The wind howled like a dying beast atop Moslaw Hill.
But it was not the sky that stirred—it was the breath of the cold mist, clinging to the Snow Knight's armor like a curse. Her pale cloak billowed behind her, trailing the silence of winter's vengeance—untouched by flame, unstained by blood. Her eyes, glacial and inhuman, scanned the battlefield with the apathy of a god. Cruel in beauty. Beautiful in cruelty.
The Drago Tribe had seized the hill. Flame-worshipers of the east, they stood like pyres waiting to burn, cloaked in scorched crimson leathers, their faces blackened with soot. Behind a makeshift wall of charred logs, they raised burning staves to the sky and screamed praises to their god, Yul'gar—the Flame That Consumes.
She dismounted.
No command. No cry.
Only the soft whisper of steel leaving its sheath.
The Second Battalion moved in silence, forming a crescent behind her like shadows obeying the moon.
"She walks alone," a soldier whispered.
"She always does."
The Snow Knight stepped forward.
And the storm followed.
Her aura unfurled—cold, sharp, endless.
The grass withered. Embers died.
Wind curled beneath her feet like ghosts coming home.
The Drago warriors howled from behind their barricades.
"Come then, white ghost!"
"Let's see if the rumors are true!"
They got their answer.
She moved.
Too fast for eyes, too quiet for sound.
In a blink, she was before their wall. Her blade glowed with coiled force as she chanted beneath her breath:
"O spirit of the endless sky, lend me thy wrath."
Wind Art: Third Form — Heaven Piercer!
She inhaled deeply, and the air trembled.
Her blade sang—a note too sharp for mortal ears—then carved the very sky.
A spiraling arc of wind howled from her sword, roaring like a divine serpent.
It struck.
The fortress wall split like wet parchment.
Panic erupted.
She surged forward.
Like a ghost of frost and steel, she wove through fire and flesh.
Every slash left mist. Every body fell cold.
Behind her, the soldiers advanced. Awed. Relentless.
She danced through flames without a scorch. Her sword fell like snow—gentle, silent, and utterly lethal.
When she stopped, forty Drago warriors lay dead.
Eyes wide. Blood frozen mid-scream.
Then came the shamans.
Three fire-callers stepped forward, their staves blazing, mouths vomiting sacred flame. The world ignited—
—but the Snow Knight stood still.
"O spirit of the endless sky, I call thy shield—be the wall between my kin and ruin!"
Wind Art: Second Form — Aegis of Tempest!
A storm burst from her blade.
Wind swirled into a dome, shattering fire, turning flame into mist, ash into snow.
And through that gap—her soldiers charged.
The wall of fire became a tomb of ice.
The Drago lines broke. Spears pierced. Swords sang.
Crimson turned white.
At the hill's summit, Yurdan the Emberhand, their chieftain, turned to flee.
But fate was faster.
A streak of green aura flashed past.
She was already there.
Waiting.
One upward slash.
Yurdan split—from collarbone to spine.
By nightfall, Moslaw Hill was still.
Only the wind remained.
She stood atop the battlefield, alone, before a bonfire.
Her sword shimmered with killing frost—its edge clean, its silence deafening. Her face was streaked with blood, yet her beauty shone like moonlight over snow.
She said nothing.
As the imperial banner rose above the hill,
The Snow Knight simply turned, and vanished into the wind.
Dust thundered beneath the march of iron.
On a hill above the ravine known as Blackmaw Gorge, Captain Arman of the Empire's Third Battalion stood unmoving, the wind tugging at his crimson cloak. Below, the Thulda Tribe gathered—three hundred strong men, their faces hidden behind masks of bone, a wall of defiance before the inevitable.
Arman's armor was battered but unbroken, its plates bearing scars from wars long past. A massive gauntlet encased his right arm, humming faintly with sealed power. It was not mere equipment—it was his battle suit, a gift from the Emperor himself.
He dismounted slowly, the earth groaning beneath his boots.
Three hundred warriors stared back at him.
Outnumbered. Surrounded.
Yet they did not retreat.
That amused him.
"So," Arman muttered, his voice a cold rumble. "You've made peace with death. Then I'll be sure none of you leave disappointed."
A war horn bellowed.
But the Empire did not move.
Rows of soldiers—nearly five thousands—stood silent, unmoving.
The Thulda hesitated. Confused.
Then, rage overcome hesitation.
With a deafening roar, the barbarians charged. Screaming. Unafraid.
Three hundred against five thousand.
A doomed assault. A suicidal defiance.
And Arman? He grinned.
"No one moves," he ordered. "This fight is mine alone. A tribute… to their courage."
The battalion obeyed. Not a single spear was raised.
Arman walked forward, tightening the gauntlet at his side. The sigils along its frame flared to life.
Then he struck.
"External Art – 70% Output: Colossal Punch."
He punched the air—and the world shattered.
The force split the air with a thunderous roar, wind tearing across the battlefield like a cannon blast. The front line of barbarians disintegrated, their bodies flung like leaves in a storm. Blood sprayed in arcs. Bones cracked. Screams rang out.
Still they charged.
Still he struck.
With each blow, another warrior fell. Two. Five. Ten.
Those who swarmed him were shattered with a single backhand.
A punch to the ground left a crater—and bodies flung in every direction.
Gradually, he lessened his aura, pulling it back. He wanted to feel the fight—not overpower it.
To savor it.
Fist after fist. Dash after dash.
The slaughter continued, but Arman danced through it like a god of war.
Until only one remained.
A shadow loomed from the rear of the battlefield—Jorak, the Thulda chieftain. Seven feet tall. Muscle-bound and carved like a war statue, he dragged a blood-soaked halberd behind him.
He saw Arman—and dropped his weapon.
A silent challenge.
Arman, intrigued, removed his gauntlet and tossed it aside. Metal hit the ground with a deep thud.
Man versus man.
Their fists met with a thunderous clap. Dust exploded. The gorge shook.
But it was over far too soon.
Even holding back, Arman's strikes were overwhelming. Jorak stumbled, bleeding from the mouth, his ribs caving in under each impact.
Desperate, Jorak reached for his halberd.
Arman's eyes narrowed. Fury ignited.
"Cowards,unlike the one you lead."
He stepped forward, aura igniting once more.
"External Art – 80% Output: Colossal Punch!"
The punch landed with the force of judgment.
Jorak's body exploded, his torso torn apart—leaving behind a hole wide enough to bury a man. The ground beneath him crumbled, a crater forming where the Thulda leader once stood.
And then—silence.
By dusk, the battle had ended.
The gorge ran red.
The Third Battalion stood victorious.
Three tribes had fallen. Only One remained.
Arman gazed into the fading light, expression unreadable.
"Let the last one come. I haven't finished yet."