After the princess's speech, the wizards remained silent, merely watching the stage. Even the "big baboons" beside them—who had been cheering mindlessly—began to sense the shift in atmosphere and gradually fell quiet. The square quickly descended into an awkward silence. Soldiers stared at the wizards, and the wizards stared at the princess. The moment stretched unbearably…
It seemed this reaction was entirely unexpected. For all her determination, the girl standing on stage was, in the end, just a 16- or 17-year-old child, raised in privilege and unprepared for such a moment. Delivering a speech under crisis was already an immense strain for her. Now, faced with a dead, unresponsive crowd, her panic was obvious—even as she struggled to maintain composure.
Beads of sweat glistened on her ivory neck, sliding down the graceful curve into her armor. Though she still held herself upright, even the muscle-headed warriors could see it clearly—she was terrified.
A soft sigh broke the tense stillness.
Menezi stepped forward. He walked to the stage and stood beside the princess, his cold gaze sweeping over the gathered professionals like the edge of a steel blade. The pressure of his presence alone sent chills down many spines. A few among the weaker professionals were already drenched in sweat, their legs trembling, but the mages held firm. Even if they felt the weight of his presence, none retreated.
Menezi understood one thing clearly: without an incentive, these mages would never lift a finger in this war. His strength may have been formidable, but the enemy had their own professionals to match him. At best, he could keep the enemy's elites occupied—but he couldn't simultaneously defend Konola City, especially with its meager fortifications. These mages were the key to survival.
No matter how many spells he had at his disposal, Menezi was not a legendary mage. He lacked the ability to control minds, to force others into obedience. If he tried to coerce professionals into battle, they would simply abandon him when the fighting began. The only way forward was to offer compensation—to establish a clear, beneficial transaction.
For the first time, Menezi truly understood why powerful wizards sought to cultivate their own alchemical armies. A force of utterly loyal, mindless constructs might not be able to secure victory against powerful foes, but at least they would protect their master's wealth and home.
Right now, he had no such luxury. If he wanted the support of these independent, low-level professionals—men and women he would normally never even glance at—he had to make an offer worth their while. And these professionals knew it, too. That was why they dared to stare him down, unafraid.
Despite the calculations racing through his mind, Menezi's expression remained cold and impassive.
"Any warrior who kills fifty enemy professionals," he said in a low, steady voice, "will have the right to select three apprentice-level spells from my repertoire. Additionally, after I personally verify your accomplishments through prophetic spells, you may choose one official-level spell. Furthermore…"
He paused deliberately.
"You may ask me, the official mage Menezi, a single question."
A sharp intake of breath rippled through the crowd.
Punk and many other mages couldn't help but react—the weight of such an offer was undeniable. Even for someone like Punk, who possessed an inheritance, the temptation was strong. As for the wandering mages who desperately sought knowledge, it was irresistible.
This battle was undoubtedly dangerous, but the reward was too enticing to ignore. And, realistically, there was no requirement to win the war itself—just to kill enemy professionals. On a chaotic battlefield, even if the tides turned against them, there were plenty of ways to escape. One could slip away, surrender, or even feign death if necessary.
As expected, the wizards quickly reassessed their stance. With calculated smiles, they performed the formal gestures of allegiance to the princess, calmly pledging their "loyalty" to the kingdom.
"Warriors and other professionals will also be granted access to a royal secret art," a knight standing behind the princess added. While mages were the main force behind large-scale destruction, warriors still played a crucial role in battle.
"Prince William's brutal army is expected to arrive at dawn tomorrow," the princess declared, attempting to rally them with a determined voice. "Let us unite to protect our homeland! Konola City will never fall!"
But her trembling voice lacked conviction. While some warriors and a handful of mages responded with enthusiasm, most merely acknowledged her words out of respect for Menezi.
Punk, having finished a standard mage's salute, lifted his gaze toward Menezi once more. He studied the man's expression, smirked lightly, and turned to leave.
"A formal mage, someone who values interests above all else… yet he's doing all this for an incompetent princess?" Punk mused as he walked into the shadows of the alleyway. He ran his fingers along his smooth chin, eyes gleaming with curiosity.
"If Menezi isn't some rare breed of fool, then his relationship with the princess is far more complex than it seems…"
A slow grin spread across his lips.
"And this war… I wonder what surprises it will bring me?"
War came, sudden yet inevitable.
As the small sun, Mira, rose, its first light bathed the ancient walls of Konola City. But today—just one day after the Emerald Festival—Mira's radiance was met with another sight: a long, unbroken wave of gleaming silver armor.
Beyond the horizon, the enemy army marched toward Konola in a slow, unrelenting tide. Their numbers formed a flood of metallic bodies, a rolling current of destruction. The glint of polished swords shone like a thousand tiny stars, yet the cold steel carried a promise of death.
The warriors of Konola City—who had seen war only in the exaggerated tales of bards—now felt its true weight settle into their bones.
Punk leaned casually against a wall, watching. Nearby, ordinary soldiers stood at attention, their faces taut with fear.
To avoid targeted strikes from enemy professionals, all mages and warriors had been scattered throughout the defensive lines, blending in among the common troops. When battle began, Menezi would engage the enemy's strongest, while the professionals would be responsible for preventing the fall of the city walls.
Konola had lost its festive cheer overnight. The poor huddled inside their homes, doors bolted shut. Only yesterday, they had celebrated with joy—now, war had arrived at their doorstep.
Even Punk couldn't deny the absurdity of the situation.
"One day, a festival. The next, a siege."
But the weak had no choice but to accept reality.
"And I…" Punk's grip tightened around his staff, his blue pupils gleaming with faint magical light.
"I will become strong. And this war… is the perfect opportunity."
On the horizon, Prince William's Silver River Army encircled the city.
They had at least 300,000 elite troops—three times the number of Konola's defenders. As their ranks approached, the sheer weight of their presence alone was suffocating.
The rhythmic clang of their armor, the steady beat of their boots striking the ground in unison—it was like a war drum, each step pounding against the hearts of Konola's soldiers.
Punk glanced at the trembling city defense troops beside him and sneered.
Then, turning his gaze back to the approaching army, he whispered to himself—his voice filled with an eerie anticipation.
"This is going to be… interesting."