After nearly twelve long years— Year 555 After the Coronation—

within the Mid Regions of Sector 100—

The battlefield trembled.

Claaaang… clatter… metal grinding like thunder.

"...."

Caesar stood motionless, yet his presence alone felt like a silent command over the raging chaos that unfolded beneath him. His hands rested calmly behind his back—an emperor observing fate itself unfold.

He wore his epic armor: a polished black-gold set forged from arcane alloys and infused with ancient Shaping inscriptions. Under the dim battlefield sky, the armor didn't just reflect the light—it consumed it, bending it subtly as if space itself acknowledged his authority. Behind him, his golden cloak billowed like a living flame, the symbol of the Black Flame Insignia burning at its center.

Caesar stood at the very front edge of a Note of the flood-III class warship, the flagship cutting through the air like a razor. From where he stood, the entire battlefield stretched beneath him like a violent, living ocean—one made of screams, steel, magic, and fire.

His eyes—sharp, predatory, unwavering—scanned the battlefield with the precision of a master tactician and the cold detachment of an emperor. Not a tremor of fear or hesitation existed in his gaze. Only calculation. Only expectation.

This—this scene—had become rare for him.

Ever since the rise of countless promising young talents from the Burton bloodline—now serving as planetary generals and strategic commanders—Caesar and even Peon rarely stepped onto the frontlines anymore. Their roles had shifted—no longer blades, but chessmasters. They commanded from afar, influencing wars with decisions rather than swords. They dictated where the next strike must fall—what world would kneel next—and privately navigated the labyrinth of imperial politics.

Yet today, something demanded his presence. Something unprecedented. Something worthy.

Below, the battlefield raged.

Nearly 200,000 elite soldiers of the Cradle Empire clashed violently with an opposing force clad in celestial blue—over 500,000 warriors defending their stronghold with desperation and fury. By sheer numbers, terrain advantage, logistical superiority, and fortified defenses—the defenders should have been unstoppable.

Behind them stood a colossal fortress carved deep into a mountain—an engineering marvel and spiritual bastion. Countless defensive Shaping Arrays surrounded it like rings of layered shields. Supplies teleported through spatial gateways inside its walls, ensuring endless reinforcements, ammunition, and elixirs. Massive cannons and arcane siege mechanisms atop towering battlements rained destruction upon the battlefield.

And yet—

They were losing.

They were being overwhelmed.

The Cradle Empire soldiers advanced like a tidal wave—unyielding, synchronized, terrifying. Every step taken by the black-gold army reverberated with supernatural power. Their runes and inscriptions flickered, ignited, and pulsed with energy as talismans detonated across the ground—reshaping terrain, establishing fortifications, and carving out new controlled territory with breathtaking speed.

But this assault was different.

This time—

they were not alone.

Silver units joined the march— soul creatures of varying forms: towering bestial giants, humanoid warriors with ethereal masks, serpentine shadows slithering between ranks, and winged abominations that soared above the infantry.

They hurled themselves directly into the densest pockets of the enemy—shattering formations, rupturing morale, and sowing chaos. Even when destroyed, they fulfilled their purpose: disruption, confusion, fear.

Behind the vast imperial formation stood fifty Soul Masters, clad in flowing black-gold ceremonial robes. They formed a ritual circle of controlled silence amid the carnage—protected by elite guard units.

Some opened Soul Gates.

Some cast psychic warfare spells that whipped through enemy minds like razors.

Others burdened the defenders with weakening incantations, draining hope, stamina, and will.

A few focused on reinforcing the frontline—layering protective barriers that glowed faintly with celestial runework.

Fifty Soul Masters in a single battle—three of them Grand Soul Masters commanding over 50,000 units each.

Such concentrated supernatural force appeared only when facing ancient soul clans!

Above, the skies roared with another war entirely.

Swarms of Drakos soared, their scales shimmering with heat and runic light. Atop them sat archers wielding blazing golden bows, exchanging explosive volleys with massive three-headed war eagles—creatures engineered and bred specifically for aerial warfare.

Higher still—steel titans clashed.

Warships thundered across the heavens:

Only nine Note of The Flood battleships, one massive Note of Destruction serving as the Mother Ship—the heart of command and destruction. Surrounding them were numerous refurbished and repurposed vessels —purchased by Theo under Caesar's direction— now acting as escorts and fire support units.

They faced a fully unified opposing fleet—yet the sky tilted toward inevitable victory. The Note of Destruction carved through enemy formation like fate itself.

Everything marched toward triumph.

Until—

Rumble.

The battlefield paused—only for the briefest breath.

"…It begins." Caesar murmured, eyes narrowing—not in fear, but recognition.

The front lines of the Cradle Empire halted in perfect synchrony. Talismans embedded into the earth detonated into shimmering barriers. Dense, layered Arrays materialized like geometric storms.

Then—

the rear ranks surged forward in perfect coordination, timing measured not by seconds—

but by heartbeats.

The Rotational Retreat Protocol had been initiated.

A legendary battlefield tactic perfected over centuries—allowing imperial forces to constantly rotate front-line units before their elixirs and enhancements expired, maintaining peak combat efficiency indefinitely.

But at that exact moment—

BOOOOOOOM!

The sky erupted.

The defending warships abandoned their engagement with the Note of Destruction fleet and redirected all artillery toward the ground forces below—completely disregarding the catastrophic damage they themselves would suffer in return.

Every heavy cannon mounted along the fortress walls swiveled with mechanical precision, focusing their fire on a single point—one objective:

Break the defensive Array barriers.

On the ground, the army of nearly half a million soldiers moved as if possessed. Their eyes widened with feral desperation—they saw an opening, a chance, the slightest fracture in the advancing rhythm of the Empire's formation…

…and they attacked with everything they had.

The temporary Shaping arrays—still stabilizing, still anchoring themselves into the battlefield—could not withstand such focused annihilation. In just ten seconds, the runic framework shattered, detonating into sparks, fragments of energy, and spiraling distortions.

Chaos exploded like wildfire.

The formation destabilized. Momentum trembled. Lines wavered.

"Heh~."

Caesar exhaled—not in surprise, but in amusement. He tilted his head slightly, then pointed toward a precise direction.

His voice was calm. Absolute.

"Advance."

BAM

BAM

BAM—!

The Special Forces Division surged forward atop their enormous Terra mounts—four thousand elite soldiers raising their weapons in perfect synchronization.

Everyone—friend and foe alike—knew exactly what would happen once they reached striking distance.

SKRRRRRKK—!

The Ironleaf Battalion swung their heavy staff-like weapons downward. Immediately, a monstrous forest of metallic roots burst from beneath the battlefield—towering several meters high—forming an instant impenetrable barrier between the two armies.

SWOOSH—!

SWOOSH—!

Then came the Wind-Poison Archers.

They halted at a marked invisible line, lifted their bows to the heavens, and released.

A thousand arrows descended like meteors—charged with swirling, murky-green winds. Those who inhaled even a hint of the toxic breeze clutched their throats and collapsed, gasping—lifeless before understanding what struck them.

Within moments, the arrows carved a thousand deadly kill-zones inside enemy ranks—no soldier dared cross them.

BOOM!

BOOM!

To the flanks, the Gasfire Brigade and the Thunderwater Corps circled around the metallic barrier, intercepting enemy troops attempting to bypass it.

Slaughter began instantly.

At the front of the flame division, a lone warrior swung his polearm—not with rage, but with casual ease, like one brushing dust from a sleeve.

Under normal circumstances, the attack should've produced a standard projectile—just like the tens of thousands of standard-issue talismanic flame slashes used across the battlefield.

But not this time.

SHHHHHRRAAAAAAAAAH—!!

From that single swing erupted a roaring tsunami of crimson fire, sealing the horizon in a wall of living inferno.

And he wasn't alone.

Behind him, one thousand soldiers raised their polearms in unison—and brought them down.

A thousand blazing crimson meteors fell like god-forged punishment upon the southern front of the enemy army.

And on the northern side, devastation mirrored devastation.

BOOOOM—!

BOOOOM—!

The ground ruptured as underground water surged upward through a thousand rupture points—

Then—

BZZZZT—!

A titanic charge of lightning coursed through the newly formed flood, electrifying the entire northern battlefield in a single colossal pulse.

Meanwhile, the metallic roots continued advancing from the center—crushing, skewering, and pulverizing anything in their path—while the storm of toxic green Wind Arrows never ceased for even a heartbeat.

Four thousand against five hundred thousand?

No problem.

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