The scent of iron and blood hung heavy over the crimson plains. Smoke coiled upward from the scorched earth where Earl Saer had fallen, his banner now half-buried in ash. The battlefield was eerily still—only the groans of the wounded and the soft crackle of burning tents filled the silence.
For the soldiers of Voltaire, that silence was despair itself.
They had fought bravely, but Infris' advance had been relentless. The air was thick with loss.
Then, the ground began to tremble.
A distant, rhythmic thunder echoed across the valley—slow at first, then growing louder, until it became a single, rolling roar. Every man on the field turned toward the northern ridge, where dust rose like a golden storm.
"Reinforcements…!" someone gasped, disbelief mixing with joy.
And then they saw them.
From beyond the ridge, the banners of the Voltaire Empire unfurled—silver lions gleaming under the rising sun. At their head rode DukeViron, his armor shining like polished moonlight. His presence alone bent the air, silver energy rippling around him in soft waves. At the Forfront marched Grand General Lythor, clad in deep black steel, his greatsword strapped across his back. His mere gaze carried the authority of a thousand victories.
The Voltaire reinforcements poured down the slope like a river of steel and fire—cavalry, archers, siege units, and mages. Nearly a million soldiers moved as one. The wind itself seemed to part for their march.
Cheers erupted from the broken lines of Voltaire's front.
Men who had fallen to their knees rose again, clutching their weapons.
Hope—pure and defiant—burned in their eyes once more.
Across the battlefield, the army of Infris responded. Horns blared from obsidian towers, and their dark-armored formations shifted like a living beast. At their front, Earl Simon, the Earth Monarch of Infris, stepped forward, his brown aura flickering like molten stone. Beside him stood General Lyrn, his form wreathed in streaks of jade lightning.
"So," Lyrn muttered, a grin twisting across his face, "Voltaire sends its lions at last."
His words were followed by a crack of thunder. The air buzzed with tension—soul power from countless warriors beginning to converge.
Duke Viron raised his hand, and the Voltaire banners lifted higher. His voice carried across the entire field, clear as a bell.
"Soldiers of Voltaire!
Today, we reclaim the honor lost with Earl Saer's fall!
Today, we make the crimson plains remember whose blood sanctifies this land!"
The army roared in response, a unified voice of steel and spirit.
Magic circles began to form in the sky—thousands of glowing runes weaving together as mages chanted in unison. Ballistae were pulled forward, their bolts crackling with light. Cavalrymen lowered their lances, shields locking into place.
And then the horns sounded again—three deep notes that shook the very air.
The Battle of Crimson Plains had begun anew.
Flames rose as the first volleys of elemental magic tore through the air—fire met wind, earth shattered under lightning, and the ground quaked with impact. The two armies collided in a thunderous crash that drowned out even the heavens.
From the center ranks, Earl Moonstone, the Fire Monarch of Voltaire, stepped forward, his red cloak fluttering behind him. His crimson spear glowed with molten light as he pointed it toward Earl Simon.
"Simon of Infris," he said, his voice calm yet seething with restrained fury, "you'll find no easy victory here."
Simon smiled coldly, pressing his hand to the ground.
The earth rumbled in response.
"Then let the mountains decide our fate."
As both Monarchs unleashed their elemental domains, the battlefield was swallowed by fire and stone. The skies burned red, and the ground cracked like glass beneath divine power.
And above it all, Grand General Lythor watched from his command post, silent and unmoving.
The real war, he knew, was only beginning.
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