The Divine Visions of Pope Lucios Galard and of Verdia Solarion were in conflict.
In fact, it wasn't all that surprising.
Whenever any minimally capable individual made a different decision in response to a given Future Vision, the possible paths of the future would scramble—let alone when someone else also possessed that kind of ability.
This was also why Rygar was free to act on his own in this conflict. If, for example, Lucios decided to set an ambush for one of the Iron Legion's armies based on a Future Vision, who could guarantee that Rygar wouldn't sense it?
A bad premonition would likely eat away at him. There was no rational explanation that precisely accounted for this ability; his sixth sense was as mysterious, if not more so, than the Divine Vision itself.
Instinct. Intuition. Omens. Different words for the same invisible echo of the future.
But in that particular battle… it wasn't Rygar who changed the course of the future. It was his mistress. Verdia.
The kind of Vision that Pope Lucios possessed was, in a way, special. He received "Divine Revelations."
And, unlike the elf, he wasn't directly on the battlefield at that moment. He was distant, trying to control the variables like a blindfolded chess player.
Verdia's Vision, however, was different. Though somewhat mysterious and inaccessible… it was also terrifyingly precise.
Whenever her life was in danger, she saw the complete scene of her death or ambush, as if she were watching a movie. She could see the field, the enemy, the exact instant of the fatal strike, and—most importantly—what would cause it.
That was why she knew with precision the number of enemy soldiers, who their generals were, their strengths… and whether there was anything more.
And, in that case, there was a huge aggravating factor.
A roar echoed through the mountains like the thunder of the gods. The ground trembled. Milis's forces hesitated, their shields faltered, their formations broke for an instant.
But the enemies would not hesitate. The Iron Legion would not give time for fear to take shape.
Milis's commanders did not order a retreat.
In the next moment, the battle resumed.
Ghislaine Adoldia, her red and green eyes glowing like embers, wasted no time after killing one of the Generals.
She advanced like lightning. A blur to the less-trained soldiers, her momentum crushed rocks and stones, tearing the ground as she passed.
Her body was pure strength, technique, and instinct. Her target was Donar, the Water King. He was still in shock, but his reflexes reacted out of pure conditioning.
Donar counterattacked, responding masterfully with the Water God Style. His blows were smooth, fluid, perfect in form and timing.
But Ghislaine was a hurricane that ignored perfection. Her speed nullified elegance. Donar retreated, blow after blow, sweating, breathing heavily, trying to resist death, which seemed so close.
Ghislaine didn't care at all about the monumental dragon that had appeared. It was as if, for her, everything beyond Donar had disappeared.
By pure "coincidence," the Iron Legion had initiated its attack in a direction away from the point where the Blue Dragon had emerged. In other words, between the colossal beast and the Legion's warriors lay a carpet of Milis soldiers.
The dragon roared once more.
It was obvious that this creature was no ordinary blue dragon. Its wingspan approached three hundred meters, its wings spreading across the night sky, and its body was at least three times the size of any normal dragon of its kind.
Its blue scales looked like enchanted steel, and its breath—when unleashed—tore a hole through the very mountain range.
A true terror raised to the heights, with eyes of pure hatred and a hunger for destruction.
The creature's tail was like a castle tower, dragging across the rugged terrain with enough force to pulverize trees and rocks. And amidst that chaos, the blue-armored general—who had previously wielded the giant Sword of Light—roared orders to Donar:
"You wanted your chance for revenge? Here it is! Kill Ghislaine alone, or at least don't die until I deal with this beast!"
Cold and pragmatic.
He abandoned Donar, his last companion general, and charged toward the colossal dragon, his blue armor glinting faintly. He knew that retreating there was not an option.
Several Legion mages were casting chantless spells. The vanguard swordsmen had monsters like Ghislaine. The ferals and demons fought masterfully on the mountainous terrain, more so than Milis's soldiers accustomed to the plains.
And if a dragon joined in the pursuit of their retreating troops… then it would be the end.
But if he could redirect the beast's fury…
If he could force it to attack the Iron Legion, to turn that battlefield into a mutual massacre, an irreversible chaos…
And if Donar held out long enough for that… or even killed Ghislaine…
The situation could turn.
Instantly.
---
The battle took a new turn. The Iron Legion, which had been striving to maintain its advantage through discipline and sheer willpower, was now like a runaway train, trampling its opponents with brutal power and overwhelming ferocity.
The reason for this reversal? The three main commanders of the enemy army were neutralized or contained.
One lay headless, his life ended by Ghislaine. The wolf swordswoman had eliminated him with a lethal combination of the "Wild Dash" and the "Longsword of Light."
The second, the blue-armored General, the primary commander of Milis's Army, was giving his all to survive against the colossus at his rear: the Terror Dragon.
The third, Donar, staggered between life and death as he faced Ghislaine, who pressed him with savage fury and incomparable technique.
The Dragon, however, proved to be a much more troublesome enemy than anticipated.
Its sapphire scales not only reflected the weak moonlight as if they were sacred gems, but also repelled sword and magic attacks with near-absolute resilience.
Across the entire battlefield, only a handful of exceptional warriors had managed to penetrate that natural armor.
When the creature unleashed its flame breath once more, the world seemed to tremble. Rocks vaporized into pure lava, soldiers incinerated in an instant, and even the blue-armored General was grievously wounded.
He was badly hurt before being rescued by one of Milis's most powerful priests. Thanks to rapid healing, he rose once more, more determined.
Donar, for his part, fought a losing battle. He had grown stronger since their last encounter. The humiliation of having been bested by Rygar several years before had motivated him to seek more power.
He acquired a new magic item, trained without rest, refined his techniques. He was, without a doubt, much stronger. But against Ghislaine Adoldia, that strength seemed insufficient.
Primarily due to the new Beast God Style, which she had mastered with complete expertise. Her techniques were unpredictable, shaped by her keen instincts and her reading of the combat flow.
Each of her movements was like a roar from the jungle, a blow of nature incarnate. Donar could barely react. Several times, the Hiramune blade pierced his armor and cut his flesh, drawing blood.
His armor was already in tatters, and his breathing, ragged. Defeat was only a matter of time.
On the broader battlefield, the Iron Legion became an unstoppable tide. Linia, with her combination of Sword God Style and Chantless Magic, decimated enemy ranks like a goddess of destruction.
By her side, Verdia coordinated the attacks with impeccable strategic vision. Other commanders, each with their specialities, completed the encirclement.
With the element of surprise on their side, the fury of a dragon at their rear, and the brutal yet precise leadership of their champions, the Legion shattered the enemy lines like spears through paper.
Even the fearsome Silver Army began to crumble under the pressure.
They fell to the Howling Magic of the beast race, succumbed to the claws and blades of their beastly warriors, yielded to the innate demonic magics and the refined techniques of their human allies.
The Iron Legion was on the rise.
Milis, in turn, began to despair. Each moment meant more losses, more chaos, more fear. The only option left was to react.
If they did nothing immediately, they would not only lose this battle but endanger the military balance of the entire region. Total collapse loomed at the door.
And they did not act.
Every Milis soldier still breathing tried to make a difference. They tried to reclaim the feeling that once spurred them to fight—the hope of victory.
There was, indeed, a change, but it was not the miracle they desired. For Milis, this turning point was like driving the final nail into their coffin.
Ghislaine struck down her enemy.
Donar Bonart, the remaining Water King, was stronger than expected. There was no doubt that he ranked among the top living swordsmen—both he and the previously slain companion were classified as "Kings," the elite of swordsmanship.
Ghislaine had simply ambushed the first with ease by exploiting a blind spot Donar should have been covering. An unforgivable error in the midst of battle.
In the end, Donar fell as well. The swordswoman cut him cleanly and diagonally in two. Until his last breath, the Water King could not believe he had been killed so easily by the enemy he had dreamed of destroying.
But Ghislaine didn't care about his disbelief. She did not hesitate. She did not lament. She did not even glance at the Terror Dragon for a second.
Instead, she returned to the front line of the Legion, a living, lethal spear, carving a path through the heart of the Silver Army without mercy.
Milis's soldiers waited for some saving grace, a last divine effort, something to reverse the impending tragedy. But all they received was more destruction.
They were being pushed to the brink of despair. And no one came to save them.
The blue-armored General, with a few survivors at his side, finally managed to contain the Terror Dragon. All that remained was to seize the opportunity to deliver the final blow.
It was at that moment that the rain began to fall on the dark night.
Light at first, just scattered drops over the blood-soaked earth. Red puddles formed around the bodies of the fallen soldiers.
The living staggered, wounded, exhausted. Milis's mages cast spells in disarray, desperately trying to contain the imminent collapse.
But some among them began to notice.
The rain grew stronger. It began to fall in dense, relentless sheets. It became clear that something was amiss. It was not a common rain, not natural.
No side had used Saint-level magic in this confrontation until now—it would have been insane to cast spells of such scale, risking hitting one's own allies. Except if… it was worth it.
The most experienced mages, the most attentive, looked to the sky. And then, to their last general. They tried to warn him. Some shouted. Others just stood agape in shock. But it was too late.
A voice erupted from the heavens like the proclamation of a divine decree:
"Lightning!"
A thunderous crack tore across the battlefield.
A hammer of sky-blue electricity fell from the sky like the wrath of the gods themselves, striking the blue-armored General with indescribable force. He had no time to react.
Wounded and focused on containing the dragon, he could not raise defenses in time. The impact created an immediate fissure beneath his feet, ripping the ground with a thunder that reverberated across the fields.
In the distance, atop a solitary ridge, stood Verdia Solarion.
She smiled.
In her hands, she wielded her staff—a unique weapon made of elven wood, a rare and incomparably resilient tree, inlaid with a magical gem extracted from a legendary creature: the Flying Devourer Whale.
A beast that once ruled both sky and deep, now considered extinct.
This Magic Staff amplified the destructive power of Wind and Water spells, increased their range, and drastically reduced casting time.
The staff's name was Herald of Wind and Storm. A relic from the era of the Laplace War, and Verdia's faithful companion ever since.
Now, with mastery of the King-level spell—Lightning—something Rygar had taught her before the war, she wielded it with lethal perfection.
The rain slowly ceased.
The battlefield remained soaked, muddy, reeking of death. And then, without ceremony, the Terror Dragon crushed the General's body with a colossal paw.
If there had been any life left in the man after the Lightning, there certainly was none now.
The Legion advanced with renewed fury.
And the Saint commanding the Silver Army made the only rational decision he could at that moment: he ordered a retreat.
---
The Hill was dead. Saint McEarntown and Flash Sword had been trapped in a God-level Barrier. Three Milis generals had been killed—all in the first offensive of the Legion.
Of Milis's Ten Generals, only four remained:
Galgard, the Divine Warrior, one of the greatest living combatants.
The Water Emperor, known only as the White Knight—a figure shrouded in mystery, seldom seen, but feared by all.
The Silver-Heart Knight, who had retreated after being pressured by Eris and Gretta.
And the Magic General, a hybrid strategist, master of both magic and sword.
The future no longer looked favorable for Milis.
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