The sun had barely crested the stone hills when Lucas stepped onto the central parade ground. Greystone pulsed with motion—soldiers drilling, blacksmiths hammering, archers practicing with relentless precision. The distant thrum of hammers and shouting created a rhythm of preparation. War was no longer a concept; it was a certainty.
Lucas, now clad in his newly formed Beast Emperor armor—sleek obsidian plates etched with glowing runes—marched forward with commanding presence. The twin blades on his back gleamed under the morning light, Zephyra and Umbra's evolved forms reflected in the ethereal energy that swirled around him.
"Militia, formation practice!" Lucas commanded, his voice carried across the grounds by magical amplification. The militia of 1000—700 ground infantry and 300 archers snapped into position. The air was filled with the clashing of weapons, synchronized movements, and the disciplined roar of battle cries.
