Chapter 209: THE MONSTERS
Leonardo did not sleep that night.
When dawn finally broke in the east, bathing the royal camp in a pale, sickly light, the Crown Prince of Aethelgard was still standing in the same spot—outside his tent, staring toward Torshavn. In his hands, he still clutched two letters. One from his enemy, offering peace. One from his mother, offering exile.
He answered neither.
And as dust began to kick up on the southern horizon, he finally received an answer he hadn’t asked for.
Alistair Solari had arrived.
The Duke of Highgarden spurred his horse at the head of the column—or rather, what remained of it. A thousand cavalry, perhaps fewer, followed behind him in a loose, disorganized formation. Their horses were gaunt, their eyes wild with exhaustion, and their armor was dented and scarred—marks of a battle they had not won.
Alistair dismounted with stiff, mechanical movements. His left shoulder was heavily bandaged, and dried blood still stained the edges of the cloth. His face was pale—not from fear, but from excessive blood loss. Yet his eyes... those eyes still burned. Still hungry. Still filled with a searing vendetta.
Sir Romeni dismounted beside him, his own arm bandaged, his temple still bleeding. He did not complain. He simply stood by his master’s side, as he always did.
"Prince Leonardo." Alistair’s voice was hoarse, cracked by dust and fatigue. "I have come."
Leonardo looked at him. He looked at the remnants of a force that once numbered five thousand, now reduced to a fifth. He looked at the wound on Alistair’s shoulder, the gash on Romeni’s temple, and the hollow devastation in the eyes of the surviving soldiers.
"You still wish to proceed?" Leonardo asked. His voice was flat, neither judging nor approving. Merely inquiring.
Alistair stared back at him. "I have no choice."
"There is always a choice."
"Not for me." Alistair stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for Leonardo. "They destroyed my army. They humiliated me. If I return to Highgarden now, I return as a loser. I would rather die here than live in disgrace."
Leonardo studied him for a long time. Then, he nodded—not out of agreement, but out of understanding. He understood what it felt like to be trapped in a situation where no choice felt right.
"Attack now," Alistair said. "Together. Before they grow any stronger."
Leonardo turned toward Torshavn. In the distance, he could see the silhouettes of Sudrath tanks lined up before the city walls. They were already waiting.
"Very well," he said finally. "We attack."
In Torshavn, Rianor and Riven stood atop the same watchtower. From this vantage point, they could see the entire Southern Valley—and the frantic movement in the royal camp.
"They’re going to attack." It wasn’t a question from Riven.
Rianor nodded. "Alistair has arrived. Leonardo has no choice but to follow his lead."
"Are you sure about this plan?"
"No." Rianor looked at his brother. "But we don’t have a choice either."
Riven smirked. "At least we have that in common."
He turned, gesturing to Thorne who stood below. "Thorne! Prep all units. Tanks at the front, infantry to the rear. Sky-Hunters... it’s finally time we use them."
Thorne nodded and sprinted off, barking orders in every direction.
On the other side of the city, Kaelen and Tamrin were already standing beside their Sky-Hunters. The helicopters—five units brought to Torshavn—were lined up in an open field, their rotors beginning to spin slowly. Technicians scrambled about, performing final checks.
Tamrin stared at the machine before him. His hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from adrenaline that had been suppressed for too long. "Finally," he whispered.
Kaelen patted his shoulder. "Don’t die."
"You too."
At the front lines, Leofric stood beside his command tank. His fists clenched as a faint bluish mana aura began to radiate from his knuckles. "Iron Hand" was ready. Beside him, dozens of Wolf-Tusk and Titan MK-1 tanks were lined up, their cannons aimed south.
"All units," Leofric’s voice echoed over the radio. "Remember. They have mages. They have knights with auras. But we have steel. We have intellect. And we have a reason to win."
He tightened his grip.
"They come to destroy our home. We are here to ensure they never make it back to theirs."
The drums of war began to thunder.
The royal army advanced in a formation unlike any before. This time, they didn’t send wave after wave. They sent everything at once. Tens of thousands of infantry marched in tight formation, led by knights in gleaming plate armor. Behind them, archers and mages took their positions.
But the most striking were the three figures at the front line.
Sir Alfred, "The Iron Wall," stood at the very front. Standing nearly two and a half meters tall, his body was a mass of muscle encased in thick black steel armor. In his left hand, a gargantuan shield—nearly as tall as himself—glowed with a golden aura. Each step he took made the earth tremble, and behind him, the royal soldiers felt safe—as if nothing could pierce the wall he created.
Lady Nyssia, "The Green Wind," walked beside him. Her frame was lithe, her movements light as if her feet barely touched the ground. Her green hair fluttered in the wind, and on her back hung a longbow made of shimmering white metal. There were no arrows in her quiver—for her arrows were forged from pure mana, ready to be manifested whenever she willed it. Her pale blue eyes stared forward, cold and calculating.
And behind them, atop a small hill, Prince Cedric stood. His Archmage robes billowed, and his staff—a shaft of black wood with a crimson crystal at its tip—glowed with an unstable light. His face no longer showed the frustration from Leonardo’s tent. Now, it was a void. Only focus. Only rage that had crystallized into something colder, something more lethal.
Leonardo watched the three of them from his horse. Beside him, Alistair sat in his saddle with one hand on the reins, the other gripping his sword despite his wounded shoulder.
"We strike now," Alistair said.
Leonardo raised his sword. "Charge!"
Sir Alfred moved first.
With a roar that shook the very ground, he sprinted forward—alone, leaving the infantry lines behind. His massive shield glowed brighter and brighter, creating a mana wall before him that absorbed the first cannon fire from the Sudrath tanks. The 105mm shells slammed into the shield and detonated—but Sir Alfred kept running, not slowing in the slightest.
"Keep firing!" Leofric roared. "Don’t stop!"
The Wolf-Tusk tanks spat their shells. But Sir Alfred continued his advance, his shield absorbing it all. Behind him, the royal infantry began to sprint, utilizing the protection he provided.
Atop the hill, Cedric raised his staff.
The sky turned black.
Not ordinary clouds—a massive vortex formed over Torshavn, spinning faster and faster, growing darker. Lightning began to lash out within it, and from the center of the vortex, balls of fire began to fall. One. Five. Ten. Dozens. Like a rain of death descending from the heavens.
"Mana shields!" Rianor shouted.
The Sudrath mages raised their hands, creating a dome of energy over the city. The fireballs slammed into the shield, creating shockwaves that made the earth shudder. But not all could be stopped. One fireball crashed among the tank lines, creating a crater and flipping a Wolf-Tusk onto its side. Its crew scrambled out in a panic, but survived.
"Damn it," Riven cursed. "That’s no ordinary storm."
Cedric wasn’t finished. He swung his staff, and from the vortex, winds began to descend—not just wind, but localized tornadoes that slammed into the defense lines. Sudrath infantry clung to whatever they could hold. Several were hurled away.
"Sky-Hunters! Now!" Rianor commanded.
Five Sudrath helicopters flew low from behind the city. Kaelen led the formation, with Tamrin on the right wing. They streaked toward the hill where Cedric stood.
But Lady Nyssia was already waiting.
She drew her bow. There was no arrow—but as she released the string, dozens of mana arrows streaked into the air, forming an arc that was as beautiful as it was deadly. The arrows tracked the Sky-Hunters like a swarm of hornets.
"I’m locked!" Tamrin screamed. He banked his helicopter, dodging the first three arrows. But the fourth struck his tail rotor. The helicopter shuddered violently, smoke beginning to billow.
"Tamrin! Pull back!" Kaelen shouted.
"I can still—"
An explosion. Tamrin’s tail rotor disintegrated. The helicopter spun wildly, crashing toward the ruins on the edge of the city. Kaelen could only watch.
"Tamrin is down! Medics!"
Atop the hill, Cedric offered a thin smile. He raised his staff again, ready to unleash the next assault.
But before he could, something streaked from the distance.
A Gauss bullet.
Khulafa, from the roof of the ruined marketplace, had been waiting for this moment. His bullet wasn’t aimed at Cedric—too far, too risky. It was aimed at Lady Nyssia.
Nyssia felt it. Her instincts—as sharp as her own arrows—made her tilt her body just as the bullet whizzed by. But she wasn’t fast enough. The bullet grazed her shoulder, causing her to stagger and drop her bow.
"Aaaargh!" Nyssia clutched her shoulder, blood seeping through her fingers.
"They have a marksman!" someone screamed.
Cedric turned, searching for the source of the shot. But Khulafa had already vanished, moving to his next position.
At the front lines, Sir Alfred finally reached the tank lines. He swung his shield, slamming into a Wolf-Tusk until it rolled over. The tank fell on its side, its treads still spinning in the air. The crew screamed from within.
Leofric saw this. He jumped down from his tank.
"I’ll handle him."
"Commander—" Gideon tried to stop him.
"Tanks won’t work." Leofric clenched his fists, his bluish mana aura glowing intensely. "This is a matter for the Iron Hand."
He walked toward Sir Alfred. Two titans—one of steel, one of flesh and aura—stood face-to-face in the middle of the chaotic battlefield.
"You dare?" Sir Alfred asked, his voice heavy as stone.
Leofric didn’t answer. He simply swung his fist.
The battle reached its peak.
Atop the hill, Cedric—frustrated because he couldn’t locate Khulafa—unleashed his rage upon the sky. The vortex over Torshavn grew larger, darker. Fireballs fell faster and in greater numbers. The Sudrath mana shields began to crack.
At the front lines, Leofric and Sir Alfred traded blows. Every clash of fist and shield created shockwaves that cracked the earth around them.
In the air, Kaelen and the remaining Sky-Hunters attacked Lady Nyssia from a distance, forcing her to keep moving and preventing her from aiming calmly.
And amidst all the chaos, Sir Harlan—Leonardo’s trusted knight, who had been by his side since the start of the war—was struck by a Mana Laser beam activated by Rianor from the watchtower. His armor melted. His body fell from his horse. He did not rise again.
Leonardo saw it.
From atop his horse, he watched Sir Harlan—his friend, his advisor, the man who had always whispered words of wisdom in his ear—lying on the ground, motionless.
Time seemed to freeze.
Around him, the battle still raged. But Leonardo could only stare at the corpse of his friend. In the distance, Alistair was still shouting orders. Cedric was still rampaging with his magic. But Leonardo heard nothing.
He only stared at Sir Harlan. And for the first time, he asked himself—not as a crown prince, not as a commander, but as a human being.
What is all this for?
Night fell. The battle subsided not because anyone had won, but because both sides were too exhausted to continue.
In Torshavn, Tamrin was successfully rescued from the wreckage. He was severely injured—his left leg broken, several ribs cracked—but he was alive. The medical team rushed him to the rear, where the medical unit immediately took over.
In the royal camp, Lady Nyssia was being treated by healers. Her wound wasn’t fatal, but she wouldn’t be able to use her bow for several days. Sir Alfred returned with wounds all over his body—Leofric had given him a resistance he hadn’t expected. Cedric sat alone in his tent, drained of mana, staring blankly at the wall.
Leonardo stood beside the body of Sir Harlan, which had been covered with a white cloth. Alistair approached him.
"We attack again tomorrow."
Leonardo didn’t answer.
"Prince Leonardo."
"I hear you." Leonardo’s voice was soft, almost a whisper. "But I don’t know if I want to anymore."
Alistair wanted to retort, but the words caught in his throat. He simply stood there, staring at the back of the crown prince, which had begun to slump—not from fatigue, but from a burden that had grown far too heavy.
In Sol-Regis, thousands of kilometers away, King Edward received the casualty report of the day. Marianne stood beside him, her face pale. Valerine was behind her, her eyes glistening with tears.
"Enough, Edward." Marianne’s voice trembled. "Look at how many have already died. For what? For Eleanor’s grudge?"
Valerine added, her voice louder, braver. "Leonardo is there, Father. My brother. Do you want him to die like Marcus?"
King Edward stared at the report in his hand. The numbers—hundreds, thousands—danced before his eyes. He closed the report.
"Enough." His voice was heavy. "We shall try a peaceful approach."
In her room, Eleanor received the news. She didn’t scream. She didn’t slam the table. She simply stood before the mirror, staring at her own reflection. Then, she took the mirror and shattered it against the floor. Shards of glass scattered everywhere, reflecting her fragmented face—like her kingdom, like her family, like herself.