The carriage rocked gently over the dirt road, its wheels crunching softly against stones. Inside, Her Highness, the elf princess, leaned forward, her face full of disbelief.
"You mean to tell me… the side with a hundred thousand men lost? They failed to kill even a single enemy?"
Her maid and driver, Ya'er, nodded quickly, still dazed from the report she had given.
"Um."
"And not only that—you're certain there were no magic fluctuations among the smaller army?"
"Um!"
"Instead, you sensed the presence of a sky mage among the one hundred thousand?"
"Um!"
"Then—how?" The princess's brows drew together in astonishment. "The army of a hundred thousand perished without even forcing their enemies into close combat? At least tens of thousands of them died, and yet the two thousand… none were harmed?"
"Um!" Ya'er said again, almost like a doll nodding endlessly. Her eyes were wide, her tone dreamy, as if she herself couldn't believe what she had witnessed.
The princess pressed a hand to her temple, her lips tightening. "Are you lying to me, Ya'er? Tell me the truth!"
Ya'er straightened, her elven ears twitching. "By the spirits, Your Highness, I wouldn't dare! I swear—I'm telling the truth!"
Her Highness fell silent, staring at the wooden carriage floor. Her thoughts spun.
"This makes no sense. How could mere mortals… ordinary soldiers… possibly defeat one hundred thousand men, especially with a sky mage in their midst? That level of magic alone could erase entire battalions!"
Her worldview—everything she knew about power—felt suddenly overturned. To her, a sky mage was the embodiment of destruction. Yet this report told a different story.
Ya'er leaned forward, her face glowing with excitement despite her own shock. "Your Highness, isn't this exactly why we journey across the continent? To seek out the impossible? To discover what no one else has seen?"
Her Highness blinked, then her lips curved into an eager smile. "Yes… you're right! If such a miracle occurred, we must see it ourselves. Quickly, Ya'er—drive faster! I must meet the leader of this army. I want to ask him with my own lips what happened."
Her hands clenched with determination. "If this is true, we'll be the first elves to uncover such a secret! The first to witness the impossible!"
Ya'er flinched as the princess clapped her shoulder repeatedly. "Hurry! Faster! We must not lose them!"
"Y-Yes, Your Highness, but please—my shoulders ache…" Ya'er muttered, though she snapped the reins and urged the horses forward.
---
Meanwhile, on the battlefield, Gavin Ward's soldiers stood victorious.
"Your Majesty," Rotis reported with a proud salute, clad in his polished black breastplate, "the Nord army is gone. We annihilated all twenty thousand who remained after Lot's retreat. Not a single one escaped alive."
Gavin's eyes gleamed. "And our casualties?"
"None, sire!" Rotis grinned. "The only incident was one soldier who tripped over a corpse and sprained his ankle."
A ripple of laughter spread among the officers.
"Excellent," Gavin said, his smile faint but sharp. "Once the bodies are buried, we march back to the city."
The power of firearms had surpassed even his expectations.
Rotis spun on his heel, his voice thundering across the grassland: "Soldiers of the Kiswell Kingdom! The king commands—we bury the corpses, then we return victorious!"
A roar answered him.
"Long live His Majesty!"
"Invincible!"
"Our king is invincible!"
The cries echoed, lifting morale even higher.
---
The battle itself had lasted less than an hour. Yet the aftermath stretched long into the day. Tens of thousands of Nord corpses blanketed the plains, and though Gavin's men had not suffered losses, disease was always a lurking threat.
So the two thousand Kiswell soldiers worked tirelessly, shovels biting into soil, digging vast pits for the enemy dead. The stench of blood hung heavy in the air, thick enough to choke.
One soldier, Jerry, hauled a mangled corpse toward a pit. The ruined body reeked of gore. He gagged, ripped off his iron mask, and vomited violently into the dirt.
When he wiped his mouth, his face was pale. His gaze swept the endless field of bodies. His voice was a whisper:
"Did… the weapon in my hands really cause all this?"
The 98K rifle hung heavy across his back. He touched its cold stock with trembling fingers. The horror was overwhelming—yet so was his conviction.
"Yes," he murmured to himself. "But this is our weapon. Our king's weapon. For our people, our families… we will wield it. We must."
His fear hardened into grim pride. This massacre was not senseless. It was victory—a shield for their nation.
---
By dusk, the plains had transformed. Where once there were mountains of corpses, now there were long trenches filled with the enemy dead. The Kiswell soldiers worked with methodical efficiency, their discipline unbroken.
Gavin stood on a small rise, the sun sinking behind him. His half-armor gleamed faintly under the orange glow, his black boots stained with mud. The long sword at his side reflected the fading light.
The west burned with firelight as the day died. To Gavin, it was more than a sunset. It was a sign.
"This world has reached its twilight," he whispered. "And I am its dawn."
His gaze swept the blood-soaked field. "Here begins the revolution. I will bring an industrial age to this land. The old kingdoms will kneel. Magic and swords will crumble before steel and fire. The continent will bow at my feet."
The dream of empire—an empire forged not by sorcery, but by machines—lit his eyes with determination.
---
Night descended. Wolves prowled the fields, drawn by the lingering smell of blood. Their eyes glowed green in the moonlight as they crept toward the mass graves.
But when Ya'er's carriage arrived, she raised her hand, and a white light shimmered from her palm. The wolves yelped in terror and fled into the night.
The elf princess stepped from the carriage, her delicate nose wrinkling. The air was suffocating with iron, blood, and death. She pressed a silk cloth against her face, her brow furrowed deeply.
"Such slaughter… far worse than I imagined," she whispered.
Yet her sharp eyes noticed something peculiar. "And yet… only one man of theirs was injured?"
Ya'er pointed silently into the distance. "They've gone, Your Highness. They're marching back toward Kiswell City."
The princess followed her gaze. Her chest tightened. Somewhere ahead, in that disciplined army of black-clad soldiers, was the one she sought—the mysterious leader who had shattered every law of war she knew.
Her whisper cut through the night wind:
"Where did they go? Who are they?"
---
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