The sunlight had already settled over the plains.
The battlefield that had once awakened beneath the morning fog was now consumed by chaos.
Screams echoed in the distance.
Steel met steel.
Shields shattered.
Men fell.
Far away, the Northern lines were slowly being pushed back.
The shields retreated against their own will.
Soldiers took step after step backward while trying to maintain formation.
The officers' orders cut through the chaos, mixing with cries of pain.
"Close the line!"
"Do not yield ground!"
One of the knights in the rear watched.
Silent.
Fingers clenched tightly around the reins of his mount.
The banners of the North still remained standing.
But with every step the line retreated, it became harder to distinguish resistance from collapse.
His gaze shifted to the side.
The figure mounted atop the brown horse remained motionless.
Dark brown hair swayed beneath the wind.
A dark cloth covered the right side of his face.
And even so, the only visible eye remained fixed on the battle.
Without haste.
Without unease.
As though the chaos before him were merely part of something he had already foreseen.
The sound of approaching hooves broke the silence.
The knight shifted his gaze.
Another figure approached atop a gray-coated horse.
Light brown hair, slightly disheveled by the wind, fell over the young face.
Below the left eye, a small cross-shaped mark remained visible.
The ivory-white armor reflected the sunlight.
Golden details engraved across the steel carried the symbol of the White Dragon.
Unlike the heavy armor worn by other knights, this one allowed lighter movement.
An ivory-white Longbow rested across his back.
Its golden ends were marked with engravings resembling dragon scales.
A light leather quiver rested beside his waist, carrying arrows ready to be fired.
The reinforced bracer on his arm revealed years of archery training.
The horse stopped.
His dark brown eyes remained on the battle line.
For a few moments.
Calculating.
"Lord Roven."
No response.
The figure in white armor continued observing the western line.
"You kept two thousand men in reserve."
A brief pause.
"Eight thousand are holding back the advance of twenty thousand."
The dark brown eyes slid toward the knight beside him.
The knight merely looked away.
"If we continue allowing the line to retreat at this pace..."
His eyes returned to the battlefield.
Calm.
"In less than an hour, we won't be discussing a positional withdrawal."
A brief pause.
"We'll be discussing how many men remain to fall back."
Roven's eye moved slowly.
It met the young knight's gaze.
His voice came low.
"Who are you?"
The knight held his gaze.
Without arrogance.
Without hesitation.
Soon, he inclined his head slightly.
"My name is Zion."
A brief pause.
"I am one of the knights of the Order of the White Dragons."
"I was assigned to the western front to assist you."
Zion's eyes remained on Roven.
"This is the first time I've had the opportunity to fight under your command."
"When I joined the Order, you and the others were in Karngard."
The wind crossed the plains.
The screams continued in the distance.
"I heard many stories about you."
Zion turned his attention back to the battle ahead.
"For that reason..."
"I believe there is a reason to allow eight thousand men to hold back twenty thousand."
The knights around them remained silent.
Others merely tightened their grip on their reins.
"But at this moment, I am unable to see it."
Roven's only eye remained on the young knight.
Around them, the sound of battle remained distant.
"You did not speak for yourself."
Roven's voice came calm.
The remaining knights went still.
"Their tension spoke through you."
Roven's eye slid across the men around him.
Fingers tightened around reins.
Eyes turned away.
The concern none of them dared put into words.
"They watch a retreating line."
"They watch two thousand men without moving a single step."
His gaze returned to Zion.
"And they begin to question whether the man responsible for this front knows what he's doing."
The wind crossed the plains.
None of the knights responded.
A small smile appeared on Zion's lips.
"Then you had already noticed."
Far away, the clash of steel and the screams of men continued.
"I must admit, Lord Roven..."
"The stories did not exaggerate."
The hurried sound of approaching hooves interrupted the brief silence.
Another knight emerged from the rear.
The mount stopped a few meters behind Roven.
The knight inclined his head.
"Lord Roven."
His voice carried urgency.
"We've just received reports from the other fronts."
Roven did not take his eye off the battlefield.
"Speak."
"The southern front is also facing forces superior to its own."
A brief pause.
"The eastern flank, the third flank, and the central sector are under heavy pressure."
The knight maintained posture.
"Even so, all commanders are holding their positions."
Silence settled for an instant.
Roven's only eye remained on the battlefield.
As though the report he had just received merely confirmed something.
His voice came low.
"Zion."
The young knight turned his attention toward him.
"Do you know what decides a victory?"
Zion's eyes remained calm.
He did not answer immediately.
He observed the field ahead.
The men.
The formations.
The movement of the armies.
Calculating.
"Knowledge."
"The one who knows the enemy before the battle has already taken the first step toward victory."
A brief pause.
"If I know the weapon my opponent wields, I can prepare the proper response."
Roven's eyes remained still.
"You are correct."
Silence fell between them.
Even the surrounding knights remained attentive.
Roven's only eye traced the line where his men were being pushed back.
"The greatest danger is not facing something you cannot defeat."
"It is facing something you still do not understand."
The wind blew across the field.
The banners of the North trembled.
"There are men who study battle."
"And there are those who see a battle before it even begins."
Zion's expression shifted slightly.
Not surprise.
Understanding.
Roven continued.
"The difference between the two usually decides who remains alive to tell the story."
Without saying another word.
Roven handed the reins of his horse to the knight beside him.
He dismounted.
Without looking back, Roven spoke:
"The two thousand men in the rear will be under your command."
"Do not move them until it becomes necessary."
Zion's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Yes, Lord Roven."
Roven began walking toward the army.
His hand reached for the two blades fastened across his back.
Metal slid slowly free.
One in each hand.
Zion's eyes followed him.
Until, in the very next instant—
Roven vanished.
A thunderous impact erupted across the front line.
The ground trembled.
Zion's eyes snapped toward the front.
Far away, an opening had appeared in the enemy advance.
Bodies were thrown into the air.
Blood stained the earth.
And at the center of that chaos—
Roven advanced.
The two blades danced among the men.
No man could follow his movements.
The line that had once been retreating began to stop.
The soldiers of the North lifted their eyes.
The despair on their faces gave way to disbelief.
Then came the shouts.
"It's Lord Roven!"
"Lord Roven has arrived!"
"Advance!"
The shields pushed forward once more.
The men who had been retreating now pressed ahead.
A new figure appeared beside Zion.
His athletic, slender body revealed training focused not on excessive strength, but on speed and precision.
Short black hair, slightly disheveled, moved with the wind.
Dark eyes remained fixed on the battlefield.
His pale skin contrasted against the ivory-white steel armor he wore.
The polished steel reflected the sunlight.
Engravings and golden details traced the edges of the armor, while the symbol of the White Dragon remained marked upon the breastplate.
The reinforced pauldrons.
The full gauntlets and articulated waist guards.
Revealing equipment designed to endure combat without sacrificing mobility.
Resting upon his shoulder was a nearly three-meter Winged Spear.
The narrow blade and the small projections near the tip.
Revealed a weapon made for precise thrusts and absolute control during combat.
A discreet smile appeared on his lips.
"So..."
"How does it feel after finally meeting the man you admired so much?"
For a moment, Zion remained silent.
His eyes followed the destruction Roven carved through the front.
"The same way you felt when you met Commander Cassian."
"Tristan."
Tristan let out a faint laugh through his nose.
"I admit I imagined many things when I joined the Order."
"But seeing one of the Five in combat..."
With a casual movement.
Tristan gave two light taps against his own pauldron with the tip of his spear.
"It's different."
"The rumors don't come anywhere close."
Zion did not respond immediately.
His eyes remained on the battle.
"Now I understand why Commander Cassian said we still had much to learn."
Tristan followed his gaze.
"And I believe we just discovered the extent of that 'much.'"
Far away, Roven continued advancing.
And while the western front began to breathe again—
upon the walls of Arkhel, a new movement was beginning.
The wind crossed the battlements.
Oryn's eyes remained fixed on the plains below.
A soldier bowed a few steps behind him.
"Lord Oryn."
"We have received new reports from the western front."
No reaction.
"Speak."
"Roven personally entered the front line."
The grayish-blue eyes shifted slightly.
"So the Gray Eye of the North has finally decided to advance."
The soldier nodded.
"There is one more piece of information."
"Our observers reported that the right side of his face remains covered."
A brief pause.
"There appears to be some kind of injury."
Oryn remained silent.
Thoughtful.
"Curious."
His fingers lightly touched the edge of the pavilion.
"Alaric did not mention that in his report."
The soldier waited.
But before he could say anything—
Footsteps echoed behind them.
Slow.
Controlled.
Oryn did not turn around.
A figure wrapped in a long dark cloak approached.
The hood completely concealed the face.
"Count Oryn."
The voice came low.
"The preparations have been completed."
Silence hung over the pavilion.
A small smile appeared at the corner of Oryn's lips.
Subtle.
Calculated.
"What a convenient moment."
The hooded figure remained motionless.
"There is something I still need to remind you of."
"When it is activated, there will be no distinction between allies and enemies within the affected area."
"Many of our men will not be able to retreat in time."
Oryn turned his eyes back toward the plains.
Watching the armies below.
Like someone observing pieces upon a board.
"There will be losses."
"There always are."
The silence stretched for a few moments.
"What matters is that they are the necessary losses."
The wind moved the figure's cloak.
No response came.
Oryn slowly raised his eyes toward the sky.
The sun continued to rise.
Little by little.
Taking its place above the plains.
"Begin the procedure."
His voice remained calm.
Absolutely serene.
Like someone announcing something inevitable.
The hooded figure remained still for a moment.
Soon, the figure bowed slightly.
"As you wish, Count Oryn."
Oryn's eyes returned to the battlefield below.
"I wonder..."
A brief pause.
"Which monsters will still be standing when the music ends."