CHAPTER 71: THE WAY OF VELMORA

The battlefield split open when General Ardyn landed, his flaming sword driving into the earth. Fire rippled outward, scorching mud and steel alike. Soldiers on both sides froze for a heartbeat—the presence of a warlord was unmistakable. His red-lined blade burned like a beacon, a promise of destruction.

Then a shadow moved.

Viktor slipped into the chaos like a serpent. His double kunai glimmered with a faint green light, poison coating their edges. He circled Ardyn, his short frame weaving through corpses and smoke, waiting for the moment to strike.

Ardyn’s eyes narrowed. He swung his greatsword in a wide arc, fire exploding outward. The blast of heat forced Viktor to leap back, but he landed gracefully, smiling.

"So much fire... I wonder how brightly you’ll burn when the poison eats your veins."

With a hiss, Viktor rushed forward. His movements were fast, unnaturally fast—his body blurring like a phantom. The kunai slashed through the air, aiming for Ardyn’s neck.

Clang!

Ardyn blocked with the flaming blade, sparks flying. The ground cracked beneath his stance. He countered, sweeping the sword down in a torrent of flames, forcing Viktor to retreat. But Viktor was not fleeing—he vanished into the smoke, his form flickering in and out of sight.

Ardyn’s senses screamed. A strike came from behind—he spun, blocking again. Another from the side—his sword roared, fire answering him. Each time Viktor appeared, it was only for an instant, kunai flashing, venom glistening, then gone again into shadow.

The soldiers around them scattered, terrified to be near such monsters.

Ardyn’s face hardened. "Coward’s tricks will not save you."

He planted his feet and let the flames surge higher. Fire spiraled around him, forming a blazing storm that lit up the battlefield. The heat burned away the smoke, forcing Viktor into the open.

For the first time, Viktor frowned.

Ardyn lunged. The greatsword cut through the air like a falling star. Viktor dodged, but the edge of the blade grazed his arm—instantly burning away flesh. He snarled, retreating as the fire ate at his sleeve.

"You rely on shadows," Ardyn growled, his voice carrying like thunder. "But fire leaves no shadow standing."

He pressed forward, his strikes growing heavier, faster. Viktor tried to slip past him, kunai flashing in a desperate flurry, but each blow was met with fire and steel. Step by step, Ardyn forced him back. Finally, with a great swing, he smashed Viktor to the ground, the flaming edge hovering above his chest.

Viktor’s grin faltered. Ardyn had the upper hand.

But then—

A sudden, sharp pain tore through Ardyn’s back. His eyes widened. He staggered, coughing as the flames on his sword wavered. Looking down, he saw the blade protruding through his chest, red with his own blood.

He turned his head slowly, pain twisting his features. Behind him stood Christopher, his eyes cold, his smile cruel, his sword buried deep.

"Christopher... is this the way of Velmora?" Ardyn’s voice was hoarse, heavy with disbelief.

Christopher tilted his head, his laughter low at first, then spilling into the night.

"Hah... hahahahah! The way of Velmora? No, Ardyn. This is the way of the world. War, death—these are not choices. They are truths. Did you really think honor could shield you?"

He twisted the blade deeper.

"Those who cling to ideals are the first to be broken. Those who accept the inevitable... are the ones who rule."

Ardyn’s flames flickered, his body collapsing to its knees. His sword slipped from his hand, the fire dying with him. His last breath left his lips as his gaze dimmed, still locked on the man who struck him down.

Christopher pulled his blade free, laughing over the body of the fallen general.

The battlefield roared on, but in that moment, Luminia had lost its heart.

The sky cracked open, and rain began to fall. At first, it came in drops, but soon it poured, washing over the broken field. The flames hissed as they met the water, steam rising from the scorched earth.

In the center of it all stood Christopher. His armor was stained with blood, some his own, most not. His hair clung wet against his face, but his smile only widened. Around him, the battlefield raged—soldiers clashing, bodies falling, screams cutting through the storm.

Yet it wasn’t only soldiers. Villagers and civilians, caught in the chaos, ran barefoot through the mud. Mothers carried their children, old men limped, faces twisted in terror. They were desperate to escape the storm of steel and fire that swallowed their homes.

Christopher spread his arms wide, as if embracing the night itself. His voice rose above the thunder, sharp and merciless.

"Kill them! Kill everyone! Do not spare a single soul. Show no mercy!"

The order rang out like a curse.

Velmora’s soldiers roared in answer, their bloodlust ignited. Blades turned toward not just the armed, but the defenseless. The weak cries of villagers were drowned by the stomp of boots and the clash of weapons. In the rain, the battlefield no longer distinguished between soldier and civilian—it became one endless slaughter.

Christopher laughed, his voice breaking through the storm. To him, the field of death was not horror—it was the natural order revealed, stripped of lies.

Inside the grand castle of Velmora, the second prince, Clinton, sat in the war chamber. Maps were spread across the long oak table, marked with ink lines and wooden tokens showing troop positions. Rain hammered against the high windows, carrying the distant echoes of thunder from the battlefield.

A messenger burst into the hall, dripping wet, his armor dented and his face pale. He dropped to one knee before the prince, voice unsteady.

"Your Highness... the news has come. General Ardyn of Luminia... has fallen. Their defense lines have collapsed. The enemy has retreated, and our banners fly deep inside their land."

Clinton’s brows knit together. His hand froze above the map, hovering over the wooden markers that represented the contested border. Slowly, he turned his head toward the messenger.

"...How far?"

The soldier swallowed, his throat dry. "Two hundred kilometers, my lord. Our forces advanced faster than any scout predicted. The roads were broken, villages abandoned, and their reserves never came. Their army simply... crumbled."

Clinton leaned back, his chair creaking under the weight of silence. His lips parted, words escaping in disbelief.

"Two hundred kilometers... more than expected. That was supposed to take weeks, not hours. How... how did you do this, Christopher?"

His eyes dropped to the map again. Luminia’s lands had been folded back like paper, their defenses torn apart in a single night. The impossible had happened: what should have been a slow grind of attrition had turned into a swift strike of annihilation.