When the supreme commander trudged back to the cluster of his remaining soldiers, a heavy, breathless silence fell over the ranks. Every warrior waited without a word, watching his weathered face, ready to let whatever decree came out of his mouth dictate their very next move.
High above the valley, the colossal dragon continued to cruise through the upper currents without the slightest attempt to screen her presence. Her massive, iron-gray bulk literally blotted out the sun, casting a lingering shadow across the ravine that served as a constant, crushing reminder of Theresa's absolute dominance. There was a flat zero percent chance of a loyalist victory here.
In truth, while these men were technically sworn to Theresis's banner, very few harbored a burning desire to throw their lives into a meat grinder just for the Regent's grand ambition. If a path to survival presented itself, who would willingly choose a cold grave in the dirt?
Yet, not a single soul dared voice such thoughts within earshot of their commander. They were plagued by the sudden dread that the warlord might execute them on the spot under the charge of fracturing military morale. To be cut down by one's own officer before the primary clash even commenced would be a spectacularly pathetic way to die.
But the Sarkaz named Theros did not utter a single word upon his return. He simply sat down on a jagged boulder, entirely motionless, looking like a man hopelessly entangled in a brutal internal conflict, utterly paralyzed by the choice laid before him.
He pulled out a battered pack of cigarettes—a luxury he hoarded like a treasure—and began lighting them one after another, taking deep, desperate drags. He was burning through them at a frantic pace, finishing two full sticks in less than a minute. The surrounding infantry watched in silence, half-wondering if the general intended to smoke himself to death right then and there.
His reserve was meager, and it didn't take long before the final scrap of tobacco was reduced to ash. Exhaling a thick cloud of grey smoke, the seasoned Sarkaz seemed to finally wrench a definitive resolution from his mind. He threw the smoldering butt onto the earth, crushed it beneath his heavy boot, and turned his gaze toward his waiting men.
Before him stood a broken vanguard, their spirits thoroughly shattered before a single blow had landed. They were a crowd of exhausted souls who possessed absolutely zero desire to march into this fray. And truly, who could blame them? Who would willingly participate in a slaughter where there was no probability of success, let alone a shred of martial glory to be won?
Even if future historians ever penned accounts of this civil strife, these men knew their names would simply be branded as treacherous rebels, or perhaps pitied as a flock of mindless thralls brainwashed by the Regent. There would be absolutely no positive legacy waiting for them in the annals of Kazdel.
Gazing upon this sea of bleak, hollow expressions, Theros easily divined the exact thoughts racing through their minds. Despite the immense weight crushing his own spirit, he forced his lips into a strained, faint smile and spoke with a resounding shout:
"Anyone who has no desire to partake in this clash is free to leave right now! Whether you choose to scatter and seek out a quiet life for yourselves, or throw your banners down to swear fealty to Her Highness, the Monarch... I will not lift a finger to obstruct your path!"
He surveyed the shifting ranks. He fully recognized that he himself no longer possessed the right to offer his blade to Theresa; a high-ranking traitor turning his coat a second time would never earn the trust of Babel's inner circle. But the common soldiers he had led into the field were an entirely different matter!
The vast majority of the infantry before him were raw recruits swept up after the internal conflict had already fractured the nation. They were common men who had taken up iron for no other reason than to secure a meager livelihood. There was absolutely no logical reason for them to sacrifice their youth for a struggle that was already lost.
After all, this wasn't a righteous campaign to shield their homeland from a foreign invader; it was merely a brutal struggle between two royal siblings wrestling for total dominance over the realm. It held almost zero meaning for the collective future of the Sarkaz race.
Theros understood perfectly that rather than allowing these men to perish in a meaningless burst of violence, it was infinitely more vital for them to survive, so they could spend their remaining years laboring to rebuild Kazdel. Throwing their lives away in their prime across this barren flat would be an unmitigated waste of the nation's future.
The moment the final syllable left his lips, the loyalist camp instantly erupted into a chaotic frenzy! A loud murmur rippled through the ranks as the infantry fiercely debated whether their commander's decree was genuine or merely a cruel trap designed to root out cowards.
However, the moment a lone warrior took his first tentative steps away from the lines without facing a sudden blade to his back or a heavy crossbow bolt to his spine, the dam broke. The remaining soldiers began breaking off in small pockets, quickly fleeing the field of engagement. Every single face bore an expression of profound relief, as if they had miraculously plucked their very lives from the jaws of a predator.
Some chose to march directly toward Theresa's lines to surrender, while others discarded their armor entirely to begin the long journey back to their ancestral villages. A few simply intended to seek out a hidden valley, waiting for the grand storm of the civil war to fully pass before emerging to decide their next steps.
With the massive exodus of the rank-and-file, the crowd of warriors remaining at Theros's side dwindled rapidly, leaving less than a hundred loyalists standing in the dirt. Even the general couldn't quite fathom the exact reasons keeping these few stubborn souls by his side, but he let out a heavy sigh and offered them a solemn nod of respect.
The impending clash could no longer be called a battle. Ahead, Theresa's vanguard divisions were already shifting their roles, methodically stepping forward to process the surging waves of surrendering infantry and setting up temporary monitoring stations to secure the crowds.
Even though these turncoats had willingly yielded their weapons, Babel's veterans weren't foolish enough to instantly embrace them as trusted brothers-in-arms—at least not in the immediate term. Elite operators maintained an exceptionally tight watch over the detention pens, tracking every subtle movement to ensure no hidden plots were hatched.
For their part, the surrendered infantry had completely reconciled themselves to their roles as mere spectators in this grand war. Frankly, if they could experience a few more bloodless confrontations that didn't require them to risk life and limb, they would welcome them with open arms! Who wouldn't want to secure a few more years on this earth?
Meanwhile, Jeanne and the surrounding operators stood near the weapon piles, looking down at the scattered iron and the tiny cluster of remaining enemy troops. Despite having been locked in mortal opposition just hours prior, a faint pang of pity involuntarily stirred within the Saintess's heart.
The remnant of Theresis's legion—now numbering fewer than a hundred men—gazed across the barren flats at the overwhelming host arrayed against them. They looked up at the terrifying mythical beast circling lazily through the clouds, and their lips peeled back into fierce, defiant grins. Without a single thought for their own survival, they raised their remaining iron and initiated a desperate charge.
A skirmish of this meager scale didn't require Jeanne to lift a finger. Before the charging loyalists could even breach the outer perimeter of the vanguard, they were completely overwhelmed and captured alive—despite their furious, thrashing efforts to force a fatal encounter.
Watching these hardened veterans get bound so tightly they resembled heavy cloth sacks, twisting and squirming like angry caterpillars on the ground to voice their defiance, Jeanne simply shook her head. Signaling for Fafnir to fall in, she quietly departed from the front lines.
"You don't intend to execute them?" Jeanne inquired later, a trace of lingering anxiety in her voice as she watched Theresa arrange their confinement. She felt a bit unsettled leaving such formidable warriors locked up so casually. "Are you truly confident these basic cells can hold men of that caliber?"
The brig they were using was a perfectly standard, unreinforced structure. Jeanne knew with absolute certainty that she could shatter two of those iron doors with a single, unenhanced strike of her fist—though to be fair, there wasn't a gate on Terra that could truly hope to obstruct her path anymore.
Still, Jeanne could tell that the massive uncle leading the prisoners was far from a common grunt; he looked more than capable of bursting through the cell framework by brute force alone. What if he seized a moment when the guard rotation was thin to stage a violent breakout? Was this pink-haired Monarch truly that reckless?
"He is a remarkably rare talent, a caliber of warrior that Kazdel can ill afford to lose right now," Theresa explained softly, her gaze drifting toward the shadowed corridor of the prison block. It was as if she could feel the fierce eyes tracking her movements from the darkness of the cell. She offered Jeanne a gentle, reassuring smile. "Losing a man like him would be a profound tragedy for the future of our nation. Therefore, as long as there remains a single fraction of hope, I desire to bring him into our fold."
"While your reasoning is entirely sound... I suppose it all hinges on the silver tongues of your envoys," Jeanne remarked after a brief pause, conceding the point. Kazdel was indeed suffering from a catastrophic shortage of capable leaders; a figure of Theros's stature was a prize Theresa understandably loathed to discard. "Convincing a man whose resolve appears as unyielding as solid granite is a monumental task. If it were up to me, I'd probably just end up resorting to a physical demonstration of force to see whose logic holds more weight!"
"Fret not, we happen to have two extraordinary specialists for precisely this brand of negotiation," Theresa replied, her confidence in her inner circle absolute—particularly when it came to Kal'tsit's exhaustive rhetoric. "The Doctor and Kal'tsit are spectacularly adept at these matters."
In Theresa's estimation, once those two absolute aces combined their efforts, there were very few souls on Terra capable of maintaining their original convictions without fracturing. Besides, she had a strong inkling that Theros wasn't quite as hopelessly stubborn as he appeared.
"That is undeniably true," Jeanne murmured in agreement. She possessed a firsthand understanding of just how devastating those two could be in a debate; they were the sort of figures who could completely dismantle your entire worldview regardless of what argument you brought to the table. She could only hope the captive commander's sanity would survive the encounter intact.
Not long after Jeanne stepped away from the block, she caught sight of the Doctor sitting in a heavy wheelchair, being rolled toward the cells by a completely expressionless Kal'tsit. As the pair passed her in the corridor, they offered Jeanne a concise nod of greeting before disappearing into the gloom.
Jeanne remained entirely blissfully ignorant of the specific dialogue that transpired within those stone walls. However, a week later, she spotted Theros walking freely through the camp, his wrists adorned with a pair of gleaming silver bands that looked suspiciously like specialized cuffs. The giant warlord was quietly muttering to himself, desperately rationalizing his presence by claiming he was merely cooperating with the Monarch under the strict duress of a prisoner of war.
Beholding the massive warrior, whose entire psychological foundation looked as though it had been thoroughly pulverized and reassembled from scratch, Jeanne felt a profound wave of admiration for the rhetorical prowess of her ancient seniors. She immediately resolved to try and study a few drops of their conversational craft.
With Theros's cooperation secured, the advance division's march toward the royal capital accelerated beautifully. The seasoned general provided a spectacular volume of internal intelligence regarding the city's defenses, granting Babel a massive strategic advantage!
Among his disclosures was a remarkably baffling detail: Theresis had long since concentrated his elite mercenaries and core loyalist legions into a massive defensive host—yet this grand army was assembled on the exact opposite side of the capital, completely away from the path of Theresa's approaching columns. It was entirely unclear what the Regent hoped to achieve with such a layout.
This bizarre, anomalous deployment persisted without a single shift as Babel's vanguard finally closed the distance to the municipal borders. The Regent was simply allowing their forces to arrive at his very doorstep without lifting a single hand to check their advance.