Listening to the thunderous explosions, the very first thought that crossed Jeanne's mind as she sat atop Fafnir's massive back was whether someone would hit her with an environmental pollution fine once the dust settled. Would Babel even cover a citation like that?
But then she reconsidered. Wasn't she only unleashing this chaos because their Lord of Fiend had practically begged her to? What kind of environmental penalty could possibly apply here? Besides, did a war-torn wasteland like this even possess a regulatory board for municipal fines?
Though letting one's mind wander on a battlefield was usually a one-way ticket to a grave, Jeanne occupied a position where no fighter with a functioning brain would dare hurl a weapon.
The moment Fafnir materialized, the entire opposing force had been completely stupefied. Their minds were thoroughly overloaded, utterly unable to process the scale of the horror unfolding before them. Their thoughts had dissolved into an absolute, tangled mess.
For a long time, they couldn't even determine whether this reality was genuine or merely an elaborate trick of the mind conjured by the Lord of Fiend to secure an easy victory. They all knew the crown's master possessed the power to weave incredible illusions.
But the exact second Fafnir's first stray burst struck the earth, all doubts vanished. This titanic entity was undeniably real, a primordial nightmare capable of wiping out their entire division with a single breath.
This was completely absurd! They always knew the Regent's officers would withhold critical intelligence to ensure troops would willingly march into these wretched canyons, but this omission crossed every line.
Just look at that colossal horror dominating the sky! They wanted Theresis to step forward right now and name a single soldier in his grand army capable of leaving so much as a scratch on those scales. If such a hero existed, they would gladly hand over their lives on a silver platter!
Previously, the flock of wyverns had been terrifying, but they hadn't completely broken the mercenaries' desire to fight. A swarm of smaller drakes could technically be brought down if a company was willing to throw enough bodies and explosive vests into the fray.
But against this mythical mountain? Even if a soldier strapped themselves from head to toe with heavy demolition charges and managed to leap onto its back, the best-case outcome would be polishing a single scale. How were they supposed to wage a war under these conditions?
Watching Fafnir casually rain fire across the valley as if she were merely playing a game, the host decided it was time to retreat. No one wanted to be the tragic casualty in a war that offered an absolute zero percent chance of victory.
Yet, a massive obstacle blocked their exit strategy: would Jeanne and her allies even allow them to flee? Looking down at Babel's own mercenaries, the defenders' eyes were gleaming with pure, predatory excitement. They clearly saw this as the perfect chance to permanently erase their competition!
If these rival bands were wiped out today, the total pool of available blades in Kazdel would plummet. The surviving companies could leverage the sudden labor shortage to skyrocket their fees and aggressively expand their own operations.
Already visualizing a future of boundless wealth, Babel's cohorts advanced on the demoralized raiders with weapons raised and malicious grins plastered across their faces. Another brutal clash erupted, but the spirit of the fight had entirely vanished from one side.
Up in the clouds, Fafnir was purely treating the event as playtime. She didn't bother tracking whether her bursts hit a specific cluster of infantry, nor did she care where the fire landed.
The task of aiming actually fell squarely on Jeanne, who was breaking into a cold sweat as she monitored the trajectory of each blast, ensuring the child didn't accidentally drop a stray projectile anywhere near Babel's main vanguard.
As Fafnir continued her chaotic barrage, Jeanne noticed dozens of white flags rising from the enemy ranks. The opposing companies were desperately trying to surrender.
Unfortunately, Babel's hired blades had zero desire to grant mercy. They remembered exactly how arrogant these raiders had been just a few hours prior, and they weren't about to let them off the hook so easily.
They wanted to surrender the moment the tide turned? Absolute nonsense! As long as their employer hadn't officially declared the engagement over, the slaughter would continue.
Thus, Jeanne witnessed an incredibly rare spectacle: a massive force that held an overwhelming numerical advantage was being utterly hunted and routed by a group a fraction of their size. The host was beginning to fracture into a total, chaotic stampede.
Had Jeanne not been a direct participant in this engagement, she would have assumed the opposing general was an absolute fraud who didn't possess the basic competence required to manage a vanguard.
But now? Jeanne could only conclude that she and Fafnir were completely invincible! Simply by existing above the battlefield, they could force an entire army to drop their arms without a shred of resistance. It was an incredible feeling.
A sudden wave of arrogance washed over her chest. Even though the vast majority of the credit belonged entirely to Fafnir's raw presence, Jeanne couldn't help but feel a massive surge of pride.
While Jeanne was enjoying her moment of grandeur in the sky, the struggle below pressed onward. Yet, just as the two sides reached the absolute height of the bloody melee amidst the deafening roar of draconic fire, a pristine white figure descended into the dead center of the valley.
The Lord of Fiend unleashed a profound art, and in an instant, an unnatural stillness washed over every single Sarkaz on the field. The entire host fell dead silent, staring open-mouthed toward the heart of the crater at the figure shrouded in a brilliant, pure white radiance.
To the surrounding warriors, Theresa currently resembled an unrecognizable humanoid entity composed entirely of blinding, incandescent light—matching the Doctor's previous jest about a character rushing onto a battlefield before their textures had even finished loading.
Of course, this was merely the visual residue of her arts. The Lord of Fiend wouldn't actually march into a war zone looking like a bare lightbulb; such an appearance would inspire far too many ridiculous jokes.
From Jeanne's birds-eye view, however, Theresa looked exactly like her usual self. Standing alone in the dust, her sheer presence and localized arts transformed the savage, bloodthirsty mercenaries from a pack of ravenous wolves into an obedient flock of sheep.
The nature of her authority is remarkably similar to my own Dragon Witch trait, Jeanne mused, watching the sudden docility of the troops in absolute astonishment. She hadn't realized the crown's master held such a profound, inescapable sway over her people.
The mechanism mirrored the way Jeanne commanded draconic beasts, though Theresa's reach was inherently bound by bloodline; she couldn't simply issue absolute commands to primeval monsters without condition.
If the Lord of Fiend's authority were truly that absolute, this civil war never would have dragged on for so many agonizing years. It would have concluded the very day the first banner was raised.
Signaling Fafnir to cease her bombardment, Jeanne kept the great dragon hovering lazily in the upper currents, content to watch how the situation unfolded below without further intervention.
Down on the scorched earth, Theresa stood tall, flanked by Kal'tsit and a wall of elite defenders. She appeared to be delivering a grand address to the gathered host. Because of the immense distance separating the sky from the valley floor, Jeanne couldn't catch a single syllable of the speech.
But the general message wasn't difficult to deduce: she was likely offering them a choice to lay down their arms and leave the valley, or perhaps even merge their companies into Babel's ranks.
Whether it was the undeniable weight of Theresa's ancient arts or the lingering terror inspired by Fafnir's apocalyptic display, the mercenaries chose the path of least resistance. Their surrender was remarkably swift.
Jeanne watched as thousands of seasoned killers simultaneously raised their hands in submission, wondering whether she should praise their survival instincts or mock how incredibly fast they had broken.
Regardless, the outcome was undeniably positive. A mass surrender meant an immediate end to the senseless slaughter, fulfilling Theresa's ultimate wish to preserve what remained of her people's blood.
Naturally, Babel couldn't possibly absorb or imprison an army of this size within the landship's bulk, nor did they have any intention of executing the disarmed forces. In the end, the vast majority of the broken companies were simply stripped of their heavy ordnance and permitted to scatter back into the wastes.
Would these same mercenaries immediately march back to the capital and rejoin Theresis's ranks to cause more trouble down the road? Jeanne doubted anyone with a basic modicum of intelligence would make that choice a second time.
The only true source of dissatisfaction for Jeanne was how incredibly anti-climactic the entire affair had been. She had braced herself for a grueling, legendary clash of iron and blood, only for the entire theater to dissolve into a peaceful gathering within minutes.
Sitting comfortably on Fafnir's back, she couldn't help but feel a little short-changed by how easily the battle had concluded. But she smiled, realizing that from this day forward, as long as she had her companion by her side, even the most terrifying armies on Terra would amount to nothing more than child's play.