"The Kingdom of Los lies by the sea… I must control that coast."
The Duke of the Golden Lion's voice was low, but his words carried the weight of obsession. His sharp eyes gleamed like a predator's as he traced a finger along the edges of the map pressed to his chest. This was no ordinary map—it was a sea chart, said to reveal routes to the hidden treasures of the ancient demons, riches sealed away when humanity first drove those monsters into the abyss of the oceans.
The Duke's great knight, standing silently by, did not dare to question his master's fixation. He could not yet grasp the true extent of the Duke's ambitions.
The Duke's hand lingered on the map. "If I strike too hastily at Los," he mused, "the other dukes may suspect. Even the royal family of the Tongsley Empire might notice. My true goal must remain hidden."
That was why he had initially sent Lusia—his trusted warrior—to quietly bring Los under his influence. Yet three months had passed with no word. The Duke's patience was unraveling.
He set his jaw. "One more month. If Lusia does not return, I will act myself. I will send my banners across the sea, crush Los, and seize the ports. The treasure will be mine."
For him, Los was not merely a small kingdom to be consumed—it was the key to the sea, to ancient power, to his grand design.
---
Far to the west, in Los itself, Gavin Ward was already moving his pieces.
The Orc Empire had invaded the neighboring Lot Kingdom, sweeping aside their defenses with brutal efficiency. Villages burned, knights fell, and the orc tide advanced closer and closer to Los's borders. Gavin would not wait for the storm to reach his people.
He convened his generals and spoke with iron resolve. "We strike first. Better to fight them on foreign soil than let war consume our homeland."
The council agreed. Plans were set. Fifty thousand soldiers would march at once, Gavin himself leading the expedition.
The composition was carefully chosen: ten thousand seasoned Los soldiers, veterans drilled in discipline, and forty thousand Nord recruits—fresh but eager, forged in the training grounds under his watch. Together, they formed a vanguard to meet the orc horde head-on.
When the morning came, the streets of Ross City thundered with the march of boots. On either side of the wide roads, citizens gathered, cheering until their throats went hoarse. Mothers lifted their children high so they could see the steel-clad warriors. Merchants shut their stalls just to wave at the passing regiments.
The column stretched endlessly, row upon row of helmets glinting in the sunlight, shields held firm, spears upright. From a distance, they resembled a living river of iron flowing toward destiny.
Then came the sound—the soldiers raised their voices in unison, singing the military hymn Gavin himself had written.
> "We are His Majesty's most loyal soldiers!"
"We will be the sharp sword that cuts a path for our king!"
"Evil orcs, your doom is at hand!"
The anthem rolled through the streets like thunder, each verse striking pride into the hearts of the people. Lines declared their vow to protect the girls of Lot and Kiswell, to free them from fear, to build a realm where none would know poverty or oppression. The song was filled with bold promises and blazing faith.
In time, this very hymn would be remembered as the traditional march of the Los Army, sung for generations whenever its soldiers set out to war.
Behind the marching infantry rumbled supply convoys. Carts piled high with crates of food, ammunition, medical supplies, and spare armor rolled steadily along, driven by teams of disciplined drivers.
And then—gasps erupted from the crowd.
From the gates emerged twenty T-34 steel beasts, tanks newly forged in the industrial workshops Gavin had built. Though their crews had less than a month of training, the sight of the armored giants was enough to spark awe and terror alike.
"Look! The steel monsters of Los!" cried Old York, a factory worker, waving excitedly to the Nord youths standing beside him. "See how they move! No foe will stand before them!"
The Nord boys gaped, their eyes shining with envy and admiration. The thunder of the engines, the gleam of the cannons, the proud posture of the marching soldiers—all of it stirred dreams in their young hearts.
"Steel and cannons…" one whispered, almost reverently. "That's what real men fight with."
Their yearning was palpable. They wished desperately to be among the ranks, to march, to fight, to carve glory under Gavin's banner.
Among the soldiers themselves, another familiar face marched. Coman, a knight from the fallen Kiswell Kingdom, had donned the uniform of Los. Once Caroline's guardian, he had begged Gavin for permission to join the fight. With Caroline safe in Ross City, he no longer wished to stand idle. His dream was to take the field, to help drive out the orcs, and one day reclaim Kiswell's lost lands.
Gavin had granted his request, though only at the lowest rank. "Earn your place among the men," the king had said. And Coman accepted gladly, believing it only fair. To him, Gavin's decision was not a slight, but proof that Los treated all soldiers equally, whether noble or common.
And so Coman marched, spear in hand, a simple soldier now, but with fire in his heart.
---
While Los's army advanced with order and discipline, the reality in the Lot Kingdom was very different.
The orcs were already there.
In the ruins of a peaceful village, grotesque laughter filled the air. Orc warriors, towering brutes clad in crude but heavy steel, swung wicked scimitars as they cut down everything in sight.
"Hahaha! Kill these weaklings!" roared one, his tusked grin dripping with blood.
"Take their women! The rest are meat for the crows!" another bellowed.
The once-quiet settlement was engulfed in horror. Flames rose from burning cottages. The cries of children were drowned by the clash of steel and the guttural shouts of the invaders.
Peasant guards, clutching rusty pitchforks and chipped swords, tried to resist. But their blows glanced harmlessly off the thick armor of the orc soldiers. A heartbeat later, the peasants' heads were severed, falling lifeless into the dirt.
Girls screamed as they were dragged away, their families slain before their eyes. Men were hacked apart and their severed heads mounted on crude wooden poles as grisly trophies.
When the slaughter ended, the village that had once been rich with harvest and laughter was nothing but ashes, corpses, and ruin.
The orcs reveled in the destruction. To them, it was sport, nothing more. To humanity, it was tragedy beyond measure.
And so, as Gavin's army advanced, both sides of the coming war revealed their faces: one of disciplined resolve, the other of barbaric cruelty.
The clash was inevitable.
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