The golden light faded.
Silence fell like a veil over the battlefield.
The wind carried no cries, no clash of blades—only the faint hum of sacred energy slowly dissipating into the air, like the final breath of a vanishing god.
Where once stood a vast and terrible army blessed with divinity, ard with celestial steel, and trained by the will of Olympus, now, there was nothing.
Not even ash.
The very essence of the divine army had been obliterated, erased from reality by a single, world-shaking swing of Pluton, the Sword of Truth.
Only six figures remained.
Veron, at the center, knelt with one hand plunged into the earth, his armor fractured, the silver plating dimd to dull gray.
Divine blood—luminous and silver-gold—oozed from the cracks in his form.
Around him, the other five Divine Spirits groaned and struggled to rise, their radiant mantles torn, their once-proud forms bruised and bent.
Their pride had suffered more than their bodies.
From the other end of the battlefield, a sound broke the stillness.
It began as a whisper.
Then a cry.
Then a roar.
"KING HERIOS!"
"KING HERIOS!"
"KING HERIOS!"
The mortal soldiers of Herion, their armor glinting faintly in the dusk, raised their weapons and cheered with voices that trembled with disbelief and glory.
n wept.
Won scread in joy.
Veterans fell to their knees, clutching their hearts.
Sothing impossible had happened.
A man had defeated the divine.
A king had held back the heavens.
Just in that mont, the world changed.
Humanity have already touched the skies.
However, Herios did not join the cheers.
He remained where he stood, sword still planted in the ground, his body trembling with fatigue.
His cape billowed slightly in the soft breeze.
Blood dripped from his chin, showing how much the attack affected him. His eyes, though dim, still glowed with purpose.
His back—still firm.
Still proud.
Still unyielding.
Then, a scream of divine fury tore through the heavens.
"HERIOS!!!"
Veron rose.
His body was bathed in lightning—jagged bolts that cracked through the sky like branches of a dying tree.
The wind howled as his wrath took shape. Every fiber of his being surged with divine power—authority that had been gifted by Zeus himself.
"You dare!" he roared, his voice layered with thunder. "How dare a mortal raise a hand against the divine? This is blasphemy of the highest order! I will bring you judgnt!"
Lightning gathered in Veron’s hands, coiling into a massive spear ford from pure celestial wrath.
The very clouds twisted, darkened, and bled electric fury.
Herion’s soldiers gasped in horror. So fell back. Others raised shields in vain.
But Herios didn’t flinch.
Even as his knees trembled beneath him.
Even as his breath ca in shallow gasps.
His body moved before his thoughts. A final reservoir of strength answered his people’s fear.
He surged forward like a phantom of light.
And in a blink...
He stood before Veron, sword raised high.
Veron’s eyes widened.
Pluton ca crashing down.
The divine spirit twisted just in ti, narrowly dodging the strike.
Herios’ sword cleaved the air, splitting the ground in a chasm of burning gold. Veron skidded back, lightning flickering across his armor.
"NOW!" Veron shouted to the skies. "Aid , brothers! Kill him! KILL HIM NOW! AND DESTROY HERION!"
At once, three of the Divine Spirits grew wings and took to the skies, their wounds crackling with forced regeneration, fueled by borrowed divinity.
They descended upon Herios like falling stars, blades drawn, wings burning.
anwhile, the other two Divine Spirits, still staggering but seething with pride, turned their fury elsewhere.
Toward Herion’s army.
They flew like cots of wrath toward the mortal soldiers, determined to do what Veron’s army could not—annihilate the people behind the king.
Herion’s warriors raised their weapons, hearts filled with courage—but the glow in the distance promised annihilation.
"STAND FAST!" bellowed a certain knight, "STAND! FOR HERIOS!"
But no mortal had ever survived the full wrath of a Divine Spirit.
The two spirits hurtled toward the front line.
And Herios saw it.
In that mont, between battle cries, lightning storms, and the trembling earth, he turned.
Exhausted, nearly drained, he turned his gaze to his people.
His eyes widened.
His mouth opened, but no words ca.
They would be slaughtered.
And he couldn’t reach them in ti.
The three Divine Spirits had now surrounded him, swords raised, preparing to pierce his flanks and heart in unison.
Veron grinned behind them, ready to strike a final blow once Herios was distracted.
But still, Herios stood firm.
He would protect them.
Even now.
Even at the cost of his life.
His grip tightened on Pluton.
Golden sparks flared again.
His foot moved.
But—
Sothing else moved first.
A blur of silver iron that carved a line through the sky.
Kaerion.
The General of Herion had moved like a cot, his tattered red cloak fluttering violently in the wind.
His armor shone with light, and his eyes—those burning, storm-born eyes—glead with undying defiance.
He held no divine weapon. No armor blessed by gods. Only an iron spear, worn from countless battles that accompanied him since he could rember.
This fragile mortal, he charged, he bellowed a cry so fierce that it startled the heavens.
"TO , SONS OF HERION! THIS DAY IS OURS! BARE YOUR FANGS TO THE SKY! SHOW THEM THE GLORY AND STRENGTH THAT IS THE KINGDOM OF MAN!"
One of the Divine Spirits sneered. "You dare approach the divine with that twig of mortal iron?"
Kaerion didn’t reply.
He leapt.
A single leap, born of desperate will and unbreakable loyalty, and his spear slamd into the shoulder of the surprised descending spirit.
Sparks burst.
The attack did nothing, but it caused the divine spirit to pause for a mont.
The second Divine Spirit dove in retaliation, his blade streaking like moonlight.
Kaerion rolled beneath the slash, pivoted on one foot, and hurled his spear with a cry that echoed like a hymn.
The iron weapon spun like a teor—and struck.
The spirit’s wing clipped, his balance shattered mid-air.
Kaerion drew his backup short-sword and bared his teeth. "CO AT ! YOU DOGS OF HEAVENS!
Behind him, the stunned Herion soldiers blinked.
Then one cried out, "THE GENERAL STANDS!"
Another shouted, "FOR HERION!"
And then—a thousand soldiers roared as one.
They surged forward.
Steel t divinity.
Mortals, once trembling before the divine, now ran toward it with fire in their hearts.
What they lacked in celestial power, they made up for in raw will.
Shield walls locked.
Spears thrusted.
Arrows flew in defiance of fate.
Kaerion, still leading the charge, blocked a divine strike with his forearm.
His bone cracked, but he didn’t stop. He scread as he stabbed his short-sword into the spirit’s flank.
The Divine Spirit howled and kicked him away. He tumbled across the battlefield, bones rattled, coughing blood.
And then—he stood again.
Spitting out blood, he raised his voice once more.
"We bleed. We break. But we do not bow! THIS IS HUMANITY’S AGE! THIS IS THE WILL OF HERION!"
From the distance, Herios watched it all unfold.
He breathed—deeply, painfully—and a small smile touched his lips. His eyes, though strained with exhaustion, glead with gratitude.
"Kaerion..."
His hand rested on the hilt of Pluton, still warm with the faith of his people.
He turned back toward Veron and the three Divine Spirits flanking him.
Veron sneered. "Your army delays the inevitable. Even if they buy you ti, Herios, what hope have you? You’re alone now. You cannot win."
Herios raised his head.
"No," he said firmly. "I am never alone."
He took a step forward, dragging Pluton beside him. The blade glowed faintly again—softly, like a heartbeat syncing with the cries of his people.
"You believe divinity makes you untouchable. You think your blessings elevate you above us." His voice rang like a bell, clear and sharp. "But you’ve never understood. Our power doesn’t co from gods. It cos from each other. From our dreams. Our struggles. Our pain and joy."
Another step.
"You call this a war of mortals. You see it as beneath you. But this..."
He raised the blade high.
"...this is humanity at its peak."
The three Divine Spirits stepped forward, but Herios raised a single hand.
"Let show you what you failed to see."
He pointed to Kaerion, now engaged in a brutal clash with the spirits.
To the soldiers who fought even when their bones broke.
To the archers who fired arrows through divine fla.
To the wounded who still crawled just to throw a single stone.
"This... is the strength of a people who believe."
Veron scowled. "You speak of faith like it is a weapon."
Herios nodded. "It is. And right now, it is sharper than any blade the heavens have ever forged."
He took his stance once more.
And the sword of faith—Pluton—flared gold again, pulsing with the collective will of every soldier fighting below.
Even the Divine Spirits, for the briefest mont, hesitated.
Then—Herios moved.
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