The news of the loss sent tremors through the heart of the Empire, a thorn piercing its pride. In retaliation, General Lysar's decision was swift and without remorse.
"*Gather the divisions!*" he ordered. His normally stern face showed a hint of rage. "*Heidelburg will pay for this.*"
And so, with banners of a red phoenix on a pitch-black background fluttering in the chilling wind, 150,000 Imperial soldiers, their armor gleaming and reflecting the cold sun, marched. Each Confederacy outpost that stood in their path was reduced to rubble, no mercy, no prisoners.
Private Elar, a young soldier from the Confederacy, gazed upon the advancing sea of silver armor from his outpost. His comrade, Korian, muttered beside him, "By the gods... It's said that one of them is worth twenty of us."
Elar responded solemnly, "We'll make them remember every one they face."
Yet, for all their bravado, outpost after outpost fell. Blood drenched the lands, and the cries of the dying filled the air.
As they approached Heidelburg, General Lysar, typically behind the lines in battles, stepped forward. He unleashed devastating magic that engulfed vast swathes of the city. Buildings crumbled, fires erupted, and thousands perished. The General of the Kingdom of Marn tried to intercept him but met a gruesome end as Lysar combined his magic with other generals under his command, incinerating the brave defender in mere moments.
"For every general we lose," Lysar screamed with mad glee, "thousands of yours will meet the abyss!"
The grand city of Heidelburg, once a symbol of hope for the Confederacy, now resembled a bloodied chessboard of death. Everywhere one looked, the earth was smeared with blood, entrails, and the lifeless eyes of the fallen.
Amidst the chaos, young Harry clashed with a Division General, his youthful face a mask of determination. "A child against a mage?" the General scoffed, only to be left gasping as Harry's blade found its mark on his gut.
The other Imperials stared, shocked. This boy, with the potential to be the bane of their empire, had to be eliminated. One general charged at Harry, blade imbued with fire magic so powerful it sent shockwaves through the city. Yet, Harry countered, his Sage sword cleaving the general and sky in half.
Yet, just when victory seemed within grasp, tragedy struck. Seizing a split second of distraction, Lysar lunged at King Heinrich, blade finding its mark on the king's neck. The sight left the Confederacy forces paralyzed. The Grandmaster Dietrich's howl of grief and rage echoed across the city as he charged, vengeance burning in his eyes.
"For King Heinrich!" cried Wilhulf, the court mage, attending to the king's fallen body, tears mixing with the king's blood.
But the Imperials had one last card to play. From the skies descended Imperial Marshal Tryn, his arrival heralded by a bone-chilling cold. With a snap of his fingers, ice spears impaled numerous Confederacy generals and monarchs.
The battlefield seemed to hold its breath, but Harry, bloodied but unbowed, launched himself at Tryn. Their battle was titanic, a whirlwind of blades, fire, and lightning. Yet, even the formidable Harry was flagging under Tryn's relentless assault.
Suddenly, as all seemed lost, Pope Benedictus intervened. "Enough!" he boomed, his presence filling the sky. "He is but a child! You won't touch him." With a swift motion, he sent Tryn crashing to the ground, then turned his benevolent gaze upon Harry, a golden aura healing the young warrior's wounds.