A brutal battle erupted in the skies.
From the bellies of the airships, overwhelming magic rained down without pause. Bolts of destruction tore through the air itself, twisting the battlefield into a storm of light and ruin.
Against this onslaught, Gabil and his forces were clearly at a disadvantage.
The reason was obvious.
The flow of magicules was being violently disrupted.
The Empire's top-secret weapon—the Magic Canceler—was not limited to Gobta's unit on the ground. It was choking the sky as well, strangling Gabil's aerial forces with invisible chains.
"Tch—what a damn nuisance!" Gabil snarled. "The closer we get, the heavier our bodies become!"
"What are your orders, Gabil-sama?!"
"I want to support Gobta and the others," he clicked his tongue, "but we can't break through like this."
The Hiryuu could endure the pressure on their own—but the Wyvern Riders were another matter. They lacked real combat experience. One wrong move here, and both Gobta's unit and Gabil's force could be annihilated together.
"Damn it… no choice!" Gabil roared. "We take out the airships first! We still have the numbers! Everyone, focus on the enemy directly ahead!"
"Understood, General!"
"But—aren't the enemy airships larger than us? Even by numbers—"
"Shut it, idiot!" another rider snapped. "Even Gabil-sama knows that! But there's no other option!"
The exchange was chaotic—but typical.
Despite the tension, Gabil's unit committed fully to the aerial battle, diving headlong into the storm.
From afar, a man watched them with cold, calculating eyes.
Major General Farage—the pride of the Armored Corps and commander of the Air Assault Division.
Farage was ambitious. Ruthlessly so. His hunger to rise higher in the Empire was no different from that of countless officers before him. Yet unlike most, he survived by never making enemies openly. He flattered. He endured. He waited.
There was a reason for this restraint.
Farage had once belonged to the Magic Corps.
Once feared. Once respected.
Now—obsolete.
Magic battles were believed to be glamorous, but reality was far less impressive. Mages spent most of their time analyzing, interfering, countering. Casting spells, disrupting spells, repeating the same dull cycle again and again. And when real combat began?
Magic-enhanced knights outperformed them every time.
Even nuclear magic—the pinnacle of destruction—required more than a dozen magicians to cast. Time-consuming. Resource-draining. And even then, the blast radius barely reached a hundred meters unless wielded by rare monsters called heroes.
Mages were necessary.
But they were mediocre.
Worse still, magicules on a battlefield were finite. Once depleted, magicians became nothing more than burdens.
Farage understood this truth better than anyone.
He was one of Master Gadra's students—brilliant, disciplined, talented. He respected his master's teachings. He honored his legacy.
And yet—
As Gadra modernized the Armored Corps, the Magic Corps lost its place entirely.
Spell guns appeared. Ordinary humans could now wield magic.
That was when Farage realized it.
This era had no need for traditional magicians.
He began to hate Gadra.
You're strangling us with progress.
When he voiced his concerns, Gadra dismissed them outright.
The Magic Corps continued to decay.
And so—
I betrayed my teacher.
Farage swore allegiance to Calgurio, abandoning the past to seize the future.
He gathered the most talented magicians, gave them new purpose, and forged the Air Assault Division—a force meant to dominate the modern battlefield.
And now—
At last—
The perfect stage had arrived.
Operation: Subjugate Veldora.
At the heart of it stood the Air Assault Division. Their mission was clear: contain the calamity using the Magic Canceler, and crush any resistance in the process.
Originally assigned to logistics, they had been freed from such trivial roles. Out of four hundred airships, three hundred were deployed elsewhere.
The remaining one hundred—
Were filled to capacity with elite magicians.
This was a formation built solely for war.
A declaration of how vital success was to Calgurio.
This is where we prove our worth, Farage thought, lips curling into a smile. A new era begins here.
And once that era arrived, there would be no need to bow to anyone again.
Flying lizards and ground-dwelling beasts were hardly worthy opponents—but that was fine.
They would serve as practice.
"What credit are you talking about, Gaster-dono?" Farage laughed loudly, raising a glass of wine. "I'm the one indebted to you!"
Then his voice hardened.
"Everyone! We've endured humiliation long enough! Today, we show them our true power!"
"""YEAHHH!!"""
The airship crews roared in unison.
Their resentment. Their frustration. Their long-suppressed rage—
All of it burned together.
The airships advanced.
Their defining feature was the Magic Canceler Generator, but that wasn't all. They were equipped with cutting-edge weapons, operated by mages skilled in elemental and summoning arts.
Each airship was divided into three divisions:
Operations—responsible for flight control.
At least fifty were needed to fly the ship, but even a hundred struggled to push it to full performance.
Defense—maintaining the multilayered Defense Barrier: anti-physical, anti-magic, anti-elemental.
The hull itself was thin to reduce weight. Without constant reinforcement magic, a single hit could bring the ship down.
And finally—
Offense.
The star of the battlefield.
Mounted upon each ship were magic-amplifying cannons—devices designed to synchronize multiple magicians. Mana was poured into a massive control jewel, nearly half a meter wide, carved from ultra-pure magic stone.
Five cannons per ship.
Ten mages per cannon.
Substitutes positioned behind them to maintain continuous fire.
And the most terrifying aspect—
Power multiplied exponentially.
Two mages meant four times the output.
Ten mages meant twenty times.
A simple fireball became stronger than advanced-tier magic.
The wyverns' attacks bounced off the defense barriers like harmless sparks.
Farage was pleased.
"Airships are supreme," he declared. "Now—erase those filthy lizards from the sky! Full power!"
The testing phase ended.
Mana surged.
The control jewels blazed.
Ten magicians per cannon extended their hands as one.
And then—
Lightning split the heavens.
Blizzards swallowed the air.
Flames roared like dragons.
Vacuum blades screamed through space itself.
Magic—twenty times amplified—detonated across the sky in a storm of annihilation.
Far away, unseen by all—
Atem, King of Games and sovereign ruler of Eterna, observed through Solarys, Sovereign of Wisdom.
His expression was calm.
Unshaken.
The battlefield was unfolding exactly as calculated.
The Empire believed it controlled the sky.
They were wrong.
This was merely the moment before the King made his move.
I had been observing the battlefield in silence when I suddenly rose from my throne.
Below, Gobta's subordinates were being hurled aside by tank fire, bodies scattering as iron roared without mercy. In the sky, Gabil's forces were being crushed by overwhelming magic, wyverns spiraling downward one after another. The tempo of the war escalated sharply—and injuries began to mount.
No… I had always known this would happen.
I understood it logically. I accepted it strategically.
And yet—somewhere within me, there had been optimism.
I had once declared with certainty:
"We will win—no matter what."
Benimaru had been brimming with confidence. Solarys, Sovereign of Wisdom, raised no objections. Every calculation showed victory was assured—victory I could control.
Because this was war.
And a king's army must learn to stand on its own, endure loss, face death, and emerge stronger.
Without my direct intervention, casualties were inevitable.
And unless I stepped in personally, some would fall.
"Please remain seated, Atem-sama," Benimaru said calmly. "This is within expectations. Nothing has gone wrong."
Those words struck deeper than he intended.
"You've allowed casualties to pile up," I replied, my voice edged with restrained authority. "That is precisely why I should have deployed Anubis, the Watcher of Fate, to support you—"
—No.
That option had already been rejected.
Anubis was absolute. Overwhelming. A judgment that rewrote the flow of fate itself. But we had decided not to rely on it.
Benimaru himself had raised concerns. And Solarys had supported his assessment.
The reasoning was clear.
If Eterna was to stand as a true nation, it could not forever depend on its king to solve every crisis. A ruler protected his people—but in turn, the people must be prepared to protect the nation.
Those unwilling to defend Eterna had no right to enjoy its peace.
"Atem-sama does not need to shoulder everything alone," Shuna had said gently.
I remembered the warmth I felt at those words.
That was the first reason.
The second reason was Anubis' nature—its flaw, as Solarys had precisely analyzed.
"Anubis is a supreme authority-type art," Solarys had declared. "Low cost. Infinite lethality. Absolute inevitability. However—once its existence is known, countermeasures will be devised."
Anubis could be activated from the Control Room. Even now, it would have been devastatingly effective.
But once revealed, it would never work the same way again.
As Hinata once pointed out in another war—something as crude as a massive dust cloud could disrupt line-of-fate targeting. Knowledge alone weakened inevitability.
The last time Anubis was unleashed, none survived.
That secrecy could not be preserved now. Hundreds of thousands of Imperial soldiers
stood on this battlefield. There was no possible way to silence them all.
"We must retain a final trump card," Benimaru had insisted.
I agreed.
Anubis was not a tool to be wielded lightly. It was not meant for iron machines or layered anti-magic barriers. Against tanks, its use would be wasteful, even illogical.
Solarys' calculations were clear.
To destroy a single tank, Anubis would require an excessive concentration of fate-pressure. Tanks did not burn. They did not bleed. They did not panic.
Unless its authority was magnified to absurd extremes—tens of thousands of degrees in equivalent entropy—it could not efficiently penetrate them. And even then, there would be no chain reaction.
Against layered anti-magic barriers, it would devolve into a prolonged magic confrontation.
Tactically meaningless.
Thus, my role had been decided.
I would observe.
Still—
"I should enter the war myself," I muttered.
Immediately—
"That is forbidden."
Benimaru's voice was firm. Absolute.
"As overall commander, I cannot allow the king to be exposed. More importantly—Hero Chloe's account cannot be ignored. In another timeline, Atem-sama was assassinated. Knowing such a threat exists, I will not permit you on the battlefield."
Every executive knew.
I had shared that future with them.
Their response was written clearly on Benimaru's face.
"At present," Souei reported, "the greatest threats are the commanders of the three divisions and the hundred members of the Imperial Guardians. There may be others hidden from us. We are investigating at the risk of our lives."
They were risking everything—for me.
Unbeknownst to them, Eternal Dominion was already active. No hostile presence could approach me. No assassination could succeed.
But I kept that to myself.
Because what mattered was not invulnerability—
—but resolve.
And I was proud.
Proud of how far my people had grown.
"Until the enemy's full strength is revealed," Benimaru continued, "sending our king to the front is unthinkable. The operation remains under control. Please place your trust in me, Gobta, and Gabil."
I returned to my seat.
The feeling that churned inside me was neither anger nor frustration.
It was something heavier.
Benimaru had planned this from the beginning.
Not just him.
Shion behind me.
Souei at my side.
Shuna watching with worry.
Even Veldora, seated quietly as insurance.
Everyone understood.
They were prepared to lose comrades.
Prepared to die—
If it meant protecting me.
On the front lines, they must have reached the same conclusion.
Use yourselves as bait.
Draw out the unknown threat.
Protect the king at all costs.
I was the only one who hadn't fully accepted that reality.
Then—
«That is why you must be perfect.»
A voice echoed faintly in my mind.
…Even you worried for me?
I exhaled slowly.
No.
I was fine now.
To grieve would be disrespectful to those who had already resolved themselves.
So I resolved myself as well.
"I apologize," I said calmly. "I lost perspective."
Benimaru inclined his head.
"There is nothing to forgive. Victory will be yours, Atem-sama."
His smile was fearless.
The smile of a general carrying the lives of his soldiers.
At that moment, all inner conflict vanished.
I had always accepted killing my enemies.
I had accepted my own death.
But I had never accepted others dying for me.
Now I did.
Because I was not just a man.
I was a symbol.
A king carried the weight of families, futures, and the very framework of a nation.
And symbols must never falter.
"Let me speak to them," I said evenly. "All of them."
Benimaru nodded at once.
"—Please."
Through Generalissimo, my will spread across the battlefield.
My voice—unyielding, absolute—reached every soldier of Eterna.
‹Hear me. Unleash everything you possess. Crush the enemy without hesitation. Show no mercy. There is no need for restraint. End this war—swiftly and decisively.›
Silence followed.
Then—
Understanding.
Benimaru smiled.
The executives straightened.
Resolve ignited across the battlefield.
The meaning was clear.
Eterna would no longer suppress its power.
And as my command took hold—
The war began to change fundamentally.
The King of Games had spoken.
And fate itself prepared to bow.