Draven stood there—silent, unmoving—facing what remained of them.
The knights before him were no longer an army.
They were a **crowd of terrified individuals**: some frozen stiff, others stumbling backward as if their legs had forgotten their purpose entirely. A few sank to their knees without realizing it, weapons slipping from numb fingers. One retched violently. Another whispered prayers through chattering teeth.
No one advanced.
No one dared.
The **First Captain** forced himself forward a single step, his heart hammering so hard it felt as though it might burst from his chest. His jaw was clenched, knuckles white around the hilt of his sword. Every instinct screamed at him to run—but he raised his voice anyway, raw and strained.
"Hold formation!" he barked, though the words sounded hollow even to his own ears. "Do not break ranks! Do not—"
His command faltered.
Because Draven looked at him.
Not with fury.
Not with hatred.
With **nothing**.
From within the shaken mass of soldiers, a **priest** stumbled forward, trembling so violently he could barely remain upright. His hands clasped together in desperation, fingers locked tight as golden light flickered erratically between them.
"R–Radiant Mother…" he whispered, tears streaming freely down his face. "Please… please…"
A **golden magic circle** bloomed above his head—unstable, wavering, yet growing. At its center opened a floating **eye**, luminous and unblinking, etched with sacred script.
The eye turned.
And it **looked up**.
---
High above, within the command decks of the airships—
The projection flared to life.
A floating image unfolded before stunned officers, priests, and commanders alike. The battlefield appeared in perfect clarity: the ruined forest, the massive crater, the shattered remains of Cedric—
And **Draven**.
Blood-soaked. Head lowered. Crimson-black mana leaking from him like smoke from a wound torn into reality itself.
The bridge of the **Lux Invicta** fell into absolute silence.
No one spoke.
No one breathed.
An officer's hand trembled as he steadied himself against a console. Another slowly backed away from the projection, as though it might reach through the image and drag him in.
"…Saintess Elira?" someone whispered, already knowing the answer.
The projection shifted.
It showed Draven's hand unclenching.
It showed the crushed remains falling from his grip.
It showed the knights trembling before him.
A priest on the command deck collapsed to his knees.
"T–That isn't ordinary mana…" he whispered hoarsely. "That's corrupted…"
Theron stood motionless, eyes fixed on the image. For the first time since the battle began, something unreadable crossed his expression.
"…What," he said slowly, "have we awakened?"
---
Back in the forest, the golden eye hovered—transmitting everything.
Draven's head tilted, just slightly.
He had felt it.
The gaze.
The countless eyes now watching him—from above, from afar, from places that believed themselves untouchable.
His lips parted.
No shout.
No declaration.
Just a quiet, broken breath—barely audible.
"…So you're watching now."
The air around him **tightened**.
The knights flinched as one.
Dark red mana thickened, crawling over Draven's skin like living veins. The cracks around his eyes spread further, bleeding black across his face as his pupils burned crimson within the void.
He lifted his head fully.
And for the first time, everyone—knights, priests, captains, and kings alike—saw his face clearly.
Tears still fell.
But the grief was gone.
What remained was something far worse.
Draven's foot settled against the broken earth.
Just **one step**.
That was all it took.
A chill rippled outward—not a wave, not mana—just a **presence**, heavy and absolute. Knights recoiled as if ice had been poured down their spines. Some screamed. Others collapsed flat, hands clamped over their heads, instincts screaming at them to flee.
Above—
Theron did not move.
Golden eyes, sharp and unwavering, reflected the projected image of Draven standing amid ruin. He studied him the way one studied a natural disaster—not with fear, but with calculation.
"Are the cannons fully charged?" Theron asked calmly.
An officer swallowed, throat dry. "Y–Yes, Your Majesty. All three ships. Full saturation. Ready."
Theron nodded once.
"Aim all batteries," he said.
"Fire."
---
The sky **howled**.
From all three airships, the cannons roared in unison—deafening, world-shaking. Columns of golden-white destruction tore free from their hulls, lancing downward like the wrath of a sun god. The air ignited. Clouds vaporized. The forest screamed as reality itself recoiled.
Below, the priest maintaining the projection felt it instantly.
His eyes widened in horror.
"BACK—!" he screamed, voice breaking. "EVERYONE BACK—NOW!"
Too late.
The knights scattered in blind panic, formation shattering completely as the first wave of radiant fire descended. The ground exploded. Trees disintegrated into ash. Shockwaves flattened everything in their path, ripping through the battlefield with apocalyptic force.
Light swallowed the clearing.
For a moment—
Nothing existed but **white**.
---
On the command decks, officers leaned forward, breath caught, eyes locked on the projection as it struggled to stabilize under the sheer output.
"…Direct hit," someone whispered.
"Full saturation," another confirmed. "No blind spots."
Theron watched without blinking.
---
The light slowly began to fade.
Smoke rolled upward in titanic columns. The forest was gone—reduced to scorched earth, molten stone, and glassed craters stretching for hundreds of meters.
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Expectant.
The projection flickered.
Then—
It steadied.
And something stood at the center of the devastation.
Not ash.
Not shadow.
**Him.**
Draven stood upright at the heart of the crater, the ground beneath his feet cracked but unmelted, as if the destruction itself had **bent around him**. His form remained the same—ragged, bloodied, clad in torn shorts—but his body was intact.
Dark red mana rolled off him in thick waves now, no longer leaking—
**boiling**.
Slowly, deliberately, he raised his head.
Above him, the sky was still burning.
He looked up.
Not at the ships.
At **Theron**.
Even through distance, through magic, through projection—
Their gazes met.
And for the first time since the battle began, something **shifted** behind Theron's golden eyes.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Below, among the surviving knights, someone finally broke and screamed.
Draven's voice carried upward—low, hoarse, steady.
"…Good."
The word landed like a death sentence.
Dark mana surged outward from him, spreading across the ruined land like an advancing tide.
And every soul watching—on the ground, in the airships, across the empire—understood the truth at last:
They had not stopped him.
They had only **confirmed his place on the battlefield**.
And now—
He was looking back.
For half a heartbeat, the world held its breath.
Draven took **one step forward**—
And then he was **gone**.
No flash.
No burst of mana.
No distortion of air.
He simply **wasn't there anymore**.
---
On the ground, the surviving knights froze mid-motion. One dropped his shield without realizing it. Another turned slowly in place, eyes wide, searching the crater, the smoke, the sky—anywhere.
"W–Where did he go…?" someone whispered.
Panic spread instantly.
"He vanished!"
"No mana surge—nothing!"
"Find him—find him now!"
They couldn't.
Because there was nothing to sense.
---
Inside the airships—
The projection **glitched violently**.
The golden eye spun erratically, the image tearing and reforming as though reality itself could not decide what to show. Operators shouted, scrambling to stabilize the feed.
"I lost him!"
"There's no signature—no spatial displacement!"
"That's impossible—he can't just—"
The image snapped back into focus.
The crater was empty.
Dead silent.
An officer staggered back from the console. "Y–Your Majesty… the target has completely disappeared."
On the bridge of the **Lux Invicta**, silence fell like a guillotine.
Theron's golden eyes narrowed—just slightly.
"…Not retreated," he murmured.