The battlefield thundered with the roar of countless guns. The noise was so fierce that even the eagle soaring high above quivered. With a terrified cry, it flapped higher into the blue, fleeing from the storm of death that shook the ground.
But curiosity drew its gaze back downward. When the bird dared look again, what it saw defied all reason.
The eagle had expected the smaller force—the Ross army of only two thousand—to be swallowed whole. Surely the thirty thousand cavalry would smash them to pieces with a single charge. That was the natural order. That was how battles between giants and ants were meant to end.
Yet the truth below was utterly reversed.
The cavalry, proud and unstoppable, had fallen like wheat before the scythe. Each rolling volley of gunfire tore through their ranks, hurling knights and horses to the ground in bloody ruin. The black tide of riders was broken apart by a storm no sword could block.
---
On the Nord side, King Ragnor IV leapt to his feet, eyes bulging with disbelief.
"Damn it! Damn it all!!" he roared, his voice breaking. "Why is this happening?!"
His face twisted with rage and confusion. "What kind of sorcery is this?! Has every soldier in the Ross army become a magician?!"
Nothing made sense. By all logic, Gavin Ward's men should have been trampled into dust. A single wave of cavalry should have crushed them flat, leaving nothing behind but torn banners. Instead, it was the Nord knights who were dying in heaps.
"No! This cannot be! It should not be like this!" Ragnor's voice cracked into fury.
---
One of the twelve magicians seated nearby stood abruptly. His eyes blazed with a feral light.
"Junior brothers! Enough hesitation! Since we cannot locate the enemy's hidden mages—then we will obliterate them all at once!"
His call roused the others. "Everyone! With me! Let the so-called wild sorcerers of Ross taste the true might of orthodox mages!"
All twelve rose in unison. Their bodies shimmered, feet lifting from the ground. Suspended thirty centimeters in the air, their robes fluttered as if a phantom wind bore them aloft.
Yet instead of soaring high into the clouds, they skimmed forward just above the battlefield, gliding at terrifying speed toward Ross's lines.
At once, the air warped around them.
One mage blazed with searing heat, sparks and flames circling like miniature suns. Within heartbeats, fireballs whirled about him like a battery of cannons.
Another's aura crystallized, shards of ice hanging in the air, ready to spear outward.
Others conjured blades of wind, jagged and invisible, slicing at the air around them.
Hundreds of spells shimmered around the twelve at once.
Normally, even a seasoned mage could sustain only five or six spells before exhausting their mana. Yet here each of them juggled ten, fifteen incantations—and still looked eager for more.
"Gavin Ward, you will die this day!" King Ragnor spat through clenched teeth. His eyes were red with fury.
The twelve magicians advanced, their combined might enough to erase thousands in a single strike. Their spellstorm lit the battlefield with terrible radiance.
---
One of them, the eldest, drew out a scroll. His voice rang out.
"Brothers, master entrusted me with this!" He unfurled the parchment, shimmering with strange sigils. "This scroll grants us a shield—no magic shall pierce it for one full minute!"
The others' eyes gleamed.
"Senior Brother has sacrificed much coin for this gift."
"With this, we have nothing to fear!"
One by one, they lowered their personal wards, allowing the scroll's enchantment to envelop them instead.
A violet barrier spread outward, encasing all twelve in a single floating wall of light. Together, they resembled a fortress drifting through the sky.
"We are still five hundred meters away," their leader declared. "When we reach one hundred and fifty, unleash everything! Their magicians cannot withstand us. Our shield will not break!"
The group laughed with cruel confidence, already tasting victory.
---
But then—
"Ungh!"
A choked grunt split the air. One of the magicians jolted violently, his body twisting. His comrades turned in shock.
"Seventh Brother! What's wrong?!"
The man's body plummeted from the sky like a broken doll. When he struck the earth, the others gasped.
Half his skull was gone. From his right brow upward, everything had been obliterated. Brain matter splattered across the dirt.
He had been headshot.
"Wh-what… what happened?!"
They turned in outrage toward the bearer of the scroll.
"Brother! Did you not say this barrier was absolute? That no magic could pierce it?"
The man stammered, sweat flooding down his temples. "I—I don't understand! This shouldn't be possible!"
---
Before they could speak further, the sound came—
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
Dozens of supersonic cracks split the air.
Three more magicians spasmed, jerking backward. Blood sprayed from their chests and necks. Their eyes widened in disbelief, filled with hatred and despair.
They collapsed from the sky, their bodies broken, crashing heavily into the ground.
"No! Second Brother!"
"Eleventh Brother!"
Cries of anguish erupted. Rage boiled in the survivors' veins.
"I'll fight to the death with them!" shrieked one, his grief twisting into madness.
"Twelve Brother, don't be reckless!" the others cried, but he no longer heard them.
His eyes burned with pain. His mind spiraled with fury. He remembered nights around the fire with his brothers, years of training side by side, a family that had raised him when he was a lonely orphan. And now—slain by invisible hands.
Hatred consumed him.
He screamed, his body trembling violently. The mana within him surged beyond limit, igniting into a torrent.
Flames exploded into being. Above him, a fireball began to form—at first the size of a wagon, then swelling larger, fed by his wrath.
Ten meters. Twelve. Fifteen.
The very grass beneath ignited, the air shimmering with heat. The soldiers below shielded their faces from the blaze.
The other magicians gasped.
"His magic power—it's soaring!" one cried.
"He's breaking through… becoming a Sky Mage!"
Shock turned to awe. For mages, to become a Sky Mage was to ascend into legend, a power to rival armies, a status reserved for their master Leander himself. With such a breakthrough, their ranks would wield a weapon capable of annihilating knightly orders in a single strike.
Even grief was drowned beneath ambition. Their lips curled into wild smiles.
"If our brother ascends, our order will rival the greatest in the Tongsley Empire!"
High above, the Twelfth Brother's fireball swelled past twenty meters in diameter. A miniature sun blazed over the battlefield, promising incineration.
"This blow… will bury you all!" he bellowed, voice crackling with flame.
The sky turned crimson as if heralding the end of the world.
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