Newfear

His steps were slow and steady, but each one carried a devastating force, hiding an unbelievable cruelty behind it. His face was covered in dust.

But his eyes blazed with vengeance, and his heart pumped an unimaginable hatred. He moved in silence, as if time itself had frozen around him, while his sword could cut through the air just as easily as it severed souls.

Duke Malacard could barely remain on his feet, his legs trembling from the pain of his violent fall, his eyes widening in shock. His body was shattered from the attack he had suffered, and the deep wound stained his armor with blood. He barely registered the approaching presence, but his heart pounded with fear. He did not know that his fate had already been sealed.

Raymond approached him, his sword gleaming under the faint moonlight, his eyes burning with an unrelenting gaze. In a swift motion, the sword in his hand pierced the duke's neck. The moment was filled with awe, as if time itself had conspired against him, pausing in that single instant. A cruel and overwhelming sensation swept through the air, the sword slicing through the duke's flesh as though opening a wound in time itself.

Then, in a savage motion, Raymond twisted his blade inside the wound, as if trying to tear the duke's very soul to pieces. Blood gushed violently from the duke's neck, pouring like a rushing river, splattering into the air like a cascade of crimson droplets staining the earth. The duke's screams, reaching out toward the abyss, faded in his throat, reduced to weak, dying echoes swallowed by the storm of destruction.

In that moment, his head fell, rolling away in a scene both crushing and horrific. The ground trembled beneath its impact, while his blood splattered around, forming a dark pool that drained from his lifeless corpse. The duke's severed head tumbled through the air, as if death itself had finally struck him, a fate he had long deserved for all his crimes.

And as everything around him descended into this terrible chaos, the earth drowned in a sea of blood, and nothing could restore life to the place after such a harrowing sight. Raymond stood over the corpse, his eyes locked onto the moment with an eerie intensity, while the air hung heavy with the scent of blood and destruction.

At the fall of their leader, pandemonium consumed the battlefield in an unimaginable frenzy. The cries of enemy knights echoed across the horizon, their burning screams igniting the air with fury. Madness overtook everything. The knights, their souls ablaze with rage and hatred, charged toward the center like rampaging beasts, their eyes wild with insanity, their bodies moving in relentless, merciless strikes. The blood soaking the ground had become an inseparable part of this brutal spectacle, splattered in every direction, as if the earth itself wept in agony.

But Aqua remained still, his eyes wide, watching the carnage unfold before him as if time had frozen around him. His body barely stood, trembling from exhaustion, yet he showed no reaction... only a cold, detached smile curled on his lips, clinging to the numbness that had taken hold of him amid this monstrous explosion of violence.

As the ground churned around him, Raymond Vanheim dashed toward him to protect him. Aqua could barely rise, his hand shaking as he gripped his sword, but Raymond paid no attention to anything else. With unwavering resolve, he launched into battle against the knights storming the center. His sword danced through the air like fire, striking and lunging with precision, piercing with a steady hand and a blazing heart. Blood sprayed in all directions, staining his hands, his hair, his armor... filling the air with its suffocating heat.

Raymond's movements were like an unstoppable torrent... swift and lethal... shattering the knights' attacks as if they were mere blades of grass beneath his feet. He fought with unmatched ferocity, dodging slashes and countering with ruthless aggression, each strike leaving a fatal mark on his foes. His body moved as if it knew no fatigue, like a weapon forged in the flames of wrath.

Meanwhile, Aqua remained where he was, his body on the verge of collapse, but his mind had reached an eerie state of absolute calm. He did not care about what was happening around him, for he knew that this moment was inevitable, that everything was about to end. His hands trembled, yet he summoned all his strength, gripping his sword once more... even if his legs wavered from exhaustion, even if his veins felt like they would burst.

As Raymond fended off the knights' blows, Aqua tried to stand, his sword shaking in his grip, but he could not remain upright for long. His hand could barely grasp the hilt. Each time he tried to lift his weapon, the sounds around him faded, and his mouth felt dry, as if life itself were being drained from him.

Yet despite everything, in that mad moment drenched in blood and screams, Aqua's spirit remained stronger than his body. His heart stood firm, even as his body threatened to collapse, and that mocking smile on his lips revealed that he had accepted his fate... but he would not surrender without one last fight.

At that moment, the battle had surpassed all reason and logic, turning the battlefield into a living massacre. Raymond Vanheim fought as if every strike he unleashed was an expression of the universe's own rage, as if the swords he wielded were tearing through the fabric of time itself, reshaping it anew. And all around him, around Aqua, was a hellish arena, where blood flowed like rivers from the underworld, twisting and churning in the wind, caught in every motion, every step, painting the ground in a deep crimson.

A circle formed before everyone... an incomplete circle of blood, expanding slowly, seeping from every direction, from every strike, as if the earth itself bled with each moment of this madness.

The blood danced across the battlefield in a grim, rhythmic motion, scattering through the air like the shards of an endless explosion, raining down on the fallen bodies, each drop singing its own mournful song of pain and despair.

Each time Raymond swung his sword, blood splattered grotesquely, thickening the air into a mist of agony, as if his blade were slicing through reality itself. The wind howled with the frenzy, amplifying the chaos, as if conspiring to shape a scene dominated by destruction, where everything was ensnared in the ceaseless torrent of blood spiraling in all directions, coiling around Aqua like a monstrous serpent.

Aqua stood in the center of that circle, breathing heavily, surrounded by the blood flooding the ground, as if time had frozen just to manifest death in waves of crimson cascading around him. The frenzied minds around him orchestrated a bizarre spectacle, where the earth and blood merged in a terrifying dance, and everything crumbled into a hellscape where bodies fell one after another.

Every step Raymond took, every sword he raised, struck at the very heart of war itself. He protected Aqua with all his might, his body weaving through the blades like a phantom, dodging lethal strikes before countering with merciless precision. Blood dripped from his wounds, mixing with the blood of his fallen enemies, creating a treacherous mire that threatened to swallow even the faintest hope.

As Aqua gasped for breath within that suffocating ring of blood, the lights around him dimmed, as if the world itself had shrunk... but he did not show weakness. He stood firm, battling his pain, resisting it, his body a stone forged from hatred and rage.

The attacks intensified. Raymond struck again and again, evading, retaliating, pouring every ounce of his strength into holding the line around Aqua, defending each step, each inch between them and the enemies closing in. His movements were furious, swift, unpredictable... making the air shudder with each motion, as if the storm itself pursued him.

As the blood danced upon the earth, swaying as if mocking the battle itself, Aqua stood at its center, feeling every movement in the world crash into his mind, as though the ground itself spun around him in a spiral of madness, engulfed by corpses, blood, and devastation.

Aqua, in a moment of unbearable exhaustion, looked at Raymond with eyes filled with awe and irony, his eyelids trembling from fatigue. The wind carried the howls of the battlefield, yet amidst all the chaos, a moment of eerie silence settled between them, their words hanging in the void.

Aqua, with a ghostly smile, spoke in a ragged voice: "You... won't stop, will you?"

Raymond, breathing heavily, glanced at the wound on his arm, his eyes burning with determination, and replied hoarsely.

"And you… will rise, won't you?"

Then, Raymond suddenly turned, like lightning, driving his sword into the chest of a knight who had attempted to approach him. The knight's blood scattered through the air like sparks from a misty fire, falling to the ground and clinging to the wounds that tore through flesh. The wind carried the scent of blood like a heavy perfume, and each strike left behind a deadly mark, while the screams of knights filled the air, like a death song harmonizing with every movement and blade.

Aqua struggled to his feet, his legs nearly giving out under the weight of pain, but he managed to grip his sword once more. He stood behind Raymond, the two of them guarding each other's backs. His arm trembled with exhaustion, yet his resolve was stronger than ever. He was ready to endure whatever remained of the battle, his eyes fixed on the approaching enemies.

Breathing heavily, Aqua glanced at Raymond, who was also catching his breath while facing the onslaught with unmatched skill and strength. Then, in a low, strained voice, he spoke.

Aqua: "Do you think we can survive this…?"

Aqua's words drifted between them like a faint breeze amidst a raging sea of death.

At that moment, when all eyes were locked on the battle, the sound of heavy hooves echoed from the hilltop. The pounding grew louder and faster, as if the earth itself trembled under the force drawing near.

Then, with each passing second, the mirage that shattered the silence appeared... a battalion of knights emerging suddenly, bearing the emblem of House Sparoff, their banners flowing majestically as they advanced swiftly toward the battlefield.

At the head of the battalion rode Count Nicholas Sparoff, a man of immense presence. his light blnde hair swaying with the wind as if it were part of an eternal battle. He wore a black armor adorned with golden buttons, his hands gripping the hilt of his sword, which gleamed as though it held powers beyond mere combat. Behind him rode his eldest son, Felix Sparoff. He wore an armor similar to his father's, though decorated in gold, his gaze filled with unyielding determination.

Nicholas raised his voice, deep and commanding, its resonance igniting the weary souls around him.

Nicholas: "Advance!!!"

At that moment, the battlefield quaked, the thunderous gallop of the horses roaring like an approaching storm. The Sparoff knights charged into the remaining enemy forces, fighting as if they were a blaze consuming everything in their path. Their strikes were merciless, decisive, while the clashes of steel against armor blended with the cries of the dying, enveloping the scene in a symphony of destruction. There was no room for mercy... only death and devastation.

Amidst the chaos, Marchioness Atris, supported by Sir Variss as she struggled to her feet, watched the scene in silence. A faint smile crossed her lips, almost one of satisfaction, yet her eyes held a glimmer of tension and unease.

On the other side, Sir Darian Castro had momentarily paused, taking in the spectacle before him. His gaze was fixed on the Sparoff knights as they crushed the remaining enemy forces. There was no doubt about their skill or strength, yet questions stirred in his mind about the rest of the battle... about Aqua and his comrades.

Beside him, Lady Barbara could barely contain her excitement, her eyes shining with joy at what seemed to be an imminent victory. Her gaze quickly shifted to Aqua, who stood there, watching in silence. He remained still, alongside Raymond, observing the last remnants of the enemy being vanquished.

Aqua, in that moment, did not take his eyes off the battlefield. His eyelids were heavy with exhaustion, yet his mind remained sharp. He saw what everyone else did, yet his expression remained unreadable. His eyes held sorrow, but it was the kind that spoke of experience... the gaze of someone who had lived through too much of this, for whom war was nothing more than a relentless tide of sharp emotions and endless fatigue.

With the fall of the last enemy knight, an eerie silence descended upon the battlefield. Only the wind remained, whispering through the air, cutting through the heavy stillness, as if the land itself had swallowed the war. Blood stained every corner of space and time, like a horrifying painting displayed for all to see. The bodies strewn across the ground bore witness to what had transpired... the harvest of death that had unfolded in those maddened moments.

Everyone stood motionless, trapped in absolute silence. No one dared to move or speak. It was a pause between life and death, between the blood soaking the earth and the souls that had departed. Aqua stood amid the crimson-streaked ground, Raymond beside him, his body trembling with exhaustion, gazing at their surroundings as if trapped in a nightmare.

Then, in the midst of the suffocating silence, Aqua began to move slowly, his steps heavy, as though each one was a defiance against the stillness that sought to ensnare them all. But there was nothing worth celebrating. Everything around them ached in silence... the corpses, the blood, the wounds yet to heal... everything bore witness to the devastating end.

Aqua paused, breathing heavily, looking up at the sky, which slowly began to shift, as if trying to reclaim the breaths lost during the battle. Behind him, Raymond watched, his eyes filled with sorrow and astonishment. There was no room for words... only the silence that had devoured everything.

And in that moment, Count Nicholas Sparoff emerged from the ranks, his light sandy hair and deep blue eyes glowing like sea beneath the fading sunlight, reflecting both sorrow and battle. His steps were steady, yet something in his expression was unreadable... something unspoken, as though he carried the weight of an unseen war. Beside him, Felix followed, his athletic frame and violet eyes gleaming as if contemplating the dark future that awaited them.

Nicholas stopped before Marchioness Atris, his gaze a mixture of concern and resolve. He stepped closer, speaking in a quiet yet authoritative voice, his eyes lingering on the visible wound she bore.

Nicholas: "The battle is over, Atris… Let us leave now. Let us return together."

But Atris, despite the deep wound she hid beneath a tightly wrapped cloth around her waist, was far too resolute to fall at this moment. Her voice was sharp, as though challenging Nicholas's very words, and she replied with unwavering determination:

Atris: "But the war is not over yet, Nicholas. I will stay here until I am certain of that."

Her words struck like lightning, and for a moment, the earth seemed to hold its breath. Everyone froze, even the wind as if it, too, had stopped in place. It was a pivotal moment... the stillness after battle morphing into something stranger, something more terrifying yet to come. There was no time to celebrate victory... only the sense that a door had been opened to a world filled with unending darkness and challenges.

As Nicholas prepared to depart, he noticed something unusual. The cloth around Atris's waist was tightly bound, yet faintly soaked with blood, slipping slightly to reveal the deep wound she had concealed. It was a painful injury, but Nicholas could not leave her like this. He stepped closer, his voice laced with visible concern.

Nicholas: "Atris!... T-this!! Are you alright?!"

But Atris, with an unreadable expression, turned her head away from him. She spoke simply, leaning on Sir Varys, who helped her stand.

Atris: "I'm fine. Do not concern yourself with me. There are more important matters now."

Sir Variss bowed respectfully to Nicholas and said.

Variss: "We will take the marchioness to the tent. Do not worry, we will care for her."

Then he led her away, leaving behind a land where the ground could no longer distinguish between mud and blood. As for Nicholas, he did not wish to stay any longer; the scene was too heavy for any mortal mind to bear. He mounted his horse, and without a final glance, he rode away with his battalion, as if the wind that passed through them carried the cries of those who had fallen.

As the hours passed, the battlefield's clamor faded, yet the silence that followed was not peace... it was an echo of the massacre that had unfolded upon Draxul's soil. Arcadia had won, its banners raised above the ruins, but even those banners could not conceal the blood that clung to every stone, every weapon, every face. This was no mere battle... it was a curse, etched into the land, into memory, into the eyes that had witnessed it. From that day forward, Draxol was no longer known by its name. It was known only by the battle that had turned it into a living nightmare…

The Battle of the Red Faces.