Snow fell heavily, covering the endless battlefield. Across the ground, the white surface was torn apart by blazing red streaks of fire, burning with an intensity as if trying to consume the very sky. Amidst the chaos, a young man stood motionless, clad in a black military uniform with a long coat, his platinum hair and eyes gleaming faintly. In his hand, he gripped a sword with a glowing blade. His legs felt frozen, as though rooted to the icy ground, unable to move. Each breath he took carried the sting of biting cold, mingled with the metallic tang of blood and thick, suffocating smoke.

And then, though silence enveloped the field, the sounds began to resonate within his ears—echoes from every direction, like the cries of ghosts carried by the wind. Yet, no figure appeared.

"Humanity will perish!"

A voice, filled with hatred, roared and shook the earth beneath his feet.

"Run!" A woman’s desperate whisper, soon drowned out by a frantic male scream:

"Help me! Don’t leave me!"

The anguished cry echoed like the final plea of a soul on the brink of despair.

From the distance, the enemy's guttural roar resounded:

"I am Irod, the First General of Alsma! You Mystic Accelerators are nothing but insects beneath my heel!"

"Careful, Hayato! Caref—! No!"

The warning ended in a scream of agony, as though the speaker’s soul had been ripped apart.

"I am Zey, Leader of Alsma. Tremble in fear, humans!"

"Because of your Mystic Accelerators, Alsma was pushed to the brink. Get out of our world!"

The deranged laughter mingled with the whistling wind, sharp as blades against the ears.

"Emilia! Hold my hand, don’t let go! No!"

That final voice pierced his mind like a searing bullet. He clutched his head, pressing his palms against his ears, but the voices drilled deeper, unforgiving and relentless. The world twisted before his eyes—snow and fire swirling into a violent maelstrom that swallowed everything.

Then, darkness.

He awoke with a jolt, cold sweat soaking his forehead.

"You're finally awake, Lumiere. Nightmare again?"

A familiar, calm voice greeted him. Lumiere turned toward the door, where a blond young man stood, clad in the same black uniform. The dim hallway light cast faint shadows across his face.

"Oh, Vasto. When did you get here?" Lumiere exhaled, trying to steady his breathing.

"Just arrived. We've reached the Antarctic Continent. General Razor requests your presence. Prepare yourself."

Vasto's words were succinct, his tone unwavering. With a curt nod, he turned and walked away, leaving Lumiere alone with the lingering echoes of his dream.

Lumiere sat up, running a hand through his damp hair. The small, spartan room was devoid of any sound now, yet the oppressive weight of that nightmare clung stubbornly to him.

"What a strange dream... Maybe I'm just too tense," he muttered. But the unease in his eyes remained.

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Pushing the sensation aside, Lumiere composed himself, donning the jet-black military uniform. The metallic buttons glinted faintly under the hallway light, like silent sentinels of duty.

As he stepped out, his footsteps echoed crisply along the corridor, each stride a declaration to the world that the time had come. Upon reaching the deck, the metal door hissed shut behind him, sealing away the noise of the ship's interior.

"So, after five hundred years of war, humanity has finally come 'home,'" Lumiere whispered. He took a deep breath, letting the Antarctic wind lash his face. The icy air stung like needles, biting into his skin—a sharp reminder of the unforgiving nature of the land they had reached. Yet he relished it. To him, this wind felt like a greeting from the untouched, endless wilderness.

Before him, the sky brightened as dawn pierced through the thick mist. The Antarctic Continent emerged beneath the golden light, vast and majestic. The ice-strewn landscape shimmered like a colossal jewel carved by time itself.

"It's unbelievable," murmured a young soldier standing nearby. "Every time I see Antarctica, it feels like another world."

Lumiere cast a sideways glance at the soldier and smirked faintly. "Yes. Beautiful enough to make you forget how many lives this place is ready to claim."

The soldier flinched. "I'm sorry, Commander Lumiere. I spoke out of turn."

The admiration in his eyes dimmed into somber understanding.

In the distance, beyond the veil of mist, the fleet of humanity revealed itself: hundreds of warships, colossal and unyielding. Their iron hulls plowed through the icy sea, cracking the frozen surface with ruthless precision. The morning sun glinted off their steel armor, turning the formation into an array of metal lances poised to strike.

"Alsma must be watching us right now," came a voice from behind.

Lumiere didn't need to turn around. He recognized Vasto’s tone—dry and edged with subtle dread.

"I wonder how many of us will survive this time," Vasto added.

"Don't say that," a younger soldier interjected. "We have Commander Lumiere leading us."

"Yes," Vasto agreed, then turned to Lumiere. "Commander, what do you think of this battle?"

Lumiere remained silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on the icy horizon. "I think..." he said slowly, voice low but resolute, "this is more than just a battle. It's humanity's reckoning. If we fail here, there will be no one left to return home."

His words weighed heavily on those who heard them. The gravity of their mission settled into their bones, igniting a fierce resolve behind their gazes.

The sound of footsteps interrupted the moment. Firm, deliberate strides echoed across the deck. Lumiere turned to see Razor, his father and the commanding general of the operation. No cloak draped his shoulders, only the stark black uniform adorned with three golden stars. His gaze held the sharpness of a seasoned warrior.

"Father—I mean, General. You've come to see me?" Lumiere asked, masking his surprise.

Razor stood beside him, eyes scanning the frozen expanse. "I came because of you," he said, voice steady. "Vasto reported that Commander Lumiere Wardenholf, leader of our three vanguard divisions, seems overly tense."

Lumiere gave a dry chuckle, eyes still fixed on the horizon. "I'm only thinking about what's to come. Didn't you always say that the battlefield allows no room for distraction?"

"True. But the battlefield also leaves no room for those who shoulder everything alone," Razor countered. His gaze shifted to Lumiere, stern yet concerned. "You're a fine soldier, Lumiere, but don't let pride cloud your judgment. Trust your comrades. This war doesn't rest on your shoulders alone."

Silence lingered between them.

Finally, Lumiere exhaled and smiled faintly. "You always talk like I’m planning to charge the enemy alone."

"You've done it before," Razor said with a raised brow, a hint of sardonic humor in his tone. "Just remember: victory doesn't always require sacrifice."

The truth of his father's words resonated, though Lumiere's stubborn pride resisted the lesson. Before he could reply, a sharp, mechanical beep echoed across the deck. The ship's communication system crackled to life:

"All personnel, prepare for landing. Antarctic Continent approach imminent. Enemy activity detected. Repeat: enemy activity detected."

The time had come.

Razor's hand fell on Lumiere's shoulder, gripping it firmly. "Show them, Lumiere. Show them humanity's strength."

With that, the general turned and strode away.

Lumiere closed his eyes for a moment, letting the icy wind ground him in reality.

"It's starting," Vasto muttered beside him.

"Yes," Lumiere replied, opening his eyes. The platinum irises shimmered with a cold determination. "Let's end this."

The ship surged forward, cutting through the frozen sea as if slicing into destiny itself. Ahead lay the Antarctic Continent—the cradle of Alsma's power, and the final battleground of humanity's survival.