"Form—Ranks—"
The commanding shout of Abiel, the Grand Marshal of the Holy Fleurs-de-lis Knights, rolled out like thunder, reverberating across the battlefield.
"Woooo—woooo—woooo—"
The deep bellow of the war horns, muffled and prolonged, stirred the 30,000-strong army into action. Initially chaotic, the soldiers soon hastened into an array of well-ordered phalanxes.
Leading the formation were heavily armored soldiers wielding large shields, followed by lightly armored infantrymen with swords in their right hands and wooden bucklers in their left. The equipment might not match the heavy armory, but it was the standard for a typical army contingent.
The clergy, with anxious faces, stood ready to tend to soldiers retreating from the front lines for healing.
Behind them, a gathering of thirty to forty mages stood apart in their noble air. Besides one seventh-circle mage, the others were of a lesser rank. Training a mage was an expensive investment, making even the lowest among them precious assets. Thus, in this army of thirty thousand, these few dozen mages were the strategic lynchpin.
Even lower-level mages, when casting simple yet effective spells like Explosive Fireballs in unison, could wreak havoc on hundreds at once. A few consecutive strikes could cripple an opposing force of ten or twenty thousand.
Under normal circumstances, such a large number of mages wouldn't be present in a battle of this scale. However, the Holy Empire's wealth lured many to volunteer for the invasion, enticed by the prospect of war profits. The chance to capture an elven slave, particularly a beautiful woman, promised extraordinary riches.
Normally, capturing elves was dangerous, risking severe retaliation, but war changed the stakes. Even if the elves could do nothing about their own being taken as slaves, the Holy Empire fronted the assault, diminishing fears of retribution.
With such motives, not just the mages but all soldiers yearned for a successful invasion.
Abiel surveyed his troops, nodding then shaking his head. The contingent was not the elite of the Holy Empire's knights but a mix from various human nations—a competent force nonetheless.
At nearly seventy, Abiel's age surpassed the average life expectancy, but as a legend among warriors, he was merely in his prime, far from the twilight of life.
Clad in chain armor with a pristine white robe draped over it, his cloak bore the emblem of a blood-red shield and a silver sword—the sigil of Marsilis, the War God he worshiped.
As a believer in 'human supremacy,' invading non-human territories was routine. Battles with elves spanned centuries, and Abiel had grown accustomed to it.
What was called war here was, in reality, a skirmish. Though elves were few, they were formidable fighters. In their forest home, a ten-to-one advantage was typical, and a full invasion of a thirty-thousand-strong human army would merely ripple the water's surface.
Truly defeating the Silver Moon Kingdom was almost impossible. The elven leadership was strong, and the elven birthrate low. The loss of a few thousand humans was trivial, but for elves, it was catastrophic.
"The Queen will try to minimize her kin's casualties. Based on past centuries' experience, the 'Fairy of the Forest' will likely summon legendary creatures from other planes to halt our troops. If I can handle whatever she summons, this war will end."
Abiel murmured. Past wars with elves had always followed this script. To him, it was less a war and more a formality.
Compared to these formulaic battles, he longed for a clash with the orcs, humanity's ardent foes, where true blood was shed.
Yet, he could not defy the Holy Empire's orders. Taking a deep breath, he instructed the messenger beside him: "Pass my command—Advance!!"
"Woooo—woooo—woooo—"
As the call to arms resounded and banners waved, Abiel's elite armored infantry took synchronized steps, their march thundering across the land. The initial cadence gave way to a storming rush, the noise of thousands of feet pounding the earth.
"In the name of the War God, for the Holy Empire, for humanity—Kill!!!"
"Kill—"
A visible aura of light burst forth from Abiel, invigorating every soldier it touched with bravery and bloodlust. This was the 'Aura of War,' a boon for devout followers of Marsilis, significantly boosting morale.
"Kill—"
The collective battle cry shook earth and sky, the charge of tens of thousands awe-inspiring to behold.
"Have the mage corps ready as well, on my command. Use magic for suppression—and tell them not to conserve their magical power!"
Abiel's orders rendered to the officer, who saluted and quickly relayed them to a gathering of mages.
"Rest assured, Marshal Abiel; we mages are prepared!"
"Much appreciated, Magus Marchis!"
The officer bowed respectfully to the leading mage. To a legendary warrior like Abiel, a seventh-circle mage wasn't formidable, but to a fifth-ranked soldier, the mage had myriad ways to kill.
Humility before mages was no disgrace.
Once the officer departed, Magus Marchis's solemn expression twisted into a sneer. Quietly cursing under his breath, he thought, "Spare no magical power, my ass. These brutes don't understand the value of a mage's power. Let the eager young ones squander it."
For a seventh-circle mage like Marchis, any human kingdom would welcome him as a guest of honor. He came to this war because of poverty.
As a traveling mage without significant backing, he doubted he could ascend further. Becoming a legendary mage and extending his lifespan seemed near-impossible given his age.
Yet, everyone has dreams. As a seventh-circle mage, Marchis held onto his ambitions. He hoped to capture a high-ranking elf, trade for rare materials with nobles or other mages, concoct a magical potion, and thus extend his life.
Lost in his calculations, Marchis suddenly felt his magic surge and his heart constrict. The chaos around him quieted abruptly, the earlier deafening battle cries vanished into silence. The air, as if thick with glue, filled with a palpable dread that seeped into his soul.
"A dragon... it's a dragon!"
Someone's terrified, hoarse scream broke the eerie stillness.
Marchis looked up to where the cry had originated. In the distant forest clearing, a massive golden figure rose like a new sun, darkening the skies.
"Oh no!! By the gods of magic, am I dreaming?! This isn't just any dragon, it's a primordial dragon, a species long extinct!"
Marchis shouted, disbelief in his voice.
Simultaneously, the previously fervent human soldiers descended into chaos, some even trampling over each other before the fighting had truly begun.
And just before the grand dragon's arrival, an imposing voice filled the heavens and the earth:
"When I dream, the world shall tremble. When I awaken, all shall become reality!"
The great dragon spoke with haughty conceit.