The march of time seemed to momentarily halt as both Arland and Serathel, fueled by misplaced pride and ambition, advanced against the Eternal Empire. Vast open fields, once the silent witnesses of nature's dance, now echoed with the trudge of armored feet, the clang of weapons, and the fierce war cries of two kingdoms.
Outside Clavis, the white walls stood resplendent and imposing. The men of Serathel, imagining a swift victory, failed to anticipate the force that awaited them. Governor Erastin, cold and devoid of any semblance of emotion, stood atop the city walls, his eyes scanning the approachingmasses. The sun gleamed off his dark ore armor, the arcane crystal at its center pulsating with an eerie crimson light.
Without a word, Erastin raised his hand, signaling the city's defenses. Torrents of destructive flame leaped out, incinerating the front lines of the Serathel army. The air became thick with the scent of charred flesh, smoke, and despair. The once-mighty advance of Serathel became a hasty retreat. The banners of the Empire, black with a commanding red phoenix, seemed to flap even more aggressively, as if mocking the defeated.
Arland, however, had a brief moment of triumph. Their forces, having captured two cities, celebrated prematurely, not sensing the storm on the horizon. From the distance, five divisions of the Empire, a relentless tide of dark ore and shining crystal, approached. Led by Generals Aleron and Atrius, they seemed unstoppable. Aleron, his face obscured by his helmet, released a chain lightning spell, zigzagging across the fields, and turning Arland soldiers to ash. Beside him, Ateius manipulated the earth, raising massive pillars which crushed the enemy beneath.
But this was not a mere reclaiming of lost cities. General Tryn and the unyielding Veron led their forces deep into Serathel, every victory bringing with it a haunting darkness. Veron, channeling the vast energies at his disposal, sent a rain of meteors upon Serathel's defenses, while Tryn commanded water from nearby sources, creating torrents that drowned both soldiers and hope alike.
Back in the heart of Veleria, Lucius, the demon god in a guise, observed the scenes unfolding across his vast pools. The room, bathed in a soft, ominous light, reverberated with his chilling presence. "Their folly feeds our strength," he mused.
Unknown to the world, the crystals embedded in the armor of Lucius's soldiers played a dual, sinister role. With every kill, they channeled the victim's soul and blood essence to the master crystal in Clavis. Lucius, with each passing moment, grew more powerful. The soldiers, on the other hand, received a fragment of that power, a dark reward that made them crave the thrill of the kill even more. This nefarious cycle transformed the battlefield into a macabre dance of death and obsession.
Lucius saw the prolonged battles not as a drain but as a banquet. Every clash, every fallen enemy, was but a tribute to his growing might. The territories captured were branded with the emblem of the Empire, serving as a reminder of their dominance.
As days turned into weeks, the black banners of the Empire with their fierce red phoenix began adorning city after city in both Arland and Serathel. The Empire's surge seemed unstoppable.