield, the crusaders glared with burning fury. Cloaked bishops stepped forward from among them, their jeweled crosses glinting under the sun. Their voices rang like hammers against iron.
"That is the heretic!" one bishop bellowed, lifting his crozier high. "He dares sway the faithful with false miracles. Slay him, and bring the light of Christ into these corrupted lands! God stands with us!"
The kings, armored and seated proudly upon their horses, did not echo the words with passion. Their expressions betrayed little more than tension—men calculating the tides of war and whether this confrontation served their crowns.
Yet among the massed soldiers, fervor rose like fire catching dry brush. Devout men gripped their weapons tighter, eyes flashing with zeal.
"Deus vult!" they roared as one.
Edward groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Seriously? Deus vult? I've met the big guy, believe me, this is the last thing he'd will."
His voice grew sharper, rising above the thunder of boots and banners.
"Listen to me, oh ignorant fools!" he shouted, his words rolling over the field. "Your kings, do they care for God's will? No. They care for land, for gold, for their own swollen pride. And your bishops? They claim the mantle of holy men, yet they twist His name to chain you to their greed. They speak of paradise while they cower safely behind your shields."
He raised his arm, pointing toward the soldiers, voice ringing with condemnation.
"Are you truly willing to die so these liars can keep tormenting your children, and your children's children? Is your faith so blind, your hearts so numb, that you cannot see truth from falsehood, justice from corruption?"
A ripple of unease broke among the crusader lines. Soldiers muttered to one another, weapons faltering in their grips. Doubt edged its way into their expressions.
But the bishops were quick to strike back. "Do not heed the devil's tongue!" one cried desperately. "He is no savior but the incarnation of hell itself! His words are poison to lure you from salvation! Attack and slay him, and paradise shall be yours!"
The hesitation shattered. With a resounding cry, lines of armored men surged forward, swords raised, banners whipping in the wind.
Edward stood still, watching them come. A heavy ache pressed against his chest. These were the very people he had bled for, sacrificed for, protected through centuries of trial. Now their blades were bared against him. His face hardened, but behind it, sorrow weighed deep.
Before he could speak again, another bursts of roar broke out. Not from the crusaders, but from behind him.
"How dare you call The Great Father a devil!"
"They dare slander our god, our protector!"
"We should cut them down where they stand!"
"You invade our lands, butcher our kin, and now insult him—the kindest being to ever walk this world? You deserve no mercy!"
The voices of Eternia's people rose into a storm of outrage. The anger in their eyes was unrestrained, their hands itching to tear down the barrier that shielded them just to strike the crusaders themselves.
They had tolerated much—the war, the losses, the insults due to their skin color. But to call him, the man who saved them, a devil? That crossed every line. Their blood boiled hotter than any flame.
Edward turned to them and raised his hand gently, smiling faintly despite the rage burning on their behalf. His voice, calm but resolute, cut through their shouts.
"Stand back, my children. This is not your burden to carry. It is mine. I am the reason they march here, the spark for their war. So let me be the one to finish it. From safety, bear witness. See for yourselves what becomes of men when mercy fails, and judgment descends."
His voice lowered to a murmur as he turned inward, speaking into the bond of his soul.
[Rider… A stage worthy for your armies has been prepared. Let us show them what true conquest looks like.]
A thunderous laugh echoed in his mind, vibrant and full of life.
[Finally!] Rider's voice boomed with delight. [I feared you'd forgotten me, lad! My strength is yours, as always, and my men's as well. Together, let us sing of conquest and carve glory across the ages once more!]
Edward chuckled softly, whispering under his breath. "Then let us begin. Equip: Rider."
The air around him surged. A wave of force burst outward, halting the charge of the crusader lines. Their boots skidded in the dirt, eyes wide as light engulfed Edward's form.
Thunder cracked. The light twisted, reshaping into another figure.
From the blaze stepped a towering man with a mane of wild red hair. Muscles rippled beneath his armor as he sat astride a massive black steed, a curved sword resting at his hip.
The aura he carried was magnetic, exuding unshakable confidence and infectious charm.
The King of Conquerors—Iskandar, or better known as Alexander the Great, had answered the call.
Edward, now clad in Rider's might, looked across the stunned battlefield. His expression was calm, yet his voice carried steel.
"My apologies, you poor souls" he said, raising the sword from his hip high into the sky. "For what's about to happen."
His voice roared like a command across the heavens.
"Their bodies may return to ash, but their spirits still hear my call! These men are my loyal followers—my comrades beyond time and death!
They are my treasure of treasures, my right to rule, the proof of conquest itself!"
The sword glinted as his words thundered.
"They are the companions who stood beside me, they are my ultimate proof kingship!
This is the ultimate conquest I possess- Ionian Hetairoi!"
A blinding light consumed the battlefield, swallowing crusaders, kings, and bishops alike. The world seemed to dissolve, the ground beneath them falling away.
When their vision cleared, the scene had changed. The crusaders found themselves standing beneath a scorching sun, the air shimmering with unbearable heat. Before them stretched an endless desert, dunes rolling like waves beneath a sky of fire. The sheer scale left them frozen, breathless with fear.
Edward's voice carried through the sweltering air. "My glorious armies once marched across these deserts. Their steps echoing through history. And now—behold them once more."
From beyond the dunes came the sound. A low tremor, a rhythmic thunder of boots and hooves. It grew louder, closer, until the desert itself seemed to quake beneath the weight of an advancing tide.
Sand shifted, and from the shimmering horizon, ranks upon ranks of soldiers emerged. Spears glittered, banners waved, and countless warriors marched in perfect formation.
Their faces were stern, their steps unwavering. One after another, the numbers swelled, until the crusaders realized the truth: they were surrounded by an army stretching into hundreds of thousands.
This was no mere army. This was a legend summoned into reality—Alexander's greatest triumph given form.
The Ionian Hetairoi.
And Edward stood at their head riding Bucephalus, about to show them true conquest .
*****
The desert wind howled through the vast expanse of the Ionian Hetairoi, carrying the heat of the conjured sun and the weight of inevitability. The Crusaders, though disciplined and drilled, faltered in the face of the surreal.
Soldiers in battered armor raised their muskets with trembling hands, priests fumbled with holy relics, and spellcasters—those few learned in the arcane arts granted by the Church—muttered incantations in hurried panic.
"Stand firm!" one of the bishops screamed, his voice cracking in desperation. "The Lord is with us! Do not falter before illusions of the devil!"
But his words, however loud, could not still the tremors in the men's hands.
From across the endless sands, the Hetairoi moved. Rows upon rows of armored cavalry, gleaming bronze and steel, banners fluttering proudly in the scorching wind. The earth itself seemed to quake under the march of hooves, the unified steps of hundreds of thousands echoing like a thunderstorm.
At their head rode himself, towering upon Bucephalus, his grin fierce, eyes shining with the joy of conquest. The aura he exuded was not merely of a general—it was of a king, one who carried the will of his men and the fire of glory with every breath.
Behind him, his Hetairoi followed with unshakable loyalty, the bonds of brotherhood binding them stronger than steel.
Edward watched, his hand still upon the hilt of the conjured blade, his expression heavy. He could see the Crusaders' fear, the hesitation, the blind faith they clung to. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if mercy could still reach them. But their bishops screamed again.
"Loose your muskets! Fire in God's name!"
A line of musketeers leveled their barrels, gunpowder smoke filling the air. With a deafening crack, the volley erupted. Bullets tore through the air toward the oncoming army.
The first rank of Hetairoi raised their shields in practiced unison. The musket balls struck, sparking harmlessly against the bronze, bouncing away into the sand. Even those that pierced through armor merely slowed men who had already died once before, summoned by loyalty beyond death.
The Crusaders gasped.
"Reload! Quickly, reload!" officers shouted, but the pace of the Hetairoi's charge gave them no time.
Then the Crusader mages raised their staffs and hands, chanting in Latin, weaving spells sanctioned by their faith. Bolts of holy light, bursts of fire, and gusts of divine wind lashed out toward the Hetairoi. The desert lit up with explosions, dust rising high into the sky.
For a moment, the Crusaders cheered, believing their magic had struck true. But as the smoke cleared, the sight broke their hope.
The Hetairoi emerged through the haze, their formation unbroken. The spells burned some, scorched banners, and tore into the sand—but the army pressed forward, undeterred, like an endless tide.
The bishops turned pale. "Impossible… these are but phantoms!"
"No," Edward's voice cut through, steady and resolute. His gaze locked upon them, the weight of ages behind his words. "These are not phantoms. They are the will of men who chose to follow me. And against such bonds, your greed-born faith shatters."
Then came the command. Edward raised his sword high, his voice booming with infectious energy:
"MY COMRADES! FORWARD! SHOW THEM THE GLORY OF OUR CONQUEST!"
The ground shook as the cavalry broke into full charge. A wall of steel, flesh, and fury thundered toward the Crusader ranks. The desert wind carried their unified roar, drowning the feeble cries of the bishops.
The Crusaders braced. Shields locked, pikes leveled, muskets hastily fired again. But it was like trying to stop a storm with bare hands.
The impact was cataclysmic.
The Hetairoi smashed into the Crusader front lines with unstoppable force. Horses barreled through men, spears shattered shields, swords cleaved armor. Screams filled the desert as the Crusaders' disciplined ranks were broken like glass against stone. Blood stained the sands, torn banners fell beneath trampling hooves, and the once-proud cries of "Deus Vult!" turned into shrieks of despair.
Musketeers tried to fire point-blank, but were cut down by riders before their triggers pulled. Pikemen thrust upward, only to be dragged down and trampled. The bishops screamed prayers, raising crosses and relics, only for Hetairoi lances to impale them mid-chant.
The Crusader mages fought desperately, summoning more fire and light. A few of the Hetairoi were burned down, their summoned forms dissipating into motes of golden dust—but the sheer tide of cavalry swallowed the casters before their spells finished, blades silencing their prayers.
The desert rang with the clash of steel, the roar of horses, and the cries of the dying.
Edward stood tall amidst it all, his expression grim. He felt the weight of every scream, every soldier crushed beneath the inevitable.
Yet his resolve did not waver. His people had been threatened, his name slandered, and mercy had been spat upon. Now judgment fell.
From behind him, the people of Eternia watched through the veil of the barrier. Some cried at the sight of the slaughter, their hearts heavy.
Others clenched their fists, voices raised in anger and vindication. They saw their Father's gentle will, not as a distant god, but as the man who once walked their lands, guiding them, protecting them. Now he had to slaughter their enemies and stain his hand with blood.
Ishkander reveled in the battle, his laughter booming as Edward carved through enemy ranks, his Hetairoi echoing his fervor.
[See, Edward! This is the bond of men, unshakable! This is what it means to conquer, not to enslave, but to share glory with those who choose to follow!]
Edward gave a faint, solemn smile. His voice, softer, carried in the desert wind. "Yes… and may they see what true kingship means, before their final breath."
The battle raged on. In mere moments, the Crusaders' numbers dwindled. Muskets and magic, relics and prayers—it was all drowned beneath the tide of the Hetairoi. The kings who had stood aloof behind their lines watched in horror as their armies were torn apart before their eyes.
The sands of the desert ran red, the Crusaders' cries fading into silence, until only the thunder of hooves and the triumphant roar of the Hetairoi remained.
*****
Under the blinding heat of the desert sun that Ionian Hetairoi conjured, the cries of dying Crusaders filled the air. The mighty clash was over almost as soon as it began. Steel, hooves, and unbreakable loyalty had shredded through the devout armies that had raised their banners against Edward.
Gunfire, spells, and chants meant to burn heresy to ash had all been drowned beneath the relentless charge of the Hetairoi. Their cannons cracked, muskets thundered, priests screamed as they cast rites of sanctity, but against the endless tide of Alexander's eternal companions, it was nothing.
When the dust began to settle, and the reality Marble started to fade, only fragments of what had once been a proud crusading host remained. Men who still clutched their weapons trembled, too paralyzed by fear to strike again.
Their faith, their chants of "Deus Vult," had been buried beneath the sand. And as silence grew, the true horror of what they had witnessed began to sink in.
The Bishops and kings who had stood at the rear, away from the carnage, had grown pale. They were supposed to be divinely guided, champions of Heaven itself. Yet they had watched their army, hundreds of thousands crushed, not by demons or devils, but by heroes of legend who answered Edward's call.
"This… this cannot be…" one Bishop stammered, clutching his cross so tightly it drew blood from his hand. "We… we were chosen. We had God's blessing!"
The King of Spain, one who had been bold earlier, speaking of reclaiming lands and glory was now drenched in sweat, his lips trembling. "We cannot win this… we must leave. Now. Before he turns his wrath upon us!"
The Bishops scrambled, robes trailing in the sand, spouting prayers as though words alone could shield them. One king ordered their guards to flee, others abandoned all dignity, dropping their banners as they stumbled through the desert mirage.
But Edward was already moving.
His steps were slow at first, deliberate, the weight of inevitability in them. His face held no joy, no thrill in this slaughter, only a grave determination. He had spared the soldiers once, tried to reason with them, even offered them mercy.
Yet their leaders, the Bishops with their venomous tongues, the kings who drove men to war for land and gold, still chose greed and deception.
Edward's voice echoed across the battlefield. "You send your armies here, knowing nothing of this land. You preach God's will, when in truth you serve only your greed. Your soldiers fight and die while you cower at the back, poisoning their faith. I gave you a chance. You refused it."
The Eternians surrounded the retreating nobles like a tightening noose. Their massive warhorses trampled the sand, eyes glowing with loyalty and fury. The kings and Bishops looked around frantically, finding no way out.
"Mercy…" one Bishop whimpered, falling to his knees. "Great Father, mercy! We were only... only serving the will of the Lord and Christ.!"
Edward's eyes hardened in fury . "Do not twist His name! I have spoken with Him, held him in my arms and watched him die at the hands of the same people he wished to save.
Yet you use His word as a weapon for your greed. You dare to claim your crimes are holy. For that, there will be no forgiveness."
He raised his hand. The people surged forward like a storm. In moments, swords cut through silk robes, spears impaled armored guards, and the cries of kings and Bishops were swallowed in the desert wind. Some tried to run, but the riders cut them down effortlessly.
Blood darkened the golden sands.
Edward himself drew closer to the central group of kings guards. He did not rush, nor did he need to. They fell one by one, until only a handful remained. He stood before them, his gaze unflinching.
"Your greed has claimed enough lives. Your people suffer while you gorge yourselves on wealth. And when you lack more to steal, you send armies across seas to rob others. That ends here."
With swift, brutal efficiency, he struck them down. Swords fell, heads rolled, their pleas silenced. There was no cruelty in his strikes, but no hesitation either. Justice, not vengeance, guided his hand.
When it was done, the battlefield was quiet again, save for the groans of wounded Crusaders left alive. Edward turned to them. His voice softened, though it carried the same weight.
"You fought because you were told this was holy. You fought because you were lied to. I will not punish you for being deceived. You will live, but you will carry my message home."
The surviving men looked at him with a mix of fear and awe. They expected death. Instead, they were being given life, and a burden.
Edward gestured, and the Eternians brought forward the severed heads of the slain kings and Bishops, placing them in iron chests. Edward's hands glowed faintly as he sealed them shut with an ancient mark.
"These will go with you," Edward declared. "You will return to your nations and Popes. Carry these heads to their courts, to their people, so they see the truth of those who led them into ruin."
The men flinched, but none dared resist.
Edward then pulled a parchment from within his cloak, conjured with a flare of mana, and began writing with deliberate precision. His words carried the finality of law, his tone unbending:
'This is my warning. If your greed does not end, if you once again send armies across seas to slaughter the innocent, then my mercy will end. The seas you cross will not carry your ships, they will swallow them whole. Your lands will not shelter you, they will sink into the ocean. I will erase your kingdoms from the earth itself, and no prayer will save you.'
When he finished, Edward pressed his seal upon the parchment. The glow of it made the Crusaders shrink back, as if they could feel the power within those words.
He handed the sealed letter to the trembling survivors. "Deliver this message. Do not falter, do not change a word. If you try to twist it, if you think to deceive again… then know this: I will know. And I will come."
The men nodded frantically, clutching the chest and the letter as if they were holy relics. Edward turned his back to them, dismissing them with a wave. .
Behind him, the people of Eternia stood in silence, their anger still simmering but tempered now by awe. They had seen their Divine Guardian strike down kings and soldiers alike. They had seen his judgment, his mercy, and his wrath. All for their sake. They kneeled in front of him with gratitude.
Edward lifted his hand toward them, his voice calm again. "The danger is gone. Go back to your homes. Live. Build. Remember only this: mercy is a virtue, not a weakness.
But when greed refuses to yield, then judgment must fall. I am proud of you, my children, for you have followed my teachings. You, give me hope that there might yet be a chance for salvation."
The people bowed deeply, their cheers muted now, reverent. They did not see him as a conqueror, nor as a Tyrant god, but as the one who bore their burdens, who protected them even when it broke his own heart.
Edward stood quietly for a long moment, watching the surviving Crusaders being escorted to the shore, where ships would take them back across the sea. His heart was heavy, but his resolve was unbroken.
He had shown mercy once more. But he had also made it clear: if they came again, they would not find a forgiving Father waiting. They would find the abyss.
*****
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