The cave was silent, save for the steady breathing of the dire Kodie, who had remained asleep throughout the entire battle. Minerva approached the massive beast and cast a spell, shattering the gem-encrusted headpiece that had been used to control it. The Kodie stirred, slowly rising to its feet, its eyes scanning the area before speaking in a deep, rumbling voice.


    "Where are those criminals?"


    Orvell stared in awe. "They... really can talk," he muttered, still processing the revelation.


    Minerva and Orvell quickly explained what had transpired, and the Kodie bowed its head in gratitude. "I thank you both," it rumbled. "Please, call me by my name. I am Shadow."


    Shadow turned toward the back of the cave and motioned with his massive paw. "There is treasure behind me. Take what you need—you have saved my life, and I would see you rewarded."


    Orvell and Minerva didn''t hesitate, as their supplies were running low. Orvell found a gleaming set of golden armor, crafted by the legendary High Elder Knights, while Minerva uncovered ancient grimoires inscribed by the lost wizard tribes. Once they had gathered their supplies, they turned back to Shadow.


    "Do you know a faster way to the Fields of Solitude?" Orvell asked.


    Shadow let out a deep chuckle. "I am called Shadow for a reason."


    Before either of them could react, Shadow surged forward like a bolt of lightning, carrying them upon his back. "We shall get there in no time—hold on tight!"


    Minerva clutched her witch’s hat to keep it from flying off, while Orvell gripped Shadow’s thick mane. As they tore across the open plains, a massive shadow passed overhead. A wyvern. But not just any wyvern—it bore the sigil of the Scale Heart Guild from the kingdom of Drakusselum. The creature swooped low, leveling with them, and its rider called out.


    "King Naggarot requests your presence in Drakusselum immediately. There has been a development."


    Orvell exchanged a glance with Minerva before nodding. "Change of plans, Shadow. Take us to Drakusselum."


    Shadow raced toward the distant kingdom, covering the vast distance in record time. As they approached the great gates, he bid them farewell and returned to his home. Orvell and Minerva continued on foot, stepping into the bustling city. The streets teemed with life—merchants called out their wares, guards patrolled in gleaming armor, and the air was thick with the scent of roasted meats and fresh bread. But there was no time to waste. Orvell pressed on toward the royal halls, where he was greeted by familiar faces.


    Standing before them were the allied leaders: King Naggarot, Jakob, Roland, and Rohan.


    "Ah, you finally made it!" Naggarot greeted Orvell with a firm handshake and an embrace. "Last time we met, I bested you in a duel," he added with a hearty laugh.


    Orvell smirked. "Yeah, last time we met, you cheated by using your dragon form. The tournament rules clearly stated no magic."


    Naggarot narrowed his eyes playfully, but it was all in good fun. The two were old friends.


    As the rulers gathered around the war table, Naggarot placed a worn leather pouch upon it and tipped its contents onto the surface—rings and amulets, dark and foreboding.


    "My rider found these on a group of shadowy creatures lurking in the night," Naggarot explained. "He claims they were Rangkar creatures from Gall."


    Rohan, king of the dwarves, furrowed his brow. "You''re saying these are gifts?"


    "No," Naggarot replied gravely. "These items come from the darkest corners of Grass Mark. My rider slew six of these creatures. Each carried powerful artifacts."


    Roland scoffed. "Preposterous. The Rangkar have been dead for ages. And even if they lived, they would be weak without their king."


    The room erupted into argument, but Orvell remained silent, his gaze locked on the artifacts. They bore the same craftsmanship as the staff he and Minerva had recovered from the wizard goblins. He reached out and slipped one of the rings onto his finger.


    "Orvell, what are you doing?" Rohan barked.


    Orvell silenced him with a raised hand. "Relax. These rings won''t affect me—I’m a hybrid of witch and human blood. Only certain magic items hold sway over me." He closed his eyes, focusing on the ring’s energy. A surge of agony, pain, and darkness washed over him. A shadowy figure loomed in his mind—Malice.


    His eyes snapped open. He yanked the ring off and blasted it apart with a small elemental projectile.


    "What did you see?" Naggarot demanded.


    Orvell exhaled. "Minerva and I encountered wizard goblins."


    Rohan snorted. "No such thing."


    "Minerva," Orvell called. She stepped forward, revealing the crystal they had taken earlier.


    "This isn''t elven or human magic," she stated. "This crystal is infused with death itself."


    A hush fell over the room.


    "Then... Malice is returning," Roland murmured.


    "But how?" Rohan asked. "We saw his magic drained. He was nothing but a bony husk."


    Minerva shook her head. "I need more time to study this crystal."


    Naggarot shifted the conversation. "Regardless, Behem has hit a snag. He needs more mana before he can consume the star pieces."


    "How is he attaining more mana?" Minerva asked.


    Naggarot''s expression darkened. "He''s stealing it from the realm’s core. That’s why he needs to be in the Fields of Solitude—it is the center point of Grass Mark. But it will take him time. The journey alone is three days, and the exact location is difficult to pinpoint."


    "So we have time," Orvell said. "Time to gather warriors, wizards, anyone willing to fight. How many soldiers do you have ready?"


    Naggarot straightened. "One hundred men, fifty wyvern riders."


    Rohan stroked his beard. "Two hundred dwarves, ready to spill blood."


    Roland crossed his arms. "One hundred and ninety from Ursalem."


    Jakob smiled. "Three hundred from Iron Hall, two hundred from Zephyr Vale."


    Orvell nodded. "That’s a good start, but we need more. Behem has gathered a thousand followers to protect him. We need to match his numbers—or outthink him."


    The room fell into silence, the weight of the coming war pressing upon them all.


    As they left the war room, Naggarot pulled Orvell aside and asked, “What did you see?”


    Orvell took a deep breath before replying, “Malice. He’s coming back. But all I could feel was his immense magical pressure. He’s getting stronger.”


    Naggarot frowned. “Will it be soon?”


    Orvell shook his head. “Not yet. He barely has a physical form, which means we still have time to stop this.” He then added, “If we can prevent Behem from obtaining the power of a star, he won’t be able to transfer magic to Malice. That’s why they’re working together—Malice needs a vessel, and Behem is the perfect rat for it.”


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    Naggarot nodded in understanding. “You and Minerva can spend the night in my palace.”


    Orvell, however, declined. “I need isolation.”


    Instead, he checked into a nearby inn, but before resting, he decided to visit the town’s gathering hall. Inside, he saw adventurers of all races, vocations, and fighting styles. Some bowed their heads to him in respect, but he waved them off. “It’s not necessary,” he said. “I’m here as an adventurer, not as royalty.”


    Seated in the food court, Orvell overheard a group of young adventurers gossiping.


    “Have you heard? There’s a White Warrior roaming the lands of Grass Mark.”


    “A White Warrior?” one of them repeated in confusion.


    “Yeah! A warrior clad in white armor who can conjure swords from thin air!”


    “Sounds like a Mystic Knight,” another suggested.


    “No, no. It wields a greatsword, and dozens of other greatswords follow it like they have a will of their own.”


    Then another adventurer chimed in, “You know what’s an even crazier story? A kid working with mercenaries. They say he’s going to be the next strongest adventurer. They’re already calling him ‘Flamekeeper.’”


    Orvell’s mind went to the boy they had rescued in Cinderville, but he quickly dismissed the thought. That boy didn’t give off such an aura—except for his desire to be an adventurer.


    Later that evening, Orvell wandered down Drakusselum’s main vendor street, lined with bustling shops selling everything from food and weaponry to alchemical goods and even brothel services. He stopped by an alchemy shop to repair his magic sword and shield, restocked his potions, and gathered other necessities for the looming war.


    Seated on a bench, Orvell sighed, reflecting on how far he had come. A deep longing for Beatrice settled in his heart.


    Returning to the gathering hall, he found it nearly empty, save for a few adventurers drinking, likely celebrating their recent victories. He sat at the bar, ordering a mug of ale, when he overheard a group of middle-aged men still discussing the White Warrior.


    “You should’ve seen your face when the White Warrior saved you!” one of them roared with laughter.


    Curious, Orvell walked over. “This is the fifth time I’ve heard about this person. Who are they?”


    The storyteller turned to him, eyes wide. “No one knows. But this warrior is powerful—able to summon greatswords from thin air and manipulate their movements. Their speed, their swordsmanship… unmatched!”


    Orvell’s interest was piqued. “I have to meet this person,” he thought. “Maybe they can teach me how to conjure swords.”


    The next morning training for war began. The kings oversaw the warriors’ drills, while Minerva and other high mages instructed the magic users. Jakob trained the archers.


    Naggarot elbowed Orvell. “You haven’t seen my men in action yet, have you?”


    Orvell shook his head. “I’d love to see what this Dragon Knight vocation is all about. Last time, I only saw you use it for five seconds in our duel.”


    Naggarot grinned. “Matthias! Show Master Orvell your Dragon Knight skills.”


    The crowd cleared, making room for Matthias. A practice dummy was set before him. Drawing his sword, Matthias showcased his speed, fluid maneuvers, and precise strikes. But unlike Orvell’s major spells, Matthias’ magic consisted of short-duration buffs, enhancing his speed and strength.


    Then Naggarot commanded, “Now, show us your scales!”


    Matthias touched a scaly jewel embedded in his glove. Instantly, his body transformed—not into a full dragon, but into a half-dragon, half-human form reminiscent of a Centaurigon. His speed, power, and magical pressure skyrocketed. Though the transformation only lasted five minutes, Orvell was thoroughly impressed.


    Naggarot smirked. “Now imagine that used by an elite.”


    From afar, Rohan scoffed. “Pfft, you magic folk rely too much on spells! It’s all about brawn!” He turned to his champion. “Biffen! Show these weaklings what true power is.”


    Biffen lifted a massive stone effortlessly with one arm—only for it to be shattered by an arrow.


    All heads turned to Jakob’s elite archer, who lowered his bow. “Accuracy always wins in war,” Jakob said smugly.


    Roland then approached, shaking his head. “You’re all wrong. Strategy is what truly wins battles. Your enemies won’t even know what hit them if they never see it coming.”


    The kings laughed as they watched their men train.


    Later that day Orvell trained alone, knowing he was one of the few who could withstand Behem’s abilities. He was working on perfecting a new spell—one that would allow him to fully materialize multiple weapons—but it took a heavy toll on his body, draining nearly all his mana.


    “You’re afraid,” said a voice.


    Orvell didn’t even flinch. “Yeah. I am. Behem will have the power of a star—practically infinite mana.”


    Grimstone materialized before him. “Fear can be a warrior’s greatest power. If you’re afraid of death—afraid of letting Grass Mark fall—use that fear. Convert it into strength.”


    Orvell scoffed. “Easy for you to say. You’re just a spirit armor.”


    Grimstone chuckled. “I was—before your father stole me, before I was forged. Before all of that, I was alive, long before your time. But that’s a story for another day.” His tone grew serious. “However, there is one way to defeat Behem… though it may cost a life.”


    Orvell paused mid-strike, then spoke solemnly. “I’m willing to sacrifice myself… to be with Beatrice again.”


    Grimstone bowed his head. “Then so be it. When the time comes, we will speak again.”


    With that, Grimstone vanished.


    “You talk to yourself now?”


    Orvell turned to see Minerva approaching. “Just a confidence boost,” he lied.


    Minerva crossed her arms. “You know, the spell you’re trying to create—it won’t just deplete your mana. It could make you null to magic altogether, rendering you unable to use spells ever again.”


    Orvell frowned. “How?”


    She explained, “Conjuring something of that scale takes years of practice. To manifest that much magic all at once, it could drain your entire magic stream permanently.”


    She then drew a parallel. “That’s why Behem must be at the Fields of Solitude. He’s preparing to absorb the star’s magic, but it will take an enormous amount of his own power just to contain it. That is why he will be in the Fields of Solitude, He is going to need to absorb Grass Marks magic from its core. That''s the risk of channeling overwhelming magic.”


    She finished with a warning. “No one has ever created and mastered a spell like this in a single trial.”


    Orvell clenched his fists, determination burning in his eyes. He had to succeed.


    The following day, the kings gathered in the war room, their faces grim as they studied the maps sprawled across the massive oak table. Roland, the mastermind behind battle strategies, stood at the head, his keen eyes scanning over every detail. He pointed to various locations with a gloved hand, discussing formations, ambush points, and fallback positions.


    Rohan, ever the pragmatist, crossed his arms and grumbled, “What are our numbers? Equipment, rations, and supplies—how long can we sustain the fight?”


    Naggarot smirked, his sharp teeth glinting under the torchlight. “Worried about going hungry, master dwarf? Drakkusselum will provide more meat than you can eat in a lifetime. And for you, master Jakob—vegetables, grains, and all the supplies your archers require.” His deep chuckle rumbled through the chamber.


    Roland continued, detailing Behem’s possible movements, the strength of his forces, and their likely positioning. His predictions were precise, almost unnervingly so, a testament to years of experience in warfare. “We strike here,” he said, tapping a spot near the Field of Solitude. “And we set up countermeasures here and here. If Behem moves as I anticipate, we’ll have a window to flank him.”


    The door to the war room suddenly burst open. A scout, panting heavily, staggered in. “S-Sir!” he gasped, eyes wide with urgency. “Behem’s army—it''s on the move. They’ll reach the Field of Solitude in a day’s march!”


    The room fell into a tense silence. Then, almost in unison, the kings exchanged knowing glances. There was no more time for deliberation. The war had come to them.


    Without hesitation, orders were given, and the final preparations began. The people of Drakkusselum gathered to see their warriors off, lining the streets with torches and banners. The air was thick with emotion—some wept, others clutched hands in silent prayer. Families embraced their loved ones for what might be the last time. The town threw a farewell feast, filling the evening with music, laughter, and bittersweet goodbyes.


    As dawn broke, the army of Drakkusselum set forth. The kings led the march—first the soldiers, then Orvell, followed by Roland, Rohan, Jakob, and finally, Naggarot. They traveled through treacherous terrain, wading through marshlands, braving flooded forests, and pushing through relentless storms.


    By the time they reached the Field of Solitude, an entire kingdom of Behem’s followers stood before them. The sight was staggering. They were not just soldiers but farmers, laborers, mercenaries, even knights—people who had abandoned their homes and oaths to rally under Behem’s banner. Their eyes burned with zeal, their numbers stretching as far as the horizon.


    Naggarot stepped forward, raising his voice. “Followers of Behem! It does not have to end in bloodshed. We can still forge a future together, in peace and unity!”


    A murmur rippled through the crowd, but then a lone voice answered, defiant and resolute. “We are tired of being at the mercy of kings and nobles! Behem offers us power—true freedom!”


    A deafening roar of agreement followed. Weapons were drawn. Shields were raised.


    Naggarot sighed, rolling his shoulders as he turned to Roland. “Well, that settles it. They want a fight.”


    The dragon king stepped forward, his voice booming across the battlefield. “Do not fear! This day will be remembered for generations! We fight not for ourselves, but for the realm of Grass Mark! For the innocent, for the future! This is the day we cast out the shadow of tyranny!”


    He unsheathed his blade and thrust it skyward. “DEATH!”


    The battle had begun.