Roland and little Silva soon reached the outskirts of the Augustine stronghold—but the area had long since turned into a battlefield. They hid in a safe spot, watching silently.
A war unknown to history unfolded before Roland like a dream.
It was the Augustine family clashing with the crimson-robed mages—a brutal battle erased from records.
Ordinary words like “fierce” or “tragic” fell short. Roland felt only “utterly devastating” and “profoundly heroic” could capture it.
The crimson-robed mages vastly outnumbered them. Though the Augustine family was large, fighters on the field numbered less than one-fifth of the enemy—hopelessly outmatched.
Yet every Augustine member charged fearlessly, defending their family’s honor with everything they had.
Wounded to the bone? Fight on. No reinforcements? Never retreat!
Deafening explosions mixed with clashing steel and battle cries. Dull roars and sharp screams shook the earth itself.
Fresh corpses littered the ground every second.
Furious gales, born from colliding magic, howled as if dragging fallen souls straight to hell.
Raging flames sent thick smoke choking the sky. Blood soaked the earth crimson. The heavens hung dark and heavy—a true apocalypse.
For the Augustines in that moment, it *was* the end of the world.
Roland watched helplessly as a beautiful young girl was surrounded. The crimson-robed mages showed no mercy—blasting her into chunks of flesh.
Nearby Augustine members’ eyes burned crimson with rage. They roared, avenging her—only to be bombarded from afar. Most became mangled remains. One or two survivors crawled away, limbs missing, blood gushing like fountains.
As crimson-robed mages moved in for the kill, the wounded Augustines chose self-destruction—taking several enemies down with them.
Such scenes repeated across the battlefield.
Beside Roland, little Silva’s face paled. Trembling, she clutched his large hand tightly.
“Big Brother… I’ll never start a war. Never.”
Roland gently patted her head. He said nothing.
They weaved through cover, drawing closer to the Augustine stronghold.
The battle raged. Augustine numbers halved. Their line retreated steadily. The crimson tide neared the castle gates.
Then—every remaining Augustine went berserk. Bloodshot eyes blazing, they charged recklessly, unleashing their strongest magic regardless of cost.
Bleed dry? Exhaust life itself? They would defend their family’s last dignity.
Magic gone? Fists. Fists broken? Feet. Feet shattered? Heads.
Those immobilized were blasted to dust—but many chose to explode instead.
With their lives, the Augustines composed a tragic, heroic elegy.
History would never record this war. No trace would remain. No praise would follow. Yet they fought.
Surrender could have saved them all—but none bowed to evil. For the Augustines had always stood as guardians of justice, shielding the continent from darkness.
Battle cries faded. Barely one in ten Augustines remained—blood-drenched, barely breathing.
The crimson-robed mages surged like an unbroken tide, as if untouched by the slaughter.
The last few Augustines let out a heaven-piercing roar. Burning their very lives, they forged one final, dazzling spell—and charged the crimson wave. Like a mayfly challenging a mountain.
Roland and little Silva had already slipped inside the stronghold. When the final charge began, Roland knew time was running out.
If the crimson tide breached the castle, finding Yenoa would be impossible. And Roland held no illusions—he couldn’t defeat thousands of crimson-robed soldiers alone.
They searched the vast, empty castle. Thanks to little Silva’s sensing ability, Roland never lost direction.
To save seconds, he hoisted her onto his shoulders.
Silent and deserted, the castle let him sprint freely. Soon, they stood before a massive, ornate door.
“Little Yenoa’s inside,” little Silva whispered, pointing.
Roland reached for the handle—
*BOOM!*
A deafening explosion erupted from within, shaking the entire stronghold.
