[Ivan Petrovich looked at the vast battlefield. The voices of the gods polluted the earth. It wasn't an amplification spell or even a materialized voice. It existed not in the physical realm, but in the purely conceptual one. What they heard wasn't dialogue, but will itself.
On the vast plains, the roar of tens of thousands of demons facing an equal number of humans, the cannon fire from artillery positions still holding their form, the spells raining down from elves in the sky, and the destructive rumbling of earth-boring machines shaking the ground filled the land.
Most soldiers had long since lost their hearing, whether from tension and fear or from the overwhelming noise.
Yet everyone on this battlefield heard the voice of the god. The voice contaminating mind and soul clawed at the hearts of the crowd.
"All that you desire is mine, and all that you possess is also mine. Offer your treasures to your master!"
Some weak-hearted soldiers laid down their weapons and knelt. A goblin easily pierced the throat of a disarmed soldier right before their eyes.
Tauruses charged forward, and the cavalry that rode to meet them tumbled to the ground from the sudden impact. Unlike the knights who could resist with their superhuman senses, their mounts could not.
The horses collapsed, foaming at the mouth. These timid beasts had overcome their fear of demons through training, but they couldn't overcome their fear of a god.
The battle line was collapsing. Every soldier, knight, officer, high commander, and monarch present suddenly realized, in their despair, the significance of the Seven Dragon Lords during the last Great War.
"Run... we must run!"
An officer dropped his gun, trembling. As he turned to flee, a small hole appeared in his forehead and he crumpled. The man standing behind him holstered his smoking pistol and clicked his tongue.
"Die standing, you fools."
Execution duty. Dmitri clicked his tongue briefly and turned his gaze. The front line was being pushed back, just like every front where a god had appeared in the past.
During the Great War, battle lines where the Seven Dragon Lords appeared "always" fell. All attempts at resistance failed, and wherever the Dragon Lords marched, only ruins and corpses remained.
In those days, humans always employed the same strategy: sacrifice troops as bait to buy time on fronts where Dragon Lords appeared, while pushing forward on other fronts.
Until the Hero appeared, humanity's struggle wasn't a war. It was merely a desperate struggle against extinction.
Even knowing this, he couldn't help but feel bitter.
He looked toward the rear. The Reaper Battery's cannon fire was gradually diminishing. The reason was simple: with the god's arrival, all gun barrels had melted into molten metal, from which monsters were being born.
The rear was also fighting for their lives. Their situation was even worse since those troops weren't properly armed for close combat. The 2nd Corps Artillery Division wasn't trained for hand-to-hand combat, after all.
"Was it a miscalculation?"
Dmitri smiled bitterly as he tore off the head of a demon that had approached, screaming. With feet like these, it's hard to run away. He too would have to die standing.
What a tumultuous life it had been. He'd thought he'd spend his life digging up dirt on nobles and maybe doing some assassinations. Who would have thought he'd end up being torn apart by demons?
The Hero, the Hero... ah, the Hero.
If only those kids had a little more time.
No, rather than that.
If only the senior had been here.
After the Great War ended, the world's powers trivialized the Seven Dragon Lords. This was a policy direction almost all nations followed uniformly.
Making an insurmountable enemy into a joke was a traditional governance technique. Better to have the people consider them a laughingstock than to forever fear an "immortal, currently reigning, existing god."
None of the Hero Party died until they returned after killing the Seven Dragon Lords and the Demon King.
And even the Hero Party would eventually die, being mere "humans."
So it was simpler to convince the public: they weren't much of a threat. Humanity had won and would win again. The demons' "god" was defeated, and the demons were pushed to the edge of the world and fell into ruin.
The Demon King's absoluteness and the terror of the Seven Dragon Lords were recorded as comical villains in the Hero's epic, and the people could cover and forget the devastated world with intoxication.
Humanity had clearly been on the brink of extinction. Nations had lost their foundations, and they had to deliberately ignore numerous social problems because they couldn't even manage reconstruction, let alone find growth engines.
Even within this reality, they needed a means to maintain social stability and order: hope. Hope was the only lifeline that could maintain the social system even when people were starving and sick.
And now, everyone present was facing the despair of the past they had forgotten.
"How... how are we supposed to stop that thing?!"
"Didn't you say there were reserves? Your country's great Hero reserves—"
"They're all dead! Just now!! Over there!!"
A deep sense of defeat settled among the monarchs. The monarchs of the Southern Six Nations, who hadn't spent many years on the front lines.
Elizabeta Kirillovna Krasilov clicked her tongue as she looked at these men who were twice her age but had spent less than half the time she had on the front lines.
"We need to make a decision between two options."
"Two options...?"
"Those who will stay and those who will retreat."
The kings' expressions brightened at Elizabeta's words. This was Krasilov, and strictly speaking, they were merely supporting forces. Just by leading their troops here in person, the queen of this country should be properly grateful to them.
She couldn't order them to stay and die.
Elizabeta frowned as she read their expressions. She had also underestimated the Seven Dragon Lords, but she could tell these men had come only for "post-victory honor."
They wanted to put Krasilov in their debt and add the legendary achievement of killing the last god of this era to their bloodline.
Elizabeta didn't blame them. The current tactical failure was her mistake. If she had to make an excuse... well.
'In previous engagements, it never showed this level of might.'
If it had, she wouldn't have even thought of lasting two days in the basin battle a few days ago, and would have died in combat. At that time, Nekinnon was clearly "difficult but manageable" as an opponent.
There had been a variable. She didn't know what it was, and pondering it now was meaningless in the current situation.
Now she had to decide. Some had to stay and resist, while others had to retreat and plan for the future.
Just as humans did during the Great War. Praying for a Hero to appear, hoping that humanity's extinction would not come today...
And for Elizabeta... no, for the United Kingdom, there was still hope left.
'If we can just hold out until Vanka arrives.'
While the monarchs here were engulfed in despair, Elizabeta was still looking toward hope. Ivan Petrovich. The man who had been killing Dragon Lords was still alive.
She wasn't sure how the Droan front was faring. But Ivan and Einarr were together there. If the enemy had opened two fronts against Droan and Krasilov, they would surely have won on that front.
If so, even if Krasilov fell, it wouldn't be the end. If they could salvage as many troops as possible and retreat, and if they could assassinate the Dragon Lord as the Hero Party of the past had done...
Of course, she would have to play the role of the breakwater, buying time.
"Retreat to Pritzenkaya with as many troops as you can muster. The walls of Pritzenkaya have never fallen in centuries, so it would be most appropriate for a siege."
"Y-yes! That's a brilliant plan!"
"...And as long as Pritzenkaya's rail line remains intact, you won't be isolated if you're not surrounded on all sides. There's another rail line dug by the dwarves underground, so there's a way out even if you're surrounded."
"Oh, ohhh...!"
The kings expressed exaggerated admiration. Elizabeta couldn't help but smile wryly at the sight.
Having lost both the 1st and 2nd Corps, Krasilov was doomed to fall. The only power that had maintained this country was "fear," like that of the Seven Dragon Lords.
After losing its military power, Krasilov could not maintain its former glory in the United Kingdom. The territory, which had grown too large to manage, would quickly wither and fragment.
The most powerful nation would fall during her reign. However, she had no intention of witnessing that.
If this country burns, I will gladly become the firewood and be cremated with it.
"Now go."
"What about you?"
When Philippe II of Lorencia asked with feigned concern, Elizabeta answered coldly.
"I will fight as long as I live."
Vanka, I'm sorry. I couldn't keep my promise to defend the Northern Gate.
You have never failed to fulfill your orders. My incompetence pains me deeply.
And again... I'm sorry.
I couldn't keep my promise to give you a child, nor my promise to become your family.
But still, selfishly, one more thing.
Live.
Elizabeta gathered her pistol and longsword and left the military camp, heading toward the front line.
Toward the land where the god was rampaging. Toward the front line where her finest men were bleeding.
The Royal Guard followed behind her. Without any orders or responses. Willingly.
It was clearly visible that troops were withdrawing. Although the most threatening ones were still holding the line, it was obvious they too would soon be isolated and scattered.
Spells and magic entangled him. The mages of Kalion were casting all kinds of magic at him, even as they spat blood and vomited their entrails.
And turning his gaze, at his feet.
A group of humans was rushing toward him, all battered and torn.
Precariously following the path opened by the deaths of numerous cavalry. Shaking and staggering, yet tenaciously. Yes, just like the Heroes of that time.
With less than half their skill, yet admirably.
"You seem to want a more glorious death than your kin."
At Nekinnon's words, the one in front twisted his mouth shut. Despite panting, his gaze burned with will rather than fear as he looked up.
"I haven't forgotten you. Kalion's Edelplat, Beolgrin's Elfihera Grikenkos... Ah, I will never let you escape again. And you... are you the child of Gil Ber? And that vampire behind you must be of Enrique's bloodline. How amusing. Are you trying to imitate the Hero Party?"
Nekinnon lowered his head, hissing. He continued slowly. Impatience is the attitude of the weak, and all actions of the strong are imbued with composure.
"Take your time to steady your breath. Gather your strength, squeeze out your wisdom. Make your deaths more valuable. Remnants of the dead Hero Party. Even your scraps must become my greatest harvest."
The overwhelming presence of the god pressed down on them. Wavering gazes were rushing toward him. Finding this amusing, Nekinnon laughed heartily.
"Struggle. With all your might."
Nekinnon raised his body again. The golden giant stood straight, looking down at them like an emperor.
It was at that moment.
In his field of vision, widened due to his increased height. In his sensory organs, momentarily narrowed from being intoxicated by the pleasure of the current situation, something strange caught his attention.
A sharp sensation like being pricked by a needle. An irritating, yet familiar sensation...
A killing intent, common enough on this battlefield.
But an overwhelming killing intent that could never be called common.
Nekinnon's gaze turned toward the distant north. Toward the end of this pitch-black, dark plain where the only light sources were torches due to the absence of the moon.
His sharp pupils narrowed. Toward the far north... if one had to express it, toward the "rear" of the demon forces.
Where no one should be, where only ruins should remain. Toward the marching route of the demon forces.
"...Einarr?"
Gradually, astonishment spread across Nekinnon's face. Why, how, here?
By now, he should surely be in Tanasimor's hands—.
Nekinnon's confused gaze turned to another corner of the front line. This time toward the western edge, toward the hill where the Blind King would be watching.
From atop a small, dark hillock without a speck of light, a tiny human appeared in his senses. A snow-white face with an eye patch.
A face split in a grin, filled with joy. A distinctly clear "emotion" that he had never shown before was prominent on the Blind King's face.
"Maximillian—!! Did you, deceive me—!!"
At his shout, the king looked at him. The two beings were answering each other with their will from a distance where conversation couldn't reach.
-Deceive you?
Maximillian de Etoile smiled up at him.
-Did you ever trust me?
"You— bastard—!!"
"Uncle!! We have to, we have to go together!! This is really driving me crazy!!"
"Uncle, I'm dying!! I'm going to die!! My fiancée is dying right now!!"
Why were the people following behind complaining about being tired when he was clearing the path all by himself? Probably due to lack of training. This was his fault. It was his role to train those kids, and he hadn't fulfilled it sufficiently.
Ivan shook off the brief contemplation. Now was not the time to be caught up in such idle thoughts. Just now, his concentration had scattered and his "technique" had unraveled.
This wouldn't do. He was essentially wearing clothes that didn't suit him. He was in a situation where he had to recreate a technique he had never performed in his life, and moreover, it was a technique with poor compatibility for him.
Ivan looked straight ahead again and raised his axe. He pointed it straight up toward the sky and then tilted it.
Nothing else was needed to focus his mind on the technique. The current situation was enough.
The country collapsing, his king fallen in battle, his family dead and gone—this situation alone, yes, that was enough. There was no need to evoke any other emotion to order his thoughts.
Only killing intent. That alone was enough.
He wanted to tear apart everything before his eyes. He would gladly do so, and the process would even be enjoyable.
Thick killing intent enveloped the tip of his axe. He gripped it heavily and swung it down hard. That single trajectory was enough.
"Einarr's."
He had never had difficulty imitating something he had seen once.
So, remembering everything he had seen once meant never forgetting the cause of death of all those who had died.
Simply following the emotion that naturally seeped out when ruminating on the causes of death of the fallen. Fully embracing that emotion that still made blood surge.
"Reign."
The axe fell.
The demons standing like a wall before his eyes all bent their knees and collapsed at once.
The path opened.
Before his eyes, still far away. The golden giant was looking at him.
*]