The Zenithian Empire stood as an unshakable monolith of power, its might stretching across vast lands that few dared to challenge.
Where other nations crumbled under the weight of time, war, and corruption, Zenithia endured, its rule as firm as the heavens.
Founded in blood and tempered through conquest, it was an empire of warriors, scholars, and rulers who saw strength not as an option, but as a necessity.
The empire thrived under an iron law.
Order above all.
The weak were protected, but only those with the will to rise above their station could grasp true power.
At the heart of the empire lies it's capital, Eidralis.
It was a fortress of towering spires and gleaming citadels, where banners of crimson and gold draped over the streets.
The imperial city was a masterpiece of structure and serenity, each stone laid with purpose, each road leading toward the heart of Zenithia.
The Imperial Palace of the Everflame.
Here, Emperor Alaric sat upon his golden throne, his gaze ever fixed upon the horizon, ready to face any threats to his empire's sovereignty.
The Zenithian military was the hammer of the gods, a force unmatched in both discipline and strategy.
Four great divisions formed the backbone of its might.
The Argent Guard, elite warriors clad in silver and black, sworn to defend the empire's core.
The Crimson Dragoons, cavalry whose lances struck like falling stars, swift and merciless.
The Obsidian Sentinels, masters of siege warfare and iron discipline, their presence alone was enough to bring lesser armies to their knees.
The Stormborn Legion, wielders of magic and alchemy, their command of the arcane turning battlefields into graveyards.
Zenithia did not expand recklessly. Every conquest was calculated, every war waged with purpose.
Yet its patience was not to be mistaken for weakness.
Those who turned their backs on justice, tyrants who thrived on the suffering of their own people, would soon find themselves standing at the gates of oblivion, staring into the eyes of the empire's wrath.
Now, with the Rosel Kingdom's nobles drowning in their own corruption, the empire's patience had run dry.
The order had been given.
March upon the wastelands.
Bring judgment to the oppressors.
Let the world remember why Zenithia stands unchallenged.
*****
General Carsen began to work immediately after leaving the Royal castle.
As he stepped outside of the main hall, he looked up at the clear blue skies.
A thousand thoughts roared in his mind as his eyes glistened in the Sun's rays.
With a deep breath, General Carsen closed his eyes before disappearing into the wind.
Hundreds of meters away, he appeared in front of a historic building.
The war chambers of the Zenithian empire.
Entering the building was a majestic display of thousands of relics and art from past wars.
General Carsen ignored all distractions and promptly arrived at the main conference room.
As he sat down at the head of a large table, he called out a single name.
"Varyn"
The war chamber fell into silence as four shadows appeared, cloaked in silence and mystery.
One by one, they knelt before General Carsen, their heads bowed in perfect discipline.
His cold gaze swept across them like a blade.
His voice, firm and deliberate, carrying the weight of imperial will.
"Varyn. You'll be leading this operation from the shadows. Assemble the commanders of all four divisions. I want them briefed within the next hour—no delays, no excuses. The gears of war move now."
General Carsen paused before he continued to speak.
"When we begin to march, scrub the perimeter of the command camp for leaks."
"There is something strange about this new generation of soldiers. Until we figure out what exactly is going on, we need to stay on our toes."
"Every whisper, every loose tongue. If there's even a scent of sabotage, I want it crushed before it takes root. Report directly to me."
Carsen then turned to the next man.
"Corvus. Disappear into Rosel's cities. I want every noble's dirty secret in my hands before my boots reach their gates. Blackmail, betrayal, treachery—I want it all exposed."
"Infiltrate their messenger networks. Replace their information with our misinformation. Let them doubt their own eyes. Break their trust in each other before we break their walls."
Carsen's gaze fixed on the next woman.
"Selene. I want their command structure bleeding before their army even forms rank. Identify their top generals, captains, advisors and every strategist. Start cutting them down one by one."
"And while you're there… leave their soldiers terrified. Leave no trace but a corpse and a whisper. Let fear march ahead of us."
He finally turned to the last woman.
"Mira. You'll go deeper than the rest. Infiltrate Rosel's nobility. Seduce, deceive, manipulate—whatever it takes. I want a noble house turned before we cross the border."
"Find their internal fractures. Fan the flames of distrust. If we can divide them from within, we won't need to lift a sword to win half this war."
"I give you all permission to use the teleportation arrays. We will follow shortly behind you."
General Carsen said all that he needed to. The four people bowed once more before speaking in unison and disappearing into the shadows.
"By the will of the empire."
*****
Three hours had passed since General Carsen arrived at the war chambers.
Now, he stood infront of the Royal castle facing an army adorned in their respective uniforms.
All the commanders had been briefed, weapons had been sharpened and provisions had been packed.
Every soldier looked at the commanding general with fear and admiration.
As the wind held its breath, General Carsen's voice echoed throughout the entire capital city.
Every man, woman and child could hear him as if he were standing in front of their eyes.
"Soldiers of Zenithia, hear me!
For too long, the Rosel nobles have fattened themselves while their people waste away.
They have turned their backs on duty, abandoned honour, and let their own lands rot in despair. They sit behind gilded walls, believing their wealth will shield them from justice.
They are wrong.
Our emperor has spoken, and his will is absolute. We march not as conquerors, but as executioners of justice.
The weak cry out, and Zenithia answers.
The tyrants of Rosel will kneel before our judgment, or they will be cut down where they stand.
Their castles will fall, their banners will burn, and their cruelty will end.
But make no mistake, this is not war.
IT.
IS.
RECKONING.
Those who resist will be given no mercy.
Those who surrender will face the weight of their crimes.
We do not slaughter needlessly. We do not revel in bloodshed.
We are the hand that rights the scales.
So steel your hearts, sharpen your blades, and march with purpose.
The weight of this world crushes the weak. We are the force that lifts them up—and the storm that drowns the wicked.
Onward!
By the will of the empire!"
General Carsen's voice rotated through the streets of the city, and when he was done, the people answered back as one.
"For the emperor!"
*****
As the army of Zenithia began their march southward, a small elite force was already in their way to the borders of the wasteland and the Rosel kingdom.
"Man, am I glad you're coming with us Jean."
A handsome soldier said as he rode on his white horse.
"Not here 'cause I want to be Kain. You know orders from the pope are absolute, otherwise I'd never step foot in that hell hole again."
Jean spoke sharply as she rode on a black horse.
Her bright blonde hair sparkled in the wind as the soldiers around them snuck glances her way.
Kain was a handsome man with short black hair and a set of armour that stuck out from the rest of the soldiers.
Gold trimmed edges and a glorious lion design befitting of the captain of this elite troupe.
"Cmon now! No need to be so worked up. Your aptitude for holy magic hasn't been seen in centuries. You'll have no issues spending a couple of days in the wasteland."
Jean stared daggers at Kain with a silent threat to silence him. The four priestesses behind her shot murderous glances at the back of his head sending a shiver down his spine.
"Ahem… anyways, what do you think is causing all this demonic energy and miasma to start acting this way?"
Kain asked.
"Who knows… nothing surprises me about that place anymore. All I know is that I have a bad feeling about this."
Jean responded with a frown.
"Well, I guess we'll find out soon enough."
Kain spoke as he laughed merrily drawing the ire of Jean once again.
The lion brigade was an elite unit led by Baron Kain Josef. Their track record was spotless and filled with triumphant results to all of their missions.
With them was one of the three Saints and four high ranking priestesses known as Sunwardens from the Church of Solara.
The Church of Solara embodies the virtues of justice, order, compassion, wisdom and divine illumination.
The church was a major force in ending the demonic war, and without them, many more lives would have been lost in the process.
The troupe marched without any issues, until they reached the spot where all demonic energy had accumulated.
There, the troupe stopped and stared in disbelief at the outrageous amount of chaotic dark energy being absorbed into a single child.
"It's just a child?" A soldier spoke up.
The child was in clothes that were torn and haggard, seemingly unwashed for years.
The boy had long and straight black hair that danced in the wind.
He was unmoving and so were the soldiers, the only one that was able to move for a brief second was saintess Jean.
She trembled in fear and disgust as she looked at the young boy being enveloped in demonic energy.
She was unable to utter a word until something snapped her out of her stupor.
She saw something within the darkness.
Her vision sharpened as the holy magic surged through her eyes. Unhindered, instinctive, as if even divinity itself sought to shield her from what lay beyond the veil.
Then she saw it.
A smile.
Not kind. Not cruel.
Simply… there.
Curved softly in the sea of endless shadow, a maw too perfect to be human. A smile that did not belong to any living thing, nor any dead one.
It existed outside the very concept of life and death, outside comprehension itself.
Behind that smile… something stirred.
And then everything collapsed.
Jean staggered back, but her legs refused to move.
Her lungs constricted, breath ripped from her chest as if the very air had forgotten her.
Pressure, impossible, crushing, endless pressure wrapped around her mind like a chain woven from dying stars.
Her pupils dilated; cold sweat soaked her skin.
She had seen.
And in seeing, she had trespassed.
A primal scream echoed through her soul. Not through sound, but directly into her consciousness, through sensation, through memory, through the unraveling threads of reality itself.
A thousand whispers laced with impossible truths clawed into her consciousness.
Discordant thoughts bleeding into her, voices layered upon voices, whispering truths that should never be known.
Languages that predated existence, uttered not in sound, but in the vibrations of the universe.
Thoughts that predated the gods. Her senses drowned in impossible impressions. The taste of ash, of blood, of galaxies dying in silence. She tasted void, smelled the heat of collapsing suns, heard the sound of time ending.
Time fractured.
She felt herself living and dying across infinite permutations, all within the span of a breath.
The saintess dropped to her knees.
She could not look away.
She was not just looking at something.
She was being looked into.
Something… no, somehow… she knew exactly what it was.
The First Flame.
The Crownless Sovereign.
The Sleeper Beneath Silence.
It regarded her with that serene, eternal smile. And in that gaze, her holy magic flickered. Not out of fear… but out of reverence.
It bowed within her.
The light itself bent.
And in that smile, Jean saw her insignificance. The fragility of saints, the futility of divinity, the emptiness of righteousness.
Her holy magic trembled, not in fear, but in submission. The very light within her began to dim.
The pressure intensified.
Every cell in her body quaked beneath the weight of this unknowable presence.
Her spirit recoiled.
Her soul screamed.
The holy light that filled her, once steadfast and sacred, shrank like a candle before a supernova.
This was no demon.
This was no god.
This was what gods feared in the dark.
The Pinnacle.
The Origin.
The End.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, out of rhythm, out of sync with reality.
Tears streamed down her face. Not from sorrow, nor from grief.
From pure, unfiltered dread that dug deeper than any mortal emotion.
Her mind, despite its faith, its discipline, its holy fortifications… began to crack
She was Saintess Jean. One of the three saints chosen by Solara. Herald of the holy flame.
But before this, she was nothing.
A whisper escaped her lips. A desperate fragment of sanity clinging to her breath.
"You should not be…"
And in that moment, without a word spoken, without a motion made…
She knew it agreed.