Drissian right flank, January 1731 City of Ber, Province of Ciresia, Osterian Empire.
It felt like an eternity for what was most likely seconds.
Meyer widens his eyes at the enormity of the fireball before him. He opens his palm as the ball flies back to his hand, the shield before him shimmering into existence as he focus all his power to defend.
"Move back!" He shouts to his men.
The panicked running that followed after, left him satisfied.
He looks down at his friend, his unconscious expression left him no other choice. So, with his mind made up, the barrier brightens.
His eyes glow as his skin reddens. Any magic rushing into his system immediately reinforces the barrier. With his body close to breaking, he waits.
He waits for the point of contact before unleashing whatever magic was flowing through his veins, unleashed through a torrent of magic, drowning their surroundings.
It took a second of a contact, the moment the fireball crashed against his shield, he buckled.
His focus, cracking under heat, his arm raised as if holding back the torrent of fire trying to consume him. His feet that were planted on the ground, pushed back by the will of a dying man.
All he could do was grit his teeth as he weathered the torrential heat. It felt like an endless torture before the fireball explodes, blasting winds, gouging the earth and spreading fire around him, killing Osterian soldiers by the dozen.
It took a second for him to realize that it was over before he grunts then falls face first onto the ground. His mind abuzz as he takes the sweet embrace of unconsciousness.
"Well, that's a relief." muttered Forst as he looks to through the spyglass.
The Drissian reserves were pushing in as Meyer's captains pull the two men from the battlefield.
He then looks to the Osterian lines, their main force buckling from the weight of their attacks. The cavalry charge stalled and ultimately negated by the strings of explosions the little colonel has performed.
Speaking of which, he looks at the colonel beside him. One who was holding onto his sheathed saber, using it as a crutch as his eyes roam the battlefield.
"I see. Have they finished on their side?" He asks.
"Yes, sir. Schneider has completed the task at hand. They have struck on the enemy's flank and chased down some of the injured mages."
"The casualties?"
"A hundred sir."
"A fourth of his men? That is unfortunate." He mutters before his eyes widen.
He then slumps, his knees weaken, nose started bleeding as another bout of injuries expel themselves from his body,
He falls to the ground, vomiting blood and spit as he screams in utter agony, holding unto his chest as magic burned within his deprived veins, healing his injuries and causing an unbearable amount of pain.
Forst watches it with sympathy before asking, "Sir, I really advise you to return and recuperate."
Damien replies, blood dripping from his mouth, "The situation at hand would require all the manpower we could need. I won't leave until this battle ends."
"Sir, with all due respect. The battle is as good as over. Even your magic wouldn't have changed much in regards to the results."
He then glares, "Don't be stupid, Forst. A single man that dies here is another musket lost, one that could change the tide of battles and the campaign."
Forst shakes his head. This has been the third time he asked. As he does so, he realizes his words and something cold runs through his veins.
"Campaign? Sir?"
Damien nods in acknowledgement as he wiped the blood from his face. "The battles after this would be bloody, since Verdin refuses to send more of their arm-."
He hears a thud beside him. Damien slumps in to unconsciousness, his strength no longer enough to stay awake, though at the same time, shouts of retreat break out from the Osterian lines, their resistance broken.
The irony wasn't lost on him, though even then, his words still weighed heavily on his mind.
He sighs before ordering to his men, "Bring the colonel back, have the care for his injuries."
The men nod and take the unconscious colonel back, leaving them to himself muttering.
"That is... troublesome."
Osterian Command January 1731
"Are these reports to be trusted?" General Otto asked .
"They are, sir." The man nods, limping as he stood straighter at the man before him.
"This is most troubling," He mutters.
As he read through it again, messengers rush inside his tent. "Sir! Reports from the front! The right flank has been decimated! General Fabian has ordered retreat. Casualties... in the thousands!"
General Otto only nods, his mind a complete mess as he scratches his beard in thought. The recent development has been less than stellar for this battle and this war.
Something the emperor won't enjoy, especially with the war against the Altemans.
To bring worse news another messenger barges in, "The left flank has retreated, the cavalry were stalled in their advance and was decimated by magical bombardment."
General Wendell then nods before he stood. "Have the entire army retreat. This battle has been lost, it's better we cut our losses now than take anymore of a beating."
He then looks to the map, "Send a message to all Generals! We will head to the City of Cir, there we will determine what'll happen next."
With those words, a somber mood occupies the tent before returning to their jobs and packing up for their retreat, leaving Wendell Otto by himself, his thoughts stuck on the terrifying existence that appeared on the left flank.
The reports of a mage capable of such feat shook him to his core, the mere thought of which left him afraid for himself and for his country.
After all, the terrifying reputation Drissia's held, now combined with the best mages the world could offer.
What they could do can only be called a nightmare. Yet, at what cost did they reach it?
"What did they do?"