It is almost identical to the battle four years ago, the Confederation and the New Rule pooling their entire strength onto one vital junction… except their roles have now been reversed. The Confederation now stands guard upon the majestic pass, their fortifications a display of their diminished, but still vastly formidable military strength. The New Rule, meanwhile, march forth in immense confidence and numbers, their aircraft almost blanketing the skies, the treadmill tracks of their armored vehicles and the boots of their infantry crushing every blade of grass.

Is it wise to once again pour so many resources on one decisive battle? The Confederation had managed to gradually retreat over four years with isolated pockets of troops, not once allowing their lines to collapse, while the New Rule, after their loss at the Pass four years ago, lost consecutive towns and cities in rapid succession, nearly collapsing completely in only a few months. Is that not an obvious sign that banking everything in one battle is nothing but a foolhardy, irresponsible move?

Apparently not for the two leaders that now stand as close as they have been at the forefront of the wastelands. One stands upon the bridge of the Izatur, overlooking the entire battlefield with an authoritative, commanding eye. The other marches before all his troops, taking in the full view of the imposing fortifications with cold confidence. Both not realizing just how similar they look with their wry smiles.

The war has raged on for far too long. Twenty one years. Enough for children from the beginning of the war to bear their own children. The continent of West Smarin, once so wealthy and populous, has been mostly reduced to ruin. The Pass of Elethien itself, once the main highway of land trade in the continent, has been blocked and fortified for nearly the entirety of the war. No one now wishes to fight… except for one, his sword brandished high as it catches the light of the Elyfesta. The one who now has submitted to the whims of Fate, to be a vessel that only follows the true path.

And Fate has led him to the Pass, to end the war once and for all.

“Halt!”

The troops come to a stop, heeding the command of their leader. Avalel looks at the fortifications still a good distance before him, the guns poised to fire as soon as he and his armies step into range. Given that there is no way to circumvent the defenses, there can only be a direct barrage from the artillery and aircraft before all the forces are to be committed for a charge, overwhelming the defense with numbers before reaching the Izatur, pulling its commander from the mobile fortress. Yet he has stopped, letting the aircraft circle above like flocks of birds, the armored vehicles humming impatiently on standby, the foot soldiers looking at each other in mild confusion, as if they are waiting for the enemy to organize themselves. For some reason, such is the will of Fate.

“Why are we stopping?” Klarsten whispers, his gun now lowered at a standby position.

“You’ll see.” There is no need to explain the reasoning behind this rather strange development. Klarsten may be his aide, but Avalel isn’t obligated to disclose everything to him.

“... As you wish.”

Slowly, the Izatur approaches closer and closer to the New Rule army, its treadmill tracks rolling gradually over the sandy grounds, kicking up dust in its wake. Its guns are all facing forward, each packing enough firepower to tear a hole in a bunker or blast an armored vehicle into scrap metal. Anti-air guns dot its surface, dutifully tracking the aircraft in the sky. Its armor shines under the light, the metal almost blinding to the eye. Its reactors hum, a gentle sound unbefitting of the beast of power that lay within.

No faction has created anything close to it. No faction wants to create anything close to it. Being a vehicle of intimidation over practicality, no faction is willing to invest so many of their resources for a supposed superweapon, a weapon with its purpose being only to establish its presence on the battlefield. Mobile fortresses are objects of fear, of majesty, the Izatur being the quintessential example of such beasts of the Confederation.

It has never been used as the vanguard unit of an army, as are the other mobile fortresses. Its armor, in fact, has never been tested against the unrelenting fire of the battlefield, the reflective paint used more as a way to attract people’s gazes than a practical blend with the environment. It usually is “only” a distant giant, a seat of power that overlooks the slaughter of thousands, to have the enemy look up and be afraid. Just like the giant creatures of old that strike fear from a distance, the Izatur is but the same.

And now, finally, it is used as a true weapon, a tool of destruction. A monster being tested for its reputation for the first time.

Avalel feels the ground vibrating beneath him, the monster so many multitudes of his height towering over him, casting an immense shadow over the comparatively tiny masses of vehicles and soldiers. The Izatur is practically in his face, covering nearly his entire field of vision. Legs and pillars the size of tree trunks protrude out from its sides, firmly planting themselves into the ground. Its cameras, its “eyes” are all aimed at him, relaying every little movement back to the Confederation command on the bridge. A single machine gun extends out, pointing directly at his forehead.

Inside his helmet, Avalel smiles.

“I believe this is the first time we’ve truly met, Avalel.” A smooth, deep male voice speaks from inside the Izatur, the tone rich with elegance and age even through the imperfect loudspeakers.

“Common Leader Nasition, I presume?” Despite the sounds being drowned out by the humming of the Izatur’s reactors, Avalel finds his voice being given authorization to connect directly to the sound system on the Izatur’s bridge.

“Yes. Finally we’re able to hear our voices.”

“Fate has finally brought the two of us here upon this battlefield. A fine opportunity for a conversation, indeed.”

“Although it doesn’t seem to be as romantic as I imagined,” Nasition laughs lightly. “How are you certain that I am here for a conversation, not to immediately open fire upon this exposed army of yours?”

“You simply haven’t fired yet, despite pointing your guns at my head. That means you are here for at least a small talk, right?” There is no hint of faltering in his voice, the Anapadeia being held in a relaxed position as Avalel calmly looks at the multitude of cameras.

After all, this is a battle for him to win. There can be no other path laid forth on the road to victory.

“Yes,” Nasition says. “Call it a reunion, if you will, between a former prince and his would-be bodyguard. I would’ve served you if the Empire never fell by my hand, after all.”

Avalel’s soldiers flinch spontaneously in shock. It’s a natural reaction. For over two decades, the factions that comprised what was the Achien Empire were all staunchly anti-Empire, the monarchy being nothing but a wretched past in the people’s eyes. The New Rule, occupying much of the neglected wastelands east of the Core Regions, is filled with people of such sentiments. The soldiers, being only toddlers, if not yet unborn at the death of the Empire, are educated with this universal fact: the Empire was evil and deserved its destruction. The one commonality between the rivaling factions of the Confederation and the New Rule, the one thing they can agree on.

And Avalel, the former prince of Achien, now leads the New Rule as their savior, as their President, as the one who has brought them to this stage.

The New Rule has been led by a man of royal blood for the last four years.

“I never knew the Empire,” Avalel responds calmly, ignoring the stirring that now spreads among his troops. “Care if you remind me of my supposed heritage?”

“The Achien Empire was a despotic monarchy that fared worse in peace than our world’s current state at war,” Nasition says. “An empire that had its bright moments, but had far outlived its deserved reign. An empire that once was loved, but ended its mark despised by all. Do you want to reclaim this heritage with the blood and sweat of the people the Empire once exploited, Avalel?”

Avalel’s troops are hesitating. Those same troops who had never known defeat under Avalel’s leadership are now considering the microscopic possibility of betrayal, gradually persuaded by their enemy to do so, no less. The word “Achien” alone is triggering some sort of instinctive response in the soldiers, associating their own savior with the so-called evil that was already killed before they were born.

Well, such doubts are only temporary. If anything, this small obstacle will lead to further clarification of the true path to take, to reveal the “good”, the “correct” side to the group of confused creatures, to guide them upon the fate that is to come.

“I do not need to reclaim some heritage I never knew I had,” Avalel says, a smile still plastered on his face. “I am not some prince, but the savior of the New Rule. I do not need to inherit anything, for I have already created my own following. I will not force the world to submit to my name, for it has already bowed to my authority.”

“All this you have done without your people knowing of your identity, I believe. And it seems you are aware of who you truly are all this time, are you not?”

Avalel turns towards the troops, the Anapadeia raised like a banner, a beacon for all to follow. “We have already reached so far. I have never once failed you. We are not here to revive some dead empire’s ashes. We are only here to end the Confederation, to end this unending war. And finally, with it, our dream of peace can be realized. This is our fate, my fate, to save this world from its endless torment.”

The eight blades materialize behind him, the tips pointed at the Izatur. Unlike their usual pitch black appearance, the blades are now coated with a pure white color, like pale slates untarnished by the dirt of the world. Even as the Izatur completely dwarfs Avalel’s figure, it is as if Avalel is the one towering over the Izatur, his presence unfaltering, a leader shining bright as a star before his subordinates.

Just like the fabled Elydeia. The god-ruler.

“So let us throw away the painful past, end our sufferings, and trust in the leader who has guided us, and will guide us, to our eventual victory. Trust in the sword, my sword, and it will give you strength. I will be your shield, your sword. I will bring you victory, and with it, peace. Submit to me, follow me, and I will never forsake you.”

Even as Avalel knows the battlefield will end in a flood of blood.

“Believe. As you all have done already this far.”

He trusts in his troops, the loyal servants who answer only to his tune, many of them personally saved at the previous battle of the Pass five years ago when Avalel was still a rank-and-file soldier like them. He has no need to raise his voice, for every word that comes out of his mouth is absolute. He is their savior, the one who has rescued them from the depths of despair into the heights of power.

No one will forfeit that power, not even when they realize they are following the offspring of “evil” the world has despised for so long.

“I had hoped you wouldn’t be as corrupt as your ancestors were,” Nasition sighs. “Alas, you are still attempting to deceive your troops even at this moment, troops who only owe allegiance to you because you supposedly ‘saved’ them five years ago, at a battle where the New Rule suffered a near-fatal defeat, and a few months after when that victory costed a far great loss of life than necessary. And you still call yourself their rightful leader? An individual who claims all the accolades of each victory and none of the burden of defeat, throwing thousands of lives to their deaths, and still standing proud as if he has done nothing wrong?”

“Yet we are here once again, the Confederation on the brink of collapse as the New Rule did years ago. All those deaths were rewarded with victory after victory, with no soldier falling in vain. If anything, their deaths contributed to the greater good, our greater good, did it not?”

“Wh—”

Avalel laughs, noticing Nasition’s brief loss of composure. “So let this battle begin, Common Leader Nasition. No, just Nasition. Let us decide the truth, the fate of this world, and bring about the greater good and peace that we all so desire, shall we?”

He turns back toward the gun, staring directly at the muzzle, his arms outstretched, the Anapadeia burning in a crimson fury. At that moment, the Elyfesta appears from behind the Izatur, a ray of light shining on Avalel, illuminating him before the armies of the Confederation and the New Rule. A pillar of light in a battlefield of shadows.

The time has come.

“Fire.”