The air was heavy, thick with tension and damp with the morning's mist, as Lucy and the Generals stood at the edge of the cliff, overlooking the black obsidian field below.
A low breeze curled around them, carrying the faint scent of blood and ash from the battles fought just days prior. The obsidian ground stretched like a battlefield carved from polished night, its surface marred with old burns and scars, a graveyard of memory.
Lucy stood among the four generals, each clad in shining silver armor forged by the ogre general. The metal shimmered in the pale sunlight, a haunting contrast to the death-stained land they were about to descend upon. The armor didn't make them invincible, but it made them look like gods.
They were preparing to die. Each of them knew it. No one said it out loud.
Then, slicing through the oppressive silence, a soft voice, emotionless yet unmistakable.
"Lucy. You called for me?"
Lucy turned, eyes locking onto Alia. The quiet, expressionless elf stood at the head of the army gathered behind them. Though Ithriel had promised that only the five strongest would battle, Seraphine had kept her full force ready just in case.
Alia looked almost out of place among the soldiers. She was a small figure in a black robe, her blonde hair braided with precision, and her expression blank.
"Yes," Lucy said, his voice calm but tired. "I need you to heal me."
He began unfastening his armor, the silver plates clinking as they fell from his chest. Cold air kissed his skin as he pulled off the final layer, revealing faint bruises across his stomach and ribs.
Alia blinked slowly, tilting her head with that eerie, mechanical grace. Her green eyes pierced through him like twin daggers of moonlight.
"You are not injured," she said, voice flat and direct.
Lucy chuckled softly, though the laugh lacked humor.
"I know," he said. "Just do it anyway. Please."
For a moment, Alia didn't move. Then, with a silent nod, she stepped forward and pressed a cool hand to his bare abdomen. Her touch sent a soft warmth into his body—calm, steady, and profoundly unnatural.
From the outside, nothing changed.
But within his mind, a flicker of light. A spark.
A manual opened a sprawling tapestry of magical notation and cryptic runes, page after page turning in an instant. The knowledge wasn't physical, but mental. Etched into his consciousness like ink drawn from her soul.
"Just a little bit longer," Lucy muttered under his breath, eyes closing as he focused.
The manual had started unlocking days ago when she healed him during his worst pain, but he'd been too consumed by agony to notice. Now, fully aware, he watched it unfold with clarity. Her ability was delicate. Intricate. A web of microscopic control over life force and regeneration.
Something he could never have copied without direct contact like this.
Finally, it was done.
Lucy opened his eyes and exhaled.
"I've got it. Thank you, Alia."
The elf said nothing. She bowed, turned, and walked back into the crowd—graceful and emotionless, as always. But momentarily, Lucy wondered if she was silently rooting for him.
He reassembled his armor quickly, the cool weight grounding him again. Looking back over the army, he counted only 1,337 remaining soldiers.
A pit formed in his stomach.
So many had died. And yet, by some miracle, everyone he cared about had survived for now.
'Hopefully I'll be around to know for sure,' he thought bitterly.
Then he turned and found her.
Seraphine hovered just off the cliff's edge, the hem of her radiant white and gold gown fluttering in the breeze. Her long silver hair glowed beneath the sun's light, strands catching the wind like silk threads spun from moonlight. Her light-blue eyes met his sharp, unwavering, and filled with divine certainty.
She spoke, her voice echoing like music through the canyon below.
"My generals... and Lucy."
"Today, we will conquer this planet with your strength. I have chosen you because you are my strongest. My most loyal. My most powerful. So prepare yourselves. For glory and war."
Lucy's hands tightened around Aya's sword, his knuckles white beneath the armor. Her words didn't inspire him; they weighed on him.
A single gesture followed.
Seraphine raised her finger. It hovered in the air for a heartbeat and then dropped.
Light shattered the world around them.
And in the next instant, Lucy, Seraphine, Darfin, Tara, Adgrun, and the ogre general stood in the center of the obsidian field, surrounded by bloodstains, broken stone, and the lingering ghosts of war.
Then, without warning, a searing pillar of light split the battlefield.
From the brilliance, six figures emerged—five chosen warriors and one god cloaked in divine stillness.
Ithriel had arrived.
The God of Control stood like a statue carved from frost and cruelty. His gaze was hollow, devoid of warmth, compassion, or anger. Nothing human stirred behind those eyes. A metallic crown glinted faintly over his short, dark hair, refracting the sun in sharp flashes. His armor, a flawless sculpture of icy blue, shimmered like a glacier beneath the high sun, each movement catching light in fractured glints, unnaturally pristine amidst the bloodied obsidian.
Lucy felt it in his chest—a weight, a pressure—as if looking at Ithriel stole the heat from his body.
He glanced at the other generals. Fenara stood poised, but the moment her burning eyes locked onto Tara, something inside her ignited—hatred—deep, unflinching, primal. The same woman Tara had run through with her claws now looked ready to tear her apart with bare hands.
Beside her, the golden Dragonkin general remained still, eyes closed, unmoved by the tension building like a storm around them. His aura, however, pulsed with something dangerous, like a volcano pretending to be a hill.
Far behind them, towering above all, loomed the giant general of Ithriel's army. He stood well over a hundred feet tall, his shadow stretching across the obsidian field like a god's curse. From where Lucy stood, he couldn't even make out the giant's expression. His eyes were too high, lost behind the glare of sunlight and swirling clouds. He didn't know if the titan was angry, calm, or bored, which made it worse. An enemy whose thoughts you couldn't see was more terrifying than one who screamed.
Then there was the ogre. Hulking and monstrous, gripping a bone-thick club. The air around him seemed to hum with anticipation. Low, animalistic growls rolled from his throat, vibrating through the ground beneath Lucy's boots.
Finally, Lucy's eyes locked onto the last of Ithriel's chosen—an elder elf.
He didn't look like much. Modest robes. A serene posture. Short, slicked-back hair. No armor. His hands were calmly tucked behind his back like he was here to observe, not kill.
And yet something in Lucy's instincts howled.
'That's Vorn Cain? The great servant of Ithriel?' Lucy scoffed internally. 'He doesn't even look like he came to fight.'
But that wasn't true. Deep down, Lucy could see it-no, feel it.
There was power in how still Vorn stood. In the way, he needed no blade or armor, in the absolute, unshakable confidence etched into his every breath. His presence said it all: 'I do not need to prepare. I already know the outcome.'
Then, as if cued by unseen strings, Ithriel and Seraphine floated forward to face each other.
"Seraphine," Ithriel called, voice like polished iron scraping through the wind. "I assume this means you accept our proposal?"
"My, my. Still so sharp after all these eons," Seraphine replied, her tone like silk over steel.
Ithriel's smile barely curled. "I hope you'll keep that same childish humor after the battle ends."
His eyes—dead, calculating—swept the field, then locked onto Lucy.
Lucy stiffened. A chill climbed his spine like a thousand cold needles. His palms went damp under his gauntlets, and his heart thudded once, twice, then faster.
"I see you brought the human," Ithriel said, his tone twisting into venom. "I look forward to watching him die."
The words didn't surprise Lucy. He knew Ithriel wanted him dead. Everyone did. And yet, hearing it aloud, so casually, so certainly, made something inside him crack.
Seraphine began to open her mouth, but before she could speak, Lucy stepped forward.
Just one step.
The sound echoed across the empty obsidian wasteland.
Instantly, weapons shifted. Hands hovered near hilts. Eyes widened.
But Lucy didn't stop. He stared Ithriel down.
And when he spoke, his voice rang out—steady, laced with a mocking edge that didn't belong to a man moments from death.
"If it pleases the gods," he said, voice cold, "can we stop this childish squabble and begin the battle? I hate the sound of your voices."
Then, with a deep, theatrical bow, he added: "M'lords."
Silence followed, thick and dangerous.
Darfin blinked. Adgrun's jaw dropped. Even Tara gave him a sideways look. The generals stared like he'd just insulted the sun itself. Ithriel's brow twitched, and Lucy could swear—for a fraction of a second—he saw fury ripple through the god's perfect calm.
Still, Lucy didn't flinch. He met Ithriel's gaze with everything he had.
'What the hell am I doing?' his thoughts screamed. 'I'm trying to survive this, not provoke a god!'
But even as his mind raced, something else steadied him.
'If he could kill me now, he would have already. I'm not dead yet.' That thought, however small, grounded him.
Then—unexpectedly—a low chuckle cut through the tension.
It wasn't Seraphine. It wasn't Ithriel.
It was Vorn.
"He got you there, Ithriel," Vorn said, smiling slightly. "I, too, am growing bored. Can we get this over with?"
Lucy blinked, stunned. 'At least I'm not the only lunatic talking back to gods.'
Seraphine extended her hand. "You heard our children."
Ithriel stepped forward and took it. "Indeed."
In an instant, the gods vanished—swallowed by light, leaving behind only silence.
Only the ten.
The chosen.
And the bloodstained obsidian field where destinies would be rewritten.