The march began at dawn.
From the high walls of the fortified arena, the human banners unfurled like flames against the smoky horizon. Thousands of soldiers stepped out in ordered ranks, armor clattering, spears glinting under the pallid sun. The ground trembled under the synchronized rhythm of boots. The sound wasn't just movement—it was defiance, the declaration of a people who refused to bow.
Hiro walked near the vanguard, his group positioned close to the SS-ranked veterans who anchored the center. His chest was tight, but his steps were steady. Around him, Misha adjusted her grip on her blade, her usual smirk faint but present. Amelia muttered her quiet prayers, the silver pendant around her neck catching the morning light, while Zion kept pace with his spell-focus already glowing faintly, the runes etched into it pulsing with readiness.
But the devils were waiting.
