Lord of the Truth

BOOM BOOM!

From the heart of each shimmering portal, colossal Trent warriors emerged—beings forged of ancient wood and divine might. Their steps alone sent tremors through the earth, and their towering frames were wrapped in ornate living armor, grown from enchanted groves long forgotten by time. Each carried a shield so massive and immovable, it looked as though it could bear the weight of a dying star or hold up the sky itself if the heavens collapsed.

Behind them came another race—shorter, yes, but no less formidable. These were the Stoneborn Golems, carved by time and fire, their flesh forged from mineral and obsidian. Their bodies were walking fortresses, and when their mouths opened, they revealed echoing hollows like caves older than civilization itself.

And then came the Crixians. Towering winged warriors, their bodies sculpted by generations of perfect genetic selection and battle-hardening. Each one stood around three meters tall, their gleaming skin marked with tribal runes that pulsed with heat.

Their most defining feature, however, were their massive wings spanning wide, radiating raw elemental power.

Without a moment's hesitation, each Crixian unsheathed a titanic sword, its blade glowing with blue celestial flame—a fire that didn't just burn flesh, but consumed spirit. They raised their swords high, synchronized like a single organism, preparing to bring holy ruin.

Then the Devosians and Dourgrin stepped into the light of battle.

The Devosians, beings of elegance and lethality, bore the blood of mythical fox spirits—with sharp ears, fur-lined armor, and tails that danced like flames. Their movements were graceful, their eyes sharp with predatory wisdom.

The Dourgrin, on the other hand, slithered forward—half-serpent, half-human, fully terrifying. Their scaled bodies shimmered under the sky, and in their hands they held curved, serrated weapons meant for one thing only: tearing through soul and bone alike.

Each of these races radiated distinct energy signatures—their very presence warping the battlefield, making even seasoned soldiers hesitate.

And then—thunder shook the air.

The Terra Riders emerged.

From the other side of the battlefield, confused shouts broke out.

"Who ARE these people?! And what's the deal with those tiny gates?! Is this some kind of illusion spell?!"

"Which empire do they serve?!"

"Doesn't matter—CHARGE! Before they unleash more of those freaks!"

Enraged, desperate, and perhaps fearful, a large number of surrounding forces—still locked in their own bitter skirmishes—broke off and surged toward the newcomers. Their goal: crush this new army before it fully arrived.

But they were too late.

SWOOSH BAM!

Their attacks fell like rain on the Trent vanguard, but the ancient giants didn't flinch. Behind their impossibly massive shields, they formed an impenetrable wall.

Nothing got past them.

No arrow. No cannon blast. No divine technique.

And then—

BAAAANG!

The Stoneborn Golems slammed their titanic legs into the ground in perfect unison. The battlefield quaked. The very earth groaned under the pressure. The enemies' charge faltered as the terrain beneath them shook violently, throwing formations into chaos.

Then—

"ATTAAAAACK!"

The Crixian commanders roared in perfect unison, their wings igniting with bursts of energy as they took to the skies in synchronized flight.

Blades raised, voices howling, they dived like comets into the fractured enemy front lines.

SHRIEEEEK!

Screams erupted as the first line of enemies was incinerated by the sacred blue flames—flames that didn't merely burn, but purged sin and corruption, slicing through enchanted armor like wet paper.

THUD THUD THUD!

From behind the immovable Trent wall, the Devosians and Dourgrin surged forward. The battlefield blurred as they launched into battle.

The Dourgrin's Law of Corrosion left trails of ash wherever their weapons struck, while the Devosians' fearsome Frost Continuum, a merged law of ice and entropy, froze time and movement in slivers, making it nearly impossible to counter them without suffering critical losses.

Though they were only around nine thousand strong, those three elite races—Crixians, Devosians, and Dourgrin—faced an army of forty thousand or more, yet within mere moments of engagement, they began to break them.

Not push back.

Not contest.

Break.

The enemy's frontlines weren't simply losing—they were being erased.

Soldiers fled in terror or lay shattered on the ground, screaming in agony or silence.

Meanwhile, the Trent and Stoneborn held their line like gods of war, standing between the world and the continuous flood of reinforcements that came through the portals—portals that now pumping endless warriors into the field.

"What the hell is going on?!"

"Are they seriously trying to fight all of us at once?!"

"This is madness! Focus on the new arrivals—ignore everything else!"

All across the battlefield, something incredible happened:

The world paused.

Old enemies dropped their weapons.

Blood feuds were forgotten.

Rival factions looked at each other… and then turned to face the same direction.

For the first time in decades—perhaps even centuries—every force on the battlefield united under one purpose:

Survival.

Because they had just realized—

This was no army.

This was an invasion.

Most of the enemy forces began to regroup quickly, trying to formulate a new strategy to deal with this unexpected, terrifying threat.

But a select few—those with sharper instincts and longer memories—gave the order to retreat to a safe distance and observe.

"HIIIIIIYAAAAAH!"

Yet not all were cautious.

Those who decided to annihilate the new force weren't few. Nearly one hundred thousand additional soldiers charged onto the field, flooding the battlefield like a tidal wave of rage and desperation.

And the number was still climbing.

The earth quaked beneath their feet. The sky groaned from the heat of so many engines and spells igniting at once.

But even this massive force was not enough to break the iron formation of the three elite races.

For now, the relentless advance of the newcomers halted, yes—but they had already begun forming into new defensive battle formations, calm and controlled, as if expecting something.

And then, like thunder erupting into every ear across the battlefield:

"Hmph... Child's play. If there's a true master among you, come forth. Otherwise… I'll erase you all."

A voice. A presence.

Someone appeared—flying above the battlefield, radiating power.

A World Cataclysm, beyond question. His aura cracked space itself.

He slowly raised his hand, directing it toward the portals, preparing a blow that could destroy entire cities in one strike.

CLACK! KACHA!

"Huh?"

The World Cataclysm looked up, confused.

The sky—clear only moments ago—had darkened in a heartbeat.

Storm clouds now swirled with apocalyptic speed, and winds howled from every direction, whistling like death itself.

Bolts of lightning surged through the clouds like dragons, roaring and coiling across the sky.

All of it… had happened in the blink of an eye.

"What is this...?" the calamity murmured.

KACHA!!!

Suddenly, one of the storm dragons broke loose.

A bolt of living lightning, the size of a city, plummeted from the sky like divine punishment, its roar splitting the heavens as it descended.

"What?!"

The World Cataclysm's eyes widened.

He could only sense laws up to the Fourth Stage, but this…

This felt wrong.

This felt like death.

Why was this lightning… so thick? So vast?

Why did it feel like an entire city had been hurled at him?

"Doesn't matter. Still just a Fourth-Stage law."

He gritted his teeth, raised his palm, and prepared to strike it down.

But he was too slow.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM

The Lightning Dragon swallowed him whole and slammed him down like a divine hammer, into the earth—right in the middle of the battlefield.

And in that single instant...

A perfect crater hundreds of meters wide was carved into the land.

Over fifteen thousand soldiers, ships, and beasts were instantly vaporized.

What remained was not a crater...

But a void—a blackened abyss, like a wound in the world itself.

"Aaah... A-Aaah..."

The entire battlefield fell silent.

Even though these armies were once rivals and enemies, none of them celebrated the destruction of that front.

The sheer scale of devastation that had just occurred… was too horrifying to ignore.

...High above, standing atop the mountain like a watching guardian, a woman stepped forward.

She gently took Aro's arm, her gaze soft and worried.

It was Flora, now fully armored.

Her previously pregnant belly was gone.

"Darling, are you alright?" she asked, her voice filled with concern.

Aro gave a slow nod, sweat trickling down his pale face.

His breath was shallow, his stance slightly wobbly.

"Leonid," he muttered, his voice grave.

"If you have any World Cataclysm under your command—release them now. That one… isn't dead yet.

And I'll need time… before I can launch another strike like that."

Leonid—silent until now—bowed a little deeper than before, his tone finally laced with respect.

"Understood."

And just like that, he vanished into the shadows.

Only now did he understand…

Until this moment, he thought only the Supreme Guardian, Holak, could produce such catastrophic power in a single blow.

He was wrong.

"Shall we begin?"

The voice came from behind Aro.

His generals stepped forward, their arms crossed behind their backs like loyal hounds ready for the hunt.

Kandal. Harros. Sandria. Shouko.

Their eyes burned with purpose.

Aro gave them the order with calm authority:

"This continent must be cleansed before the day ends.

And this planet… must be conquered before the year is over."

Then, raising his hand, he pointed toward the carnage below—

"Crush them all."