The Holy War had begun.
Soldiers from every nation of the world, War Mages, knightly orders, paladins, high priests, saintesses, and priestesses—
along with mages from both the New Mage Tower and the Old Mage Tower, and from the School Alliance.
Mercenary companies, hunters, bounty hunters, and even international relief organizations.
In addition to that came armored weapons, steam golems, every kind of gunpowder and firearm, artifacts, and endless supplies.
At this very place, the full might and firepower of the entire continent had been concentrated.
Their single purpose:
To overthrow the Demon King, Heathcliff von Bretus.
They had all answered the call of righteousness, and now the great war was about to begin.
Before all gathered eyes, Salesin von Bretus stepped forward.
“Greetings, everyone. I am Salesin von Bretus—though you may also know me as the Holy Sovereign of Bretus, however unworthy I may be.”
He began with a modest self-introduction, lowering his head slightly as if in humility—
an unexpected gesture that left many surprised.
Not everyone gathered here had come purely for the sake of the cause.
Those in command were bound by brainwashing, but the subordinates under them were there either by orders or to gain something from this war.
Therefore, some among them held faintly negative thoughts about Salesin.
Though the Theocracy of Bretus now claimed the role of victim, its historical image was far from favorable.
In an age where religion had long lost its authority, the head of such a theocracy—a Holy Sovereign—was a symbol that many found uncomfortable.
Arrogant, overbearing, fanatically devout—
and to make matters worse, this Holy Sovereign was still young. Most people carried that prejudice, consciously or not.
Yet with that very first greeting, Salesin diluted those preconceptions as if with water.
“As you all know, terrible things have been happening across the continent.”
Everyone’s mind went back to the disasters of the past year.
The Liberation Army’s terror attacks? Those were nothing.
The nightmare reborn at Kunst Stadium.
The black storm that swept through the imperial capital.
The collapse of the Kasarr Basin.
The demon incident at Seorn.
And the massacre that claimed even a Cardinal.
“Behind all those incidents was one man.”
Heathcliff von Bretus.
The illegitimate son of the former Holy Sovereign of Bretus—and the younger brother of the man giving this speech.
“Yes, that’s right. The Demon King Heathcliff is, by blood, my younger brother. But he strayed from the righteous path. He abandoned his duty to serve Lord Lumenis, and instead devoted his extraordinary talent and power to serving the dark god worshiped by heretics.”
Salesin’s voice was heavy, as though filled with genuine sorrow.
“And in the end, he stirred up rebellion in our homeland of Bretus, seized control of the capital citadel, and mercilessly slaughtered my sisters and brothers. Everyone within those walls perished.”
For those who hadn’t known, it was a shocking revelation.
The other royal siblings of the Holy Sovereign’s line had been killed.
That represented a devastating loss of power.
But at the same time, it made sense—
for if they had survived, the fortress of Galaharad would never have fallen so easily.
“Yet before my brother died, he revealed one crucial truth to me: the Demon King Heathcliff intends to summon the evil god from another realm.”
An evil god.
The crowd rippled with unrest.
Though the disturbance soon calmed, the weight of Salesin’s words left an inexpressible shock.
Could such a thing truly be possible?
It was beyond the bounds of their understanding, but then again—
so were all the events that had already happened.
“Among our enemies are the Demon King Heathcliff, his followers who worship that evil god, and the demons hiding within this world sowing chaos. They are no weak foe. Even now, they may be preparing traps in the Theocracy, waiting for us to walk into them.”
Salesin clenched his fist.
“But even so, we will not give up. Because that is our history—humanity’s history. We have faced countless crises before, and we overcame them by standing together!”
The sacred energy infused in his voice spread outward like radiant light.
Salesin’s divine aura illuminated the surroundings, filling everyone with an overwhelming sense of exaltation.
“Though this battle may wound us, though many may die, still we shall rise again. Because that is who we are. That is the history of humankind.”
Everyone was entranced, nearly forgetting to breathe as they listened.
Some clenched their fists without realizing it; others were seized by surging courage and wanted to charge ahead immediately.
“Heroes of the continent! Bearers of humanity’s will and history—let us show the world that evil can never triumph!”
“Uwaaaaaaah!”
The shout that followed shook the very heavens.
Soldiers boarded landing ships and airships.
Armored vehicles, steam golems, and self-propelled cannons were loaded onto massive transport vessels.
The continent’s elite—assembled to prevent the return of the evil god—were ready to cross the sea.
As the Holy War began, the ships departed, and the airships soared into ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) the sky.
Salesin watched it all with deep satisfaction.
‘Now then, brother... how will you face this army?’
Of course, Salesin planned to go as well.
But only after the others had exhausted themselves at the front—
he would arrive leisurely once the battle was nearly over.
‘Still... it seems some faces are missing.’
Normally, the Saintess should have been present at such an event, yet neither she nor the priestesses appeared anywhere.
‘Well, it’s not like the Saintess and I have ever gotten along.’
Saintess Catherine had little fondness for Salesin.
While the other priestesses obeyed the commands of the Holy Sovereign’s bloodline, the Saintess was a complete being on her own—
she answered to no one.
And she was nearly impossible to brainwash, for though Catherine was an artificial Saintess, the power within her was real.
Through a fragment of the power left by Saintess Arkenis, she had gained the divine authority to discern evil and to glimpse the future.
That ability rendered any brainwashing useless.
‘Still, her hatred for Heathcliff is the same as mine. For now, it feels like we’ve joined hands toward a common goal.’
Catherine despised Heathcliff.
They had once been close—but that was twenty years ago, long buried in the past.
She would never forgive the man who had abandoned her and fled the Theocracy alone.
‘If the two of them fight and destroy each other, that wouldn’t be such a bad outcome.’
A sharp gleam flashed in Salesin’s eyes.
‘So, Heathcliff... what exactly are you planning in the Theocracy? Why did you allow yourself to be captured? How will you deal with this army? What of the heroes yet to arrive?’
Come then—
show me the truth you’ve been hiding.
* * *
“The sea’s quieter than I expected.”
On a warship crossing the strait toward the Theocracy, a bombardier peered through his binoculars and muttered.
His comrade beside him asked, “Isn’t that a good thing?”
“Not this quiet. Normally, this area’s full of gusts and rough waves.”
“Well, we’re sailing to slay the Demon King. Maybe the gods are blessing our voyage.”
“Ha. You never believed in gods before. What, suddenly you’re a believer now?”
“Hardly. It’s just—this is a holy war, right? Might as well play the part.”
As they neared Bretus, the sea grew calmer, and the sky began to cloud over.
Though they had set out in broad daylight, the thick gathering storm clouds dimmed the world around them.
A sense of unease crept in. Then, from afar, something began to take shape on the horizon.
“Lookout report! Two thousand ahead! Unknown objects approaching!”
The report came, and alarms blared across the battleship.
The darkness made it difficult to see clearly, but something from Bretus’s direction was advancing toward them.
Infantry rushed up to the deck, rifles at the ready.
Behind them, mages and priests prepared spells and wards in case of attack.
Just as they were about to pull the triggers at firing range—
“W-wait! Hold your fire! They’re not enemies!”
As the distance closed and the shapes came into view, everyone froze in disbelief.
“Those are... people?”
What was approaching from the opposite side were human beings.
Ordinary citizens of the Theocracy of Bretus—
fleeing for their lives in fishing boats, ferries, and even national ships.
“W-what in the world...”
The faces of the refugees were drained of all life.
As if their very souls had been hollowed out, they stared blankly ahead, their eyes fixed only on the direction the boats were heading.
Even as they saw the countless warships advancing toward Bretus, not a single spark of hope flickered in their faces.
What filled their expressions instead of light was fear—and despair.
Gulp.
The soldiers watching from the deck swallowed hard, seized by a strange, indescribable feeling.
Parents clutching their children.
An old woman wrapped in a threadbare blanket.
A child sleeping soundly in his mother’s arms.
The despair surrounding them was eerily still. It felt like staring into the darkness of a deep, uninhabited forest.
Then, one old woman began to sing.
It was a folk song in an unfamiliar tongue—yet it sounded like a hymn of the Lumenis Church.
However, what should have been sacred sounded weak and hollow, as though sinking into the depths of the sea. Instead of comfort, it filled the air with even greater heaviness.
Across the silent waters, the approaching crusaders and the fleeing refugees passed each other—
and in between, that faint, mournful song lingered like an echo of sorrow.
Among the refugees were paladins and priests as well.
The captain had them brought aboard to hear their account.
“Who are you, and what in the world is happening here?”
A paladin, his voice trembling, answered.
“I—I am Paladin Paol of the Third Gate City. I was leading the citizens of Bretus in an attempt to escape the country.”
“What? Escape? What about the rest of your forces?”
“The forces of the First and Second Gate Cities... were completely annihilated. Those who went to fight at Galaharad Castle never returned.”
Paol’s pale lips quivered violently.
“The citizens of the First and Second Gate Cities fled to the Third. We gathered them there, hoping to buy some time. B-but then...”
“Then what?”
“Suddenly, it—ahh! Ugh! I don’t want to remember it!”
Paol broke off mid-sentence, clutching his head as he convulsed.
“Hey! Calm down!”
“What’s happening to him?!”
The priests who had accompanied them hurriedly cast divine spells on him.
Yet even under the holy light meant to soothe terror and still the mind, Paol’s fit showed no sign of stopping.
“What on earth is this?”
The captain turned to the senior priest, who answered grimly.
“It seems the fear engraved in his mind exceeds even the power of our divine blessings.”
“Fear? But he’s a paladin, isn’t he? I was told paladins possess faith of steel—he shouldn’t be shaken so easily.”
“No human can remain calm forever. I fear something unspeakably terrible is happening in the homeland right now.”
“What in the world could that be?!”
The captain shouted in frustration, but even the senior priest had no answer.
Then Paol suddenly screamed at him.
“Don’t go! You mustn’t go to Bretus! If you go there, you’ll all die! M-monsters! Hiiik! The monsters are coming! The wolves—they’re coming!”
Paol continued to mutter incoherently like a madman before rolling his eyes back and collapsing unconscious.
The soldiers on the bridge wavered in unease. Even the officers weren’t much better.
“What in the world... is happening in the homeland?”
From the very start, they had run into trouble.
Refugees were still flooding across the sea from Bretus, so the fleet had no choice but to halt its advance.
If they kept moving, they risked collision—or the waves could capsize the small fishing boats carrying the civilians.
“Phew... Fine. So it’s a minor delay. We still have the airships, after all.”
The ships were stopped, but the airships above were continuing toward the Theocracy.
Then came a burst of static—crackling through the artifact receiver in the captain’s hand.
“What is it?”
[—Static— This is the Second Aerial Squadron. Requesting support.]
“Support? Don’t tell me, an enemy attack?!”
[Negative—no enemy contact. But—static—weather conditions are worsening! The closer we get to Bretus, the stronger the wind! Airships can’t get through!]
“What?”
Wind? But the sea here was perfectly calm.
Could the airships have flown too far ahead while the fleet remained still?
‘No. That doesn’t make sense.’
For winds strong enough to block airship flight, the effects should have been visible even from here.
That was simple logic.
“What are you talking about? The sea’s calm! Are you dreaming up storms?”
[What?! Over here it’s almost a typhoon! The wind—static—so strong we can’t move forward!]
Through the artifact, the captain could hear it himself—the howling gusts, the furious roar of wind battering against metal.
“What in the world...”
[W-wait. What’s that?]
The voice on the other end suddenly changed, as if the speaker had seen something.
[Between the storm clouds—what is that? Wings? No... no, that shape—there’s some kind of massive, twisted structure floating in the sky!]
“What? What did you just say? What did you find?! Hey!”
[Observer! Confirm that—!]
The captain shouted, but no answer came back.
The signal was abruptly, unnaturally cut off—
as though something had deliberately severed the connection.
A heavy silence fell over the bridge.
“What on earth...”
The senior priest stared out the window, his eyes trembling, toward the sea beyond—the homeland of Bretus, from which the refugees still poured forth.
“What in the world is happening out there?”
