The legend of the Pagan Empire’s Second Prince

Chapter 34: Unexpected Forces

The sky over the southern frontier of the Pagan Empire was shrouded in dark, ominous clouds, the sun hidden behind a curtain of unnatural gloom. A chilling wind swept through the fields and forests, carrying with it an eerie silence that seemed to whisper of impending doom.

Yet, despite the oppressive atmosphere, an unstoppable force marched northward—a legion of holy warriors, their white cloaks billowing like ghostly banners in the wind.

Their numbers stretched as far as the eye could see.

An army of 600,000, clad in pristine white armor adorned with golden sun insignias, marched in perfect formation. The air of divine authority surrounded them, the rhythmic clanking of their armor echoing through the ruined lands they passed.

Among them, 100,000 brown-cloaked warriors—mercenaries and religious zealots sworn to the Church of the Sun—marched with grim determination, their weapons stained with the blood of those who had refused conversion.

They were an army of purification.

An army of extermination.

And their destination was the Imperial Capital of the Pagan Empire.

As they advanced, nothing was spared.

Villages, towns, and cities that lay in their path were given a choice:

Convert to the Creator God and swear allegiance to the Church of the Sun—or perish.

But most refused to abandon their faith.

And so, they burned.

The once-thriving southern territories of the Pagan Empire had been reduced to ruins and graveyards, the streets littered with charred corpses, the rivers running crimson with the blood of the fallen.

The Imperial Army had never anticipated such an overwhelming force.

Even the Eastern Alliance, who had counted the Church of the Sun as one of their own, had been blindsided by the sheer scale of the holy army's mobilization.

They had underestimated the zealotry that had been brewing in the shadows.

And now, it was too late.

The city of Maung, a vital gateway to the Imperial Capital, had fallen.

Standing atop the ruined walls of Maung, Eliora Venaria surveyed the devastation before her.

The air was thick with the scent of smoke, blood, and death. Bodies of Imperial soldiers and civilians alike lay scattered across the streets, their lifeless eyes staring blankly at the heavens.

The once-bustling city had been silenced—its streets now nothing more than a graveyard.

Eliora's hands clenched around the silver staff she carried, its golden sun emblem glowing faintly in the dim light.

Her heart ached.

This… was not how it was supposed to be.

She had been taught that the Creator was merciful, that their mission was to bring light to the world, not drown it in darkness.

Yet, as she stood amid the smoldering ruins, surrounded by corpses and fire, she felt nothing but emptiness.

The Crusade had gone too far.

And she was powerless to stop it. What can she do about that? She is just a high priestess, only number 4 in the same rank. Also she is not the leader in this expedition. The Commander General of this expedition is the archbishop in the peak of human master in holy divine art is leading this force. She is merely vice general Commander to help especially healing the injured and managing only 5000 healer forces of the church such as pretiesses and priestesses candidates. Sometimes, she encounters some heathens but she let them slip by ignoring them. She believes despite their differences everybody deserves to live equally. When she was thinking about that she heard the sound approaching.

"High Priestess," a voice called from behind her.

She turned to see a tall, imposing man approaching—his white robes immaculate, a golden sun medallion hanging from his neck.

Archbishop Michale Venaria.

Her father. Commander General of this army.

She immediately bowed, her voice soft yet steady.

"I pray respect to the Son of the Creator. May the Creator save you."

Michale chuckled, the warmth in his voice a stark contrast to the carnage around them.

"May the Creator save you as well, my daughter. Relax, Elly. I merely wished to have a peaceful conversation with you after dealing with those… stubborn old men."

Eliora straightened, her expression clouded with worry.

"Father, if the Theocracy hears you speak like that, you will be branded a traitor. Please… be careful."

Michale waved his hand dismissively.

"The Theocracy is too preoccupied with their own ambitions to care about what I say. They sent us on this campaign hoping we would fail. If not for our secret mobilization, we would be outnumbered ten to one."

Eliora frowned.

"I… don't understand. If they want us to fail, why send us at all?"

Michale's smile faded, replaced by a grim expression.

"Because the Theocracy is fractured, Elly. There are those among them who believe in true faith, like us, and those who have twisted it into an instrument of conquest. They despise me because I refuse to bow to their dogma of human supremacy."

Eliora's grip tightened around her staff.

She knew that the Church had changed after the former Pope's death.

The new leadership had embraced fanaticism, turning what was once a place of worship into a war machine.

She had tried to ignore it.

Tried to convince herself that the Creator's mercy would prevail.

But the truth was right before her eyes.

And it was painted in blood.

"Father… what are we really doing here?" she whispered.

Michale's expression softened, and for the first time in a long while, he looked… tired.

"Surviving."

He reached out, placing a gentle hand on her head.

"Do not burden yourself with guilt, my daughter. You are a healer, not a warrior. Your duty is to save those who can be saved."

Eliora lowered her gaze, her heart heavy with doubt.

"What if I cannot save them?"

Michale exhaled softly.

"Then at least you tried. That is all we can do in this world."

For a moment, they stood in silence, the cold wind whispering around them.

Then, Michale straightened.

"Enough of this gloom. Prepare yourself, Elly. We march for the Imperial Capital at dawn."

Eliora nodded, though she felt no relief.

The storm had not yet arrived.

But it was coming.

And the Empire had no idea what was about to descend upon it.

As the first light of dawn broke over the battlefield, the Golden Sun banners fluttered in the cold wind.

600,000 holy warriors stood ready to march, their weapons polished, their faith unshakable.

At their head, Archbishop Michale Venaria, clad in resplendent white robes, raised his hand.

"Soldiers of the Creator! Today, we march to bring His light to the Empire! Let none stand in our way!"

A thunderous war cry erupted from the ranks.

From the ruined city of Maung, the Crusade advanced northward—toward the Imperial Capital itself.

The Empire was surrounded on all sides.

And its doom was approaching.

(Continue…..)