Chapter 159

“But if we’re going to follow through with your plan, sister, there’s a condition.”

Andrei’s voice rang out, low and firm. His gaze locked with Elise’s, all warmth gone from his expression.

“Even if I craft the correct incantation, you’ll have to cast the spell on the battlefield yourself. Long-range offensive magic is far too complex—we can’t pull it off in our current state. That means you’ll have to face the barbarians at close range. Directly.” He paused, then added pointedly, “Can you do that?”

It wasn’t a question seeking truth—it was a verdict waiting to be confirmed. His eyes said what his words did not: You can’t.

Elise didn’t answer. She simply held his gaze, her silence taut and unreadable.

Andrei took that silence as consent to his assumption and exhaled quietly, as if the matter were settled.

“Then, for now,” he said, turning back to the map, “we’ll concentrate on reinforcing the barrier. We can afford to take time to determine how best to—”

“Seven are dead,” Elise said softly.

The room froze.

Her voice was quiet—almost gentle—but it sliced through his words like a blade. She stepped forward, her gaze unwavering.

“It’s not only seven, Andrei. It’s already seven.”

A long silence followed.

“We don’t have time to leisurely explore options,” she continued. “This isn’t the moment to argue about what’s too dangerous or what might go wrong. Seven becomes seventy. Then seven hundred. Then thousands. That’s how it starts. And we have nowhere left to retreat to.”

She looked around the room, voice growing firmer.

“If we want to stop the bleeding, we do what must be done. No half-measures.”

Her words struck with such clarity and logic that no one could argue. Even Andrei said nothing, his expression unreadable. In his place, Duke Bellator cleared his throat and stepped forward.

“Then… Your Highness proposes a surprise attack of our own,” he said cautiously. “What are the odds the magic will succeed?”

Elise didn’t hesitate. “There’s no way to know until we try. But I doubt anyone—barbarian or not—could survive a spell on the scale of a natural disaster.”

Without another word, she picked up a pen and moved to the side of the table. On a blank sheet of parchment, she began drawing a large circle, its shape wide and precise. Within it, she inscribed straight and curved lines, overlapping them with tightly clustered runes in an ancient, nearly forgotten language. As her mana poured into the page, the uneven lines glowed faintly, then settled into perfect symmetry.

Before long, the formation was complete—an intricate array of arcane geometry that shimmered with restrained power. It was the same spell she had obtained through her bargain with Sameshita in Norella—the one that had torn the ground apart and folded it like paper.

“This formation was devised by a dragon,” Elise said, her voice low. “I only had a brief look at it, so there may be flaws. Check it. Refine it.”

She handed the parchment to Andrei.

He took it, and for a long moment, said nothing. His eyes traced the circles and lines, absorbing the complexity before him. When he finally spoke, it was barely more than a whisper.

“This… this is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”

There was a note of awe in his voice—one Elise hadn’t heard in years.

The formation was far beyond anything in the royal crypt, more intricate and expansive than the spells of Gallian or Ignacio. It was not just a weapon. It was art—magic as creation, devastation, and design woven into one breathtaking form.

“You memorized all this?” Andrei asked, his voice tight with disbelief.

“I don’t have a magic circuit like you,” Elise replied evenly, without looking up. “So the only way for me to use magic is to draw it from memory. I went over it again and again on the way here so I wouldn’t forget.”

Her tone was light, almost dismissive—but Barnon stared at her, stunned.

She memorized that? He glanced down at the sprawling formation etched across the parchment, a web of dense runes and elaborate geometry. It was the kind of thing most mages would struggle to recreate even with tools and reference materials. And she had committed it to memory—while traveling?

He remembered how she had looked just days ago: bent over with nausea on the ship, her complexion ashen, breath shallow. Even on land, she’d struggled to stay upright, sometimes pausing mid-sentence just to suppress her dizziness. He’d seen her bow her head in silence, not from deference, but simply to stay conscious.

Just standing must’ve been a battle, Barnon thought grimly. And yet… she memorized this?

And now, barely two days after arriving in Riosa, she was saying she would go to the battlefield herself.

He clenched his fists at his sides. Her calm expression—lashes lowered, face serene—only made his concern deepen.

“…Yes,” Elise said softly, still gazing down at the formation. “With this, we might just be able to overturn today’s defeat.”

A long silence followed. At last, Andrei exhaled and gave a slow, reluctant nod.

“If you’re truly prepared for this, sister,” he said, his voice low, “then this may be the best—and most powerful—option Argan has left.”

“It’s powerful,” Elise affirmed with quiet certainty. “That’s not in question. We can do this.”

A steady smile unfurled across her pale face, tinged with both grace and steel. Despite her fragility, she radiated an undeniable strength.

“Let’s turn the tide within a month, Andrei.”

***

“One month? My lord, it’s impossible to shorten the travel time any further!”

Marquis Titas finally snapped, his voice cracking with frustration.

As commander of the Belnus Kingdom’s forces—the strongest of the Northern Alliance’s contributing nations and a close friend of Grandel—Titas had kept his composure longer than most. But now, at the edge of the vast central wilderness that split the continent in two, even he had reached his limit.

The allied army had set up camp for a brief rest and strategy meeting. Inside the central command tent, tension crackled in the air. Commanders from all corners of the Northern Alliance sat around a broad circular table, their faces drawn with fatigue. Complaints simmered just beneath the surface, and Titas gave voice to what many were too exhausted to say aloud.

“Getting to Regal’s border by the end of the month would already be a miracle!” he exclaimed, pounding a fist to his chest. “And now you want us to move up the schedule by ten days?! That’s not a request—it’s a death sentence!”

He rose from his chair, gesturing emphatically to the others. “We don’t have your monster-like stamina, nor do we ride horses that can gallop for days without rest or feed! You should base your expectations on our standards—not your own!”

At this point, it was no longer defiance—it was desperation. Around the table, grim nods and wary glances passed between the other commanders. No one dared to contradict Titas. They all felt the same.

It had been nearly two weeks since the emergency war council was held south of the Tene River, deep in Rotiara’s southern reaches. Of the twelve nations in the Northern Alliance, seven had officially pledged their forces. With Grandel’s support, the combined force from eight nations now numbered in the tens of thousands.

Since receiving the deployment order, the army had descended upon Rotiara like a storm—gathered, organized, and mobilized in record time. And then they marched. Ten days. Day and night. Without reprieve, without rest.

All because of the man who stood silently now at the head of the table, arms folded behind his back, eyes unreadable. He hadn’t spoken a word throughout the outburst.

The Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces. A man of terrifying presence and inhuman endurance.

Unshaken, unyielding—like a statue carved from stone.

Before the silent Grand Duke could speak, it was Ruben who broke the tension with an exaggerated sigh, dragging it out for dramatic effect.

“Oh, come on,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair. “You’re already whining about how hard the march has been? We’ve still got twice the distance to cover.”

Marquis Titas shot him a glare, his voice rising with indignation. “That’s easy for you to say! We’re being held to your standard, not ours!”

Rotiara’s elite troops, seasoned under Rezette’s relentless command, were still holding up remarkably well. But the rest of the allied forces—assembled in haste and thrust into an unrelenting pace—were visibly faltering. Fatigue etched their faces, and morale was beginning to crack.

Ruben clicked his tongue, clearly unimpressed. “Then maybe you should’ve trained harder before signing up for a war.”

Before the argument could escalate, Isaac interjected with a more composed tone, trying to strike a balance.

“It is a rather aggressive timetable, Your Grace,” he said, addressing Rezette directly. “We still have to traverse both the desert and the central wilderness. Infantry units can’t possibly keep up with the cavalry over that terrain. Even adjusting to the new climate will take its toll.”

“Exactly!” Titas added, seizing the moment. “At this rate, our men will be dropping dead from exhaustion before they even see a single barbarian head!”

It was then that the Grand Duke finally spoke.

His voice was low and measured, but it silenced the tent like a sword drawn in a crowded room.

“You raise a fair point,” Rezette said calmly.

Marquis Titas blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected agreement. He was just short of collapsing into grateful tears when Rezette’s tone shifted.

“However—”

The Grand Duke’s gaze swept over the strategic map sprawled across the war table. Without haste, he reached down and plucked one of the small flags from its position.

It was the standard representing the Belnus Kingdom’s forces.