CHAPTER 200: THE EVE OF THE FINAL BATTLE

The brief reprieve brought about by the Meteor was, for the people of Aleisterre, a moment to catch their breath. But for the people of Selwyn, it was pure, unrelenting annihilation.

Countless ordinary soldiers perished. The requisitioned elite forces of knights and grand knights alike were crushed beneath the devastating impact of that apocalyptic meteor.

Wizards and magicians, rare and precious assets within the Selwyn ranks stationed on the frontlines, were turned to ash in an instant.

With a single strike, Selwyn's momentum was utterly shattered. A full third of its remaining combat forces were obliterated.

Aleisterre's letter requesting that Selwyn surrender was finally delivered to Selwyn's capital, a land now steeped in ruin and despair, with the assistance of many messengers in relay.

The soldier tasked with the final stretch of delivery pulled his hood low over his eyes, unwilling to look upon the capital's bleak streets, which were once glorious but had since been hollowed to the point of unrecognizability.

"I just don't understand... why did we have to go to war with Aleisterre in the first place...?"

His fingers brushed the folded letter tucked in his coat—a plea for surrender from Aleisterre's envoy. He felt a glimmer of a dangerous hope.

"Maybe surrender wouldn't be such a bad choice after all. The Church of Light, the other kingdoms—they wouldn't let one human nation erase another entirely.

"They wouldn't allow it. Times may be hard afterward, but... I just can't bear to watch Selwyn collapse like this. Is there even any point in resisting further...?"

The thoughts swirled in his mind, leaving him torn. Selwyn's traditional code left no room for surrender—it was a cowardly act, shameful and weak.

And yet, reason and a deep love for his homeland told him otherwise. Perhaps... surrender truly was the only way out.

He passed through checkpoints unhindered and entered the royal palace, where he presented the letter to the Minister of Scrolls.

"You've done well, soldier," the minister said gravely, taking the envelope from his hands.

"Thank you, my lord. It was all for Selwyn."

The soldier was taken aback by the unexpected kindness. A palace official, showing concern for someone like him?

"Your heart is in turmoil. You should rest," said the Minister of Scrolls. His voice echoed strangely, low and unnatural.

"Y-yessir..." came the weak reply. The soldier's body sagged—then fell, lifeless. A sword had pierced straight through his heart. Blood spread rapidly, soaking his tunic a deep red.

The minister glanced at the letter of surrender in his hand. He had no intention of passing it on to Selwyn's young king. Instead, he tore it to shreds and summoned black flames to incinerate the remains.

His gaze lingered on the soldier's corpse as black-armored guards dragged it away into the shadows. His voice murmured, low and resolute, "Either fanatics or cowards trembling before the unknown—those are the only types of forces we need. Hope is for the weak."

He headed back into the great hall, Selwyn's seat of power, which remained unchanged from when Aloysius last visited. The atmosphere remained suffocating, steeped in darkness and gloom. Where regal majesty had once dawned, there was only unbearable tension.

Upon the throne sat the young king of Selwyn, still far too youthful for the burden he bore. His question pierced the silence.

"How is the situation?"

"Grave," the minister replied with a deep bow. "But as long as we continue with our plan, there will be no cause for alarm."

"Good." The king's voice was steady. "Selwyn can no longer keep up with this era. Our resources are depleted. Aleisterre's covert shackles and suppression have been slowly poisoning us for years. In truth, we've already been dying a slow death. Tell me... was my decision to gamble everything truly the right one?"

Though phrased as a question, there was no doubt, no hesitation in his voice.

"Yes," came the Minister of Scrolls' firm reply.

"I cannot answer the cries questioning why we must wage war against Aleisterre, for there are things they cannot see. Despite being their so-called rival, we are no longer able to match their pace.

"Their covert suppression is a slow-acting poison. My father saw this clearly. That's why he used his death to ignite this war.

"And I... I will not betray his will. Even if my people must suffer for it, even if despair grips their hearts, that pain—will become our strength.

"In the new realm we shall build, they will gain what they were always denied. They won't waste away in this frozen land, waiting for Selwyn to rot and become a mere appendage of Aleisterre."

His words held only resolution. He was calm but unshakable.

"This will be our final battle. There is no such thing as surrender. Say the courier died on the road. Whether I choose to surrender now or not, it would shake our army's morale either way."

"Prepare the Abyssal Gate. And... it shall soon be time for the two legendary knights to enter the fray."

With his orders given, the minister departed the palace. He had work to do. No matter how hopeless victory seemed, no one within these halls would ever speak the word "surrender."

The sound of hooves echoed across a broken plain, what remained of the battlefield between two nations. A dozen warhorses carried their riders forward.

Yet this "plain" was barely deserving of the name. The earth was cracked, the mountains shattered, and the ground littered with impure, glimmering mana crystals. Uprooted trees lay everywhere in chaotic disarray, the aftermath of the Meteor of Destruction.

The terrain was difficult even for seasoned mounts, and these were just the outer edges of the battlefield. Deeper within, where the meteor had struck and formed a small crater, movement became nearly impossible.

Residual fire still surged through the area; lava flowed unabated. Within the molten streams lurked dangerous elemental lifeforms, born of abundant earth and fire. Where the meteor had fallen, the land would remain inhospitable for years to come.

The objective of this Aleisterre scouting party was simple: find a suitable site for the final battle.

Their strategy was changing. Aleisterre would no longer give Selwyn time to recover. All forces would be mobilized. The next battle would be the last.

Kevan, one of the forward scouts, raised his alchemical spyglass. Standing atop a jagged hill shaped by the meteor's impact, he enjoyed an unobstructed view of the area.

Far off, the majestic expanse of the St. Anna Snowfields came into view. Kevan knew that the kingdom beneath that breathtaking landscape was none other than their mortal enemy, Selwyn.

North of this plain lay Selwyn's home turf. For Aleisterre, whose soldiers were not as innately hardy or fierce, forcing a battle there would be a poor tactical decision.

"How far can our long-range spells reach?" Kevan asked his fellow scout.

"Stevenson Academy sent another reinforcement squad of a few hundred spellcasters, most of which are advanced trainees. With that kind of support, we're looking at an effective range of... say, fifty kilometers?"

His companion glanced at the latest intelligence report.

"That should be enough," Kevan said. "As long as we can push our formations within that range, Selwyn won't be able to delay or retreat. We'll force them into battle, whether they like it or not."

"There'll be heavy casualties..." His fellow Nightblade let out a sigh. "Even if we win, we're forcing Selwyn, whose soldiers are tougher than ours, into a desperate fight. This will be painful."

"We have no choice," Kevan replied, eyes still scanning the distant terrain for suitable positions to establish a camp. "This isn't just about Selwyn anymore. If we don't end this quickly, the other kingdoms along the border will start moving too. You've seen the messages from the four grand dukes, haven't you?"

The wind howled through the ruins of the battlefield. And in the tense silence broken by hoofbeats, the curtain slowly rose on the war's final act.

"I have... what a hassle. Peace has lasted too long. Everyone's recovered from the last catastrophe, rebuilt their strength, and now they're all eyeing new territory to seize..."

His companion spoke with a weary tone, mirroring Kevan's actions as they both surveyed the distant terrain through enchanted telescopes.

Kevan adjusted his alchemical scope. The runes etched into the glass shimmered faintly as the magic realigned, extending his range of vision even further.

"No discrepancies—the landscape matches the map well enough," he said after a moment. "The passage connecting Selwyn to the outside is tightly hemmed in by natural formations. The terrain up north stays the same for quite a distance: there are mountains flanking a narrow path. This clearing here is the most strategic location for our encampment."

Kevan lowered the scope, already envisioning how Aleisterre's army would advance.

This narrow corridor would amplify the power of Aleisterre's battlemages, allowing their combined spells to wreak maximum havoc.

The Selwynian forces, with nowhere to retreat or evade, would suffer relentless bombardment. Their morale would collapse, and the numerical disadvantage of Aleisterre's foot soldiers would cease to matter.

"Kevan, look there! What's going on...?"

His companion's voice cut into his thoughts. Kevan raised the telescope again, turning it toward the spot indicated.

"Damn it!"

What he saw made him pause, then curse under his breath before he released a long, heavy sigh.

In the distance, several kilometers off, a few poorly dressed children crept through a forest whose trees had been toppled by the lingering shockwaves of the Meteor of Destruction. They carried crude hunting gear and moved cautiously among the wreckage.

Their darting eyes and tentative steps betrayed their inexperience. These were not soldiers, but the children of hunters—likely from one of the border villages between Selwyn and Aleisterre.

They were far too young to be out hunting. In this world, magical beasts were no mere animals, but living calamities. No children would be sent into such danger.

"Conscription?" his companion asked quietly.

Kevan nodded grimly. "It must be."

That simple scene laid bare a grim reality: Selwyn had suffered catastrophic losses. The once-proud nation, famed for the strength of its armies, now had no choice but to conscript even its able-bodied civilians.

In theory, this should have been cause for celebration. Selwyn's decline was plain for all to see, and Aleisterre's victory seemed assured.

But Kevan felt no joy.

When the tide of Aleisterre's forces surged forward, no one would stop to consider the fate of Selwyn's common folk. War would grind them beneath its wheels—families who had done nothing but try to live in peace would be crushed. Even if a few survived, the lives they'd known would vanish forever, replaced by a future bleak and uncertain.

And this ran utterly counter to everything the Nightblades stood for.

"I still don't understand why Selwyn would choose to go to war with us," his companion muttered, dragging his hand through his hair in frustration. "There's nothing to gain for either side."

"There's no helping it now," Kevan replied. "Mercy means little at this point. We protect Aleisterre first—everything else comes later.

"Even if we win this war, Selwyn won't be destroyed. At most, they'll be annexed and become part of Aleisterre. When that happens... maybe then we can do something for the civilians."

He forced the thoughts from his mind. This was no time for sentimentality or compassion. Until victory was in their hands, nothing was certain.

"You're right," his companion said after a pause. He unrolled a blank scroll of parchment and began sketching the terrain they had scouted together, marking down optimal locations for encampments and staging grounds.

Kevan used his magitech communicator to transmit the map back to Aleisterre's military camp, where the full army had already gathered. The document quickly made its way to the command tent and was unrolled atop the officers' table.

Several commanders studied the map Kevan had provided. After brief discussion, they finalized the tactical deployments and contingencies for any unforeseen developments. Orders were issued at once.

Aleisterre's army began its march with precision.

The cavalry and its supply wagons took the lead. The infantry followed in formation. The magician corps split into two detachments, each accompanying one of the main forces, using spells to clear paths and accelerate the pace of the march.

Given their meticulous coordination and the aid of transcendental forces, Aleisterre's forces would reach the gates of Selwyn's capital in just a day and a half.

Behind the mighty host that swept across the plains like a rising tide trailed a rather modest-looking carriage. It moved at a steady, sedate pace behind the main body of the infantry.

Inside the carriage, a familiar figure leaned out the window. Fang, who had been absent from the field for some time, surveyed Aleisterre's grand army and smiled, seemingly pleased by the sight.

"Whatever becomes of the royal city, at least Aleisterre's army still knows discipline," he murmured.

Across from him, seated by a simple table inside the carriage, was Garcia. His brows were furrowed as he watched the legions move out.

"There's still something missing in this force," he said quietly. "Teacher, when the time comes... I'll be counting on you."

"Leave it to me," Fang replied with calm conviction. "May the God of Light watch over us all."

With that, he drew his muscular, bare torso back into the carriage and reached for the holy book of the Light—an immense, chain-bound weapon that more closely resembled a meteor hammer than any book. Raising it reverently, he performed the canonical blessing of the Church of Light.