Chapter 78

Chapter 78
The War Room, Two Days Later

The war table stretched before me like a battlefield in miniature—maps pinned with coloured markers, glowing sigils, and shifting illusions depicting terrain and fortifications. The royal war room smelt of sweat, ink, wax, and steel. The scent of coming blood.
Around me stood the kingdom’s best: King Ernest, tall and stern, the fire in his eyes no longer hidden behind politics; the Queen, her cold beauty sharpened by war; Saintess Athena, her staff glowing faintly with divine protection spells; and General Corth, grizzled and sharp-eyed, already wearing half his armour. Felix stood beside me, arms crossed, and behind him, Kael quietly jotted notes.
Outside, my newly arrived warriors from my land stood out—5,000 of them, half a dozen Humvees, and trucks filled with my weapons, like hammers among scalpels—Silverya, Elvie with her dark glare and her curved blade strapped to her back; Karl, still grieving but burning for revenge; and my engineers, who whispered of mana-powered artillery and railguns waiting to be deployed from Robinson Town.
The king pointed at a section of the map—Demonland’s eastern stronghold.
Varkoz Bastion. A fortress carved into black mountain cliffs. Impenetrable by conventional means, protected by corrupted mana storms and summoned sentries.
“It’s the Demon Lord’s primary eastern gate,” the king said. “We believe the attack on the festival was orchestrated from there. Our scouts confirm increased magical activity—summonings, patrols, even airborne shadow beasts. He’s preparing for something larger.”
I leaned in, eyes narrowing at the terrain. “Steep cliffs, one major path through the canyon… a classic choke point. Any army marching in from the front will get slaughtered.”
“We know,” General Corth said. “That’s why we’re not sending a traditional force. We’re planning a split strike. One frontal to draw them out. One behind, to gut the command.”
“And you want me leading the second wave.”
“Exactly,” said the king. “Your vehicles, your drones, your warriors—you can move faster and hit harder than anyone. And your dragon…”
He looked out the stained-glass window at the palace courtyard, where Flare slept curled like a living flame around the statue of the first Guardian.
“...Your dragon can reach places our siege towers cannot.”
“Count on us,” I said without hesitation. “But we’ll need support. Anti-mage barriers. A silence field for our approach. And enchantments to cloak the engines from mana sensors.”
The High Mage Eldrin stepped forward. “I’ve already begun preparing enchanted netting and suppression glyphs. Your machines will move like shadows.”
“Good.” I nodded. “Then here’s my plan.”
I circled the table and laid down my rough plan.
“We move in three stages. First: I send in six scout drones—silent, fast, and invisible to most magical detection. They'll tag enemy cannons, casters, and beast pens. Once that data’s in—”
“—You bomb the targets,” the Queen finished. “Pre-emptive suppression.”
“Exactly,” I said. “My rail launchers can hit from ten kilometres out. After that, my convoy moves. We’ve got six armoured HUMVEEs, three dozen mana bikes, ten resupply trucks, and one rolling platform for the dragon.”
Gasps followed that last part.
“You have a transport for a ?” the general said in disbelief.
“She flies when she wants, but sometimes she likes a ride,” I said dryly.
Flare’s size had grown since the last battle. Her presence alone was enough to make even dark mages hesitate. With Silvarya riding her and channelling divine fire from her guardian bloodline, they made a living siege weapon.
After the meeting, I lingered.
Then Queen approached me while the others filtered out.
“You’ve gained their trust, Dirk,” she said quietly. “Even those who once called you a foreigner and a freak now look to you for salvation.”
“I don’t care what they call me,” I replied. “As long as they stand ready when we march.”
“And if they don’t?”
I looked out the window at the army forming in the training grounds below—hundreds of knights, mages, archers, and my own people dressed in strange armour and carrying modern rifles.
“Then I’ll go without them.”
She stared at me for a long moment. Then she nodded. “Spoken like a king.”
The Night Before the March, I walked the rows of my soldiers in the temporary base outside the capital.
The machines gleamed under moonlight. Engine cores hummed with mana and diesel. Warriors sharpened their blades and checked ammo. Dwarven engineers inspected mounted cannons. Beastkin scouts whispered about terrain and curses.
Silvarya met me near the stables. Her eyes, once distant and dazed, now shone with fire. She wore the armour of an ancient guardian, reborn.
“I’ll fly with you,” she said.
I took her hand. “I’d be honored.”
Behind us, Elvie, Ella and Miss Agnes were running drills. Felix was handing out maps. Kael had returned from the scouts with news of a possible path through a corrupted forest—a dangerous shortcut. I noted it down.
The wind shifted. Flare raised her head and released a low growl toward the distant mountains. It had begun. Tomorrow, we march. Not just to destroy a stronghold. But to send a message. You do not burn our homes and walk away. You face us. You face .


The sky was iron-grey when we set out.
No music. No speeches. Just the rumble of engines, the march of steel boots, and the crackling of enchanted banners unfurling against the rising wind. Five thousand of my own warriors stood at my back—clad in enchanted armour forged from dwarven alloy and reinforced with technology beyond this world. Their eyes burnt with resolve. These weren’t just fighters.
They were freed slaves, former mercenaries, smiths, beastkin, and humans who had seen their homes torn apart and chose to rise.
They called themselves The Free Blades.
And behind us, stretching like a tide across the plains, came the Royal Vanguard: fifty thousand strong. The finest warriors, mages, archers, priests, and knights of the four kingdoms, united under one banner. Each house had sent their elite—grizzled veterans and fiery young heirs alike. Their enchanted swords glowed. Their armour shimmered with layered glyphs. Their formation was perfect.
Flare flew high above us like a second sun. Her wings left trails of golden flame across the darkening clouds. On her back rode Silvarya, armour gleaming, hair braided, the ancient guardian’s pendant pulsing with divine light.
The plains before us were flat, endless, and cursed.
The —once a thriving trade route before the Demon Lord scorched it black.
We marched anyway.
Because war was not a choice anymore.