The Battlefield

Acheron stood alone in the dimly lit room, the flickering candlelight casting restless shadows along the walls. 

Before him stood a massive chalkboard. Hundreds of formulas sprawled across its surface, numbers bleeding into one another, forming a near-incomprehensible web of calculations. The limited space forced him into a repetitive pattern—pacing back and forth, his boots tapping a rhythmic beat against the stone floor. 

Then, the door creaked open.

It was Stegertath. 

"Acheron."

The man snapped from his trance as Stegertath came closer, though he did not look at him. His pacing stopped.

"There is going to be a war in the Sunbolt Mountains," Stegertath informed.

Acheron sighed. It was long, drawn out, irritated. Without even turning, he waved Stegertath off as though swatting at a buzzing insect.

"Whatever," he muttered, voice laced with disinterest. "Ophelia is going to win anyway. Now, please do not interrupt me again."

Stegertath's expression twisted into annoyance. His gaze darkened as he took another step forward, forcing Acheron to acknowledge him properly.

"She is facing the two strongest men in those mountains, on top of their armies," Stegertath said sharply. "It may be a three-way battle, but who's to say they won't team up at the last second? I need her to complete her mission of obtaining that artifact before she goes and gets herself killed."

Silence fell between them.

Acheron finally turned, standing in front of the chalkboard. He set his chalk down on the resting pad at the very bottom of the board, then took a step back, hands clasped behind his back. His head tilted slightly as if admiring his own masterpiece—a masterpiece of raw numbers and unbreakable logic.

Stegertath's eyes followed him, his own curiosity getting the better of his frustration. He watched as Acheron simply stared at his work, deep in thought.

And then, without hesitation, Acheron reached for an eraser and wiped everything away.

Stegertath's brow furrowed. "What are you—"

Acheron took another step back, arms folding across his chest. He examined the blank board before him, eyes hidden beneath his runic blindfold.

Then, he spoke.

"Do you like mathematics?"

Stegertath blinked, thrown off by the sudden question. "What?" His expression turned from irritated to genuinely confused for a fleeting moment. "I... guess?" Then, just as quickly, his expression returned to irritation. "Anyways, what does this have to do with Ophelia's current situation?"

Ignoring the question, Acheron reached for a new piece of chalk. With precise strokes, he began writing.

From the very top left of the board to the very bottom, a singular number took form, stretching down like the spine of some great beast. As he wrote, he muttered to himself, his voice a near whisper.

Stegertath watched in silence, something unsettling creeping into his gut. And then, his eyes narrowed.

"This is... the Aubessecian Constant, is it not?"

Acheron frowned.

"Acheronian Constant," he corrected.

Stegertath scoffed. "Yeah, whatever… Anyway, it's different from before. Is it because of this undetermined aspect you kept talking about?"

Acheron nodded. "Correct."

There was an eerie certainty in his voice as if what he spoke was fact rather than theory.

"There are many constants in this world," he continued, still scrawling numbers across the board. "Pi. The Golden Ratio. Runes. But do you know what they all have in common?"

He turned his head slightly, just enough for Stegertath to feel the weight of his unseen gaze.

"The fact that they exist."

Stegertath's frown deepened. He crossed his arms. "Stop playing word games and get to the point."

Acheron's grin widened.

"The Acheronian Constant, formerly known as the Aubessecian Constant, is a constant that is constantly changing."

Stegertath's eyes narrowed. "That makes no sense. The reason it is deemed a constant is because it doesn't change. Breaking that law would make it less constant. It is a contradiction in it of itself."

"Oh, and it is. It absolutely is a contradiction. " Acheron stepped back, admiring the long, uninterrupted number he had written. "It is such an advanced concept that it literally can determine everything in existence."

Stegertath's jaw tightened.

"With just this constant," Acheron continued, "you can calculate anything. Immortality. Eternal youth. Invincibility." He paused, tilting his head as if relishing the weight of his own words.

"Essentially… you become a god."

Stegertath's mouth parted slightly. He processed that statement, the sheer magnitude of it pressing down on his thoughts like an unmovable force.

A long silence followed.

Then, finally, he asked the only question that mattered.

"…So what does this have to do with Ophelia's situation?"

Acheron's grin slowly faded. His face grew eerily cold, his expression unreadable as he turned toward Stegertath once more.

The dim candlelight flickered over the intricate runes on his blindfold, casting strange shadows across his face. 

"Do you really think," he said, voice low, "that someone who discovered such an incredibly groundbreaking truth would ever lose to something as trivial as mere bandits?"

Stegertath didn't answer.

There was no correlation between those two, yet… Stegertath knew he was right. 

…

The morning was bitterly cold. The kind of cold that seeped into your bones and refused to let go.

Ophelia's caravan and the Gloomtaur camp were finally awake, figures wrapped in thick cloaks packing up their belongings. Steam rose from the last remnants of a quick breakfast, vanishing into the heavy gray sky above. The dawn had barely broken, its weak light struggling against the oppressive blanket of clouds above.

Winter was coming.

The last remnants of fall were clinging to the earth in dying embers of red and orange, but soon, the first snowfall would smother them. The mountains loomed in the distance, their jagged peaks dusted with ice, a warning of the frost yet to come.

Among the stir, Ophelia stood beside her cart in a thick black cloak. The moment the final preparations were nearing completion, she called out to a single Gloomtaur. 

"Mabbel."

The woman did not hesitate. She hurried to the cart, following Ophelia, stepping inside and immediately tensed.

There, sitting on a cushioned couch like an Empress on her throne, was Ophelia.

And she was smiling.

Not just any smile—a wide, almost demonic grin. The kind of expression that sent a chill far deeper than the cold ever could. The flickering lantern inside the cart cast dark shadows over her features, her silver eyes glinting with something unreadable.

Mabbel shivered.

She knew Ophelia was dangerous. She had always known. But this… this was something else.

Still, she swallowed her nerves, straightened her posture, and said, "You called, My Lady?"

Ophelia's grin faded, her expression settling into something cold and unreadable.

"You have been in these mountains for a while," she said. "Surely, you know the powers of each Bandit King, correct?"

Mabbel felt her throat tighten. A large drop of saliva slid down her throat as she forced herself to answer.

"U—Unfortunately, I don't," she admitted, her voice steadier than she expected. "I just know the basics. The Chained Droplet King uses some kind of magnetism on top of a longsword, while the Grumbehold King wields a gargantuan greatsword."

Ophelia's gaze lowered to her lap. Her fingers gently traced over the fabric of her sleeve, as if lost in thought. And then, she spoke with absolute certainty.

"In this upcoming battle… your people will die."

Mabbel's teeth clenched. She almost frowned, almost let the weight of those words press down on her—but she didn't. Instead, she forced her breath to remain steady.

"I understand…" she said, her voice firm despite the turmoil twisting in her chest. "But, I also can't run." Her hands curled into fists at her sides, knuckles going white. "And to be honest… I wouldn't have run anyways."

She lifted her chin.

"You have created an opportunity. An opportunity to not only enact revenge but also to rise to the pinnacle of this mountain range."

The cart fell into silence.

Ophelia studied her, her expression unreadable. Then, ever so slightly, the corner of her lips curved upward once more.

Not a grin. Not amusement.

Just satisfaction.

"Trust me. If we win this… you will have much more than just these mountains to rule over."

The afternoon was grim.

The first delicate flakes of snow drifted from the sky, spinning lazily in the frigid air before settling onto the open prairie. The once-green grass was now frostbitten and pale, dusted with a thin layer of white.

And yet, no one marveled at the beauty of winter's arrival.

Tension hung in the air like a blade at their throats. Every step forward was heavy, every breath taken was shallow. The Holy Knights and Gloomtaurs alike gripped their weapons tighter than ever before, their eyes scanning the field as they pushed through the last remnants of the tree line.

Beyond the tree line, the battlefield stretched wide and open—a snow-dusted prairie where blood would soon stain the white powder.

To their right, they saw them.

An army of two hundred bandits stood in formation, clad in metal armor, their weapons glinting beneath the overcast sky. But it was not their numbers that sent waves of unease rippling through Ophelia's forces.

It was the man at their helm.

A gargantuan dark elf, his towering form wrapped in jagged black armor, stood unmoving, exuding an aura of sheer domination. His long black hair fell loosely over his pauldrons, framing a lightly scarred face. His dark green eyes darkened with malice upon seeing Ophelia's forces emerge.

He was waiting for them.

Ophelia's gaze flickered to the left side of the field—empty.

A smirk played at her lips.

'They have yet to arrive… this is perfect.'

Then, in an instant—a single man strode forward.

Edwin.

He moved through the ranks of Gloomtaurs and Holy Knights as if they were mere specters, their presence unworthy of his notice. A longsword in one hand, a shield in the other, he reached the front of the army and unleashed his lion mantle.

The golden lion that had once clung lifelessly to his back… was alive.

It roared, claws sinking into his metal pauldrons, a beast of pure holy power. Its mane flowed with golden energy, each strand of its spectral fur crackling like divine fire.

And then, six more warriors erupted with holy power.

The battlefield shimmered, the radiant glow of their divine essence illuminating the cold, gray world.

But all of it—every last ember of holy brilliance—paled in comparison to what followed.

From the backlines, a single figure stepped forward.

A woman.

Ophelia.

The moment her foot touched the snow-dusted earth, a deathly gray aura exploded outward that nobody but the strongest could bear witness to.

The Gloomtaurs instinctively parted.

Their hatred vanished, replaced by absolute submission, upon the invisible force clinging to Ophelia. And even the dark-elven Bandit King, with all his arrogance, could not see it.

But it was there.

A cape of death clung to Ophelia's shoulders, its ethereal fabric stretching toward the sky, twisting and writhing like living smoke.

And within it—millions of screaming souls.

They wailed, cursed, and clawed, desperate to tear her apart, yet they could not.

Ophelia simply strode forward, unfazed.

She stopped beside Edwin.

He turned, gazed upon her presence—and immediately kneeled.

A moment later, the entire army followed.

Even the Gloomtaurs.

A force that had relinquished the idea of submission… now bowed.

Not out of loyalty.

Not out of faith.

But out of fear.

Ophelia's smile was wide—too wide. It sent a chill far deeper than the icy wind ever could.

She faced forward, and silently, her army rose to their feet.

Across the field, the Bandit King sneered.

With a slow, large motion, he reached for the longsword on his back. The steel groaned as he unsheathed it, the blackened blade gleaming in the dull light.

He raised it high.

And at that moment, Ophelia muttered under her breath, her voice soft, yet absolute.

"As your apostle of light and greatness, I wield the [Supreme Command]."

The effect was instant.

The entire army behind her detonated in a golden explosion.

A radiant surge of divine power burst forth, engulfing every soldier in blinding light.

And then—their bodies froze.

Their minds worked, but their bodies no longer obeyed.

They had lost all autonomy.

Every single warrior, bound by her will.

Across the field, the Bandit King's eyes widened—just for a moment.

Then, his sneer returned.

He swung his sword downward, his voice thundering across the battlefield.

"CHARGEEEEEEE!"