Chapter 155: Chapter 154. What Are You?
"The Queen of the elves," Roxanne replied calmly.
Leonhart glanced at Alariel at last, silver eyes sharp and assessing. Then a faint, almost lazy smirk curved his lips. "Well, dear Queen of the Elves," he said lightly, "I’ve fought them before. At the other port. They’re weak."
Alariel stiffened. Her grip tightened on the air itself, magic instinctively gathering around her fingers. "Weak?" she echoed, incredulous. "Those creatures are immune to most magic, their hides thicker than steel. Entire cities in Aerthysia fell to them—"
"They were weak," Leonhart repeated, unbothered.
Roxanne cut in before the tension sharpened further. "They were weak because they stepped into our land," she said, eyes never leaving the distant horizon where dark shapes churned across the sea. "Kaelindor breaks them. Out there," she gestured toward the fire line she had drawn, "they’ll be stronger. Closer to what they truly are."
Leonhart’s grin widened at that, teeth flashing. "Good. Then it’ll be worth the fight."
He rolled his shoulders once, the subtle movement of someone preparing for violence the way others prepared for conversation. "Just watch, dear Queen of the Elves."
Alariel stared at him, then at Roxanne, then at Ashkareth hovering nearby like a living calamity given form. Her chest felt tight, not from mana sickness this time, but from something closer to disbelief. These people spoke of war as if Aerthysian’s nightmare were nothing more than dust in their hands.
In the distance, the Calonian ships drew closer. Massive hulls cut through the water, drums beating in a low, rhythmic thunder that carried even this far. She could see them now, rows of grey figures packed along the decks, weapons raised, tusked faces lifted toward the sky.
The orcs kept chanting as they closed the distance, a low, guttural rhythm rolling across the sea like a war drum. Their voices were thick with mockery, tusked mouths stretched into cruel grins as they shouted taunts toward the seven Aerthysian ships fleeing ahead of them. They laughed as they hunted, certain of the outcome, savoring fear before slaughter.
Alariel felt it seep into her bones. Dread crept through her veins, cold and heavy, tightening her chest with every beat of her heart. The memory rose unbidden, burning ports, shattered wards, and the screams of her people.
She remembered how the orcs had butchered the defenders, how they had taken omega and beta women alike, dragging them away in chains, forcing life where there should have been none. Two thousand orcs, Roxanne had said.
And here they stood, barely two hundred. Alariel swallowed, her fingers curling as her breath turned shallow. "Are we... Are we going to be okay?" she murmured, the question slipping out before she could stop it.
Roxanne turned. In that instant, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Before Alariel’s eyes, Roxanne’s presence expanded, not explosively, but with terrifying inevitability. Her black wings unfurled wider, stretching across the sky like living night, each feather edged with a faint crimson sheen. The air trembled as two massive horns emerged from her temples, curving elegantly upward, carved as if from obsidian and fire.
Her form shifted seamlessly, demon and werewolf perfectly intertwined, not a struggle of bloodlines but a flawless union. Muscles coiled with predatory grace beneath her armor, her posture radiating command so absolute it pressed against the soul. And then, light bloomed.
In her right hand, a long crimson blade manifested, forged of living flame and condensed mana. Fire crawled slowly along its length, not wild, not raging, but patient and lethal, as if the sword itself were alive and waiting.
Alariel froze. "What... what are you?" She whispered, horror and awe tangling in her voice.
The power pouring from Roxanne multiplied, vast and suffocating. Beauty remained, but it’s now sharpened, edged with something ancient and merciless. Leonhart and Ashkareth immediately bowed again, instinctively, reverently, amusement flickering through their expressions even as the pressure of her presence deepened.
Roxanne met Alariel’s gaze, crimson eyes now threaded with sparks of molten gold. A slow smirk curved her lips. "I am Roxanne de Borgia," she said, her voice calm, resonant, and unshakable. "Emperor of this continent."
She lifted her sword slightly, the fire along its edge flaring in answer. "Are we going to be okay?" Her smile widened. "We’re not just going to survive."
The wind howled as her wings spread fully. "We’re going to thrive."
A sudden violent gust erupted from behind them, roaring like a summoned tempest. The seven Aerthysian ships lurched forward as if seized by invisible hands, their hulls cutting through the water at impossible speed. In seconds, they crossed the unseen boundary, the mana line of Kaelindor, and surged safely past it.
"That’s—" Alariel’s jaw fell open as she felt it. The overwhelming pressure. The unmistakable signature of a great spirit.
"My wife’s doing," Roxanne said, lifting her blade.
At once, the knights of Fenclade and Erevalis reacted. Armor shifted. Weapons rose. Every soldier straightened, bodies aligning as if bound by a single will. "They can’t see you," Vivianne’s voice echoed gently inside Roxanne’s mind. "Tempest cloaked you all in illusion mist. To them, they’re still chasing only the seven ships."
Her voice softened. "But you, my love, can see them clearly. Start the war... and let’s go home quickly."
Roxanne’s smile widened. Indeed, through Vivianne’s shared senses, the battlefield unfolded with perfect clarity, the eight Calonian fleets barreling forward. No formation. No discipline. Only brute hunger.
"They’re coming," Roxanne announced. "No formation. Just attack."
She raised her sword slightly. "We’re facing brutes. So we answer with brute force."
"Yes, your highness," Ashkareth replied, his body igniting in deep crimson light, wings spreading wide as demonic power surged through him.
"Of course, your highness," Leonhart added, cracking his neck as his body shifted, his muscles compressing, becoming denser, more lethal. His grin widened, feral and eager.
"Now, Elf Queen, lead your people to the island. We’ll take it from here," Roxanne said to Alariel, her voice calm and absolute.
Alariel nodded once, then turned and flew toward the seven Aerthysian ships, which drifted in confusion just beyond the shimmering line of Kaelindor’s mana. She descended lower, her presence finally visible to her people, and began directing them toward the western shore.
Yet even as she guided them to safety, Alariel kept glancing back over her shoulder. Behind her, barely two hundred warriors, demons, beastmen, knights, and mixed-blood elites stood in silent formation against the vast horizon. Beyond them, the Calonian orcs surged closer, a dark tide of ships and brutality.
Alariel’s chest tightened as she watched. She couldn’t yet understand how such a small force dared to stand their ground. But she would soon.
-
The moment the eight Calonian ships crossed the invisible line, the world itself seemed to inhale. Kaelindor’s mana surged.
The sea darkened beneath the orcish hulls, no longer passive water but something heavier, thicker, humming with power unseen. The wind shifted sharply, snapping sails and howling through rigging like a warning cry.
"What—?" One orc roared, staggering as a pressure far heavier than any battlefield dread crushed down on him. This isn’t fear alone. This is killing intent—vast, refined, sovereign, and far denser than even their warlord’s.
They looked up. Above them, the sky is no longer empty. Two hundred figures hovered in perfect silence, arranged like a blade poised to fall. Beastmen astride gryphons, wings beating slow and steady. Demonkin glowing faintly with runes and infernal sigils. Knights in dark armor, mana threading through steel and bone.
And at the center of all is where the most dreadful killing intent they ever feel comes from. "Enemies!" the orc shouted, voice breaking.
Too late, Roxanne lifted her sword. There is no roar, no grand incantation. Just a single, clean swing. The crimson blade sang.
Mana detonated outward in a crescent of fire and pressure, the sea splitting beneath it. One Calonian ship is cleaved cleanly in half from prow to keel, wood, iron, and flesh erased in the same breath. Orcs are flung screaming into the void, bodies torn apart midair, blood evaporating before it could stain the waves.
Roxanne clicked her tongue softly, displeased. "They were all supposed to die."
The remaining ships reeled, formation shattering as panic spread. Orcs scrambled, shouting orders, some firing ballistae blindly into the sky. Bolts screamed upward, only to vanish into mist, crushed by unseen pressure or deflected by shimmering barriers of water and wind.
"Charge," Roxanne said lazily.
The fire along her blade flared brighter, answering Kaelindor’s mana like a beast recognizing its master. Her wings spread fully, vast and terrible, blotting out the sun behind her. Shadows rippled across the sea.
At that single word, two hundred warriors moved as one.
The beastmen surged forward first, gryphons diving from above in screaming arcs of wind and claw. The sky exploded into motion, talons tearing through sails, beaks crushing skulls, and bodies hurled screaming into the sea. Orcish ballista bolts fired wildly upward, only to shatter against sudden walls of water as Undine’s protection shimmered and bent reality itself.
Below them, the Borgia elite knights ran across the surface of the sea as if it were solid stone, Kaelindor’s mana hardening beneath their boots. Shields locked. Spears lowered. When they hit the first ship, the impact split wood like paper.
Demons followed. Ashkareth descended like a falling star, wings blazing red, his laughter echoing as molten magic tore through decks and bodies alike. Orcs immune to foreign magic screamed as Kaelindor’s mana burned through them anyway, this isn’t spellcraft, but the continent’s will made manifest.
"Hold formation!" Leonhart roared.
He leapt. His gryphon slammed into a mast, snapping it clean in half, while Leonhart himself crashed onto the deck like a living siege engine. Every punch shattered bone. Every kick sent orcs flying. Where they swarmed him by the dozen, he laughed louder.
"This is stronger?" he shouted, splitting a skull with his elbow. "You call this stronger?" Roxanne just rolled her eyes hearing Leonhart’s words.
The orcs finally realized their mistake. Their chants broke. Their formation collapsed entirely. They had expected fleeing prey, not a wall of monsters standing on cursed water beneath a hostile sky.
Then Roxanne moved. She descended slowly, deliberately, landing between two ships as her sword came down in a single, sweeping arc. Fire carved through the sea itself, splitting waves and hulls alike. Another ship cracked open from bow to stern, erupting in flame and screaming bodies.
Her crimson eyes glowed gold. "This is Kaelindor," she said, her voice carrying across the battlefield, calm and absolute. "And you stepped where you do not belong."
