A wasteland of shattered obsidian and drifting ash, where the horizon burned red from the reflection of endless fire.

The earth itself groaned under the weight of war.

Each step cracked the scorched ground like thin glass. The air smelled of iron, smoke, and mana discharge.

It was the final battlefield.

And it was hell.

The first bombardments came before sunrise. The northern airships—sleek, black-plated vessels—screamed overhead, their cannons spitting white-blue mana shells that split the air with thunderclaps. Central and Southern defenses flared in retaliation, holy light erupting from cathedral-like engines stationed along the ridges.

In seconds, the skies were chaos.

Two airships collided midair, exploding in a burning rain of debris. The bodies of soldiers fell like meteors, streaking trails of fire. On the ground, ranks of armored men shouted and charged, their banners drowned in flame.

And in the heart of it all—Noah stood.

His coat was tattered, blackened by soot, his silver eyes reflecting every flicker of the battlefield like mirrors of death. He spun his spear in a blur, its metallic hum resonating with the pulse of mana surging through his veins.

"Push forward!" he shouted. His voice cut through the roar of war like a blade.

The northern line advanced—disciplined, cold, efficient. Golems of steel lumbered beside them, firing rune shells that exploded into arcs of light. Noah lunged into the fray, his spear cleaving through armor and flesh alike.

Each movement was mechanical perfection.

A step, a twist, a thrust—every motion calculated to end a life.

A knight from the Central-South Alliance charged at him, sword gleaming with divine fire. Noah ducked under the swing, parried with the shaft of his spear, and spun behind him. The spearhead split through the knight's backplate and erupted through his chest.

Another came from the side—a dual wielder. Noah blocked the first strike, countered the second by snapping his spear to the side and catching the blade between the reinforced tines near its base. He pulled, disarming the man, and ended it with a precise upward thrust through the neck.

Blood sprayed, black under the dark sky.

But across the field, the storm was mirrored by another—a crimson one.

Draven Lockwood moved like a god among men. His white armor was smeared in red, his once-pure insignia drowned in blood. Each swing of his sword carved a scar across the earth; his blade gleamed faintly red, alive with mana-fed hunger.

Central soldiers followed him with fanatic devotion, shouting his name as if it were a prayer.

"FOR THE SAINT!"

He didn't respond. His face was calm, almost tranquil.

A Northern lancer came at him, thrusting a spear toward his chest. Draven sidestepped with minimal motion, caught the shaft with his free hand, and twisted it, breaking the soldier's arm. Then, with one clean motion, he brought his sword down diagonally—the man split apart before he even hit the ground.

Blood splattered against his armor, evaporating into steam as Draven's divine mana ignited.

Then the air thickened. He raised his free hand, fingers curling like claws. The blood on the ground responded—rising, swirling, shaping into whips that lashed outward.

The Northern front screamed as the crimson tendrils tore through their ranks, dragging men off their feet. Draven moved through them like a reaper, every gesture graceful, every strike absolute.

He wasn't fighting out of rage or hatred. He was performing.

And with every swing, the battlefield turned redder.

---

On the Northern flank, May Vale crouched behind a shattered wall, her hands shaking as she reloaded her long-range mana rifle. The lens of her scope was cracked, smoke curling off the barrel. Her artillery unit—what remained of it—was reduced to a dozen trembling survivors.

"May! Left ridge!" a gunner shouted.

She didn't answer—just rolled out from cover, slammed the rifle butt into her shoulder, and fired.

The bullet—a compressed mana core—sliced through the air with a scream, piercing a Central sniper clean through the temple. She adjusted without hesitation and fired again, and again, each shot finding its mark through the chaos.

Her breath came sharp between her teeth, but she didn't stop.

At the corner of her vision, she saw a Northern soldier crawling, clutching his stomach. May dropped her rifle, dragging him behind the rubble. He was young—too young—blood foaming at his mouth.

"Tell my mother… I made it to the front…" he whispered.

May froze. Her throat tightened. But before she could speak, the boy went still.

She pressed a trembling hand to his chest. "I'll tell her," she whispered. "I swear I will."

A deafening explosion threw her off balance—one of the airships overhead spiraling downward in flames. She ducked, the shockwave slamming through the wall behind her. Dust fell over her like snow.

When she looked up again, the world was a haze of red smoke and drifting ash.

---

Meanwhile, near the center ridge—where the obsidian earth glowed faintly from heat—Iris fought like a demon in human skin.

Her crimson butterflies fluttered through the air, delicate but deadly, their wings laced with toxin. Wherever they landed, men screamed—their skin blackening, veins glowing sickly red.

She darted between soldiers, her movements fluid and sharp. She didn't carry a sword; she didn't need one. Her fists glowed faintly pink with energy.

A Central knight swung a greatsword at her. She caught the blade mid-swing with both palms—mana flaring around her hands—and snapped the weapon in half with a twist. Then she drove her knee into his ribs, her elbow into his throat, and spun, landing a backfist that shattered his visor.

Another came behind her—she ducked, sweeping his legs from under him, and punched upward through his helmet before he hit the ground.

The battlefield around her was a blur of movement—flashes of steel, screams, thunder, and blood. Yet she moved with perfect rhythm, as though the chaos itself bent around her.

One butterfly landed on her shoulder, its wings fluttering faintly. She smiled sadly. "You shouldn't be here either," she murmured.

Then she jumped into the next wave.

---

The first day ended with neither side gaining ground. The plains were a graveyard of twisted steel and burned banners.

By the second day, the obsidian had turned to sludge from the heat of constant bombardment. Smoke clouds rolled across the land like living things. Noah's spear was cracked near the base, but he refused to stop.

He stood atop a wrecked tank golem, breathing hard, blood running down his cheek. Around him, the remnants of Chrome Hearts regrouped, battered but alive.

"Sir," one said, voice trembling. "They're not breaking."

"I know," Noah replied, his eyes on the horizon. "Neither are we."

He leapt down, landing in the mud, and spun his spear, mana flaring bright blue around the weapon. "For the North!"

The soldiers roared, surging forward once more.

And again, the world dissolved into carnage.

Draven appeared like a ghost within the fog, his white armor stained entirely red now. When Noah saw him through the smoke, their gazes met across the field.

No words were exchanged.

They simply moved.

---

Draven stepped forward, cutting down a Northern soldier with one swing, blood spraying into the air. Noah sprinted toward him, boots cracking the obsidian beneath his feet.

Their weapons collided with a shockwave that rippled across the battlefield.

Spear met sword—mechanical precision versus divine instinct. Noah thrust, Draven parried, countered with a diagonal slash; Noah twisted the spearshaft, deflecting the blow and spinning to strike again. Sparks and mana flares lit the air like lightning.

Draven struck overhead—Noah blocked and counter-thrusted toward the ribs. Draven turned his body slightly, letting the spear graze his armor, then retaliated with a knee to Noah's side that sent him staggering.

Noah gritted his teeth, wiped blood from his mouth, and lunged again.

Each movement was faster, sharper.

Their soldiers had stopped fighting, watching from afar as the two titans clashed.

Draven's blade pulsed red as he unleashed his blood magic—tendrils rising from the ground, forming blades that slashed toward Noah. Noah spun, his spear glowing white-hot as he deflected them, the mana arcs slicing through the crimson mist.

"Still the same," Draven murmured, eyes calm even amid the destruction. "Always reaching beyond your limits."

Noah didn't answer—he simply attacked again.

Their weapons clashed, broke apart, reformed, collided again. The earth cracked beneath them.

Overhead, airships burned like falling stars. May fired into the sky, trying to down enemy interceptors. Iris fought below, protecting the artillery line. The battlefield had become one living organism—a roaring, bleeding beast of men and machines.

By the third night, no one remembered what peace felt like.

Bodies littered the plains. The smoke was so thick that the moon was a dull red smear.

Noah stood amid the ruins, chest heaving, his spear broken in half. Draven faced him across the field, blood dripping from his sword, his expression unreadable.

The war hadn't ended.

Neither had won.

But both had lost something far greater than they could ever reclaim.

Somewhere in the dark, a soldier screamed for his mother.

Another called out for his god.

And then there was silence—just the faint, distant crackle of fire over shattered glass.

The world began to wonder if peace was still possible.