Chapter 311: The Battle of Afton (I)
Afton Plain, Frontline Battlefield.
The sky was clear, unbroken by clouds. Far off on the snow-capped peaks, Wyverns soared between the cliffs, their long, mournful cries echoing across the valley.
Snow-laden wastelands stretched endlessly, dotted with makeshift camps. Filthy Slave Soldiers—half-starved, exhausted—labored to build fortifications and haul Logistical Supplies. From the Northern States—Bosk Duchy, Duchy of Phano, Duchy of Carter—armies had converged, their banners fluttering in the cold wind.
A middle-aged Noble, clad in finely crafted Armor, stood with hands clasped behind his back, gazing toward the horizon. His Chest Plate bore the emblem of a Lion entwined with crossed Swords. His voice was heavy with tension.
“Has the Edson Family arrived yet?”
“No, my lord. We’ve received no Message. They’re likely—”
“Damned.”
A shadow fell across his face. He began pacing, muttering under his breath.
“Edson… Duran… Rosa… Wolf…”
“Seven thousand troops were promised. Now we’re barely two-thirds of that. How am I supposed to hold back the Kingdom of Ashen?”
His name was Loren Bosk. The surname alone spoke of noble blood. He was the second son of Duke Leo, Baron of the Bosk Duchy, and commander-in-chief of the Allied Forces’ First Line of Defense.
Duke Leo had sent him here—not only to prove his loyalty to the fight against the Evil Dragon, but also to silence the whispers of the Northern Nobles. To show the world that even his most prized son was willing to stand at the frontlines.
Above, the skies grew darker. Wyverns now filled the air in ever-growing numbers—like a storm of wings, their chaotic flapping casting a pall over the earth.
Loren stared upward, his expression grim. He turned to his Adjutant.
“We have no time left. The Burnt Army is approaching.”
“Order all units to prepare for battle. I don’t expect victory. Our only mission is to hold them here—pin them down, probe their weaknesses. Give my father more time—”
Suddenly, the heavy War Drumbeat shattered the silence.
Thud… thud… thud…
Loren turned sharply. The ground trembled. The horizon was swallowed by the oncoming force.
Great Goblins marched in perfect formation, their armor gleaming under the sun. Massive Ogres, each as tall as a tree, stomped forward. Armored Dragon Beasts—like living hills—rumbled through the snow. A black tide of Wyverns filled the sky, their wings blotting out the sun. Heavy Cannons, their barrels pointed skyward, added to the oppressive weight of the advance.
The drumbeats continued—steady, relentless—each beat shaking the earth like the footsteps of Death.
“Tampas above…”
Loren whispered a prayer.
Though the air was bitterly cold, sweat trickled down his forehead.
He had studied the Kingdom of Ashen’s forces through Magical Images before. He had told himself they were not invincible.
But now, facing them in reality, he finally understood—this was no mere army. This was a Cataclysmic force, a living nightmare.
“…Are you kidding me?”
“That’s… our enemy?”
“How could this even be possible?”
“Are they trying to kill us?”
Soldiers along the defenses whispered in fear. Their voices trembled. Even the sound of their words seemed shaken.
These were not elite troops. They were a patchwork of Northern Kingdoms’ personal armies—some professional mercenaries, others peasant conscripts pressed into service from manors, poorly trained and ill-equipped.
The disparity in strength was staggering. Any rational human could see it.
Loren clenched his jaw, hearing the panic rising.
This can’t go on.
If they continued like this, the Burnt Army hadn’t even arrived—his men would already be broken, fleeing in terror. His mission would fail. His father’s trust would be wasted.
As a son of the Bosk Family, Loren had been raised with privilege. But he also longed to become the true Successor—perhaps even the Nominal Ruler of the Northern Regions.
Yet he was only the second son.
While others wasted their days in indulgence, Loren had trained relentlessly—mastering Horsemanship, studying tactics, observing family affairs—hoping to earn Duke Leo’s attention, to surpass his elder brother and claim his rightful place.
But in the face of a thousand years of tradition, his efforts had seemed meaningless.
Now, Duke Leo had placed his hopes in him. And this war was his chance—his one chance to rise, to make a name for himself, to become a hero worthy of being written into the Family Epic.
He gritted his teeth.
“I have to step forward.”
He strode to the frontlines, drew his Longsword, and raised it high into the air.
As a Baron and Duke Leo’s own son, Loren commanded respect across the Northern Regions. His sudden movement drew every eye.
“Soldiers!”
His voice was heavy—but strong, clear, resolute.
“You’ve seen them. The enemy is far more powerful than we expected. This may be a war we cannot win. They are monsters—Two-Headed Dragons, Ogres, Great Goblins. They are fueled by the Power of the Evil Dragon. And we… we are only ordinary Humans.”
He paused. His tone shifted—fiery, burning with conviction. The drumbeats of the enemy now served as the rhythm of his speech.
“But remember this—you stand on Scandia’s homeland. The soil beneath your feet is the same land our Ancestors fought for, died for, and built upon for nine centuries.”
He stepped forward, his voice rising.
“I am a descendant of Bosk. Nine hundred years ago, my Ancestor—the First Lionheart King, Rosel Bosk—led your forebears across the unknown lands of Anzeta. We tamed the wilds, built cities, forged a glorious Scania Civilization. The Frost Giants from the North, the White Dragons from the ice—none have broken us. We have turned blood into walls, and defended our home again and again.”
His eyes blazed.
“And now… nine centuries later… I, Rosel’s heir—Loren Bosk—stand with you. The enemy before us is stronger, more cunning. But I believe—history will repeat itself.”
Suddenly—silence.
The drumbeats stopped.
Even Loren, mid-speech, faltered. He paused, then resumed:
“We will defend—”
But his voice was cut short by a far calmer sound.
A hush fell over the battlefield. The soldiers turned, not to him—but to the distant sky. Their gazes widened. Murmurs turned to gasps. Some even cried out in disbelief—as if witnessing a miracle.
“Damned scum. No honor, no decency, no true nobility.”
Loren’s face twisted in fury. He spat under his breath, furious at being ignored.
He turned.
And froze.
The Burnt Army had halted. They stood still, camped in perfect order.
And above them—floating in the sky—was a colossal Magical Image, stretching hundreds of meters wide.
Within it stood a young man, handsome beyond measure. His Black Hair fell like shadow across his brow. His Golden Eyes—pale, radiant—held an Aura so majestic, so divine, that it outshone every Noble in Northern history.
He smiled—polite, gentle, almost serene.
And in that gaze—deep, piercing, hypnotic—every soul on the battlefield felt their will dissolve.
Even Loren Bosk.
“Greetings, noble warriors of the Northern Regions.”
A calm, clear voice echoed from the sky.
“Pleased to meet you. I am Kai Xiusu. You’ve likely heard my name. I am the Supreme Leadership of the Kingdom of Ashen… and the one you know as the King of the Burnt.”
(End of Chapter)
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