The crimson banners of Liones fluttered beneath a gray sky. Thunder rumbled distantly, as though the heavens themselves bristled with anticipation. Within the grand throne room of Castle Liones, silence reigned. Rows of Holy Knights stood clad in ceremonial armor, their eyes locked on the figure standing tall before the throne.
Great Holy Knight Dreyfus addressed the court. His voice carried across the stone hall like a blade, sharp and commanding.
"His Majesty Bartra, in his wisdom, sought peace by disarming us in the face of prophecy," he declared, gesturing to the absent throne. "But peace is not forged in submission! Peace is won by power. We, the Holy Knights, were entrusted with this land—not merely to guard its walls, but to safeguard its destiny."
He paced forward slowly, eyes glinting beneath his helmet.
"Let the people toil. Let them labor under our watch. For when the true Holy War begins, it will be we who stand between the kingdom and its doom."
The assembled knights roared their approval. In the corner of the grand chamber, Ardyn Chronis stood at ease, arms folded. His silver hair gleamed under the torchlight, a streak of white running through his otherwise dark garb. At his side, Gilthunder stood silently in his brilliant white-and-blue armor, lightning faintly crackling from his pauldrons. To their right, Howzer, wearing his signature green cloak, leaned on his lance casually, smirking.
This trio had earned a fearsome nickname across Britannia: The Crownstorm.
Dreyfus stepped back, and Hendrickson leaned in with a low chuckle.
"Your speeches grow more theatrical by the day, Dreyfus."
"The return of the Sins demands theatrics. We must inspire the ranks," Dreyfus replied flatly.
Before another word could be said, the doors of the hall burst open. A knight, bloodied and out of breath, staggered in.
"Emergency report! An army of three thousand Northern Barbarians has breached the border! Our front-line knights have been slaughtered! They're marching on the northern farmlands as we speak!"
Gasps rang out. Dreyfus's jaw clenched. Hendrickson narrowed his eyes.
"The Holy War?"
Ardyn stepped forward calmly. "Unlikely. Just another test. One that will be answered swiftly."
Gilthunder and Howzer both turned. No words were exchanged—the three were already moving.
Northern Farmlands - Outskirts of Liones
Fields once golden with wheat were now soaked in blood and ash. Corpses of knights lay twisted among scorched earth as the Barbarian Chief, a towering brute clad in furs and bone, laughed heartily from atop a pile of corpses.
"So this is the might of Liones? Pathetic! Not a single challenge among them! Burn it all! Loot everything! The castle will fall next!"
Suddenly, a shadow passed overhead. The thunder they'd thought distant was now a growing, deafening hum. Eyes turned upward.
A silver-scaled wyvern soared through the clouds. Riding it, like wraiths descending from the sky, came the three Holy Knights.
Lightning coiled in the air as Gilthunder leapt from the beast, a living bolt striking the battlefield. He landed amid a dozen barbarians, his sword already sheathed in arcs of blue energy.
Howzer followed, spinning down with a cyclone of wind trailing behind his lance. He landed with an eruption of air, sending enemies flying.
Then came Ardyn.
He dropped calmly from the wyvern, landing with precision and grace. Dust curled around his boots. His left eye faintly shimmered with time-marking runes—but currently inert.
The Barbarians hesitated.
"Three knights? Against thousands of us?!"
Gilthunder stepped forward.
"You've invaded our home. This is your final mistake."
The chief roared. "Kill them!"
The horde surged.
Howzer spun into the fray, his Tempest Lance channeling wind magic into sharp gusts. Every swing launched blades of air that shredded armor and bone alike.
Gilthunder raised his blade to the heavens. "Lightning King's Judgment!"
The sky tore open, and a pillar of lightning crashed down, vaporizing dozens. His movements were graceful yet precise, dancing through enemies with electric precision.
And Ardyn?
He was the calm in the storm.
Ardyn drew his blade—a curved longsword forged of enchanted black steel, etched with time-runes. He advanced with slow, methodical footwork, then vanished.
To the enemy, it was as if time skipped.
One moment, they were charging. The next, they were collapsing—throats slit, limbs missing, backs turned to an unseen executioner.
Ardyn reappeared behind them, spinning into a pirouette as he carved through two more. His swordplay echoed Geralt's style: fluid, brutal, efficient. Parry, thrust, shoulder-check, slash—but his every movement subtly adjusted the battlefield tempo.
He murmured, "Chrono Veil."
A soft distortion enveloped him, slowing incoming weapons just enough to dodge by a hair's breadth. His eyes were analytical, tracking every movement, calculating predictions, adjusting stances.
"Time is an ocean," he whispered to a barbarian before driving his blade into the man's heart. "And I am the tide."
A captain tried to flank him. Ardyn clicked his fingers.
Chrono Echo: He leapt back in time half a second—dodging the swing entirely, and reappeared behind the captain. One swift draw-slice through the ribs.
Howzer, watching this, whistled. "Show-off."
Gilthunder chuckled as he sent a thunder wave through thirty men. "You say that like you didn't name yourself 'The Gale King.'"
"It is catchy."
Within ten minutes, the battlefield was quiet.
The Barbarian Chief, wounded and wide-eyed, fell to his knees.
"You monsters… you're not men."
Ardyn approached, blade lowered.
"We are Holy Knights. And you chose to wake the storm."
He raised his blade. The chief swung wildly in desperation, but Ardyn sidestepped, pirouetted, and delivered a decisive slash that ended the battle.
Thunder cracked overhead. Rain began to fall.
Gilthunder stepped beside Ardyn, wiping his blade.
"Think this counts as the Holy War?"
Ardyn shook his head. "No. Just another chapter. But the real war? It's closer than we think."
Howzer slapped Ardyn on the back. "Still, good warm-up. Drinks on me tonight."
The three turned back toward the wyvern as lightning lit the battlefield—a field of ash, scorched earth, and silence.
-----
The midday sun cast golden rays across the spires of Liones Castle as three figures rode through its gates, the thunder of their earlier victory still echoing in the hearts of those watching from the battlements. Ardyn, Howzer, and Gilthunder dismounted solemnly, their expressions composed yet resolute. As they made their way to the Great Hall, soldiers saluted with awe and reverence. The trio—nicknamed the "Storm Trinity"—were the spearhead of the kingdom's might.
Inside the castle, the Great Holy Knight Dreyfus awaited them with his usual stern demeanor, flanked by Hendrickson and several high-ranking officials. The atmosphere was thick with both formality and silent tension.
"Your return is timely," Dreyfus said, his voice firm. "And your results speak for themselves. The northern threat has been dealt with. You three performed exceptionally."
Howzer, wiping a speck of blood from his cheek, offered a lopsided grin. "Those northern brutes folded like dry parchment. But tell me, sir... was that the 'Holy War' the seers spoke of?"
Dreyfus shook his head. "No. That was a skirmish. A mere distraction. But... I do not entirely rule out the connection."
Gilthunder narrowed his eyes. "I've been hearing whispers. Four of the Seven Deadly Sins have already reunited—Meliodas included. If anything feels like a prelude to war, it's that."
"They may be legendary," Howzer cut in, leaning against a pillar, "but there's only seven of them. We're a kingdom. We have thousands."
Dreyfus's gaze turned cold. "Even so, do not underestimate them. Especially the Dragon's Sin of Wrath. Meliodas once succumbed to his fury and annihilated the entire kingdom of Danafor. At its peak, Danafor rivaled Liones in strength. Now, it is dust."
Howzer blinked. "That story was... real? I thought it was legend."
"It is no legend," Dreyfus said grimly. "It is a warning."
-----
After Howzer left, Gilthunder frowned and brought up a topic that had been bothering him. "Then there is another matter. The so-called 'New Generations.' Apprentices who couldn't lift a blade a year ago are now splitting boulders with a glance. I sense something unnatural—something behind it."
Dreyfus folded his arms. "Your concern is noted."
As the conversation lulled, Ardyn stepped forward. His cloak, embroidered with the crest of Liones, flowed behind him. "I was approached by Hendrickson some time ago," he said evenly. "He spoke of a project. One that could help knights break their limits, physically and magically. I saw no flaw in the reasoning, so I recommended a few from among the ranks—men with loyalty, yet unfulfilled potential."
"Yes. And Twigo was summoned on his own, if I recall."
Dreyfus nodded slowly. "Then let us pray your judgment was not misplaced."
Meanwhile, beneath the southern cliffs of Liones...
A dimly lit cavern pulsed with strange energy. The sound of dripping water echoed against the ancient stone. Guila walked ahead, her boots clicking against the smooth, rune-marked floor. Two masked individuals followed her closely, the silence between them broken only when a distorted voice called from the shadows.
"Stop."
It was Helbram.
Guila obeyed and motioned for the two to halt. With a quick hand gesture, she removed their masks. The torchlight flickered across their familiar faces—Friesia and Golgius. Twigo stood nearby, confused and wary.
"So... this is where you've brought us?" Twigo asked, glancing around the cavern. "Where is the Great Holy Knight?"
Before anyone could answer, a powerful aura flooded the chamber. Hendrickson emerged from the shadows, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of ambition and unnatural calm.
"You're all here because of what's to come," Hendrickson said. He gestured behind him—and then they saw it.
A massive red corpse lay sprawled against the far wall, its form monstrous, horned, and leaking a dark ichor that seemed to stain the air. The knights gasped.
"That... that's a demon," Friesia whispered.
Golgius stepped back. "What kind of project is this?"
"The future of Liones," Hendrickson said. "You all failed once—badly. Ban's escape, your disgrace. But now? Now you have a chance to become more. To become weapons of a new order."
He raised his hand, pulsing with dark magic.
"You will be reborn."