“Aegis, the battlefield is a land filled with madness and destruction. You are far too young to witness such a sight, soul yet innocent of man’s darkness. There shall come a time when you must confront the cruelties of war, but for now, I want you to close your eyes. Entrust your wings upon me, and let yourself be cast adrift in the realm of dreams. Sleep now, child. When you wake, everything shall be over.”

- The Knight

———

Libevich

Just how long has it been since Libevich’s felt such chilling pressure? The atmosphere is so delectably tense—the world ever taut. Even the sky itself welcomes the coming carnage, bathing every corner of the earth in a bloody scarlet hue.

There’s no better setting for a good old fashioned war than this. She can imagine it now: endless waves of knights descending upon her, weapons in hand and eyes frenzied with rage. They’ll stab at her, flay at her, tear her flesh from limb to limb until blood pours from every orifice of her body. Nothing will be left but shredded meat and bone.

The thought paralyzes her with such unimaginable pleasure. Perhaps… yes, she can feel it. With this battle, Libevich might accomplish her most treasured desire.

Maybe she’ll finally be able to die.

After all, there’s no more romantic end than whilst surrounded by such blazing passion. But just who will deliver the final blow?

That young King of theirs, Ascalon, would be a rather boring foe to face. What’s the point in battle if you can’t feel anything? Your limbs being crushed, your skin slicing open upon a cool slice of blade… combat is a kindred relationship. Without pain, the boy’s no better than an emotionless doll.

How about the Steel’s Throne, Sarathiel? She’s heard of him, and while his savageness does interest her, she wants to clash blows with a warrior—not a beast. He’ll make do as an appetizer.

But Annalay… now that is a woman who knows to enjoy the moment. Yes, she shall do nicely.

And yet, Libevich can’t help but feel a bit somber. Only two women have ever managed to satisfy her: One is a friend who has sacrificed herself for her child, and the other is a radiant knight now lost amongst the hallowed realm up high. No matter how the old woman tries to distract herself, nothing can fill the void left by their absences. Luxanne’s still too young to be a fitting match.

“Oh, Lorelai…” she sighs. “If only you were here. This land would have been perfect for our final battle, but I suppose there was some good to your death. Because of you, the cowardly King has finally left his cage, and yet all this heart of mine can feel is sorrow.”

Libevich raises her head, and she peers at the approaching army in the distance. Some of the winged knights have already flown past her, but there’s no need to deal with them. Xeros needs the practice; hopefully a scuffle or two will get some color back in those rusty bones.

She, meanwhile, has to take care of this dreary commander business. All around her, legion soldiers form a defensive position near the city gates. Giant machines of oil and rust lumber forward; weapons spring out from the battlements; nets and chains, bullets and saws… everyone’s rushing to supply themselves before the inevitable.

Step after step. Crunch after crunch.

A bark over here, a yell over there. A pathetic whimper from one, a hopeless sigh from many.

Oh, how dull. Is this really the force she must command over? Charging alongside this miserable lot will be the greatest embarrassment of her life. Truly, it’s all just so depressing. Maybe Libevich should abandon them all and run out there by herself.

Actually, yes. That is exactly what she’ll do! Oh, what a marvelous idea. The brat isn’t here to stop her anyways.

Libevich strolls over to an important looking officer and seizes them by the shoulder. Their figure pales in comparison before the gargantuan woman, and they nervously shiver as she stares them down with piercing, greedy eyes.

“How may I be of service, Madam Libevich?” they ask, struggling to compose themselves.

“You’re the leader of this lot, aren’t you?” she says.

“… That honor would be yours, commander. I am only the lieutenant.”

“Well congratulations, then. From now on, you’ll be the commander in my stead!”

“I’m sorry?”

Libevich wrenches a pin from her uniform and smacks it onto the officer’s chest. “Yep, here you are. Good luck!”

Before they can say another word, she hurries off into the distance. No more of that stuffy hierarchy business; now, she’ll do as she wishes.

When she’s far away from the city, and there’s naught in the surrounding but pale, frosty grass, Libevich stops and plants herself firmly in place. Yes, this is a good spot.

All that’s left is to wait.

She can hear it: the roar of battle. Of an impending march, footsteps stomping in unison as the wave creeps ever closer.

And then, silence.

Libevich looks up, and she smiles. An endless sea of knights blot every corner of her vision, and bright flags of gold and purple twirl proudly amongst their procession. It’s stifling. It’s oppressing. It’s captivating.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

And soon, six knights step out before her—each one wearing their own unique little patterns and emblems. Fufu, is this the first course? Well then, I’ll have to savor every bite.

“Why hello there~” she says with a toothy grin. “How kind of you all to visit this old woman.”

No response. They merely stand still and beset her with deep, visceral glares—as if she is the reason for all the world’s suffering.

“Oh, don’t be like that now. This is a special moment. But really, you’ve all grown so much!”

She points a crooked finger at the brotherly knights of flame and whorl. “You’re the twin brats of the frontlines. I never was able to get a taste of you two—never bothered to try. You boys always were a bit lackluster, but I’ll be optimistic and give you a chance. Do try not to disappoint me.”

The brothers cutely try to ignore her words, but she’s clearly struck a nerve. They stomp their grieves hard and lower themselves like a predator getting ready to lunge.

“And you,” she says, moving on to the girl in pink. “I’ve only seen you from afar back in the day. Those greatbolts of your mother were quite the annoyance. I wonder… were you able to properly succeed her after I tore apart her throat?”

The girl growls and almost charges right then and there, but she’s restrained at the last second by a figure Libevich knows very well.

“And how could I forget you, little Surasha? You and Lorelai were practically joined at the hip, always lurking nearby whenever we clashed blows. To be honest, I quite like you my dear. Because of you, that woman would become just so enraged whenever I looked your way. Always there to save you, always there to protect you… but now she’s gone.”

Surasha’s a stiff one like all the rest, but the moment Libevich mentions Lorelai’s name, the girl does something odd.

She laughs. There’s no grief or bitterness in that tone: only confidence.

“We don’t have time to listen to your drivel, Libevich,” she says, whipping out her whip-sword and coating it in acid.

Libevich is dumbfounded at first, but soon her lips curve into a wide smile, and she bellows out a guffaw. “My, my! You’ve gotten cheeky, my dear. Let’s hope your blade’s as sharp as your tongue.”

The Templars raise their weapons up high, manifest their wings, and roar out a command for all to hear—voices joining as one in a deafening, unified chorus.

“Knights of Polus, charge!”

In an instant, the land quakes under the stampede of hundreds of thousands of ravenous, armored warriors. They surge forth, disciplined and with steady strides, but hidden underneath is a broiling madness begging to be let loose: to let bloodlust take over and enact vengeance upon their sworn enemy. It’s all just so glorious.

And yet, none of them dare approach the old woman. They simply pass by and rush towards the city, but Libevich doesn’t mind. There’s something much more entertaining in front of her.

She takes a deep gulp of the frenzied air, and then slams her foot down.

“Well, what’re you waiting for?” she says to the six knights.

The brothers are the first to move, dashing to the side and surrounding her in a swirl of magma and frost. Libevich stands alone in the eye of the tempest, smirking, and moves not a muscle. It doesn’t take long before the twins emerge from the storm and attack from both directions, but right before their weapons can land, she grabs onto the handles and clenches tight.

Her flesh melts. Her bones chill. Yet she remains unbothered and cackles out in glee.

“You runts are gonna have to do better than that!”

Libevich lifts them up, twirls with a graceful swing, and pummels them hard onto the ground. Smoke rises up from the crystals and smoldering crags embedded in her body, but a quick flex expels it all out, and she kisses her first for a little haughty showmanship before preparing to crush some skulls.

But before she can, a greatbolt the size of a steel rod impales her in the stomach, and she’s sent flying back a few paces away—just far enough to allow the brothers stagger back onto their feet.

“Oho? What a nice gift,” she grunts, ripping out the bolt. “But it’s not quite to my taste. Here, I’ll send it back!”

Libevich winds up and throws it at the pink archer before the brothers can intercept it. On and on it soars, ready to pierce the girl’s head, when a strange, floating orb blocks its path and shatters the bolt into pieces.

A wimpy sort walks in front of her. Their clothes resemble that of an Astrologian rather than a knight's attire, but unlike those feeble scholars, this one looks capable. They grasp the orb and envelop it in an muddy brown, and soon, giant pillars of soil erupt from the ground and lash at her like whips.

Libevich attempts to fend it off, but a force seizes her by the ankles. She looks down only to discover a man lurking in her shadow.

“Now just what’re you doing in there?” she chuckles.

The man replies with a snarl and severs her tendons with one quick slice. Libevich topples over, and she can only smile in amusement as the earthen whips pulverize her body into a bloody, beaten mess—dirt flooding into every last one of her pores.

But even after all that thrashing, she needs only a few moments to rise back up without a scratch.

That is, until a spurt of poison flings at her head. It corrodes and eats away at Libevich’s face, exposing her bare skull for all the world to see. Yet, even while her eyes and flesh drip onto the ground in a grisly puddle, all she can think about is how terribly inconvenient it is not being able to see. The old woman may as well be naked right now: how scandalous.

Sight’s not the only sense she can rely on, however. She focuses her hearing and waits for the faintest of sounds: the rustling of wings. And then, there it is—the little poisoner attempts to douse her in another concoction, but it won’t be so easy this time.

“Alright, I’ve had my fun. Let’s get a little serious.” Libevich plunges her hand into her back, and then rips out her own spine. “Spinal cord sword!”

She whirls her new grotesque weapon around and binds Surasha - arms and wings all - in a snare. Fortunately, Libevich’s face regrows just in time to watch her struggle like a bug.

Alas, she’s interrupted once again by the other Polus troublemakers. They free the girl from the bindings and retreat off into the distance. Oh, what a bore. Where’s that rage from before? You brats were just starting to do well; don’t tell me you’re giving up just like that!

Surasha gasps and clutches her bruised chest before begrudgingly speaking out to the old woman. “You’re a monster like always, Libevich. I thought as much, but nothing we do will bother you one bit. It’s a shame… I really, truly wanted to kill you myself, but I’ll have to pass that chance on to someone else.”

Libevich yawns and lazily hangs her head back. What’s the point of all this flattery? She’d rather the bloodshed just continue.

“Surasha, deary…” she says with a low, rumbling growl. “Come back here right this instant, or I’ll have to slaughter you like a bug than a proper warrior—”

“Stop.”

A word.

It’s only a single world. That’s all she hears, but it’s more than enough to leave Libevich breathless.

That voice… it’s familiar. There’s something a bit different about it, a bit deeper than she remembers, but there’s no forgetting that soft, but powerful, resonance of pure might. Could it be? Could it really be true? Xeros has said he confirmed her death, but then what’s this here? That voice can only belong to…

She turns around, and looks straight ahead. There, standing right in front of her, is the woman Libevich has missed so, so deeply.

“… Lorelai?” she whispers. “You’re alive.”