Velyrion raised his voice, resounding like thunder over the surviving crusaders:
"Advance! Lusian must not escape! The Duchy will fall, and the errors of destiny will be corrected!"
The mere presence of the god ignited the soldiers. Armor trembled, banners seemed to burn, and every crusader felt their story being rewritten in fire and light. They moved forward—not as men, but as a divine sentence.
Above them, the duel between Velyrion and Kheris reached its peak. The earth convulsed; entire rivers rose like liquid serpents into the sky, mountains hung suspended like fangs of stone, and bolts of pure radiance collided with surging waves of shadow, shattering the air itself. The world seemed to bend beneath the fury of the gods.
And still, beneath the cataclysm, the crusaders marched into the Duchy.
Lusian had gathered his own: a hardened army, shaped by darkness and duty. Outnumbered three to one, the Douglas moved as a single organism—precise formations, covered flanks, archers and mages striking from smoke and shadow.
"Do not let them break through!" Lusian roared, sword raised, the Douglas banner cutting through the mist. "If you fall, let it be defending this land! Not one more invader!"
The clash was immediate—steel against steel, cries swallowed by waves of mana descending from the heavens. Flaming arrows and bursts of energy tore through the air, mirroring the chaos of the divine battle above.
Tamara led the crusader assault, unleashing torrents of fire and lightning upon the defenses. Delora moved like a silent shadow through the trees, cutting throats before alarms could rise. Emily, wrapped in halos of light, sustained the wounded; Sir Edran and Lyra tore open breaches with relentless force, allowing the crusader ranks to push deeper and deeper into the Duchy.
But the Douglas did not yield an inch.
For every fallen warrior, another stepped forward—one who knew every root of the forest, every alley of the Duchy, every ambush prepared over years. Their defense was a calculated ballet: anticipating movements, raising walls of shadow, sacrificing only what was necessary to protect what could not be replaced.
The entire battlefield trembled under the collision of wills. Gravity warped, leaves quivered like glass, and the sky fractured into impossible colors—as if the world itself mirrored the gods.
"Forward!" Velyrion thundered, his voice spreading like eternal thunder. "Nothing will stop you!"
The crusaders advanced like a wall of light, shields gleaming beneath his blessing.
Kara held the front line, absorbing blows with her own body, enduring impacts that would have crushed any other soldier."Push! Cover the left!" she shouted, retreating step by step, protecting more than striking.
Keitaro flickered in and out of existence, carrying wounded men over his shoulders, pulling them out of the crossfire. He did not raise his blade—he saved lives, reshaping the battlefield with every rescue.
A Douglas banner fell; a young soldier, caked in mud and blood, seized it again with a broken cry:"This is our home!"
Alejandro raised a wall of fire, separating overextended crusaders from the Douglas line, preventing an immediate massacre.
Lyra cast a beam into the sky—not at the Douglas, but to illuminate the chaos. For a brief instant, it revealed the silhouettes of gods chaining opposing manas together.
Sir Edran drove forward with brutal force, his blade carving arcs that forced the Douglas back—not to die, but to yield ground."Pull back the wounded! Make space!"
Emily, trembling, raised a barrier of light over a group of soldiers on the brink of collapse. She could barely breathe. She could not look at Lusian. She feared he would see her aiding the wrong side.
The barrier saved twenty men.
Then she fell to her knees, weeping—not from pain, but from fear.
The Douglas closed ranks. They endured—against the crusaders, against an enemy god, against a destiny that sought to erase them.
And above them, as though the sky itself were about to shatter—
Velyrion and Kheris collided once more.