CHAPTER 137: CHAPTER 137 - THE WAR

The camp had become a storm of motion.

Lanterns swung wildly, throwing frantic shadows across the ground as men and women tore through the narrow lanes between tents. Armor clinked, boots slammed against dirt, voices shouted over one another — orders, names, curses. The sharp scent of oiled steel and the bitter tang of burning pitch mixed with the cold night air.

Luca darted through it all, slipping past a soldier struggling to strap on his breastplate, weaving around a cluster of archers fumbling for their quivers. A blacksmith staggered past with a bundle of hastily sharpened spears, their tips catching the light in quick, dangerous flashes.

He wasn’t running toward the battlefield. Not yet.

His path cut through the chaos toward a smaller, quieter stretch of camp — the tent where Celestia and the baby dragon slept. But even here, the air was tight with urgency.

Pushing open the flap, he found Celestia already awake. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, and her expression was calm but sharp — like a blade sheathed but ready. The little dragon girl in her arms stirred faintly, blinking at the noise outside.

"What happened?" Celestia asked, voice clipped.

"The Devil Cultists have attacked," Luca said quickly. "Stay safe, and keep her safe as well. I’ll go to the battlefield."

He turned to leave, but her hand caught his wrist, warm and unyielding. Her eyes locked onto his with a quiet, dangerous insistence. "I will come as well."

"No," Luca said firmly. "You don’t have any powers now."

Her jaw tightened. "But I have my Vermillion Phoenix—"

"That should be our last resort," he cut in. "You have to protect her. Don’t worry — I’ll be back as soon as I can. Then we’ll figure out a way to leave."

Celestia’s grip faltered, though her teeth ground together in frustration. "...Fine. But be safe. And return back to me."

Luca nodded once, then let his gaze fall to the dragon girl in her embrace. She looked up at him with those unblinking, ancient eyes. He reached out, ruffling her hair with a brief, gentle touch — a promise in silence —

"Don’t worry I will protect our daughter well." Celestia said with a reassuring expression.

The camp roared like a living thing.

Metal clanged against metal, a hammerbeat of panic and preparation. Hoarse voices barked orders through the dark, each shout overlapping the next until the air was one constant, pounding note. Horses screamed in protest as handlers yanked at their reins. Somewhere behind him, a barrel of water tipped and split, spilling its contents into the dust — but it was swallowed instantly by the thunder of boots.

Luca ran, his heartbeat drumming in time with the stomping cavalry around him. The ground vibrated beneath his soles, each step jolting up his spine. The clatter of armor at his side was like the clashing of war drums, steady, relentless, inevitable. His breath fell into rhythm with it — in, out, in, out — as the press of bodies closed in.

"Cavalry 56, ASSEMBLE!"

The call punched through the noise, and the flow of soldiers surged toward a single point. Luca was swept into the formation, the tide of steel and leather carrying him forward. The cavalry head raised his saber, its edge catching a streak of lantern light before plunging back into shadow.

"We MARCH—" the man bellowed, voice cracking the night, "—and we kill the enemy to the LAST! MOVE!"

The column thundered forward. Armor rattled like chains. Warhorses snorted, stamping their fury into the earth. The sound swelled until Luca felt it in his teeth, in his bones, until his own pulse matched its brutal tempo.

Then the battlefield opened before them.

Luca’s breath caught.

Spans upon spans of Devil Cultists stretched into the distance, a black tide under the faint starlight. Their faces twisted into cruel parodies of human expressions — lips curled too far, eyes wide and glistening with bloodlust. Weapons gleamed in jagged lines as thousands marched forward, their steps perfectly out of sync, like predators toying with their prey.

A single war cry split the night — then another, then hundreds more, until the air was a wall of sound. And above it, sharp and cutting, came a high-pitched voice dripping venom.

"Hahahahahaha! Where is Rolph?! Come out and face your DEATH! Hahahahahaha!"

Luca’s head snapped upward just as a shadow broke free from the enemy ranks, soaring unnaturally high. It landed with a heavy thud, revealing a disfigured figure: wings jutting from its back at wrong angles, horns curling like claws over a skull too long for its face. Its grin showed teeth like broken glass.

Laughter rolled from the cultists like a sickness.

From the human side, a figure stepped forward, calm in the madness. Rolph Dragonair’s golden hair whipped in the wind, catching the cold light like molten metal. His gaze was sharp enough to cut through the night.

"Hmph... Devil General Santos, you bastard," Rolph’s voice rang out, low but carrying. "How dare you attack us."

So that’s the devil general santos, ha, that bastard is still alive even after 7000 years, he has caused so much trouble in the game for me.

But what is with this army, I thought the soldier yesterday was exaggerating when he said we are still less, and it will need at least double of it to stand a chance.

I just hope her majesty and baby dragon will be ok.

In one smooth motion, he drew his twin sabers — the blades humming faintly with the same deadly confidence in his voice.

Luca blinked in sudden understanding. So that’s what he meant... "you too."

Santos threw his head back and howled with manic joy. "Hahahahahahaha! ATTACK! Leave NO ONE alive!"

The world lurched forward.

Both sides surged, steel and flesh crashing toward each other. The ground shook with the first collision — and the night screamed with the sound of war.

The gap between the armies vanished in a blink.

There was no warning, no neat collision like in the stories — just an explosion of sound and motion as two tides slammed into each other. The world turned into a blur of steel and flesh, the clang of blades striking sparks against armor, the wet, dull thunk of something heavier meeting bone.

Luca’s breath caught in his throat. There was no space to think. He ducked under a wild swing, the wind of it brushing the top of his hair, and drove his shoulder into the cultist’s chest. They both staggered; a shout rang in his ear — not words, just rage.

The air was thick with the smell of blood before he’d even drawn his second breath. Someone screamed behind him, high-pitched and wet, then was cut short. The press of bodies shoved him sideways, his boots skidding in mud already slick with something darker.

Keep moving.

That was all his mind could hold on to.

He saw flashes — a man’s jaw shattering under a mace, teeth spinning away like white gravel; a horse rearing and coming down hard on someone’s ribs; the glint of Rolph’s sabers carving arcs of silver in the night. Every blink was another life ending.

A cultist lunged at him, face twisted into a mask of hate, the edge of a rusted cleaver glinting inches from Luca’s throat. Instinct took over. His right saber met the cleaver with a jar that rattled his bones, his left swept low in the same heartbeat — and he felt the sudden, shocking give of steel sliding through flesh.

The man’s eyes widened. His mouth opened, but no sound came. He collapsed forward, heavy and limp, the heat of his blood spilling across Luca’s hands.

For a heartbeat, the noise of the battle seemed to fall away. The man’s weight dragged at his arm; the scent of iron was overwhelming.

Then someone slammed into his back, shoving him forward into the chaos again, and the world roared back to life.