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Ash's army surged into motion like a storm unleashed. War preparations escalated to a fever pitch as the dukedom shifted into full-scale mobilization. Martial law gripped the cities—streets emptied, curfews enforced, and dissent silenced beneath the iron heel of authority. Trade routes were severed, markets shuttered, and the hum of commerce replaced by the clang of steel and the bark of orders.
Three war fronts emerged like jagged blades aimed at the heart of rebellion. The first, carved through the treacherous terrain of Ravenfield Pass, stood as a bulwark between Evergreen County and the borderlands—its narrow corridors now bristling with fortifications and siege engines. The second front pointed toward Freecity, a volatile stronghold of mercenaries and fractured loyalties, where Ash's agents worked to ignite chaos from within.
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There days later
Ravenfield Pass, Dawn
The valley lay in a hush of frost and tension. Trenches zigzagged across the landscape like old scars, lined with sandbags and barbed wire. Soldiers of the Ravenfield army , clad in grey wool and steel helmets, stood ready. Their breath fogged the air as they gripped bolt-action rifles and manned MG08 machine guns. Mortars sat like sleeping beasts behind the lines.
At the center of the command post stood General Dietrich Weber, a man carved from discipline and war. His face was weathered, his uniform immaculate, and his sabe hung at his side like a promise . He was also selected as the head of this front by Carl himself
Across the field, the Aura Swordman were gathered.
They were radiant and terrifying. Clad in huge armor , each bore a soulsteel blade glowing with personal aura. Their movements were precise, their silence deafening. At their head stood Count Lawrence, his crimson cloak billowing in the wind, his blade pulsing with a golden hue. Though aged, his presence was commanding—like a storm held in human form.
General Weber raised his hand.
"Feuer frei."
The valley erupted.
Artillery shells screamed overhead, detonating in bursts of fire and earth. Machine guns roared. The swordmasters moved like wind—dodging, deflecting, and leaping. Aura shields shimmered against bullets, but not all held. Bodies fell. The ground drank blood.
Then Count Lawrence raised his blade.
"Form the Tempest."
The swordmasters surged forward—not as men, but as a storm. They danced through machine gun fire, slicing through trenches and barbed wire. One leapt atop a bunker, driving his blade through steel and bone. Another spun midair, deflecting bullets with a cyclone of energy.
General Weber stood firm.
"Hold the line!" he barked. "Fix bayonets! Prepare for melee!"
The clash was brutal.
Steel met soulsteel. Aura blades carved through rifles and helmets. Soldiers fought with desperation—stabbing, grappling, screaming. The swordmasters were faster, stronger—but the army was relentless, dug in, and disciplined.
Count Lawrence reached Weber , it all took one slash to cut weber right arm , this was the horrifying might of the full imperial army with preperation
Their blades met—one forged from soul, the other from legacy.
"You fight with honor, so will i as Lawrence turned of his aura and was now fighting just like any normal person ," Lawrence said, parrying a strike. "But this land will not be yours."
Weber's eyes narrowed.
"I fight not for land. I fight for order."
Their duel raged , ground turned red. The sky wept And somewhere in the chaos, history was rewritten.
Just when Ravenfield seemed on the brink of collapse—trenches overrun, soldiers retreating, swordmasters slicing through the last defensive lines—the ground began to tremble.
At first, it was subtle. A low, rhythmic rumble beneath the boots of the weary and the dying. Then louder. Stronger. Like thunder rolling from the bowels of the earth.
Every soldier, every swordmaster, every commander turned toward the horizon.
There, in the distance, black dots crawled across the frostbitten landscape. Slow. Deliberate. Unstoppable.
As they drew closer, the truth became clear—and unforgettable.
The tanks had arrived.
Steel leviathans, belching smoke and fire, rolled forward with mechanical fury. Their hulls were thick, riveted plates of iron. Their treads crushed barbed wire and corpses alike. Mounted cannons swiveled with cold precision, and from their flanks, machine guns spat death in every direction.
The battlefield froze.
Aura swordmasters and the imperial army , so swift and graceful, hesitated for the first time. Their blades, forged from soulsteel, had never faced such a foe—one that felt no fear, no pain, no hesitation.
General Weber, bloodied but alive, stood atop a ruined trench and raised his saber and seemingly on his very last breaths
"Advance the beasts," he roared. "Let the enemy taste modern war!"
The tanks surged forward.
One fired a shell that obliterated a swordmaster mid-leap. Another plowed through a barricade, scattering defenders like leaves. Count Lawrence's eyes narrowed as he watched the iron monsters tear through his ranks.
"This… changes everything," he muttered.
And it did.
The arrival of the tanks marked the dawn of a new era—one where steel and fire began to eclipse aura and blade. Ravenfield would not fall that day. Not yet.
But the war had changed.
Forever.
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