The battlefield was no longer a place — it was a graveyard of sound.
Screams, steel, and thunder blended into one endless roar. The sky above still flickered with streaks of light — where Duke Viron and General Lyrn's battle burned like two gods clashing. But below, where the earth was soaked red, the real war unfolded.
Men and women of both empires fought in mud and fire — soldiers whose names history would never remember.
"Push forward! Don't break formation!"
Captain Laren of Voltair's 3rd Battalion swung his blade, cutting through an Infris soldier before another spear grazed his shoulder. His breath came ragged, the heat unbearable. Even the air smelled of ash.
Arrows rained from both sides, igniting midair as the fire magi of Infris unleashed burning volleys. In response, Voltairian stormcasters raised barriers of compressed wind — a dome of swirling currents that crackled under impact.
Inside that barrier, dozens of young soldiers crouched — trembling, clutching weapons slick with sweat and blood.
"Are we… winning?" a boy whispered. His voice cracked — too young for this war, too human for this madness.
Laren didn't answer. He couldn't lie — not when the ground was already littered with his brothers.
A moment later, the wind barrier shattered. Flames poured in.
"Brace!"
The soldiers screamed as heat engulfed them. But before death could reach them, a roar split the air — and a wall of earth surged upward, blocking the flames.
From behind it stepped a grizzled figure in dented armor — General Tavir, commander of the 5th Regiment. His voice thundered above the chaos.
"Stand! Every step you take back is another home lost! For Voltair!"
His words lit something inside them. Fear turned into fire — not the kind that burned skin, but the kind that burned despair.
"FOR VOLTAIR!"
They charged.
Steel met flame once more. Swords clanged, blood splashed, men fell — and still, they fought.
Amidst it all, an Infris commander bellowed, "For Infris and the Flame King!" His troops surged forward, their armor glowing with enchantments, weapons burning with searing heat.
But the Voltairians held their ground. Every thrust of a spear, every swing of a sword — it wasn't elegance. It was desperation. Survival.
A soldier tripped beside Laren, clutching his gut, whispering his mother's name before going still. Laren's hand shook, his blade dripping red. For a heartbeat, he wanted to stop. To breathe. To live.
Then he saw the enemy advancing again.
He clenched his teeth, raised his sword, and screamed his rage into the storm.
---
Far above them, lightning flashed — Duke Viron's storm clashing again with Lyrn's fire. The heavens raged, but none below had time to watch.
The plains had turned into rivers of mud and blood. Horses screamed. Banners fell. Magic scorched the earth until it no longer remembered what color it once was.
And through it all, the drums never stopped.
By nightfall, neither side had gained ground.
A thousand had fallen. A thousand more still stood.
As dusk crept over the horizon, Laren collapsed beside the remains of a shattered siege cart. His hand trembled as he pressed it against the dirt, feeling it pulse beneath him — the heartbeat of war.
He looked up at the burning horizon, where storms and fire danced among the clouds.
"So this… is what gods fight for," he whispered.
No one answered him. Only the wind did — cold and cruel.
And in that moment, every soldier on both sides understood something unspoken:
For the powerful, war was glory.
For them — it was survival.
---
The battle continued into the night. Neither side retreated. The gods above still fought, and the mortals below still bled. The war for the Terra King's Egg had only just begun.
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