The coast of Bostea burned. In the distance, the mountain ranges billowed with thick smoke, black miasma rolling toward the heavens, an omen of catastrophe. The churning sea boiled violently, dyed crimson by blood, tossing the shattered remains of mechas and the ruins of war. Severed limbs, pale as ghostly buoys, floated amidst the waves, appearing and disappearing with the tide.

On the smoldering scorched earth, a white mist curled ominously. The ground was strewn with fragments of metal, broken swords, and shattered blades, all glinting under the cold, ghastly moonlight. Among them, the grotesque remains of demons lay twisted in death, silent witnesses to the carnage of battle. The air still carried the echoes of clashing steel and the thunder of artillery.

Magma spewed from fissures in the shattered earth. A few hundred surviving special forces had surrounded one of the three great overlords of the Demon Realm—the Netherlord. Even after nearly annihilating the mighty United Crusade, he still barely held his demonic form.

With arms as vast as a colossus, the Netherlord swung, gathering dark, high-energy light in his palms. The immense sphere of energy twisted the air around it, and the earth trembled beneath its power.

“No! Activate the defensive array, now!”

The Chief Priest of the Allied Forces, Dolon, veins bulging with urgency, shouted in a hoarse voice. The magicians of the Church Alliance hastily erected a massive protective barrier, rising like a great blue dome upheld by a host of celestial sentinels.

“Divine Eradication.”

The Netherlord’s twisted visage curled into a cold sneer as he uttered the words in a slow, menacing cadence. The blinding sphere in his palm erupted into a colossal violet beam, crackling with lightning, striking at the weakest edge of the barrier.

A shattering explosion echoed through the battlefield. In an instant, the third regiment of the Allied Forces—dozens of warriors—was obliterated. The force of the blast reduced even the hills behind them to rubble. The scorched earth and charred trees were torn apart, debris scattering like stars in the night sky. The knights who perished in that final moment left behind only a dazzling burst of light, a fleeting brilliance before the endless dark.

“Third battalion, wiped out! Electromagnetic pulse detected!”

If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

A lieutenant’s frantic cry rang through the chaotic command center as tremors rocked the headquarters.

From within the command tent, Supreme Commander Miller Rolfi of the Northern Allied Forces gazed at the distant plumes of fire and smoke. He let out a strangled gasp, and then, with a sudden convulsion, coughed up a mouthful of blood.

“My Lord, are you alright?”

A blonde woman in a crisp suit rushed forward to steady him.

“Helena… I’m fine…”

Miller waved her off, accepting the handkerchief she offered to wipe the blood from his lips. But he knew—he was far from fine. Not only had the elite knights of the Rhine Empire fallen in battle, but his two sons were among the youth battalion of the third regiment. Now, their fate was unknown.

The command center bustled with activity as officers scrambled to restore order. A senior intelligence officer pointed at the flickering observation screens and reported in a strained voice:

“All supporting mecha units, aerial fighters, and reconnaissance drones have lost control due to the EMP blast! Fire support and electronic systems are completely down!”

“If we don’t break the Netherlord’s demonic form, all further attacks will be futile.”

Temple Knight Carter tore the shattered armor from his left arm, throwing it aside. His deep-blue Rhine Paladin battle gear was in tatters. He stormed into the command room, the residual glow of teleportation magic still lingering around him.

“The Netherlord is sheltering within his dimensional barrier. Miller, we must decide now—if we delay, he will only grow stronger. We’ve already lost too much. We must complete the seal immediately.”

Richard, head of military intelligence, hesitated for a moment before whispering:

“My lord… necessary sacrifices may be inevitable.”

Miller scowled and waved his hand sharply. The small-framed strategist adjusted his glasses and fell silent.

Vice Commander Charles shrugged off his tattered military coat and brandished his PDA. “The Eastern Allied Forces battling the Evernight Lord are on the brink. We must act now. Miller, it’s time to make a decision. Necessary sacrifices are acceptable.”

Miller Rolfi furrowed his brow in frustration, pacing around the circular strategy table. The assembled priests, bishops, and officers watched him intently, their shadows flickering against the crimson wooden floor under the dim lighting.

At last, Miller stroked his graying beard, halted, and crushed his half-burnt cigar into the ashtray. He rapped his knuckle firmly on the table and declared:

“Charles, authorize the execution of Plan D.”

Silence fell over the war room, save for the distant crackle of radio transmissions. Miller’s face was set in stone, his black marshal’s cloak trembling slightly, the golden embroidery catching the flickering light.

“Chief Priest, gather the grand priests of the allied nations immediately. Helena, remove all restraints and prepare to activate Elbotan.”

Orders were relayed swiftly. Officers sprang into motion, transmitting commands through radios and PDAs. Helena strode from the room, her access confirmed by Miller’s biometric authorization.

“Miller, you know the High Priest will not approve of this,” a white-robed elder murmured, stepping beside the commander. Lord Ersen, the High Priest of the Rhine Church, studied Miller with deep, searching eyes.

“Should we at least inform him first?”

Miller sighed heavily. “My respected teacher, this is the moment for decisive action. We must win. If we fail, it will be a disastrous reversal. The Holy Summit can no longer dictate the battlefield.”

He relit another cigar and turned back to his desk, as Ersen cast a glance at the burning horizon beyond the window. In the distance, the battlefield raged, a hellscape where torrential rain now mixed with rising steam, veiling the corpses and ruins in a mournful shroud.

The Netherlord still battled the Allied knights. With each strike, their numbers dwindled. Defeat was inevitable.

A flock of vultures feasted upon the charred remains of the fallen. Above, countless ravens circled the bloodstained sky, their cries echoing across the wasteland, as if heralding the coming feast of the dead…