The battle was supposed to mark a turning point. January 18, 1868 ARE, a date carved into
Alaric Mond’s memory with the same vicious precision as the sword he wielded. The air
above the battlefield seemed to tear apart, the clash of steel, the screams of the dying, and the
relentless pounding of boots against blood-soaked mud mixing into a cacophony of
destruction.
Alaric fought desperately, the weight of his sword heavy in his grip as he pushed forward. His
breath came in ragged bursts, each inhale a struggle against the smoke and the stench of
blood. Ahead, his grandfather—the Emperor, Mortimer Kreuzblume—moved like a force of
nature, cutting through the Valkurai with a strength that belied his years.
For as long as Alaric could remember, Mortimer had been his idol, a man who embodied
leadership, strength, and honor. The heart of the Empire, a living legend who had led
Erblande through countless victories. Alaric’s heart hammered in his chest as he fought to
reach him, the sense of dread building with each passing moment.
He swung his sword at an approaching Valkurai, the blade cutting through armor and flesh,
but his eyes never left Mortimer. He could see the enemies closing in around the Emperor,
their movements a blur of deadly precision, their mastery of Spiritus and Void unmatched by
even the most seasoned knights.
A sharp pang of fear tightened Alaric’s chest. He needed to reach Mortimer. His muscles
screamed in protest, exhaustion creeping into his limbs, but he pressed on, the taste of bile
rising in his throat. The battlefield was a maze of death, each step taking him closer, but not
close enough.
Then, it happened.
Mortimer’s sword clattered to the ground, knocked from his grasp by the onslaught. Alaric’s
heart stopped. He screamed his grandfather’s name, but the sound was swallowed by the din
of the battle. The Valkurai swarmed, their final strike brutal and decisive. Alaric’s vision
blurred as he watched Mortimer’s head fall, the lifeblood of the Empire spilling across the
battlefield.
The world around him collapsed. His knees hit the cold, hard ground, the impact barely
registering as a dull thud against the storm of grief. His throat tightened, and the breath he’d
been holding escaped in a strangled sob. His hands, slick with sweat and blood, dug into the
mud. The weight of his sword, once a comforting presence, now felt like an anchor pulling
him down.
The sight of his grandfather’s lifeless body burned into his mind, the image seared so deeply
that it became part of him. The helplessness of that moment—the rage that bubbled beneath
his skin—settled into a vow that would define him. He would avenge Mortimer. No matter
how many lives it cost, no matter how much blood he had to spill. He would make the
Valkurai pay.
After the battle Alaric stood there, over his grandfather’s body, the wind whistled through the
trees, carrying with it the scent of ash and death. Crows circled above the battlefield, their
sharp cries breaking the oppressive silence that followed the slaughter. One landed on the
body of a fallen soldier, pecking at the flesh as if to claim its share of the spoils. Alaric’s eyes
followed the movement, his expression hollow as he clenched his fists, feeling the weight of
his vow settle on his shoulders like an iron mantle.
He did not weep for his grandfather. There was no time for mourning. The boy he had been
before had died with Mortimer. Only vengeance remained.
The sun began to sink below the horizon, casting long shadows over the bloodied earth.
Bodies lay strewn across the field like discarded dolls, their faces frozen in final moments of
terror or defiance. Alaric turned away from the scene, the sound of crows fading into the
growing night as he walked, each step heavier than the last.
Nightfall crept in slowly, and with it, the first signs of winter’s grasp. Frost kissed the edges
of the grass, and Alaric shivered, though not from the cold. He stood at the edge of the
battlefield, gazing back one last time before the shadows swallowed it whole.
He would return. And next time, the Valkurai would feel the full weight of his wrath.
Twelve years later, in the winter of 1880 ARE, Alaric stood at the head of Erblande’s forces,
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no longer the young, desperate boy who had knelt in the mud. He had been forged in the fires
of battle, his resolve hardened by countless victories and losses. The years had etched lines
into his face, the kind that no amount of rest could smooth away, and his once-youthful gaze
had sharpened into something colder, more calculating.
His men moved with practiced efficiency, their swords slicing through the Valkurai ranks
with ruthless precision. Alaric stood on a small ridge, watching them work, his chest
tight—not from fear, but from a deeper ache that never quite left him.
“Major Reinhardt,” he called. The soldier beside him stepped forward, awaiting his
command. But even as he spoke, Alaric’s mind drifted, pulled backward to one of the
memories that had shaped him.
The Summer of 1872 ARE, a small village on the edge of Erblande’s borders had been
overrun by rebels—farmers and blacksmiths who had taken up arms against the Empire.
Alaric had been given his first command, his orders clear: leave no survivors.
At first, he hesitated. These weren’t soldiers; they were ordinary men. But his orders had
been direct, and he had followed them. He could still feel the sickening weight of his sword
as it cut through the air, he still saw the wide, terrified eyes of the young rebel who had
charged at him, more boy than man.
The boy’s blood had splattered across his armor, warm and thick, as Alaric drove his blade
into his chest. The boy had looked up at him, gasping for breath, and for a brief moment,
Alaric had seen himself in that boy’s eyes—na?ve, hopeful, destroyed by the same war.
It was at that moment that Alaric had learned a painful truth: leadership was not about glory.
It was about sacrifice. It was about the lives you traded for victory and the toll it took on your
soul. The lesson had left a scar deeper than any wound he’d ever received in battle.
“Sir?” Reinhardt’s voice snapped Alaric back to the present. “The artillery is in position.”
Alaric blinked, the memory fading as the cold reality of the battlefield returned. He nodded,
his face hardening. “Commence the bombardment. We’ll push them toward the river. There
will be no retreat this time.”
Reinhardt hesitated, concern flickering across his face. “Sir, the riverbanks are treacherous. If
the Valkurai dig in—”
“Do you doubt the strategy, Major?” Alaric’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. He
had no room for doubt. Not anymore.
Reinhardt met his gaze. “No, sir. But the men... They’re tired. This push will demand
everything they have left.”
Alaric exhaled slowly, a brief flicker of vulnerability passing through his mind—another
memory come rushing, one that still haunted him.
The Winter of 1875 ARE. The mountains had been unforgiving, and his battalion had been
trapped for days in a blizzard, cut off from supplies. They had fought tooth and nail just to
survive, rationing what little food they had left. Many didn’t make it.
Alaric had been forced to make the hardest decision of his life—he had left behind half his
men to freeze, knowing they couldn’t all make it. The ones who had survived owed their lives
to his decision, but he still carried the weight of those he had abandoned. Their faces haunted
him, their deaths a constant reminder of the price of leadership.
It was that moment that had changed him. From then on, he knew that leadership meant
making impossible choices, sacrificing parts of himself to ensure the survival of the whole.
“Your concern is noted, Major,” Alaric said, his voice softer now, but firm. “We will adjust
the advance if necessary. But failure is not an option.”
Reinhardt nodded, his respect for Alaric deepening. “Understood, sir.”
As the major turned to leave, Alaric allowed himself a rare moment of introspection. The boy
who had knelt in the mud, swearing vengeance for his fallen grandfather, was gone. In his
place stood a soldier—hardened, ruthless, and willing to do whatever it took to win.
As the artillery fire began, Alaric’s was dragged back from the memory. He fixed his gaze on
the battlefield, his mind calculating the next steps with the cold precision of a man who had
long since learned to suppress his doubts.
The fall of the Valkurai would shatter Hyorin’s defenses, paving the way for Erblande’s final
victory. Yet, as the battle raged on, a small voice in the back of Alaric’s mind whispered of
the countless lives that had already been lost—and the cost yet to be paid.
He closed his eyes briefly, the memory of Mortimer’s death flashing before him once more.
But now, there was another face in his mind—Empress Anette, his aunt, the daughter of
Mortimer, who had ascended to the throne after her father’s death.
It was she who had guided the empire through its darkest hours, who had rallied the shattered forces and led them to this
moment.
She had been the guiding star, the unyielding force that had turned the tide of war.
When the history of this war is written, it will be Empress Anette who would be remembered
as the savior of Erblande. But it would be Alaric who ensured that her victory was complete.
Opening his eyes, Alaric looked out over the battlefield, his resolve hardening into something
unbreakable. The final chapters of this war were about to be written, and they would be
written in the blood of Erblande’s enemies.