Merin, standing on the tree branch, gazes over the frozen Lotus Lake where the three armies charge toward each other.
They begin their assault the moment night fades and the winter morning sky takes its place.
Beasts thunder across the ice, surging forward in a wild charge at both human armies.
The army of the Owani Kingdom advances in a slow, calculated shield formation, splitting into two wings—one facing the beasts, the other turning toward the rebels.
The rebels also divide their forces, sending one group to confront the beasts and the other against the royal army.
Under the cold breath of dawn, the stillness of the frozen Lotus Lake shatters as the three armies collide.
A roar from the beast horde erupts like thunder, shaking the frost-bitten trees, as paws, claws, hooves, and talons pound against the ice with terrifying unity.
On the southern side, the royal army of the Owani Kingdom holds its ground in a disciplined, diamond-like formation, their polished shields glinting under the pale sun.
Though their numbers are halved compared to the rebels and the beasts, their unity and command make them a wall of steel.
At the front stand the halberdiers and shield-bearers, silent and grim, waiting for the impact.
Behind them, archers knock arrows in a practised rhythm, their breath forming clouds that vanish with the next pull of the string.
On the eastern edge, the rebels shout disjointedly, their soldiers driven more by anger than order.
Some rush faster, others lag behind, breaking ranks as they close in on both royal soldiers and beast clans.
The beasts come from the west like a tide, no war horns, no signals—only instinct and killing intent.
The Iron Monkeys swing and leap over others, bounding across the frozen surface like bolts of flesh and muscle.
The Snow Wolves form tight packs, their breath white with frost, fangs bared.
The Dark Lizards slide low, their hides gleaming under morning light, poison mist leaking from their mouths.
Above, the Storm Eagles dive like spears of vengeance, screeching cries that scatter weaker minds.
The first collision is like a quake—the shield wall holds, blades clash, and the sound of war swallows the morning quiet.
A Snow Wolf slams into a shield, claws scraping metal, before it is pierced by a spear and dragged away.
An Iron Monkey lands behind the wall and causes chaos until a royal officer cleaves it in two.
The archers continue releasing volley after volley, but the sheer number of enemies makes it feel like emptying a cup into a river.
Casualties begin mounting from the first minute.
A rebel swordsman beheads a royal soldier, only to be gored through the back by a charging boar beast.
A Storm Eagle pierces through a rebel captain's chest, then is struck down by a burst of fire from a mage.
Blood splashes across the ice in waves, and soon the pristine lake glows red.
But the temperature quickly freezes it again, creating a black, glistening surface of ice layered with blood—the battlefield becomes a black mirror, reflecting horror.
Even as comrades die beside them, the royal army does not break formation.
Their discipline is unnatural—no panic, no screaming, only precise movements and focused killing.
They rotate their front line every few minutes, bringing in fresh fighters.
Wounded are dragged behind, healed if possible, and replaced instantly.
The generals issue commands through silent hand signals, and not a word is wasted.
By midday, hundreds lie dead.
Frost-covered corpses of men, beasts, and hybrids clutter the lake, crunching under feet and claws.
Then, snow begins to fall—slow at first, but soon thick enough to blur distant shapes.
The battlefield becomes a white blur, the sounds of clashing blades and screams muted by the snowfall.
With visibility dropping, the formation begins to loosen.
Isolated pockets of fighting break out as lines blur and sides twist in confusion.
The rebels try to use this chaos to their advantage, striking at weakened sections of the royal front.
Some succeed, cleaving through with pure aggression.
Others are met by elite guards—silent warriors who cut down intruders with brutal efficiency.
The beasts do not adapt as well.
Some fall into confusion, attacking both rebel and royal soldiers indiscriminately.
Others begin to retreat from the slaughter, unwilling to die for unclear reasons.
But the four major beast clans continue, their leaders pushing from the rear, rallying with bellows and snarls.
Xialing, hidden on the mountain peak, watches with clenched fists, her heart tightening with every wave of violence.
She sees Kanoru's figure now among the scattered combatants, moving alone like a thread through shattered cloth.
He cuts down rebel and beast alike, yet never remains in one place.
He's not fighting for a side—only for survival and movement.
Below, Merin sees it too.
He notes how Kanoru's blade leaves orange traces of wind-light, how even now his posture never falters.
He wonders what Kanoru is aiming for, what goal lies ahead that makes him walk into the maelstrom.
Back on the lake, the snowfall thickens until the surface is a ghostly field of white and red.
Crimson trails steam beneath fresh snow, and cries grow distant.
The royal formation finally breaks completely, not out of fear but because the command has been given—new orders, shift to scattered assault, regroup later.
The trained soldiers obey, seamlessly dissolving into smaller coordinated units.
They continue fighting in trios, in pairs, in circles around captains.
The rebel army begins to show cracks.
Without a central command strong enough to coordinate under whiteout conditions, their soldiers begin to scatter or die.
Their archers misfire.
Their arrows miss.
And beasts, seeing weakness, descend on them.
A Snow Wolf pack takes down a rebel lieutenant.
A Dark Lizard melts five soldiers before being crushed by falling debris from an ice-shattered cliff.
It is no longer a war but a storm of blades and howls, a contest of who can last longest on blood-slicked ice.
As the snow continues to fall, only those with strength, luck, or purpose remain standing.
While observing the chaotic battle unfold over the frozen Lotus Lake, Merin's eyes narrow in amazement as a black-scaled, hunchbacked lizard-man carves a path of carnage through the royal army's lines.
The creature, a Dark Lizard warrior, emanates the aura of a middle-ranking samurai, just like Merin himself—but his brutality and speed eclipse that of most warriors Merin has encountered.
With bone clubs wrapped in sinew and metal, the lizard-man slams his first target—a sword-wielding royal samurai—so hard that the man's ribcage folds inward like paper, sending his lifeless body skidding across the ice.
Before the surrounding soldiers can react, the beast twists his body with shocking agility and smashes the club into a second warrior's legs, splintering bone and leaving him screaming on the blood-slicked ground.
His third victim, a spearman, attempts a counterthrust, but the lizard ducks low, lashes his thick tail behind the man's knees, and leaps with a roar, driving the club through his skull in a brutal end.
Merin watches in stunned silence.
He knows how strong middle-ranking samurai are and how difficult it is to break their trained formations, yet this Dark Lizard does it alone.
In terms of physical might and battlefield awareness, Merin realises the lizard-man is his equal, perhaps even slightly superior in raw aggression.
But in Merin's eyes, the lizard has already signed his death sentence.
"It's the first day," Merin mutters under his breath, his gaze locked on the beast's every movement.
"He's showing everything he has."
In war, the wise conserve their strength, test the waters, and rise when their enemies grow tired—not reveal the full depth of their power while commanders and predators still lurk.
The battlefield is no longer blind; those who observe from afar have sharp eyes and long memories.
If this black lizard shows that such power exists at the middle rank, then once the war ends—if he survives—resources will flood toward him.
What holds him back now is not talent or potential but merely the scarcity of resources.
The Great Beasts will not be stingy with such a display of raw capability.
But that is only if he survives.
Merin lifts his gaze upward through the falling snow and clouds.
He can just make out the faint silhouettes of five great Storm Eagles circling high above, vast wings barely visible, eyes like glinting stars surveying the battlefield.
They make no move to interfere—only observe.
They are the vision and judgment of the beast clans.
Their silence is more ominous than any cry of war.
Then, as Merin expected, a streak of metal cleaves through the air.
A high-ranking samurai—armour engraved with the royal emblem—descends with a furious howl and glowing blade aimed at the lizard's chest.
Merin sighs as the two meet in a clash that shatters ice.
"He's done," Merin whispers, "he burned too brightly, too soon."
The high-ranking samurai lands on the frozen lake with a thunderous crash, the runes on his armour glowing with condensed inner energy, his blade pulsing with a sharp silver light as it points straight at the black-scaled lizard.
The Dark Lizard roars and charges forward, blood still dripping from the club he used to butcher three samurai only minutes ago, but now facing an opponent of entirely different magnitude.
The high-ranking samurai steps lightly on the ice, waiting until the last moment before shifting his foot, twisting his body, and slashing downward—his blade meeting the club mid-swing with a loud *clang* that rings across the battlefield.
The force travels through the lizard's arms, shaking his bones, and sends cracks snaking through the ice beneath his clawed feet.
Before the black lizard can recover, the samurai pivots, twists behind him, and slashes across the lizard's back.
Sparks fly, and while the blade fails to break through the thick obsidian-like scales fully, it leaves a glowing cut no longer than a finger, shallow but painful.
The lizard snarls in fury and spins around, swinging his club in a wide arc.
The samurai ducks low, blade flicking upward, leaving another gash on the lizard's arm before sliding a few steps back.
From above, those watching—soldiers, beasts, and even the circling Storm Eagles—begin to see the rhythm form.
The samurai is in control.
Strike, withdraw, angle, strike again.
Each movement tears at the lizard bit by bit, drawing blood from shallow wounds.
The lizard's swings are monstrous, enough to flatten trees or crush bones, but they fail to connect.
He's fast—too fast for most—but not faster than a high-ranking samurai with battle-hardened instincts.
One by one, more wounds appear across his limbs and chest, red now painting his dark scales.
Then comes the turning moment.
The lizard lunges with desperate speed, club raised overhead.
The samurai sidesteps, slams his knee into the lizard's stomach, and with a surge of power, spins into a kick that lands flush against the lizard's chest.
The sound is sickening.
Cracked ribs echo across the battlefield as the Dark Lizard is flung back like a broken spear.
His body sails across the ice, crashes into a frozen rock near the lake's edge, and the impact sends a wave of snow flying upward.
He does not rise immediately.
The watching soldiers murmur, the royal army cheer, and even among the beast ranks, a stillness takes hold.
Everyone believes the same thing.
The black lizard is finished.
He had strength, but not enough.
Had courage, but not the power to match.
And above, the Storm Eagles continue to watch, unmoving, unblinking.
The samurai walks forward, blade lowered, but his steps cautious, eyes narrowed at the cloud of snow.
For even he knows—until the beast takes his last breath, the battle is not yet over.
The Dark Lizard lets out a guttural roar as the high-ranking royal samurai approaches, sword raised for the finishing blow.
Then, in Merin's eyes, a flicker of black lightning flashes from the shattered snow cloud where the lizard landed.
In the blink of an eye, the lizard vanishes, leaving only the echo of his roar behind.
The next moment, he reappears behind the royal samurai, arm extended, and in his clawed hand, something glows red.
Merin's breath catches, his mind echoing a single word—*heart*.
The samurai's body stiffens, blood spurts from his chest, and he collapses forward with a gaping hole where his heart once beat.
The thud of his armored corpse striking the ice is drowned in Merin's pounding ears as he watches the Dark Lizard stand tall, scales glistening with blood, a wild, unreadable expression on his face.
Merin's awe deepens, not just from the brutal efficiency of the kill, but from the terrifying speed that defied his perception.
But while Merin remains stunned, the rest of the battlefield barely shifts.
A few heads turn, fighters glance toward the centre, but the battle churns on, uncaring.
The kill means nothing on the scale of thousands.
The lizard returns to his stance, breathing heavily, throwing the heart inside his mouth.
Nearby samurai, beasts and rebels resume their duels, blood continues to spill, and the black-stained ice beneath them deepens in colour.
Within minutes, the sun begins to dip beyond the horizon, casting long shadows over the frozen battlefield.
The snowfall, which had been gentle flakes throughout the afternoon, thickens into sheets.
Visibility drops, breaths turn white, and the cold turns sharp.
Then, a shrill cry echoes from above as one of the Storm Eagles finally opens its beak.
A cry not of attack, but command.
From the north, rebel horns blast across the ice, long and low, signalling retreat.
From the south, war drums thunder from the royal camp, heavy and fast, drowning all remaining sounds.
Almost simultaneously, the three armies begin to withdraw.
No orders shouted, no cries of victory or sorrow—only the silent acceptance that this day's battle has ended.
The wounded are dragged or carried, the dead left behind to be claimed by frost.
The Dark Lizard walks alone, back toward the beast ranks, his steps slow but certain.
Merin, still perched above, watches as the great war pauses under falling snow.
The lake, now covered in crimson ice, sleeps beneath the storm.