"Our lives are offerings to the Mother, our spilled blood the carpet to the heavens, and the heads of our enemies the toll we pay!"

The holy knights of the Order were widely feared across the continent as formidable opponents. The blessings they cast upon themselves were powerful enough to turn even ordinary people into elite soldiers, a fearsome advantage on its own. Moreover, even if an enemy managed to wound them, they would simply chant a healing spell, restoring their vigor and demoralizing their foes.

Among these holy knights, the Zion Order—renowned for both skill and fervent devotion—stood at the forefront, holding the line against the creatures of the night.

"First row, fire! Second row, prepare to fire!"

Using the Zion Order as a shield, the mages positioned behind them unleashed a barrage of elemental spells—lightning, fire, wind—all raining down on the clustered enemies in a dazzling display. Had this not been a battlefield, the sheer beauty of the magic would have left onlookers spellbound.

The mages in the allied forces were not researchers from the Tower but seasoned battle mages. Like trained archers releasing arrows in rapid succession, they cast their spells in a coordinated, relentless onslaught.

"An enemy has broken through the right flank!"

"I'll handle it!"

Of course, a few enemies survived the mages' barrage and slipped past the shield of the holy knights. Yet those who managed to break through found arrows aimed directly at them, and they quickly fell to the ground as cold corpses.

The Crimson Warden, comprised of elite elven archers specifically chosen from each clan to counter the night creatures, did not miss a single stray enemy. While arrows were typically ineffective against creatures who could heal almost instantly, a well-aimed shot to the head—their only weakness—proved fatal. The members of the Crimson Warden executed these headshots as effortlessly as breathing.

"Hold this formation! If we fall back, people will die!"

The well-coordinated alliance, having trained together, formed a resilient line that could hardly be bettered against the creatures of the night.

"Damn it, why are they so well-prepared?"

Blackthorn, one of Satanail's direct subordinates, cursed in frustration. He had known of the alliance's formation but hadn’t expected such a formidable force.

Crack!

"How wonderful! So many little insects gathered here! Truly, Mother’s grace abounds!"

A lone holy knight had broken from the ranks and was swinging both his mace and sword among the dark elves. Crushing one dark elf’s head with his mace, he thrust his sword into the leg of another approaching foe.

"This kind of wound is meaningless to me!" shouted a dark elf, undeterred as he lunged forward with a sword embedded in his thigh.

"I wasn't trying to wound you; I was making sure you couldn’t escape."

Alexander, seemingly relaxed amidst the chaos, swung his mace at the approaching enemy again. The dark elves, of course, didn’t stand idly by; they attacked him with sharp claws and fangs, yet it was to no avail.

"Ah… this is splendid! To watch the insects thrash about right from the front…."

The undead Alexander. The nickname "undying" wasn’t limited to the creatures of the night. Alexander, commander of the Zion Order, had earned it as well.

As light seeped from the wounds across his body, it became clear that the source was the intricate tattoos covering him—an ancient spell of life from the Goddess Order. The tattoo of life was a forbidden technique, abandoned due to its severe side effects, but it allowed holy power to convert into healing, granting an extraordinary regenerative ability.

The pain from healing wounds was so excruciating that it could drive most people mad, but Alexander, who felt no pain, had no qualms about it. He experienced only the pleasure of crushing heretical heads.

"What is this human monster?!"

While Alexander tore through the enemy ranks, others followed his lead.

Clang!

Kyle wielded the blade style of House Prius of the North, known for one of the Empire’s finest sword techniques. Born from the harsh winters and monster-infested lands of the North, this swordplay was as sharp as a winter gale, developed to pierce the tough hides of northern beasts.

The path of the sword he carved since childhood now tore through the dark elves with ruthless precision.

And then,

“We’re the ones surrounding them—why does it feel like we’re the ones cornered?!”

While Alexander drew the enemy in and Kyle carved out space, Edric created gaps within the enemy ranks.

Each step he took forced the dark elves back, as though an invisible barrier kept them from approaching him. It felt as if an unseen shield encircled Edric, barring any advance.

“This has to be sorcery!” one of the dark elves cried.

The instinct to survive held them back, a primal warning that stepping within that space meant certain death.

Yet, ignoring this instinct, a few dark elves lunged at Edric.

Swish.

Thud.

The scene was surreal: a dark elf practically offering his neck to Edric’s sword, decapitated as if willingly.

"No one can break that technique the first time," Kyle muttered, watching Edric cut through the enemies with a look of resignation.

Marionette—the name given to Edric’s sword technique. It created an absolute zone around the length of his sword, where he could control the movements of any opponent, as if pulling the strings of a puppet. Edric had honed this technique from a concept he’d developed in his youth while trying to survive against his sister, Iolyn.

Even his master, the Swordmaster, had remarked that breaking this technique was impossible on first encounter—a notion beyond the comprehension of the instinct-driven dark elves.

As these exceptional fighters wreaked havoc among the enemy ranks, the allied forces intensified their push.

"It’s exactly as predicted."

After bathing in blood for hours, Alexander murmured. Despite wreaking such havoc in the enemy ranks, the truly elite—the Twelve and their leader, Satanail—remained absent. He had anticipated their appearance by now and clicked his tongue in frustration.

Instead, he noticed only a few among the enemy ranks who appeared to be subordinates. It was an insufficient number for a direct confrontation.

"They’ll organize a detachment to attack the rear."

Richard, the head of the Crimson Warden, had correctly predicted this when forming the alliance’s battle plans.

Thunk!

"Getting old really isn’t what it used to be."

Yet his breathing steady, Alain drove a dagger into a dark elf’s skull just as the creature crossed the manor’s boundary. The strike was so flawless that the elf only realized it was dead once the blade was embedded in its head.

Though the "acrobats" had long faded into the shadows of history, Alain carried on the deadly techniques once synonymous with death in the Empire. Silently, he vanished into the darkness again.

"Your footwork is sharp for a human."

"You seem like a worthy hunt."

"Hah! An old man flaunting his tricks! I may not like old blood, but I’ll make an exception for you tonight!"

Alain sensed the power of the opponent before him. Facing him would require complete focus.

"I trust you, young master."

Leaving the rear to Richard, he prepared to face the formidable foe in front of him.

"They split their forces."

Satanail scowled.

He’d led four of his Twelve in a planned assault on the rear to end the battle swiftly, only to find a portion of the allied forces already awaiting them.

Though their numbers were limited, those stationed here were skilled enough to keep his subordinates at bay.

"You’ve learned nothing. Did you think the same trick would work again?"

Blocking his path was a single man.

"I should have killed you back then. You think you’re a match for me because some old man saved you once?"

"That’s rich, coming from someone who fled after my master’s strike."

"You insolent wretch!"

As Satanail’s power surged, the air trembled. Richard responded by drawing his signature greatsword to his chest in a battle stance.

"Burn everything you have."

Richard recalled the words of his master, the Swordmaster.

Now was the time to burn everything he had and bring this to an end.

While Satanail and Richard faced off, Sifris, Alain, Owne, and the rest of the rear guard were locked in fierce combat with the enemy’s top lieutenants.

"That’s my boy. Back in my day, I was quite a swordsman myself," murmured Earl Bradley, observing the battle from the manor’s innermost chamber.

"Don’t lie, Father. Alain told me everything."

"Wha…what nonsense do you speak of?!"

"He said you went off to become a knight when you were younger but came back empty-handed after running into bandits."

Earl Bradley and Rupert were sheltering in the study, watching the battle unfold through the window.

"I want to fight too!"

"No! If you do anything dangerous, you won’t get any treats from now on!"

The allied forces had sequestered those who were unfit for battle in a safe place, ensuring they stayed out of harm’s way.