The Northern Outpost
The wind howled across the barren plateau, carrying with it the scent of ash and blood. Beneath a sky painted in sickly reds, the Crawlers surged. Hundreds of them—chitinous limbs hammering the ground, mandibles clicking in hunger, their swarm stretching like a living tide across the horizon.
At their head, the knights of Angelus stood firm. Gleaming steel armor glinted under the dim light, banners whipping in the storm, their runes glowing faintly with enchantments. The ground trembled with every beat of the swarm, yet the knights did not move. Their discipline was carved into their bones, their faith fastened to the figure who strode among them.
Sous Angelus.
The prodigy of sixteen years. The Duke's son. The Kingdom's golden youth. Clad in crimson armor, his helm fashioned with winged crests that caught the light.
He moved, and the battlefield seemed to shift with him.
Not like a soldier, nor like a brute. He did not march, nor stomp, nor grind forward like the others—he danced. His crimson and gold armor flowed like silk across the battlefield, each step an elegant defiance of the horror before him.
The White Tiger sabre sang in arcs of silver, its master-forged edge cleaving through chitin as though it were cloth. A Crawler lunged from the left; Sous pivoted, cloak snapping, and his blade traced a perfect crescent, severing limb from body in a shower of ichor. Sparks from the Metnew fibers glimmered at the joints of his armor, moving faster than mortal eyes could follow.
Another monster hurled itself high, mandibles wide, shadow blotting the sky. Sous raised his gauntleted hand. The Conduit flared—scarlet glyphs burning across Penelope's frame.
Lightning burst outward, a crackling torrent that split the heavens. The creature convulsed, its carapace shattering as it fell blackened to the earth.
Cheers erupted from the knights.
Sous's voice thundered above the storm, carried by a spell of projection.
"Hold the line. We will break them!"
The swarm pressed on, but the knights did not falter. They had their symbol. Their prodigy. Their hero.
Laos Territory
Far south, in a land not gilded by honor but caked with mud and desperation, another battle stirred.
Logos Laos leaned over the mana-glass apparatus before him, its polished surface shimmering with fractured images of the approaching tide. His hair was damp from sweat, his eyes sharp as razors.
"So," he murmured, "they are here."
Across the barren fields, a horde—no, a tide—swept forward. Claws and mandibles glistened, countless eyes burning with unnatural hunger. The sound was like thunder, like the cracking of mountains.
Lucy stood beside him, her hand tight on her sleeve. "Logos. People are scared."
"No worries," he replied, voice even, though his fingers tightened on the crystal device. He lifted another apparatus shaped like a jagged shard, humming faintly with stored mana.
He placed it against the glass, and when he spoke, his voice did not stay in the command tent.
It rolled outward.
Through crystal pylons, through rune-speakers, across the trenches, the towers, the barracks. Every soldier, every refugee, every man and woman clutching tools or rifles heard him.
"All those at the side of life," Logos's voice boomed, cold and clipped, "lend me your ears."
The field stilled, as though even the Crawlers themselves paused for the declaration.
"I will keep it simple, since we have arduous tasks ahead of us. Our enemies are many. The only ones we have… are our dear ones."
His tone was flat. Merciless. Not the speech of a hero. Not the rousing cry of a savior.
"So, as we stand steady, our preparations complete, I say this—"
Every back straightened. Every hand tightened on musket and shovel alike.
"They are coming."
He let the words hang for a breath.
"Kill them all."
The cold declaration rolled across the fortress like an earthquake.
It was not faith that stirred them. Not inspiration. But fear.
Fear of the Crawlers, whose mandibles promised no mercy.
Fear of Logos, who would sooner shoot deserters than tolerate weakness.
And yet, the fear was enough. Soldiers locked their rifles. Cannoneers rammed shot and powder. Refugees, shaking, lifted crates of ammunition. Even the half-starved draft beasts brayed and pawed at the soil, sensing the storm to come.
The Crawlers slammed into the trenches with the force of a falling mountain. Timber splintered. Stakes snapped. The earth shook beneath the onslaught.
A voice hissed through the crystal at Logos's side. "Masen here."
"Begin," Logos commanded.
The Cannons
At the very back of the formation, among countless heavy cannons lined like fangs along the ridges, an old man sat cross-legged. His beard was streaked with soot, his coat ragged from powder burns.
Masen grinned, a wolf's grin.
"Finally," he muttered. His eyes gleamed. He rose, turning to the sweating crews who waited at their posts, hands white on ramrods and matchcords.
"All right, boys!" he bellowed. "We've been waiting for this! Give them hell!"
The first cannon roared.
Then another.
And another.
The night cracked in a rolling volley, each blast tearing holes into the swarm. Crawlers shrieked, their carapaces splintering under enchanted lead. The air filled with fire, smoke, and the copper stench of burning ichor.
"First rank—fire!" Logos barked, his eyes never leaving the mana-glass.
The mini-forts at the forward trenches came alive, their smaller cannons spitting shot in perfect, successive volleys. Explosions blossomed across the field, bursts of fire and steel throwing Crawlers into the air like ragdolls.
The tide faltered.
For the first time, the Crawlers hesitated.
But more pressed forward, their sheer weight slamming against the defenses. The ground quaked, the trenches filled with the deafening shriek of claws on stone.
Lucy gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white. "They're still coming…"
"They will always come," Logos replied coldly. "But so will the guns."
Two Battles, Two Stars
Far to the north, Sous Angelus raised his sabre high, lightning spilling across its edge as his knights charged behind him. Their voices rose in a single chorus, faith and fire burning in their hearts.
Far to the south, Logos Laos lowered his hand, and another volley of cannon fire tore across the earth, his fortress holding by steel, smoke, and the iron grip of his will.
One led with valor.
One ruled with fear.
And between them, the Crawlers screamed—endless, hungry, unyielding.
The world would remember both names.
Sous Angelus.
Logos Laos.
Two prodigies. Two methods. Two stars whose light clashed across the crimson horizon.