After Sora enjoyed a period of leisurely college life, Albion launched its scheduled war of aggression against Toristine.
As a floating nation, Albion required floating ships and ports to deploy troops to the mainland. Toristine, of course, would not open its harbors to the invaders, forcing Albion's forces to attempt a rough landing in the wilderness.
Thirty or forty crudely constructed airships, carrying five thousand Albion soldiers, departed from Albion's floating islands. As they neared Toristine, the ships descended forcefully and crashed to the ground. The massive impacts shattered the makeshift vessels, hurling soldiers from the hulls — though most survived the fall.
Due to their flight paths and wind currents — and lacking a proper port to guide them — the thirty or forty ships scattered across the outskirts of La Rochelle, landing hundreds or thousands of meters apart. Each carried five or six hundred soldiers, who staggered to their feet one by one and began regrouping.
Albion's troops gathered by landing site. A few counted the wounded and dead, others were sent as scouts to locate nearby friendly units, and most simply held position.
La Rochelle was a port city built into the mountains by the legendary Earth mage La Rochelle, a Square-tier magician who had spent decades shaping it with earth magic. From the hilltop, Toristine's defenders had a clear view of the enemy landings.
Before the Albion forces could fully assemble, the garrison commander — Lord Angel La Rochelle, a Triangle-tier Earth mage — rallied two thousand elite soldiers. He flung open the city gates and led a preemptive strike.
From the heights, Angel assessed the enemy's scattered distribution and directed his force toward the northwest plain, where only five small enemy regiments were concentrated. Two thousand elites charged down the mountain path, spears leveled, swords raised high, kicking up clouds of dust.
The first Albion regiment spotted the distant dust cloud and growing war cries.
Moments later, the Toristine army closed in, radiating bloodlust.
Angel and his four leading mages took point, unleashing repeated casts of Rock Spear.
"Haru Ursu!" — [Rock Spear].
One-meter stone lances erupted from beneath the Albion soldiers' feet. A dozen unfortunates were impaled and died screaming. The rest — thirty or forty — suffered only scratches. But the sheer terror of magic broke their nerve. Fearing more spikes from the earth, they scattered in panic.
Toristine's steel-clad ranks plunged into the shattered regiment like a knife through flesh. Swords slashed, spears thrust, blood sprayed. Many Albion soldiers fell with blades in their backs as they fled.
Some, too weak or slow to escape, threw down their weapons. "I surrender! Don't kill me!" Two shouted it, then a group, then dozens, hundreds — arms raised in desperate surrender.
"We have no time for prisoners," Angel said coldly. "Kill them all."
His soldiers obeyed without hesitation, cutting down the disarmed Albion troops.
"Don't stop! Charge!" After shattering the first regiment, Angel pressed on undiminished, leading his force north toward the next enemy cluster.
Magic to disrupt, elites to slaughter.
After four such assaults, Angel and his mages had exhausted their mana — and recovery potions took time to work. Toristine's troops, having charged four times and slain an equal number of foes, were tiring as well. Their losses numbered just over a hundred.
Angel, eager to wipe out the final enemy wave in the area, was reined in by his officers. Fireballs streaked into the sky from the city — the signal to withdraw.
He glanced at the five or six hundred Albion troops gathering nearby, then at his fatigued mages and soldiers. After a moment's hesitation, he decided. "We retreat!"
Wheeling his horse, Angel led his weary army back up the mountain path to La Rochelle.
From the summit, he saw Albion's forces had coalesced into three main groups, with a cluster of about six hundred nearby. Had he pressed the attack, he would have been surrounded by superior numbers and suffered heavy casualties. Those five thousand were mere bait — and he had avoided the trap.
After Angel's withdrawal, that five thousand absorbed the nearby six hundred.
Further southeast lay another force of about three thousand; in the plain's center, a major army of eight thousand. The three groups stood more than ten miles apart. Would they link up soon?
For now, all three dug in, posting patrols. No easy chance for another sally presented itself. La Rochelle set watches on their movements but planned no further attacks.
Thus passed the first day of skirmishes.
Albion had lost over three hundred dead and two thousand wounded from the crash landings; another two thousand perished under Toristine's charge, with none taken prisoner. Toristine mourned just over a hundred.
Far from the front, at Toristine's Royal Academy of Magic outside the capital, nearly every boy had enlisted, leaving classrooms eerily empty. The girls' thoughts turned to the Battle of La Rochelle — some fretting over boyfriends now in uniform.
Few male students remained: Sora and Verus. After Albion's civil war, Verus — a distant relative of Sora's — had stayed at the academy under Headmaster Osman's tutelage. This new aggression from Albion precluded sending him to the front. His noble blood made him valuable; his royal lineage made him a liability.
Queen Henrietta forbade Verus from fighting, but he sought out Sora.
"Albion's civil war just ended," Verus said, eyes alight. "The people haven't accepted rebel rule. With their forces committed here and their homeland exposed, I can slip back quietly, rally loyalists to the royal family, and strike back."
He fixed Sora with burning intensity. "I need your help, Sora."
Sora frowned. "Henrietta won't let you risk it."
"I know. But I can't live under her protection while my country's destroyers go unpunished. Teacher Gelfin made a pact with you — I ask you to honor it now."
Verus's plea rang with sincere, vengeful fire.
Sora sighed inwardly. No use reasoning with him now. Hatred's blinded him.
"Fine," he said. "I'll go with you. When do we leave?"
"Tonight. I'm ready."
"Give me a moment. I'll leave a note for Louise and the others."
"Don't reveal where we're going. This must stay secret."
"Understood."
Dear Louise, Tabasa, and Churuka — I have urgent business and must leave. Ask Henrietta to excuse my absence. I'll return once the war ends. Love, Sora.
He slipped the note under a candlestick. Then Sora and Verus quietly departed the Magic Academy.
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