No man could doubt it once they saw that presence on the northern ridge.
They could not doubt the type of being that commanded the three thousand warriors gathering in perfect formation.
They would know that it was the Flame-Crowned Overlord, a being born to rule, a being that had transcended the base nature of its species through stolen divine fire.
A tyrant who had ruled these mountains for three centuries.
Against his fearsome presence, the soldiers in Kar'eth fortress were beset by trembling fear.
Arden stood on the northern wall, watching that distant crimson light grow brighter.
The Flame-Crowned had arrived.
And with his arrival came a pressure that made breathing difficult.
Not physical.
Spiritual.
War Essence so concentrated it felt like drowning in blood.
"Gods above," a veteran ranger whispered beside him.
"I've never felt anything like this."
"That's because nothing like this has ever attacked Kar'eth before," Arden said quietly.
Across the fortress, soldiers stared north with ashen faces.
Knights gripped their weapons with white knuckles.
Rangers who had faced a thousand battles stood frozen.
Even the Wire Knights, elite soldiers from the capital, looked shaken.
The Flame-Crowned's presence crushed morale like a physical weight.
Before the battle had even begun, it already seemed lost.
Michel appeared beside Arden, his usual cheer absent but his eyes... different.
Calculating. Assessing.
Like he was watching a theater performance rather than facing annihilation.
"That's substantial," he said mildly.
Too mildly for someone facing an immortal fire god.
Arden glanced at him, sensing something off.
Michel's mana signature was... restrained.
Compressed to an almost invisible level.
He's hiding his true power. Has been this entire time.
"You're not worried," Arden observed quietly.
"Oh, I'm concerned. But worry? No." Michel smiled slightly. "I'm curious to see how this plays out. How far you'll push yourself."
"This isn't an experiment."
"Everything's an experiment if you approach it with the right mindset." Michel's eyes gleamed. "Besides, I have... contingencies. If needed."
Before Arden could respond, Voss joined them.
"Three thousand Berserkers in perfect formation. Siege equipment assembled. And that presence..." He paused, studying the distant figure.
"This is worse than the reports suggested."
"The reports were three decades old," Arden noted. "He's had time to grow stronger."
Movement on the ridge.
The Berserker formations parted like water.
And through the gap—
He appeared.
The Flame-Crowned Overlord.
Twelve feet tall, covered in armor that seemed forged from solidified flame.
His crown—a literal corona of fire burning atop his head.
Crimson and gold, pulsing with corrupted divine power.
Every step he took left scorched earth.
Every breath released waves of War Essence.
In his hands, a massive banner.
Red cloth marked with symbols that predated the Empire.
The war standard of the Berserker King.
The Overlord raised the banner high.
Paused.
Then drew back his arm with deliberate, theatrical precision.
And threw.
The banner came like a meteor.
Trailing fire and War Essence that scorched the air itself.
It struck Kar'eth's highest tower with a metallic CLANG that echoed across the entire fortress.
The standard of Kar'eth—the northern star—fell, torn from its mount.
Replaced by the Flame-Crowned's crimson banner.
Planted so deeply that the stone cracked around it.
His proclamation was clear: This fortress was now his.
Silence.
Complete, suffocating silence.
Soldiers stared at that foreign banner flying above their home.
Knights stood with crushed spirits.
Rangers who had held these walls for months looked ready to flee.
Even the Knights, elite veterans, seemed shaken.
The Overlord's presence, combined with this symbolic conquest, was breaking their morale completely.
"We're finished," someone whispered.
"No fortress can stand against him."
"He's never been defeated. Never."
Commander Thorne's face was grim, his usually steady hands trembling slightly.
Even he seemed affected.
"That bastard just declared ownership of our fortress," a Knight said, voice tight with suppressed terror.
"Before the battle even started."
"Psychological warfare," Voss noted, though his voice lacked its usual confidence. "Break their spirits before breaking their bodies."
"It's working," Helena added quietly. "Look at the men."
Arden looked.
Saw defeat in every face.
Saw soldiers already resigned to death.
No. This can't happen.
Not again.
In the original timeline, this moment broke Kar'eth's defense. The Flame-Crowned's banner flying above the fortress destroyed their will to fight.
I have to change this.
Arden moved before he fully realized what he was doing.
Heading toward the tower stairs.
"Valekrest!" Thorne called. "Where are you—"
But Arden was already running.
Up the stairs.
Taking them three at a time.
The tower was tall—five stories of winding stone steps.
His legs burned.
His lungs screamed.
But he didn't slow.
Have to reach it. Have to take it down.
Show them the Flame-Crowned isn't untouchable.
He burst onto the tower's roof.
The wind hitting him like a physical force.
The Flame-Crowned's banner stood there.
Crimson cloth snapping in the wind.
The pole driven deep into stone by supernatural force.
Still radiating War Essence.
Arden drew his sword.
Channeled mana through the blade.
And swung.
The impact jarred his arms, sending shockwaves up to his shoulders.
The banner's pole was reinforced with War Essence—dense and corrupted.
But Arden was a 3rd Stage Integration user who'd killed a Warden.
He swung again.
Putting everything into it.
And again.
On the fourth strike, the pole shattered.
Fragments of corrupted metal scattering.
Arden caught the falling banner before it could blow away.
Held it high so everyone could see.
The Flame-Crowned's war standard.
Captured before the battle even began.
He looked down at the courtyard below.
Hundreds of faces staring up at him in stunned silence.
And he shouted, voice carrying across the fortress:
"WE HAVEN'T EVEN FOUGHT THEM YET! AND ALREADY WE'VE CLAIMED THEIR BANNER!"
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Then—
"HELL YES!" Michel's voice rang out, laughing with genuine delight.
"THAT'S MY STUDENT! THAT'S THE SPIRIT I WAS WAITING TO SEE!"
Laughter.
Shocked, disbelieving laughter rippling through the ranks.
"The kid just stole the Overlord's banner!" a ranger exclaimed.
"Before the battle started!"
"That's either brilliant or insane!"
"BOTH!" Michel roared, grinning wildly. "IT'S DEFINITELY BOTH!"
Voss was grinning—a rare genuine smile.
"The Flame-Crowned has ruled for three centuries. Probably hasn't had someone steal his banner in... ever."
"This is going to make him angry," Helena noted.
"GOOD!" Michel shouted. "LET HIM BE ANGRY! WE'RE TAKING OUR FORTRESS BACK!"
The mood shifted.
Not completely.
The fear remained—the Overlord's presence still pressed on them.
But underneath it now—
Defiance.
A spark of resistance.
Arden descended the tower.
The banner in his hands, its War Essence fading now that it was separated from its master's power.
Emerged into the courtyard where soldiers had gathered.
Thorne was there, expression unreadable.
"That was reckless."
"It worked."
"Barely." But Thorne was smiling slightly. "But yes. It worked."
Michel bounded over, laughing wildly.
"THAT'S THE MOST DRAMATIC THING I'VE SEEN ALL WEEK! YOU JUST DECLARED WAR ON AN IMMORTAL FIRE GOD!"
"He declared war on us first," Arden pointed out.
"True! Fair point!" Michel's eyes gleamed with something between amusement and approval.
"Though I'm curious—what would you have done if you couldn't break the pole?"
"Found another way."
"Good answer." Michel patted his shoulder. "Keep that attitude. You'll need it."
Voss approached more calmly.
"The Overlord's watching. He saw what you did."
"Good. Let him watch."
"He's going to target you specifically now. You just humiliated him in front of his entire army."
"Also good. Angry enemies make mistakes."
Voss laughed. "You really are insane. I respect that."
Jeremy pushed through the crowd.
"Arden! What were you thinking?!"
"I was thinking our soldiers needed to see that the Flame-Crowned isn't invincible. That we can defy him."
"By stealing his banner?!"
"By refusing to accept defeat before the battle starts." Arden looked at his cousin steadily.
"Morale wins wars as much as tactics. They needed to see someone fight back."
Jeremy was quiet, then nodded slowly.
"You're right. The men... they look different now."
It was true.
Soldiers who had been despairing moments ago now stood straighter.
Knights gripped their weapons with renewed determination.
Rangers who had looked ready to flee were checking their arrows.
Not confident.
But no longer broken.
"What do we do with the banner?" Helena asked practically.
Arden looked at the crimson cloth in his hands.
Still stained with residual War Essence.
Marked with ancient symbols of conquest.
"Burn it," Commander Thorne decided. "Publicly. Show the Overlord what we think of his claim to our fortress."
"I love that idea," Michel said gleefully. "Very dramatic. Very defiant. Very... educational."
The last word was said with an odd emphasis, like he was testing something.
Within minutes, a pyre was built in the courtyard.
The Flame-Crowned's banner placed atop it.
Soldiers gathered to watch.
Hundreds of them, drawn by the spectacle.
Thorne stepped forward with a torch.
"THE FLAME-CROWNED OVERLORD CLAIMS KAR'ETH AS HIS OWN!" His voice carried across the courtyard.
"WE REJECT HIS CLAIM!"
He thrust the torch into the pyre.
Flames caught.
The banner burning—its War Essence creating strange colors in the fire.
Green and crimson mixing with orange and gold.
"THIS FORTRESS IS OURS! THESE WALLS ARE OURS! THIS LAND IS OURS!"
Cheers erupted.
Not confident cheers.
But defiant ones.
The sound of soldiers refusing to surrender.
"LET THE OVERLORD WATCH!" Thorne continued, raising his sword high.
"LET HIM SEE THAT WE DO NOT FEAR HIM! THAT WE WILL FIGHT UNTIL OUR LAST BREATH!"
More cheers.
Louder now.
The banner collapsing into ash, War Essence dissipating into nothing.
Arden watched from near the wall.
Felt the shift in the fortress's atmosphere.
Still afraid.
But no longer hopeless.
Michel stood beside him, arms crossed, watching with peculiar intensity.
"Interesting," he murmured. "Very interesting."
"What is?"
"How quickly morale can shift. One act of defiance, properly timed, can undo hours of psychological warfare." Michel's eyes never left the burning banner.
"You have good instincts, Arden. Better than most knights twice your age."
"I just did what needed to be done."
"Exactly. While others froze, you acted." Michel finally looked at him. "That's rare. Especially at your age."
A horn sounded from the northern ridge.
Deep. Resonant. Terrible.
The sound seemed to shake the very air.
The Flame-Crowned's response.
The Berserker army began to move.
Not charging.
Advancing in perfect formation.
Drums beating in rhythm.
Rud dud dud dud dud rud dud dud dud dud.
The sound echoing across the snow.
Three thousand warriors marching in lockstep.
Rud dud dud dud dud rud dud dud dud dud.
The tempo steady.
Relentless.
Building.
Each beat synchronized with their footsteps.
"RANGERS!" Voss's voice cut through the drum beats.
"POSITIONS!"
Six hundred rangers moved to the walls.
Kar'eth veterans and eastern rangers together.
Bows and crossbows ready.
"KNIGHTS!" Michel roared, his playful demeanor shifting to something sharper.
"DEFENSIVE FORMATION!"
Wire Knights took position behind the rangers.
Ready to engage anything that reached the walls.
Michel drew his sword—a beautiful blade that seemed to shimmer with barely-contained power.
He's still holding back, Arden realized. Even now. Why?
The Berserkers advanced.
Their drums beating faster now.
Rud dud dud dud dud rud dud dud dud dud.
Louder.
More insistent.
The walls trembling with each synchronized beat.
Five hundred yards.
Four hundred.
Three hundred.
"Steady!" Voss commanded, his voice carrying. "Wait for optimal range!"
The Berserkers drew closer.
And closer.
Two hundred and fifty yards.
"DRAW!" Voss shouted.
Six hundred bows drew simultaneously.
The creaking of wood and string filling the air.
Arden could see individual Berserkers now.
See the War Essence radiating from them in visible waves.
See their eyes—yellow and mad with battle lust.
"FIRE!"
The sky darkened.
Six hundred arrows and bolts launched as one.
The coordinated volley was devastating.
Berserkers fell by the dozens.
War Essence dissipating as they died.
But they didn't slow.
Just kept marching over the bodies of their fallen.
"RELOAD!" Voss commanded. "SECOND VOLLEY!"
The rangers worked with practiced efficiency.
Nocking arrows. Drawing. Aiming.
"FIRE!"
Another wave of death.
More Berserkers fell—perhaps fifty this time.
But for every one that dropped, two more stepped over the corpse without breaking stride.
The advance didn't falter.
Didn't hesitate.
Just kept coming with mechanical precision.
"Third volley! FIRE!"
"Fourth volley! FIRE!"
"Fifth volley! FIRE!"
Each volley killed dozens.
But three thousand Berserkers was too many.
The math was simple and brutal.
They reached one hundred yards.
Siege equipment rolling forward—
Massive rams covered in metal plating.
Siege towers that stood thirty feet high.
Ladders carried by dozens of warriors.
All protected by War Essence barriers.
"OIL!" Thorne commanded.
Rangers abandoned their bows temporarily.
Grabbed massive cauldrons positioned along the walls.
"POUR!"
Fifty cauldrons of oil cascaded over the walls in dark, viscous streams.
Drenching the front ranks of Berserkers.
"FIRE ARROWS!"
Flaming arrows met oiled flesh.
The inferno was immediate and massive.
Flames roaring twenty feet high.
Berserkers screaming as they burned—
But even burning, they didn't retreat.
Some fell, consumed by fire.
Others pressed through the flames, War Essence sustaining them beyond normal limits.
Their armor melting.
Their flesh charring.
But still advancing.
"Gods," a ranger whispered. "They're not stopping."
"They never stop," a Kar'eth veteran said grimly. "That's what War Essence does. They fight until they physically can't anymore."
The first siege ladders hit the walls.
THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.
Dozens of them, hooking onto the battlements.
"CUT THE ROPES!" Michel commanded, his voice sharp.
Knights rushed forward.
Swords flashing in coordinated strikes.
Some ladders fell, Berserkers tumbling with them.
But more attached.
Too many to cut them all.
Berserkers began climbing.
Dozens of them.
Hundreds.
Their movements synchronized, efficient.
"ENGAGE!" Michel roared.
Wire Knights met the first Berserkers reaching the top.
Steel met corrupted flesh.
The real battle had begun.
Arden fought on the eastern section.
His hybrid style flowing seamlessly—Basic Swordsmanship footwork, Winter's Edge strikes, Shadow Integration techniques.
A Berserker's head appeared over the wall—
His blade took it off cleanly.
Another climbed—
Shadow Blade manifested from his off-hand, piercing its throat.
It fell without a sound.
Three more rushed together, coordinating their assault.
Arden met them with practiced precision.
Sidestepped the first's axe swing.
Parried the second's spear thrust.
Ducked under the third's overhead strike.
Counter-attacked in the opening—
One slash across the first's throat.
Shadow Blade through the second's eye.
Spinning kick to knock the third off balance, then a finishing thrust.
All three fell.
But more kept coming.
Jeremy fought nearby.
Struggling but holding his ground through sheer determination.
A Berserker lunged at him with a corrupted blade—
Jeremy blocked but was driven back, his weaker mana reserves showing.
The Berserker raised its weapon for a killing blow—
Arden stepped in.
Shadow Step placed him behind the Berserker instantly.
Blade through its spine, severing the connection to its War Essence core.
It collapsed, corruption fading.
"Thanks!" Jeremy gasped, panting.
"Stay focused! They're not stopping!"
Across the fortress, the battle raged.
Michel fought like a force of nature—blade almost invisible from speed.
But Arden noticed something odd.
Michel wasn't using any advanced techniques.
No special abilities.
No manifestations.
Just pure swordsmanship at incredible speed.
He's still holding back. Even in the middle of battle.
Every strike killed cleanly.
Every movement perfectly efficient.
His knights followed his example, holding their sections with professional competence.
Voss had abandoned his bow.
Fighting with sword and fire constructs—phoenixes made of flame that swept along the wall.
Burning climbing Berserkers.
Pushing them back.
His rangers providing covering fire between reloads.
The coordination was impressive.
But the Berserkers kept coming.
Wave after wave.
Relentless.
Tireless.
Fueled by War Essence that seemed infinite.
"HOW MANY ARE THERE?!" a soldier screamed, desperation creeping into his voice.
"TOO MANY!" another answered, cutting down a Berserker.
An hour passed.
The defenders were tiring.
Mana reserves depleting.
Arms aching.
But the Berserkers weren't slowing.
Their War Essence sustained them, pushing them beyond normal limits.
Arden killed his twentieth Berserker.
Then his thirtieth.
His arms aching.
His mana reserves at sixty percent.
This is just the opening assault. The real battle hasn't even started.
The Flame-Crowned is testing us. Seeing how we respond. Learning our capabilities.
He looked toward the northern ridge between engagements.
Where that crimson light still burned.
The Overlord watching.
Not participating.
Just observing.
Judging.
Planning.
He's gathering intelligence. Every tactic we use, every ability we show—he's cataloging it.
Preparing his counter-strategies.
Another horn blast from the ridge.
Different tone—three short bursts.
The Berserkers suddenly withdrew.
Pulled back from the walls in organized retreat.
Not fleeing.
Retreating with discipline.
Taking their siege equipment with them.
Leaving behind hundreds of corpses.
But preserving their main force.
"HOLD!" Thorne commanded. "DON'T PURSUE!"
The defenders watched them go.
Exhausted.
Bloodied.
But alive.
The Berserkers formed ranks again at a safe distance.
Drums still beating.
Waiting.
"Casualty report!" Helena called, moving along the wall.
"Eighteen dead! Forty-seven wounded!"
Not as bad as it could have been.
But bad enough for a probe.
"That was just reconnaissance," Voss said, breathing hard, wiping blood from his sword.
"Testing our defenses. Our response time. Our capabilities."
"I hate that he's smart," Michel muttered, though he didn't sound particularly worried.
"Can't he just be a dumb brute we can trick?"
"He's three hundred years old," Arden reminded him. "He's forgotten more about warfare than most generals ever learn."
Michel looked at him with that odd calculating expression again.
"Exactly right. Which is why this will be interesting. Three centuries of experience versus..." He smiled. "Well. We'll see, won't we?"
On the northern ridge, the Flame-Crowned Overlord stood.
His crown of fire burning brighter than before.
He had seen their defenses.
Seen their coordination.
Seen their determination.
Seen Arden steal his banner.
And he had learned what he needed to know.
he would return.
---
Michel stood on a different section of wall.
Alone.
Watching the northern ridge with eyes that gleamed in the darkness.
His sword resting casually against his shoulder.
His true power still compressed, hidden, waiting.
"Not yet," he murmured to himself. "Let's see how far the boy can go. How much he'll push himself when everything's on the line."
He smiled—sharp and predatory.
"Only when he's at the very brink. Only then."