"Secretary Valera's plan seems cohesive and logical; however," Josep's clear voice cut through the silence of the tactical room. He stood up, his gaze sharp. "I see a critical flaw in the troop distribution."
The room grew heavy with tension. Several officers exchanged glances, their expressions pensive. The soft rustling of papers and the rhythmic tapping of pens against the table echoed in the background, a subtle undercurrent to the charged atmosphere.
Josep took a deep breath and continued, "If we follow the current plan and spread our forces thin, the enemy could ambush our isolated units. Have we already forgotten the lesson from the naval battle three months ago?" His voice hardened, each word striking like a hammer on iron. "We lost more than five fleets—three hundred warships—and thousands of lives. A bitter price for underestimating the enemy’s capability."
His words pierced the room like a blade, leaving a cold, lingering silence. Younger officers lowered their heads, their faces clouded with somber reflection. Some of the older ones nodded, their eyes glinting with quiet agreement.
Suddenly, a clear, composed voice rang out:
"Commander Josep makes a solid point. Instead of scattering our forces, a combined assault would safeguard the rear lines and maximize our offensive strength."
The voice belonged to Emilia Wardenholf, the renowned Mystic Accelerator No.2, whose captivating gaze swept across the room, drawing everyone into her line of thought.
Josep gave a firm nod and continued, "Precisely. That’s why I’ve devised a new strategy that preserves our rear defenses while optimizing our front-line power."
He stepped forward, pointing at the holographic projection of the enemy fortress and the projected attack routes.
"Our base lies seven hundred kilometers from the Alsma Fortress. If we commit all forces to the assault, we leave our base vulnerable to a counterattack. Instead, I propose keeping our fleet stationed two hundred kilometers from here. This way, we can support the artillery barrage and have a contingency force ready for any sudden developments."
He paused briefly, allowing his audience to absorb the plan before continuing:
"As for the front line, once the artillery barrage weakens the enemy shields, our forces will split into three attack groups—Southwest, West, and Northwest. Simultaneous assaults from multiple directions will prevent the enemy from focusing their firepower on a single front. Moreover, the chosen distances will enable each group to support the others if they face heavy resistance."
As Josep concluded, a heavy silence settled over the room—a moment of processing, weighing, and understanding.
Then, a single, decisive clap broke the silence. It was Razor Wardenholf, the Supreme Commander. The applause quickly spread, a cascade of approval filling the chamber.
Josep, briefly startled, glanced around at the sudden wave of support.
Razor stepped forward, his voice deep and resonant, carrying the weight of his legendary experience:
"An outstanding plan. It minimizes losses and heightens our chance of victory. Now—" His gaze swept the room, sharp and unwavering. "Who here supports this strategy and is ready to see it through?"
A chorus of hands shot up—a unanimous, resolute commitment. The air bristled with determination. This was no longer just a plan; it was a beacon of hope—their final shot at ending a war that had dragged on for too long.
Razor’s eyes, cold yet burning with conviction, met every officer’s gaze:
"Good. From this moment, we move as one. Officers—prepare your divisions and relay the orders to every unit."
The room shook with a thunderous chorus of "Yes, sir!" The final battle was imminent, and every soul present knew that the fate of humanity hinged on the success of this plan.
As the meeting adjourned and the officers dispersed to their respective command posts, Emilia paused at the doorway. She turned back and approached Lumiere, her azure eyes catching the soft glint of the ceiling lights. There was a warmth in her gaze—gentle, but laced with an unspoken depth.
She placed a hand on his shoulder, a light gesture—soft, yet imbued with profound affection.
"Still the same—calm and humble as ever." Her voice was low, carrying layers beneath its surface.
Lumiere’s silver eyes flicked toward her, a playful glint sparking within. He raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a subtle smirk:
"Look who's talking. Aren’t you the same? Mystic Accelerator No.2—‘Emilia Wardenholf, the Illusive Prism.’ Honestly, I thought you'd rush straight back to your post to meditate like always."
She wrinkled her nose in mild protest, though a smile tugged at her lips:
"Oh, stop it. Can’t you call me ‘Emilia’ like a normal brother would?"
Their shared laughter filled the space—a sound rare and precious, cutting through the heavy veil of impending war.
As their laughter ebbed, Emilia's expression softened, her eyes clouding slightly. In a voice barely above a whisper, she breathed out words that seemed more for herself than him:
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"I envy you..."
Lumiere's playful smirk faltered. He tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his eyes:
"Envy? Of what?"
She held his gaze, her voice tinged with wistfulness:
"You... You don’t need Atheria’s Mystique. Your strategic genius, your leadership... they command respect, without reliance on power. You shattered the family’s doubts and proved your worth—not through birthright, but through battle and brilliance. That... That is something truly admirable."
Lumiere chuckled softly, his tone light but sincere:
"And here I thought you were the one to admire. You became Mystic Accelerator No.2 in less than a decade—a feat that took No.3 and No.4 over thirty years without success."
Emilia shook her head slightly, her voice dipping with something unspoken:
"Don’t deflect, Lumiere. You advanced further, faster. We joined the army at the same time, yet now you stand as No.1. You taught me—and everyone—how to harness Valori output, how to control it to amplify our strength without losing control. You’ve done more than you’ll ever admit."
Lumiere’s expression turned mock-innocent, one brow arched:
"Really? Can’t say I remember any of that. All I recall is Emilia Wardenholf—the greatest warrior of the Wardenholf line."
Emilia’s laughter returned, soft and rich with meaning.
"Always with the flattery. You never change." She sighed—a release, not of fatigue, but of tension held too long.
The silence that followed was not heavy, but warm—an understanding shared without words. Only the distant echoes of footsteps broke the calm.
Emilia straightened, her voice gentle:
"Well then, I should return."
Lumiere’s voice followed her as she turned away:
"Stay safe out there, Emilia." His tone was light, but the undercurrent of care was unmistakable.
A slight nod from her, one last lingering glance—and then she was gone, her silhouette swallowed by the cold corridor lights.
Two paths, two leaders—parting ways, yet bound by blood and a bond forged through countless battles.
The air was cold. The war still raged. But within their hearts—just for a moment—something warm endured.
The Resistance Base, Southern Ice Continent, July 4th, 2893 – 07:00 AM
The snowstorm screamed, an unrelenting fury. Shards of ice whipped through the air, lashing against the fogged glass panels of motionless war machines. The winds, sharp as blades, froze the world in a harsh embrace—white snow merging with ashen skies to paint a canvas of desolation. Yet within the hearts of the soldiers, the fire of resolve burned brightly.
The troops stood in disciplined ranks, boots crunching against the thick snow. Their armor—white and frosted—blended seamlessly into the wintry expanse. Each breath, clouded and fleeting, vanished into the frigid air. Fingers gripped tightly around the hilts of Luminis Blades, their Valori cores pulsing faintly like frozen stars.
A distant rumble broke the steady howl of the wind—one of the massive war engines stirred, its Aether-powered core releasing a laborious hiss.
"Seal that valve! We can’t have snow clogging the intakes!" A mechanic’s sharp command rang out, followed by a grumble from his companion:
"In this cold? You’re killing us, man! At this rate, we’ll be icicles before we finish."
On the command platform, Valera stood firm. Her cloak, heavy and lined against the cold, rippled against the wind. Though the cold gnawed at her skin, her gaze remained unshaken—locked on the assembled forces. Beside her stood the towering figure of Razor Wardenholf, clad in battle armor so dense it seemed sculpted from the ice itself. His eyes, shielded beneath his helm, burned with the steel-hard focus of a veteran who had seen too many battles.
"Valera, is the mechanized division ready?" Razor’s voice was low but carried effortlessly over the wind’s howl.
"Prepared, sir. But the blizzard is straining engine efficiency. We’ll need contingency measures in case they stall mid-operation."
Razor’s nod was curt, his gaze cutting through the tempest. Without turning, he stepped forward, raising a gauntleted hand high above.
"Attention!" His command thundered through the storm, and the assembled ranks snapped to perfect alignment—an army poised on the edge of history.
Then, his voice—deep, raw, and unwavering—rose above the winds:
"Warriors of Ather!" he roared. "Before you lies the final test. The storm is but a whisper of the battle to come. The enemy awaits us—and they will show no mercy. But I stand here, unshaken—for I trust in you! You, who have fought through every trial to reach this day!"
In the front ranks, a young soldier nudged his companion, his voice barely above a whisper:
"The old man’s speech game never misses, huh?"
"Shh," came the reply, eyes locked forward. "He’s getting to the important part."
Razor’s voice surged, powerful and resolute:
"You do not fight for glory alone. You fight for your families. Your homeland. A future free from Alsma's shadow! Do not bury your fear—harness it. Let it drive you forward, for on this day—the hopes of every soul rest upon our victory!"
A roar rose—a cry that began as a spark and swelled into a tempest to rival the storm.
"For Ather! For Freedom! Advance!" Razor’s fist cut the sky.
"Hura!" The collective war cry burst forth—fierce and primal, shattering the cold’s dominion with raw, human defiance.
Engines roared, their tracks crushing the snow beneath. Troops surged forward, their forms blending into the white storm—an avalanche of steel and will.
Valera turned to Razor, her voice steady but questioning:
"Your thoughts on our chances?"
His eyes, fixed on the storm-veiled horizon, burned with an answer forged from countless battles:
"Victory doesn't come from luck." His voice, cold and final, "It comes from those willing to face the cold... and death itself."