"Now that's more like it," he growled.
The battlefield around them instinctively parted. Goblins hesitated, circling but not daring to interfere. Orcs backed away, sensing that this was no longer their fight.
Arnold and the commander stood alone amid broken earth and corpses.
From above, Peonome raised her staff again. Mana condensed, sharp and precise, forming half a dozen spectral spears that hummed with lethal intent. With a controlled flick of her wrist, she sent them screaming downward.
The orc commander didn't even flinch.
A translucent green barrier flared to life in front of it, the spears shattering against the shield in bursts of light before they could reach flesh.
Peonome's frown deepened.
She turned her head slightly, senses flaring.
The orc warlock had stepped forward. The brown cloak shifted as unseen energy gathered around it, the red orb in its grasp pulsing slowly, like a second heart.
Peonome inhaled sharply.
Vast. Uncomfortably vast.
The mana signature rolled across her senses like a tidal pull, dense and deliberate. Her fingers tightened around her staff as her gaze flicked instinctively toward Hevert, ready to call for coordination—
And stopped.
Hevert was fighting, yes. His blade moved, clean and efficient, cutting down goblins that came too close. But it was perfunctory, almost absent. His stance never fully committed. His eyes were not on the frontline, nor on the goblin king. They were fixed on the far edge of the battlefield.
The realization slid into place with a cold, precise clarity.
This battle was never his true objective.
It was Leopold de Vedre.
She closed her eyes for a brief moment, disappointment threading through her composure. "Tsk... a loyal hound, indeed," she murmured under her breath.
Her fingers tightened around her staff. Beneath her, the stone golem shifted, responding to her resolve. Cracks of light ran along its shoulders and arms as it began to move.
Peonome straightened atop, robes settling, expression hardening into focused calm.
Her target was clear.
"Forward," she said softly.
The golem roared and surged ahead, each step shattering the ground, carrying Peonome on its shoulder as she advanced toward the orc warlock.
Without a warning.
A massive beam of condensed mana tore across the battlefield and struck the charging golem squarely in the chest.
There was no explosion at first—just a blinding flash, followed by a sound like mountains grinding together.
The golem's arms sheared cleanly from its shoulders and crashed into the earth with bone-shaking force. Its upper torso didn't fall—it disintegrated. Stone, sigils, and mana constructs were pulverized into dust, its head erased as if it had never existed.
Smoke and debris swallowed everything.
For a heartbeat, even the battlefield seemed to pause.
Then, amid the settling dust, a white sphere hovered where Peonome had been standing. Smooth. Perfect. Untouched by the chaos around it.
The sphere flickered.
Light peeled away like mist, revealing Peonome—robes pristine, expression calm, eyes glowing with mana. Not a scratch marked her skin.
She turned her head slightly, eyes meeting the distant silhouette of the orc warlock.
A faint smile touched her lips.
"That was a bold opening," she said evenly. "But this isn't the place for a proper duel."
Her eyes swept the battlefield—interlocking formations, overlapping spells, bodies falling faster than they could be counted.
"It's too crowded."
The orc warlock's red orb flared in response, its glow deepening as mana surged outward. The ground beneath him cracked, reacting to the pressure he released.
Peonome raised her staff.
Light coiled around its head, space itself seeming to fold inward. The air around both of them distorted, as if reality were being pulled taut.
Then they vanished.
No explosion followed. No flash. Just absence.
Peonome and the Orc Warlock were gone.
At the center of a newly carved wasteland, Arnold and the orc commander clash heated.
Arnold was enormous for a human—broad-shouldered, thick-armed, built like a fortress given flesh—but standing before the orc commander, he looked almost small. The orc towered over him, muscles layered like coiled cables beneath scarred green skin, greatsword swinging with terrifying ease.
Yet Arnold did not retreat.
Hammer met blade. Shield caught steel.
Each impact sent shockwaves through the ground, cracking earth and flinging loose stones into the air. Arnold's boots sank deeper with every exchange, but he adjusted, rolled with the force, compensated instinctively.
The orc commander snarled, amused.
Arnold spat blood to the side and grinned. "You hit hard," he said. "I like that."
They clashed again—hammer glancing off the greatsword, shield scraping sparks along its edge. Arnold felt his arms scream in protest, felt old injuries flare despite the potion still working through his system. He welcomed it. Pain meant he was alive.
Around them, the war raged on.
Human soldiers held formation with grim discipline. The front rank braced shields while the second rotated forward, seamless and practiced, allowing the exhausted to fall back before fatigue could break the line. Mages behind them hurled spells in staggered volleys—fire, lightning, stone—while others drank mana potions with shaking hands, faces pale from overexertion.
Archers had long since abandoned their bows. Short swords flashed as they darted through gaps, reinforcing faltering lines or cutting down goblins that slipped past the shields. Cavalry thundered along the flanks, lances lowered, carving through clusters of enemies before wheeling away to regroup.
At first glance, the battle favored humanity.
The goblin king knew better.
He stood calmly amid the chaos, copper armor gleaming despite the blood and ash around him. His expression never changed as he snapped his fingers.
A burning spear materialized beside him—floating, spinning slowly, heat distorting the air. Mana radiated from it in suffocating waves.
He caught it effortlessly and turned his gaze toward a figure in white and gold.
Illumi.
The priestess felt it the moment his attention settled on her. Her breath caught, heart hammering, instincts screaming. She raised her hand without hesitation.
"Kyrie Phylax," she said softly.
A translucent barrier bloomed around her, etched with glowing sigils. The spear struck it an instant later.
The impact sent sparks and a roaring whirlwind outward, the force driving Illumi to one knee. Her teeth clenched as she held the barrier, arms trembling under the strain.
She reached forward and pressed her palm against the spear's burning head.
"Ultio Sacra."
Light surged.
The spear reversed direction, screaming back toward its creator—faster, brighter, infused with sanctified mana that made the air itself recoil.
The goblin king did not move.
The goblin general did.
The massive goblin stepped forward and cleaved the spear in half with a single, precise strike. The two blazing fragments dissipated harmlessly into the air.
Illumi sagged, breath coming in ragged pulls. Sweat soaked her hairline as she fumbled for another potion, fingers unsteady. She drank deeply, the cool rush of mana steadying her—but only barely.
Large-scale support and healing spells exacted a brutal toll, even on a Keeper.
She straightened slowly, eyes lifting back to the battlefield, resolve replacing exhaustion.
Her calm eyes met the goblin king's across the battlefield. Smoke and fire distorted the distance between them, but the connection was unmistakable. The king's lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk. He raised one clawed hand and extended a single finger toward her, the gesture accompanied by a low, rumbling growl that vibrated through the ground itself.
Illumi did not flinch.
She drew her grimoire closer to her chest, fingers resting lightly against its cover, and exhaled a steady breath. "I see," she murmured, voice gentle, almost apologetic. "So you knew it's me."
Without her, the human army won't survive.