A violent gale sank into the depression below and woke the brute, whose body throbbed with pain, but he did not seem to mind his wound when he sat up, blood pouring from his stomach. He squinted, perplexed as to why everyone, even those who were caring for him, was looking in the opposite direction, before he discovered one of his comrades lying in a river of mud, motionless and soundless, bleeding from a blade-cut crevice. His chest did not rise or fall, but his breath was still present as Julien’s cold hands pressed against his wound. Cold sweat poured down his face as he was zapped by the electric currents running through his friend’s blood. However, the lion did not appear wanting violence, wiping the blood from his blade and flicking it dry before sheathing it again, as if it was being hummed to sleep.
The feet of the general were heavy, weighted with words he had hoped to say before the interruption. “I do not wish to entertain this bloodshed any longer, but allow me to enlighten you with my honesty.” Vasilevsky’s expression remained calm as he spoke. “The League grows old, an ancient machine whose cogs have rotted, yet the men who work this machine cling onto their rusting relic as if it were family. For what?” He asked the squad, hoping that they would see reason in the existence of the Confederacy rather than the perishing Aelon.
The squad watched him approach, unthreateningly, before coming to a halt at twice the distance of his blade, but the six conscious youths became defensive as their paranoia increased. Staring at the lion who towered over them, appearing unbeatable, they began to surrender as their eyes suggested. The gleam of his breastplate faded as the clouds returned, casting a grey shadow over the armies like a monotone film.
His feet sank into the soil, leaving inch-deep footprints, and the squad could finally grasp the size of this man, who appeared a hundredfold more monstrous than Miklós. “They tear themselves apart, taking the world down with it.” Vasilevsky remarked, and many frowns appeared on the squad’s faces. “They have never once considered the prospect of peace. Instead, every nation in the cursed League is complicit in its self-destruction.” Staring at Lev, the general had long felt the Rus blood that coursed through his veins.
Lev flinched as he held onto Gin when another lancer set down his comrade and stood up, blood dripping from the tip of his fingers. His comrades tugged on his sleeve, telling him to sit down and to ride out the storm, but after they had caught a glimpse of his expression, they released him.
As the only member of his squad daring enough to stand before the lion, Julien clenched his fists, but he had no intent of fighting him. “Then, why was it the Confederacy who attacked us?” The blonde-haired lancer peered up at the general, thinking that he could outwit the lion.
Vasilevsky scoffed and held onto the straps of his breastplate. “I cannot fathom that you would believe what the League has been feeding you.” He wondered if they had truly accepted what he knew was a lie. “We only came to understand the nature of your precious alliance when we were attacked.” Taking on a gentler tone, the colonel general did not berate the squad, but it sounded as if he was educating them.
However, the lancers and soldiers did not yet trust him and his words, thinking that it was all a ploy to force their defection, but they were just too naive to consider for even a moment that what he said might have been the truth regardless of whether he was a Confederate soldier or not.
The colonel general’s attention was drawn to the distance, where a brigade of cavalry thundered down the ridge of the Bohemer headquarters while their comrade infantrymen flowed into the encampment and went into hiding. “Your kings and queens, soldiers and people, wasted at themselves, fighting for land that they are supposed to share under Kennedy’s terms, and still, they wonder why this war is as good as done.” Vasilevsky returned to the squad in front of him, watching as their faces changed. “Even if it will not be by my hand, the Confederacy will see to it that war will become merely a vestige of human memory.” The lion stated what seemed to be the fate of the world.
The foolish endeavour of the small force of cavalry was led by a general clad in bronze and armed with an eared spear, charging for the frontlines, where they hoped to halt the Confederates’ unstoppable advance and save as many as they could, but his army did not turn to fight and instead continued their retreat, as the squad’s eyes in the foreground had gone cold from realising what the colonel general meant. They immediately silenced their thoughts, but one lancer remained hesitant at his words.
“War is never done…” Julien spoke out against the colonel general.
The crowd of Confederates surrounding the seven remained silent, but their eyes were alert. However, one colonel among the observers knew he did not need to be as tense as his comrades were.
His platinum steel breastplate appeared to have been flayed from a mythical beast whose steel wings were bound to his back with a chain that ran across his collar. He had the silhouette of a god, but he was mortal. His hands were scarred with overlapping cuts, which were holding onto an ornamental glaive. The young white-haired man, who was in his early twenties, was tall and well-built, with a wide stance and proper posture. He was often found burdened by many thoughts. The strands of his hair poked out of his helmet fashioned with the metallic beak of a hawk, sipping the scarlet red tint of his armour that reflected on his soft, pale face clawed onto by the silver talons of his helm. The colonel’s pupils were larger than average but were always shadowed under his helmet’s overhang.
When he lifted his head, the light revealed his eyes, rose red, sharp and emotionless. “That is war’s very nature but a war can be ended as easily as a man’s life is taken.” He sensed a fast approaching presence as he muttered to himself and he turned his head towards the voice that broke the long silence.
Surfacing from the vast army was a banner rising and falling in rhythm. Its insignificant noise whizzed through the ranks, but as it approached, its colours were clearly not those of the Confederacy. “Move, or y’ll see the nine ‘ells early!” The bannermen cried, crushing his enemies who could not give way in time.
Two riders emerged like a surfer breaking out of a wave, bearing the banner of the white lion on a bloody plane, flapping in the wind. The ripples on their colours slowed as they came to a sudden halt, kicking up mud and sand that tainted the lion’s armour. The hooves of their horses pounded the earth, unsettled by the hostility of their surroundings, but their riders never showed fear.
“Vasilevsky! I ‘ear you’ve my men!” The brave soldier yelled out as he chose to stay on his saddle.
The lion glared at the messenger, seeing his face half obscured by the sun. “I see no men here, only mere boys.” He scoffed and corrected him.
A chuckle came with a smile that replaced Vasilevsky’s, and shaking his head, the messenger unwrapped his hands around his reins and brought his feet out of his stirrups. He swung his leg over the saddle and leapt off swiftly, as did his other companion, who was a girl. Passing the squad, they caught a glimpse of his face when the sun became sheltered behind his hair, his smirk demeaning, aimed at the colonel general and none else.
Noticing his chinstrap beard, one soldier recognised him instantly. “Lieutenant?” Gin was first to address him amidst his comrades’ shock.478Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9826ZHPCfq
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