The air was filled with the metallic taste of iron, the stench of charred soil, and the cries of men who refused to die quietly.

Sunreach's field — once green with frost and banners — was now nothing but a graveyard of shattered steel and blackened earth. The earlier bombardments had left the ground jagged and uneven, pits of fire still burning like open wounds in the soil.

The Northern banners fluttered weakly against the wind.

And then — the horns blared.

"Front line! Push forward!"

From the northern flank, waves of soldiers surged across the blasted plain. Their boots sank into ash. Their armor rattled like a thousand drums. Spears lowered, shields raised — they collided with the Central-South coalition in an explosion of sound and motion.

The world became chaos.

Steel met steel.

Screams tore through the air.

"Hold the line!" a Northern lieutenant yelled, parrying a thrust before driving his blade into the attacker's throat. Blood sprayed across his face as he stumbled forward, stepping over the body to meet the next foe.

"Medic! We need a healer—!" another voice cried before being cut off by a spear through the chest.

The battlefield writhed.

Arrows descended like rain, their shadows flickering across the smoke. Horses screamed as bolts of magic ripped through their riders. Flames burst from the south's mages, painting the sky in molten orange. Ice shards countered from the north, freezing the air into shards that whirled like knives.

Men shouted prayers, curses, names of their children — anything that might carry them through another breath.

One soldier from the north, his face half-covered in soot, charged into a cluster of southern infantry. His sword swung wide, splitting a man's helm in half before his arm was seized and twisted. The enemy's dagger found his ribs. He gasped — blood bubbling — and with his last strength, pulled the man closer to drive his own blade through both of them.

"Fall back!"

"No! Advance! Push them back to the ridge!"

Nobody listened. Nobody could. The field had no leaders now — only survivors clawing for inches.

A young northern gunner fired from behind a destroyed cannon, reloading with shaking hands. He muttered, "For the General… for the North," before a streak of fire exploded beside him. The blast hurled him backward. His body hit the ground, eyes blank, lips still mouthing the words.

Amid the slaughter, the ground trembled.

A low, ringing hum rolled through the field — like something ancient stirring.

The soldiers nearest to the southern ranks turned, confusion flickering in their eyes.

Someone was walking through the smoke.

A figure in white armor, unblemished by soot or blood, stepped into view. Sunlight caught on the polished plates, scattering reflections across the corpses around him. A long crimson cloak dragged behind, its edges stained dark.

He carried no banner, no insignia of rank — only a faint mark etched into his shoulder plate: the insignia of the St. Eldred Church.

He didn't speak. Didn't shout orders or threats.

He simply walked forward.

The northern soldiers tensed.

"Who the hell is that?"

"Some kind of knight?"

"Don't let him through!"

A squad of five broke formation and charged.

The white-armored man moved.

It wasn't speed that killed them — it was precision.

His sword flowed through the air like water, each strike measured to waste nothing. The first soldier fell before he even realized his guard had been opened. The second lunged, but the stranger caught his wrist mid-motion, twisting just enough to dislocate the joint before sliding his blade through the gap under the chin.

Blood sprayed.

And yet, he never slowed.

The third soldier swung down from behind — the stranger shifted half an inch, letting the blade graze his shoulder before countering with an upward cut that severed the man's arm completely.

He caught the falling weapon mid-air — and threw it.

It pierced another man's throat cleanly.

The last soldier, trembling, backed away. "M-Monster…"

The man in white raised his hand — and the blood around him began to move.

Thin streams lifted from the corpses, spiraling through the air like red ribbons. They twisted together, forming spear-like shapes that shimmered with unnatural energy.

"Blood manipulation…" one of the Northern captains gasped. "He's—he's using forbidden magic!"

Before the captain could shout another word, one of those crimson spears shot forward, tearing through his chest.

The stranger continued walking, leaving the spear embedded in the man's body.

He reached another group — eight men this time, their blades drawn, encircling him.

He exhaled slowly.

The air around him pulsed. Blood from the fallen seeped upward, coating his boots, wrapping around his arm in thin crimson threads. His sword absorbed it, the steel turning red — glowing faintly, almost alive.

The eight men attacked at once.

He ducked beneath the first strike, dragging his sword across the ground to draw a sharp arc. Blood followed the motion — exploding outward in a crescent wave. Three soldiers fell instantly, their bodies cut cleanly in half.

The rest pressed on — a spear thrust, a blade swing, a cry of desperation — but his movements were too precise. Each motion flowed into the next, an unbroken chain of efficiency and grace.

He kicked one attacker backward, parried another with the flat of his sword, and stepped aside just in time for two of his opponents to strike each other.

He did not waste energy. He did not miss.

Every strike landed with purpose — and when his final opponent dropped to the ground, clutching a fatal wound, the man in white finally stopped moving.

His armor was splattered now, red against the sun.

But his eyes — cold, grey, unshaken — betrayed no emotion.

He turned his head slightly, sensing another group approaching.

A Northern gunner on a ridge loaded his rifle and aimed. "Got him."

He fired.

The bullet never reached.

The blood at the man's feet surged upward — a crimson wall that caught the shot mid-air before collapsing into mist.

The gunner blinked. "What—"

The mist shot forward, slicing across the ridge like a blade. When it cleared, the gunner's head rolled off his shoulders, falling to the dirt below.

The field had gone quiet.

Even the sounds of chaos seemed to fade, as though the battle itself recognized something unnatural had entered its stage.

---

In the distance, from the command deck of the airship Eclipse, General Noah stood at the observation window. Smoke drifted around the fleet, obscuring the horizon, but his sharp eyes cut through it.

"Report," he ordered.

Colonel Ren Harven appeared beside him, carrying a blood-smeared map. "We've confirmed the southern vanguard's collapse in the western sector, but—" he hesitated, voice low, "—something else is happening on the main front."

"Define 'something.'"

Ren's throat tightened. "Our scouts report an unidentified commander leading the southern remnants. He's not issuing orders verbally, yet their coordination's flawless. Every ambush, every maneuver— it's like…"

"Like what?"

Ren swallowed. "…like watching your playbook, sir."

Noah's gaze sharpened. "Impossible."

"Their ambushes, their flanking patterns, even their timing of reinforcement— identical to your winter campaigns. The troops are calling him the 'Southern Ghost.'"

Noah stepped closer to the window. The haze of battle shifted just enough — and then he saw it.

A single man standing amidst the field of corpses.

White armor. A red sword.

Even from this distance, Noah could see the way he moved — every motion deliberate, controlled. The way he directed the battle without speaking, as though the blood itself obeyed him.

For the first time in months, Noah felt his chest tighten.

"Zoom in," he said.

The lens adjusted, bringing the image closer.

The man looked up.

The light caught his face — splattered with red on one side, the other pale and expressionless.

A familiar sharpness in his eyes. A stillness Noah recognized.

Ren followed his gaze and froze. "Who is that?"

Noah didn't answer.

His lips parted just enough to whisper a name.

"Draven..."

The wind swept across the wrecked plain, carrying smoke and ash.

The sun glinted off Draven's armor.

He looked directly at the airships.