The sun had long disappeared behind smoke and ruin. What replaced it was the dull crimson of a burning sky — a world trembling under the weight of war.
On one side stood Grand General Lythor of the Voltaire Empire, draped in obsidian armor etched with streaks of silver light. His aura shimmered like a storm caged in flesh, and his weapon — a blade forged from pure soul steel — hummed with restrained wrath.
Opposite him stood Grand General Alan of Infris, broad-shouldered, his armor the color of rusted gold. His halberd crackled faintly, resonating with the pulse of his soul. The faint glow in his eyes was not rage but conviction — the kind that had weathered decades of battle.
The two men faced each other in silence. Around them, the clash of armies faded to distant echoes. Soldiers could sense it — this was not a battle they could approach. It was something beyond them, a collision of two beings who had long transcended mortal limits.
Lythor's voice broke the silence.
"Alan… how long has it been since we stood on the same side?"
Alan's grip tightened on his halberd. "Long enough for us to forget why we ever fought together."
"Then let me remind you."
The world shook.
Lythor vanished from sight, reappearing in front of Alan with a burst of energy that split the ground. Their weapons met, and the sound was like thunder collapsing inside the earth.
Waves of power tore through the air — part soul, part elemental. Lightning and flame, darkness and light — every strike left deep scars on the land.
Alan countered with a sweep of his halberd, the weapon glowing blue as it cut through the soul energy around them. "You always fight like a storm with no direction!" he shouted.
"And you always fight like a wall that refuses to fall!" Lythor roared back, parrying with a surge of crimson soul flame that set the very air ablaze.
Their auras flared — two storms colliding.
From afar, soldiers shielded their faces as shockwaves swept across the battlefield, hurling debris and men alike. Even the Elemental Monarchs paused mid-fight, glancing toward the distant explosion that painted the sky white.
Alan thrust his halberd forward, the weapon splitting into twin shadows — the manifestation of his soul armament. Each strike was precise, cold, merciless.
Lythor responded in kind — his sword burned with condensed soul fire, and with every swing, the flames seemed to bend reality itself.
Their clash went on — minutes? Hours? Time no longer had meaning.
Finally, Alan's halberd broke through Lythor's guard, cutting across his armor. Sparks flew. Lythor staggered back, blood spilling onto the cracked ground.
But instead of falling, he smiled.
"Still strong, old friend."
Alan hesitated for a fraction of a second — and that was all Lythor needed.
A burst of energy exploded from him, his soul blazing like a dying star. The ground melted beneath their feet. The sky lit up in gold and red.
When the light faded, both generals were gone — standing far apart, breathing heavily, their weapons buried deep into the ground between them.
Neither had won. Neither had lost.
Only silence remained — the kind that follows the end of something too powerful for words.
As the battlefield trembled under distant clashes of other duels, the soldiers of both empires looked toward the center — where two giants stood unmoving, locked in respect and exhaustion.
The battle of the Grand Generals hadn't ended …
And the war between Voltaire and Infris still raged on.
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