The Black Sun banners flapped in the wind.
Beneath them stood a cavalry force uniform in appearance—both heavy and light riders clad in thick black armor. Spanning the plains like a swarm of black ants, their numbers were immense.
Countless siege engines loomed nearby, monstrous and menacing. Yet they did not advance on the city just yet—they were waiting for something even more terrifying.
This was a cavalry army so massive it might take the North fifty years to muster anything remotely similar. A force that could sweep through any nation with ease.
And now, their target was the capital of the small kingdom of Lyria.
Marshal Menno, clad in full armor, stood with polished black plating reflecting the light. He gazed at the city before them and said gravely: "Gentlemen, we can all agree this small city cannot stop us."
The assembled officers—yet to disperse—responded in unison.
"But we also know the Emperor demands more than just this one victory," Menno continued grimly. "He seeks the entire North. We've already wasted too much time here. We've given Lannister of Cintra too much room to run amok—we even allowed the Aedirnians time to return to the battlefield."
"So now, it is time we fulfill our true duty. Time to correct our past mistakes." He swept his gaze across them. "We shall ensure the Lion never returns to Cintra—and bring the blood of the Aedirnians back to their homeland!"
"Long live the Emperor!" he roared. "May the Great Sun shine upon your glorious path!"
...
The officers saluted and dispersed, each heading toward their assigned positions.
The ground began to tremble with a steady rumble—the iron hooves of warhorses pounding against the soil, accompanied by the heavier thuds of something much larger.
Menno could not sense any chaotic magic, but he could feel something else. When he turned to look, a dozen flame-cloaked golems landed on the earth.
These were the Empire's latest magical war machines, forged in haste during the late phase of development. The order to deploy them had been issued urgently once the Emperor learned that Lannister himself had entered the field.
"If these things were deployed on the front lines, they could tear through enemy defenses with ease—even heavy infantry," Menno muttered with regret. "And now, they're being used to deal with just one man."
"He's not just any man, Marshal," said a short-haired female sorceress, halting her incantation for a portal. Though clearly irritated, she still treaded carefully when addressing the highest-ranking officer in the Empire.
"I fought Lannister once in Cintra. He commands astonishing magic. After the last battle, I'm sure you also have a clearer sense of his power." Fringilla Vigo stressed, "He deserves this level of deployment."
Menno's scowl deepened—his mood was already sour, and this only added to it.
The only male arch-sorcerer, Vanhemar, scoffed. He had clashed with Lann only once before—but in that encounter, he'd successfully forced Lann and two dragons to retreat.
"Rest assured, Marshal. If we suppressed Lannister once, we can suppress him again—and this time, there won't be a third encounter," Vanhemar declared confidently.
"Last time we were caught off guard. Now we've made a full assessment of his capabilities and are prepared accordingly. Whether it's him or those two dragons—wherever they came from—if they show their faces again, they'll regret it."
As he spoke, Vanhemar bowed toward Menno.
"And we must thank you, Marshal—for making the noble sacrifice of serving as our bait."
At the very center of the main camp, an especially tall and prominent Black Sun banner flapped fiercely in the wind, making no attempt to conceal the presence of the supreme commander.
A squad of archers stood at the ready nearby, their arrowheads glowing faintly with green light.
"With such a disparity in forces, whether advancing or retreating, Lannister would likely use that special ability of his to strike the central camp and eliminate the top commander," Marshal Menno said gravely. "I will not hide—because this is my duty."
"My respects," Vanhemar said, bowing once more.
Fringilla shot him a look of disdain. Southern sorcerers—so many of them were spineless sycophants, and their eagerness to curry favor with the powerful had become outright shameless.
Of course, perhaps it was also because northern high mages had long been spoiled by their kings, enjoying prestige far beyond what their power warranted.
In any case, the contrast was stark.
Assire var Anahid, the last of the three high mages leading the squads, paid no attention to the conversation between her two companions and the marshal. She remained in full combat readiness.
She ordered her unit of several dozen sorcerers to shut down the portals, then had them spread out into a designated formation, prepared to intercept the arrival of the Lion at any moment.
Among all the mages present, she was the one most focused on the battle ahead.
Her gaze turned to the direction of Lyria's capital, eyes deep and unreadable.
"Which direction will the dragon come from, I wonder…"
...
"This should be far enough."
Above the clouds, Lann judged his distance from the Nilfgaardian formation and gave a few firm pats to Saskia's flank.
The dragoness shifted her body with great care, her graceful form trailing strands of cloud and gathering droplets of water.
"Are you sure you can handle this?"
Lann nodded. "You and Keltullis have already been exposed to the Nilfgaardians. Dragons are still vulnerable against heavy war machines… But the good news is they've probably stationed all of that artillery toward the rear. The two of you should head to the front lines instead."
"This time, I have something new in store for them."
Saskia nodded and beat her wings, veering off in a different direction.
With enemy sorcerers in play, using magical detection to scout their formations was out of the question. Fortunately, Southerners were unfamiliar with druids. That gave Lann another chance to sneak close under cover of the clouds and launch a surprise assault.
Settling into a wind-sheltered spot on Saskia's back, Lann flipped his hand and retrieved several potions from his inventory.
Then a range of concoctions to amplify his Signs and replenish mana—
Poisonous alchemical brews were downed like water. All were distilled with dwarven spirits as the base—Lann figured the alcohol might knock him out before the toxins did.
Even the Gourmet effect for slow health regeneration triggered alongside everything else.
Lann immediately felt his heart pounding like a war drum. His face turned pale as a corpse, veins bulging like roots along his neck and cheeks. His eyes bloodshot, sockets dark and strained—he looked more like a vengeful specter than a man.
Saskia banked and flew off, leaving Lann to leap into freefall.
The wind screamed past him as he plunged into the sea of clouds. After several deep breaths' worth of descent, he burst free of the moisture's grasp—and the ground came into view.
There was still a little time before everything became completely clear. Lann squinted, forcing his eyes wide to spot the enemy's layout.
Ah. Menno hadn't even tried to hide his position. That massive banner was perfectly upright. Incredibly visible.
Just a bit off from where Lann had jumped.
No matter.
A vivid emerald light enveloped Lann's body—
[Blink]
...
On the ground, Assire immediately sensed something was wrong. She had been fixated on spotting the dragons—but now, flashes of golden light burst from beneath the thick cloud layer, and they were...
Getting closer?
Warning sirens flared in her mind.
She screamed, "Watch out! Lannister—!"
Whoosh—with a sharp gust, the golden light in midair vanished one final time.
When it reappeared, Lannister was already standing in the very center of the sorcerer formation.
"Lannister has arrived," Lann said with a faint chuckle.
His left hand flashed through a series of Sign gestures, and the potions within his body squeezed forth a torrent of chaotic energy—endless, surging out in waves.
[Aard Sign: Aard Sweep – Piercing Cold – Mana Burst!]
This was a battlefield untouched by the Sun—ravaged once more by the fury of northern winter.
All of the sorcerers instantly raised their protective barriers. They had long anticipated Lann's methods, but the sheer power behind this assault was unlike anything they had seen.
Their shields wavered violently under the pressure. Many of their faces turned pale from the strain of casting.
But—they held.
"Capture Lannister!" Marshal Menno roared, raising his sword.
In an instant, spells, dimeritium-tipped arrows, and even massive bolts from siege ballistae rained down toward the eye of the freezing storm.
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