Third Person POV
Aurein grabbed Serena by the shoulders and shook her in pure exhilaration.
"Serena! He did it—he really did it!" he exclaimed, barely containing himself.
"Stop it, Aurein! I get it—enough already!" Serena snapped, irritated as she pried his hands away.
But Aurein had already fallen silent.
His gaze remained fixed on the battlefield, eyes wide, breath caught in his chest. He had just witnessed General Voltaire in full command—unrelenting, unstoppable—watching as the general dismantled the rear-line commander with ruthless precision. The image burned itself into Aurein's mind.
"Serena..." Aurein murmured, still staring. "I don't know if this is what you felt before, but—there's something igniting inside me. In my mind. In my body. Like a fire I can't put out."
Serena glanced at him, a slow, satisfied smile curling her lips.
"Yes," she said softly. "That's exactly why I brought you here. I wanted you to feel this. To stop seeing yourself as weak... or helpless."
Aurein finally looked at her.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For bringing me here."
In front of them, the battle was far from over.
"I will break through their defenses," General Voltaire commanded, his voice carrying across the chaos. "You will finish everyone remaining in the rear line!"
A chorus of affirmations answered him.
Then Voltaire moved.
He surged forward like a living blade, cutting through anyone foolish enough to stand in his path. His strikes were brutal and exact—no hesitation, no wasted motion. Wherever he advanced, Solyn's line collapsed.
Behind him, his army fought with desperate courage, refusing to yield.
Back-to-back, side-by-side, Asper and Ton-Ton held their ground.
Both were breathing hard, sweat and blood streaking their armor, sword and axe clenched tight in trembling hands—but neither of them stepped back.
"It would've been better if Dante and Prince Aurein were here," Asper said between breaths. "Our first war together... it would've been unforgettable."
"I wish they could see us," Ton-Ton replied, gripping his shield. "Prince Aurein would be proud."
"Yes," Aurein whispered, his voice breaking as tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. "I am proud. Very proud."
"Oh, honestly," Serena muttered, rolling her eyes. "You're all so dramatic."
Steel rang sharply.
Asper ducked beneath a swinging blade and drove his short sword upward. The Solyn warrior collapsed with a strangled cry.
"Left!" Ton-Ton shouted.
Asper twisted just in time as Ton-Ton barreled past him, slamming his shield into two enemies at once. One was hurled into a stone pillar with a sickening crack. The other collapsed instantly, ribs audibly snapping.
Ton-Ton roared and brought his axe down.
One strike.
One kill.
"You're terrifying, Ton-Ton," Asper said with a grin. "You sent one flying and crushed the other."
"That's because I know there's a feast waiting after this war," Ton-Ton replied, smiling fiercely. "And when there's a feast—"
"Yeah, yeah," Asper laughed breathlessly. "A mountain of food waiting for you. Then let's make sure our first war is one we'll never forget!"
They moved as one—Asper fast and precise, Ton-Ton overwhelming and merciless. Blood slicked the ground beneath their boots as Solyn warriors pressed in from every direction.
"Asper—behind you!" Ton-Ton warned again.
Asper rolled just as a spear struck where his head had been, then came up slashing, his blade carving cleanly across a throat. His chest heaved, arms burning, movements slowing.
"There are too many," Asper muttered. "They're surrounding us, Ton-Ton."
More Solyn warriors poured in.
Five.
Then eight.
Then more.
Ton-Ton's swings grew heavier. His shield was dented, his axe chipped. Asper's arms shook with exhaustion.
They retreated step by step until cold stone pressed against their backs.
A collapsed wall.
No escape.
The Solyn warriors cornered them, blades raised, smiles cruel.
"Oh no," Aurein gasped. "Serena, we have to help them! They're in danger!"
"Wait," Serena said sharply. "We can't rush in blindly—we need a plan—"
"Well," Ton-Ton huffed, tightening his grip on the axe, "if this is how it ends... I really should've eaten more earlier."
Asper let out a shaky breath and raised his sword anyway.
"No," he said firmly. "We fight. This won't be our first and last war."
Then—
A blur of black sliced through the air.
A Solyn warrior fell—before anyone realized what had happened.
Then another.
And another.
Blood sprayed across the ground as a figure stepped calmly between Asper, Ton-Ton, and their enemies.
Unhurried.
Precise.
Deadly.
"Dante!" Asper and Ton-Ton shouted in unison, disbelief and joy crashing into their voices.
His blade moved as if it were an extension of his body—no wasted motion, no hesitation. He disarmed one opponent, cut down another, and drove his sword clean through a third without even looking.
The remaining Solyn warriors froze.
Dante turned slightly, glancing back at them over his shoulder.
"Sorry I'm late," he said casually. "Did I miss much?"
Asper stared.
Ton-Ton blinked.
"You're always late!" Asper snapped. "Where did you even go?"
"You scared us to death!" Ton-Ton added.
"Sorry," Dante replied lightly. "Better late than never. So... shall we?"
Ton-Ton and Asper nodded together.
And the battlefield erupted once more.
Dante stepped forward and positioned himself squarely between his friends and the advancing Solyn warriors.
"You don't get to hurt my two best friends," he said, his voice low, steady—no hesitation left in it.
Something in his stance changed.
Something final.
The Solyn warriors faltered.
Then they ran.
And just like that—
The tide shifted.
"Wow..." Serena murmured, stunned. "I didn't know he could fight like that."
"Neither did I," Aurein said quietly. "It's like I'm looking at a completely different Dante. Not the gentle, innocent one we know—but someone lethal. Precise. Someone who truly understands battle."
Serena exhaled slowly, caught between awe and unease.
She thought, If Dante was this strong... then what would happen if he ever chose the darkness?
What would it do to them—to their trust, to their hearts—if the friend they loved became the enemy they had to face?
"But I'm glad he made it in time," Aurein added softly. "He saved them. Serena... I want to fight too. I want to be there with them. Can we?"
"Not yet," Serena said, eyes sharp as she assessed the battlefield. "We wait until they truly can't hold out anymore. Then we strike. We steal the spotlight at the perfect moment."
Aurein scratched the back of his head. "Isn't that... kind of like acting?"
"Sort of," Serena said with a grin. "But at least we'll make a dramatic entrance. Be ready—any moment now, we charge."
"I thought you disliked being dramatic? Wait," Aurein said suddenly. "What about weapons? We don't have any."
"We take them from the fallen Solyn warriors," Serena replied flatly.
Then she shot him a look.
"Think, Aurein. Think," she scolded.
"Sorry," Aurein said sheepishly.
They turned their attention back to the battlefield.
Three blades.
One rhythm.
They didn't need to speak.
The moment the next wave of Solyn warriors charged, the trio moved as one—like men who had trained together for years, even though this was the first time they fought side by side.
Ton-Ton went first.
With a roar that echoed through the shattered ground, he charged straight into the enemy line, shield raised high. Steel slammed against him from every angle, sparks bursting as blades struck—but he did not slow.
He hit them.
His shield crashed forward, sending three Solyn soldiers flying in a single, brutal sweep. Before they could recover, his axe came down in a devastating arc.
One strike.
Two bodies fell.
"Asper—now!" Ton-Ton shouted.
Asper was already moving.
He sprinted past Ton-Ton's left side, using the larger man's shield as cover. The instant Ton-Ton's axe struck, Asper slipped through the opening—low, fast, lethal.
His blade flashed twice.
A hamstring severed.
A throat opened.
Asper pivoted cleanly, never stopping, already searching for the next threat.
"Right flank!" he called out.
Dante responded instantly.
He stepped into position with terrifying calm, intercepting two Solyn warriors mid-charge. His sword met theirs in a blur—one parry, one twist, one clean disarm. He kicked the first man backward, straight into Ton-Ton's path and knocked him downward.
The second Solyn warrior tried to retreat.
Dante did not allow it.
He advanced smoothly, blade sliding past the enemy's guard, stopping just short of the man's throat.
"Too slow," Dante said quietly.
The man collapsed.
More Solyn warriors rushed them—five this time, spreading out, attempting to surround them.
"Our Squad Circle formation!" Asper shouted.
Ton-Ton planted himself at the front, shield raised, absorbing the first wave of attacks. Blades rang violently against metal as he held the line.
Behind him, Asper darted left and right, striking exposed arms, legs, joints—never staying still long enough to be targeted.
And Dante—
Dante watched.
He waited.
For mistakes.
The moment a Solyn warrior overcommitted toward Asper, Dante was there—cutting him down from the side. When Ton-Ton staggered under a heavy blow, Dante stepped in instantly, deflecting the strike before it could land.
They moved like parts of the same machine.
Ton-Ton broke the line.
Asper exploited the opening.
Dante sealed it.
One Solyn warrior tried to retreat—Asper tripped him.
Another raised a spear—Ton-Ton shattered it.
One attempted to flee—Dante ended it.
Within seconds, the ground around them was littered with bodies.
The last remaining Solyn warrior hesitated.
Three pairs of eyes locked onto him.
He dropped his weapon.
And ran.
Ton-Ton rested his axe against his shoulder, chest heaving as he sucked in air—but he was smiling.
"Well," he said between breaths, "that was... kind of amazing."
Asper wiped the blood from his blade, his eyes still sharp with adrenaline. "We didn't die," he said. "That alone counts as a victory."
Dante slid his sword back into its sheath with deliberate slowness, his expression unreadable as he looked at the two of them.
"...You're not bad," he said.
For a brief moment—amid firelight, distant screams, and the thunder of battle—the three of them stood together.
Not as individuals.
But as one.
And somewhere deep within the battlefield, it felt as though the war itself had taken notice.
They brought their fists together in the center, sealing the moment with a silent pact.
They looked at one another—smiling.
"We will be the best squad Ardentia has ever known," Asper said with quiet certainty.
"And I'm ready to fight with this squad," Dante said.
"Don't forget Prince Aurein," Ton-Ton added with a grin.
What they didn't see—
Was Aurein, standing some distance behind them, tears streaming down his face.
He couldn't stop them.
The emotion surged too strongly.
"They're incredible," Aurein whispered, his voice breaking.
"It seems they won't need us anymore," Serena said, smiling faintly as she watched the trio advance. "Imagine—this is their first war, yet they move as if they've fought together all their lives. I underestimated them when I first saw them. I judged them by their appearances... and I was wrong."
"Tell them that to their faces," Aurein said, still crying—this time from pride.
Serena nodded slowly. "The General's training truly paid off. He forged warriors from those who never looked like warriors. Those three... they have my respect."
Aurein wiped his tears away, inhaling deeply.
"Serena," he said with conviction, "I want to fight too. I want to show them that we don't only need protection—that we can fight beside them. That we can protect them as well."
"I told you," Serena replied calmly, "we wait for the perfect moment to steal the spotlight. Relax." Her gaze sharpened. "They're advancing now—moving to assist General Voltaire in finishing the back line. Come. Let's follow."
"Yes," Aurein said softly.
And together, they moved in silence.
* * *
The One-Man Frontline
The ground trembled.
Not from marching—
But from fear.
Solyn warriors poured into the open field in relentless waves, armor clashing, blades raised, confidence blazing in their eyes.
At the center of the carnage stood General Voltaire.
Alone.
His cloak was torn. His blade was dark with blood. His breathing was steady.
He did not retreat.
He advanced.
The first ten charged together.
They never reached him.
Voltaire moved.
Not fast—
Inevitable.
He stepped forward and cut diagonally, his blade slicing through the first warrior's neck without slowing. The strike reversed mid-motion, severing another man's arm. A third lunged from behind—
Voltaire twisted, caught the spear shaft with his bare hand, yanked the attacker forward, and drove his sword straight through the visor.
Three bodies fell before the rest realized they were already dead.
The next wave hesitated.
Voltaire gave them no time.
He surged forward.
Steel rang like thunder as blades struck his sword again and again—but every clash favored him. He parried, redirected, controlled. He turned their momentum against them, stepping inside their guards where armor offered no protection.
A warrior swung overhead—
Voltaire ducked, slammed his shoulder into the man's chest, and sent him flying backward into his own allies.
Another lunged—
Voltaire kicked his knee sideways.
Bone snapped.
Before the scream finished, the man was dead.
Blood sprayed across the stones.
Solyn warriors shouted.
Then screamed.
Then charged anyway.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Forty.
They surrounded him.
Voltaire stood at the center of the circle, sword held low, eyes sharp and focused.
The attack came from all sides.
Voltaire became motion.
He spun, blade flashing in precise arcs—every strike lethal. He did not waste energy. He did not chase. He cut tendons, pierced hearts, crushed throats with the pommel of his sword.
He flowed through them.
A spear grazed his shoulder—
Voltaire caught the shaft, dragged the attacker in, head-butted him, then finished him with a clean thrust.
A blade sliced his side—
Voltaire ignored it, stepped forward, and split the attacker's helm in two.
Bodies piled.
The circle broke.
More came.
Fifty.
Then more.
Panic spread through the Solyn ranks.
"Stay together!" someone shouted.
Voltaire answered by tearing their formation apart.
He charged straight through them, carving a path of bodies in his wake. Armor shattered. Shields splintered. Men fell screaming as he moved like a living storm.
This was no longer a battle.
It was an execution.
Sweat streamed down Voltaire's brow. Blood soaked his boots. His breathing deepened—
But his movements never slowed.
Even surrounded.
Even wounded.
Even alone.
He was unstoppable.
Then—
A heavy blow slammed into his back.
Voltaire staggered.
Just for a heartbeat.
A Solyn captain raised his blade to finish it—
Voltaire turned.
His eyes burned.
The sword never fell.
Voltaire drove his blade straight through the captain's chest and shoved the corpse aside.
The field went silent.
Dozens of Solyn warriors lay dead.
The remaining Solyn warriors stood frozen.
Terrified. Shaking. Unsure whether to run—or die where they stood.
General Voltaire straightened slowly, blood sliding down the edge of his blade and dripping onto the stone at his feet. Smoke curled around him like a living thing, the battlefield holding its breath.
"Come," he said calmly.
No one moved.
Then—
"GENERAL!"
The shout tore through the haze.
Steel rang again—but this time, not against Voltaire.
Three figures burst from the smoke.
Ton-Ton charged first, a living battering ram. His shield smashed into the Solyn line with explosive force, bodies flung aside like broken mannequins. The ground trembled beneath his weight.
Asper followed in a blur of motion, slipping past Ton-Ton's wake. His blade flashed silver, cutting down enemies moving toward Voltaire's blind side before they could even react.
And Dante—
Dante stepped into place beside Voltaire, sword already drawn, eyes cold and sharp as he assessed the battlefield in a single sweep.
"We thought you might need help," Dante said lightly.
Voltaire did not turn.
But the corner of his mouth lifted.
"Good timing," he said. "Now—show me the fruit of our training."
The remaining Solyn warriors took one look at them—
And broke.
They ran.
The battlefield exhaled.
Four warriors stood amid the fallen.
And anyone who witnessed that moment would never forget—
You do not surround General Voltaire.
You do not overwhelm him.
And if you try—
You die.
The instant the trio reached him, the battlefield changed.
Voltaire did not slow.
He adjusted.
Ton-Ton crashed into the left flank like a siege engine made flesh, his shield slamming Solyn warriors off their feet. His axe followed in brutal, final arcs—each swing ending a life.
Asper moved within Voltaire's shadow.
Whenever Voltaire struck forward, Asper filled the space—slipping beneath raised shields, severing tendons, finishing enemies already condemned. His movements were sharp, efficient, perfectly timed.
Dante controlled the right.
Where Ton-Ton broke and Asper exploited, Dante intercepted. He cut off threats before they reached Voltaire's blind spots, parrying blows meant for the General and answering with clean, devastating counters.
They did not shout commands.
They did not need to.
Voltaire led by presence alone.
A Solyn warrior charged Voltaire head-on—
Voltaire deflected the strike, twisted, and shattered the man's guard.
Asper finished him before the body hit the ground.
Two more rushed from the side—
Ton-Ton slammed them together with his shield like toys before his axe fell.
An archer loosed from behind—
Dante caught the arrow mid-flight, snapped it in half, and drove his sword into the archer's chest without breaking stride.
They moved as one.
Four warriors.
One rhythm.
Voltaire advanced, and the trio flowed with him—never crowding, never lagging, adjusting instinctively as though pulled by his gravity.
Another wave emerged.
Ten.
Then twenty.
Voltaire raised his blade.
"Forward."
They surged.
Steel sang.
Voltaire carved through the center, his blade flashing in controlled, lethal arcs. Every strike was decisive—no wasted motion, no hesitation. He stepped through enemies, not around them, shattering formations by sheer dominance.
Ton-Ton roared behind him, clearing space with raw power.
Asper darted ahead, dragging enemies down before they could regain balance.
Dante closed the circle.
Some Solyn warriors began to retreat.
Then—
The air shifted.
From the smoke came a new unit—heavier armor, tighter spacing. Veterans.
They pressed in hard.
The formation tightened.
Voltaire felt it instantly.
"Split," he ordered.
The trio obeyed without hesitation.
Ton-Ton drew fire to the left.
Asper vanished to the right.
And Dante—
Dante stepped back beside Voltaire.
The noise dulled.
The chaos receded to the edges.
For a brief moment, it was only the two of them—standing back-to-back, blades ready, surrounded by Solyn's finest.
"I thought you would not show yourself, Dante," Voltaire said without turning.
"I was too slow, General," Dante replied. "But I came prepared. I came to fight with you—and to protect you."
A smirk touched Voltaire's lips. "Very admirable."
Deep within, Voltaire knew there was more to Dante than what he revealed. But he showed nothing of it.
Instead—
He trusted him.
"General Voltaire," Dante said quietly. "I want you to see me. I want you to notice me too—"
Voltaire narrowed his eyes in confusion.
"General! On your right!" Dante warned.
The first enemy struck.
Voltaire parried and killed in one motion.
Dante turned and mirrored him.
They fought differently—
Yet seamlessly.
Voltaire was force given form—breaking guards, dominating space, crushing anyone who stepped too close.
Dante was precision—slipping through openings Voltaire created, ending enemies before they could recover, always watching angles Voltaire never needed to.
A blade lunged toward Voltaire's side—
Dante was already there.
A strike came for Dante's back—
Voltaire ended it without looking.
No words.
No acknowledgment.
Only trust—forged in motion.
Blood soaked the stone between them.
And the battle raged on.
The Solyn veterans broke first.
They fell back.
Then they ran.
General Voltaire lowered his blade just slightly, eyes sweeping across the battlefield with measured calm. Smoke curled around him, embers drifting through the air like dying stars.
Dante remained at his side.
For a single heartbeat—amid fire, steel, and ruin—they stood together. Two figures forged from different storms.
One, a legend already written.
The other—Dante—still deciding which side of history he would stand on.
And Voltaire, unknowingly, stood beside the answer.
"Serena, our army is winning," Aurein said, his voice bright with awe. "General Voltaire's forces are tearing through the rear!"
Serena clicked her tongue, folding her arms. "Yeah, I don't even know where to steal the spotlight now. How annoying. It's like we're not needed anymore," she said irritably. "I think we should head back to your chamber."
"I want to stay," Aurein replied firmly. "I want to watch General Voltaire. And if his life is ever placed in danger—we can stand beside him."
Serena snorted. "At this rate? I doubt we'll ever reach that part," she said. "Just look at them. They don't even need us. Hmph."
* * *
General Almiro noticed it first.
The battlefield should not have shifted that fast.
He had been braced on the western front—shield wall locked, spear line steady—when the pressure against his formation vanished.
Not weakened.
Gone.
The Solyn warriors before him faltered, eyes flicking past Almiro's line, faces draining of color.
Almiro followed their gaze.
Behind Solyn's main force—
Fire bloomed.
Not scattered flames.
Controlled destruction.
Entire sections of Solyn's rear collapsed inward, as if something massive had struck from the shadows and never stopped moving.
Almiro's grip tightened.
"...That fast?" he muttered. "Is that General Voltaire's army?"
From the inner walls, General Hector had already ceased fire.
His archers hesitated—not from fear, but disbelief.
"What in the name of Ardentia..." Hector whispered.
Through the smoke, he saw it clearly.
Voltaire's banners.
Advancing.
No—cutting.
Solyn's supply units were gone. Command tents burned. Archers turned too late, dying where they stood. The rear formation did not merely break—
It ceased to exist.
Hector swallowed.
"They're not fighting," he said quietly. "They're erasing them."
A slow, impressed smirk curved his lips.
"General Voltaire's army is not to be taken lightly."
At the central breach, General Zavier froze mid-command.
His blade lowered as Solyn veterans—men who had once stood firm against his own elite—panicked.
And ran.
"Impossible..." Zavier breathed.
He had trained his entire life for war.
Yet what unfolded before him was not chaos.
It was precision—executed at terrifying speed.
Voltaire's army moved like a sharpened blade dragged cleanly through flesh. No hesitation. No wasted motion. Units split, rejoined, flowed forward again—each movement feeding seamlessly into the next.
Zavier felt it then.
Not fear.
Competition.
"So that's your standard you are setting, Voltaire," he muttered through clenched teeth. "...Fine. Don't show off too much."
From the shadows, General Lysandra watched with narrowed eyes.
Her scouts did not need to report.
She could feel it.
Solyn's command structure had collapsed within minutes.
"Efficient," she murmured. "And merciless. Just as expected of General Voltaire and his army."
A faint smile touched her lips.
"He truly lives up to his reputation as a war prodigy." Her gaze lingered, sharp and assessing. "Too bad he's too young to be my lover."
Her fingers curled slowly.
"If this is what excellence looks like," she said softly to her female warriors, "Then we cannot afford to lag behind."
Deep within the side corridors, General Hans paused as the echoes of retreat thundered through stone.
"General Hans," one of his warriors reported breathlessly, "Solyn's rear line has collapsed. General Voltaire and his army erased them."
Hans exhaled sharply.
"So that beast has been unleashed," he said.
For the first time that night, a chill crept down his spine—one not born of battle.
Because if Voltaire could shatter an army's spine that quickly—Then the line between ally and threat was dangerously thin.
In the inner courtyard, General Fredrein stood still, his hammer resting against his shoulder as Solyn soldiers fled in waves.
He laughed once.
Low.
Amazed.
"Ha... so those are Voltaire's so-called war inexperienced warriors?"
The laughter faded into something sharper.
"...I'll need to push my men harder then."
And in that moment, every general of Ardentia shared the same thought.
Even before the official competition that they are anticipating had begun—
This was already a warning.
They had to grow stronger.
Across the palace, all if the six generals felt it.
The same unspoken truth.
Voltaire's army was not merely strong.
It was exceptional.
And excellence was dangerous.
It inspired.
It threatened.
It demanded an answer.
The war was not merely being won—
Standards were being rewritten.
And every general of Ardentia understood one thing with chilling clarity:
If they did not rise to meet Voltaire—
They would forever stand in his shadow.
* * *
High above, atop the palace, King Lucen watched the battlefield with a slow, knowing smirk.
"General Orion," he said quietly, eyes never leaving the sight of Voltaire's forces advancing, "your legacy stands before us—proving once again why your son is among the most powerful not just in Ardentia, but in the entire world."
His gaze sharpened with satisfaction.
"I can already see it," he added softly. "An unbeatable army in the making."
* * *
While General Voltaire's army clashed violently beyond the palace walls, Aurein and Serena remained hidden within the inner ruins—crouched behind fractured stone pillars and shattered columns. Sparks from distant steel flashed against the night sky, the relentless ringing of blades echoing through the corridors like a heartbeat that refused to slow.
Serena scowled, arms crossed tightly. "And when, exactly, are we supposed to steal the spotlight?" she muttered. "This is getting ridiculous. They're fighting far too well."
Aurein let out a slow breath and rubbed the back of his neck. "You know," he said quietly, "I'm actually nervous about two things right now."
Serena glanced at him sideways. "Only two?"
"One—fighting," he continued. "And two—whatever wrath General Voltaire is going to unleash once he finds out we left my chamber."
Serena opened her mouth to retort—
Then froze.
"Wait," she whispered sharply. "Aurein... look."
She pointed ahead.
Aurein followed her gaze.
A group of Solyn warriors were retreating through the smoke—but not away from the palace.
They were running straight toward them.
"They're falling back," Serena murmured, tension creeping into her voice, "but they're heading right to where we're hiding."
Aurein's blood ran cold. "Then we need to move. Now. We don't even have weapons. Retreating or not, they can still kill us."
Serena exhaled slowly.
"...Too late."
Before Aurein could react, the Solyn warriors burst into view—armor scorched, blades drawn, eyes snapping toward them with instant recognition.
Aurein moved without thinking, stepping behind Serena and gripping her shoulders. "What do we do?" he whispered frantically. "Do we shout for help?"
"No," Serena snapped. "Absolutely not."
"Then how exactly are we supposed to fight them?" he hissed, panic finally bleeding into his voice.
"We'll count to three, then we run." Serena hissed. "One..."
"Two..." Aurein uttered nervously.
They were already positioning themselves.
"Thr—"
That was when—two swords slid across the stone floor.
Metal scraped softly, stopping at their feet.
Both of them froze.
They turned.
A man stood a few paces away, dressed in plain brown training gear, posture loose, expression almost... amused. His build was unmistakable—solid, balanced, the kind forged by years of real combat. His white, silky hair caught the moonlight, eerily similar to Serena's, yet he bore no crest, no insignia, nothing that marked allegiance.
He simply smiled.
Aurein straightened, heart pounding. "Who are you?" he demanded.
"I'm nobody," the man replied lightly, as if the battlefield were a casual inconvenience. "Less talking. More fighting." He nodded toward the swords. "Pick them up—unless the two of you don't know how to use them and want to die here."
"I do know how to wield sword!" Serena declared instantly, already reaching down. "Of course I do."
Aurein hesitated, staring at the weapon. "I've had sword training," he said cautiously. "I'm just not sure how much of it will actually help right now."
The man chuckled, eyes gleaming with something unreadable.
"Then that settles it," he said. "Let's fight together."
The Solyn warriors lunged forward.
Steel flashed.
Firelight exploded across the broken stones.
Aurein's fingers tightened around the hilt of the sword as its weight finally settled into his palm—real, cold, undeniable. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, louder than the clash of blades beyond the palace walls.
Serena stepped forward beside him, posture straightening, eyes sharpening—no longer a princess hiding in the shadows, but something far more dangerous.
The mysterious man took a step back, giving them space, his smile widening as if he had been waiting for this moment all along.
Aurein drew a steady breath.
Serena tilted her chin, a daring spark igniting in her gaze.
And in that instant—amid fire, fear, and steel—
It was no longer about hiding.
No longer about watching from the sidelines.
This was the moment.
The night where Aurein's perception will change dramatically.
The moment the future King and Queen of Ardentia stepped forward—
To show the world exactly what they were capable of.
And the battlefield braced itself for what came next.
Somewhere beyond the chaos, destiny shifted—quietly, dangerously—introducing a stranger whose presence felt anything but accidental.
End of Chapter 34