The sky cracked with thunder as Morix charged across the plains.
He wasn't just riding a horse he was leading a storm. His aura raged around him like a violent wind, and the God of Calamity's blade on his back glowed with a dark, frightening light. Sparks flickered around the blade, tiny bolts of lightning snapping in the air every few seconds. Even the ground shook under the pressure of the sword's power.
Morix's eyes burned bright, sharper and angrier than ever before. Anyone who saw him at that moment felt one thing
goosebumps.
The closer he got to the fallen allied kingdom, the more violent his aura became. His horse cut through the wind like a living thunderbolt. The very air around him roared.
Mammon's Throne of Corpses
Mammon had expected this.
He sat calmly in the center of the destroyed kingdom, the sky burning red behind him. He wasn't sitting on a chair.
He was sitting on a pile of corpses.
Bodies of soldiers from the allied kingdom… broken arms, heads rolled aside, limbs twisted, blood everywhere. It looked like a mountain of dead flesh, and Mammon sat on top of it like a king of cruelty.
He was sharpening his nails with a broken sword.
Blood dripped from his arms.
The ground was wet with red.
Mammon's eyes glowed with a sick excitement.
"Come, Morix," he murmured.
"I've been waiting."
Morix Arrives Like a Thunderbolt
The enemy soldiers guarding the entrance braced themselves. They held shields and spears and stood in formation strong, tight, ready.
It didn't matter.
Morix tore through their defense like a beast that had just broken free from chains. His horse slammed into the first row so fast the soldiers didn't even realize what hit them. Shields cracked. Bodies flew. The ground was painted red again.
Morix wasn't fighting like a normal warrior.
He was fighting like a natural disaster.
He swung the God-blade once just once and three soldiers dropped, their armor split open like thin paper. Sparks burst every time the sword moved, lightning slicing through the air with every strike.
He charged straight through the enemy's formation, leaving a long trail of fallen bodies behind him.
He wasn't stopping for anything.
He was heading straight for Mammon.
The Storm Faces the Demon
Mammon stood up from his throne of corpses when Morix arrived.
He smiled a wide, twisted smile.
"You came faster than I thought," Mammon said.
Morix didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the blood-covered ground behind Mammon. Every bone. Every limb. Every life that was stolen.
The anger inside him heated like lava.
"Why?" Morix finally asked.
His voice was tight with pain.
"Why kill them all? These were innocent people. They had families. Why do this?"
Mammon tilted his head, as if the question was amusing.
"Because anguish feeds me," Mammon said.
"Because I wanted chaos. Pain. Fear. I wanted a stage for you and me to fight."
He spread his arms wide.
"And now look at this field. Isn't it beautiful?"
Morix's fingers tightened around the hilt of his blade.
Mammon chuckled and added,
"Besides… you should be happy. I've been looking for someone like you. Someone strong enough to entertain me."
Morix stepped forward.
But Mammon raised a hand.
"Before we fight, one more thing. My army will not interfere. I gave them strict orders not to waste their lives. They know you're far above their level. Their job is to prepare for what comes after."
He glanced toward the plains.
"And now… your army arrives."
Valarion's Army Enters the Battlefield
In the distance, dust rose like a giant storm cloud.
Then came the banners.
The drums.
The sound of thousands of soldiers marching.
Valarion's army had arrived.
Just their presence made enemy soldiers shake. Everyone in Aurethion knew the stories Valarion's army had once cut through ten thousand enemy troops with only two thousand men. They had survived, even when surrounded. They followed Morix into every impossible battle and came out alive.
These were not ordinary soldiers.
These were warriors shaped by Morix himself.
They marched like a single living beast. The ground trembled under their steps. Even Mammon looked pleased.
Rales was at the front, sitting on his horse, scanning everything with sharp eyes. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't scared. He was calculating.
Rales didn't want a bloodbath.
He didn't want innocent soldiers to die on either side.
He had created a strategy that could defeat Mammon's forces with the least possible casualties.
Distraction layers.
Trap signals.
Hidden flank routes.
Smoke timings.
Pressure points that would force the enemy to retreat without losing many lives.
It was a smart, clean plan.
Rales gave his commands fast and clear:
"Cohort A, to the right minimum contact!"
"Archers, hold fire until the second signal!"
"Engineers, activate smoke path now!"
"Do NOT press forward unless absolutely required!"
He was guiding them like a conductor guiding an orchestra.
But then something strange happened.
Valarion's army crashed onto the battlefield with frightening power.
They didn't slip.
They didn't take extra hits.
They didn't make foolish mistakes.
They fought like the monsters Morix had trained.
Each soldier moved with brutal precision—breaking shields, slamming spears through armor, tearing formations open like they were cutting cloth. The enemy was pushed back within minutes. Mammon's soldiers weren't weak, but against Valarion's army at full bloodlust… they stood no chance.
Their strikes were clean.
Their movements were sharp.
Their battle-instincts were terrifying.
This army wasn't chaotic.
It was unstoppable.
But Rales noticed something was wrong.
They were not following any of his commands.
"Formation B, pull back—!"
"Archers, delay your fire—!"
"Left wing, slow down—!"
Nothing.
Not a single soldier shifted according to his plan.
But they weren't disobeying out of confusion.
They weren't clumsy or reckless.
They weren't taking extra hits or putting themselves in danger.
They simply… did not care.
Rales' strategy focused on minimum casualties.
Less blood.
Less death.
But Valarion's soldiers trained under Morix's brutal hand didn't crave safety.
They craved war.
They craved blood.
They craved victory through pure strength.
They listened only to two voices:
Morix.
And if Morix wasn't present
his right-hand man.
Anyone else's commands even the prince's meant nothing to them on the battlefield.
Rales didn't know this yet.
He only understood one thing:
"They're ignoring me," he whispered, stunned.
"But… why?"
He watched his carefully planned strategy crumble, not because the army was weak…
but because they were too strong, too confident, too wild.
Too loyal to Morix.
Morix sensed the shift too—
not the loss of discipline,
but the intense, hungry energy spreading across the battlefield.
Mammon let out a low laugh.
"It seems your army walks your path, Morix," he said.
"Strong. Fearless. And loyal only to your bloodlust."
Morix's grip tightened around the God blade.
He didn't answer.
Behind him, Valarion's unbeatable soldiers tore through Mammon's front lines, roaring with excitement, their eyes burning with battle-frenzy.
Rales, still holding his command flag high, felt a hollow ache in his chest.
His men weren't defying him out of disrespect.
They weren't betraying him.
But they weren't following him either.