Apostles Fury

In the desolate and grim wasteland of Eldorin, the air carried the acrid stench of burnt flesh. Scattered across the battlefield were the bodies of Scavengers, their lifeless forms pierced by spears, some obliterated by spells, and others heaped in piles drenched in the blood of thousands.

Among them lay the countless corpses of Apostle Rankers. It was clear—a devastating war had taken place.

On a cliff overlooking the battlefield, rows of tents marked the encampment of warriors, each bearing the proud banner of the Holy Church of the Avalon Empire. The air buzzed with the murmurs of wounded soldiers and the clattering of armor and shields, until a deep, gruff voice cut through the noise.

"Round up!"

A lone, muscular old man clad in battle-worn golden armor with a cross emblazoned on his chest plate bellowed the command. His graying, withered hair fluttered briefly in the ominous wind, revealing a scarred eye that spoke of countless battles.

"Warriors, Beastmasters, Body Enhancers, Assassin's —prepare to take front-line formations! Priests, Mages, Rangers, Bards—ready yourselves to assist!"

His commanding voice, though gruff, captured the attention of the Apostle Rankers. Clearing his throat, he continued.

"In a few hours, another wave of Mystic-level Scavengers will rise. Until the true threat appears, we cannot falter! Remember—this is not just for ourselves but for our children, our wives, our fallen comrades, and our empire. By the blessings of the Divine Gods, we will prevail!"

His words bolstered the soldiers' morale, spurring them into action. Healers ceased their operations, and the troops assembled into their respective formations. Thousands of warriors lined up, their golden armor gleaming under the harsh daylight.

Mages and ranged fighters took their positions, preparing spells and enchantments to support their allies. Assassins and Beastmasters stood ready, summoning their ferocious beasts for the coming battle.

"Good!"

The old man declared, pounding his chest in a gesture of respect before turning toward a solitary tent.

"Greetings, Lords! We are ready!"

Inside the dimly lit tent, the atmosphere was heavy with tension, as though the war outside had already seeped into the very air. Around a sturdy wooden table sat three individuals.

At the forefront was Lancelot, clad in golden armor that gleamed faintly in the flickering lantern light, his posture radiated readiness for battle. Across from him sat the Pope of the Holy Church, a gray-haired elder draped in a pristine white robe that shimmered faintly with divine energy.

At the far end of the table was Kaedryn, his head resting on clasped hands as he leaned over the table, deep in thought.

"Pope..."

Lancelot began, his voice tinged with skepticism and concern.

"You're saying we're being attacked by the Demon Empires? And you believe this is the work of a Heretic Ranker who's mastered the forbidden art of controlling Scavengers instead of beasts?"

The Pope gave a small nod, adjusting his collar as he spoke.

"We've been attacked multiple times by these Heretic Rankers. Thanks to our Saints, we've managed to fend them off, but let's not delude ourselves—that success was only because the Fiend Lords did not intervene. You remember the war between the Temple and the Shrine. Had a Fiend Lord been present, we might not have survived."

The tension in the tent thickened, like the air itself was ablaze. The mere mention of Heretic Rankers caused Kaedryn's skin to tighten, but what truly made his blood boil was the mention of the Fiend Lords.

A flashback surged through Kaedryn's mind, dragging him back fifty years to the last war between the Heretic Rankers and Apostle Rankers.

'I'll never forget that day... He was powerful—too powerful. The Second Fiend Lord led the Demonic Empires alone against three Saints of the Temple. And still, we lost... bitterly.'

The memory haunted him, its bitterness was evident in his clenched jaw and furrowed brow. Lancelot, noticing his companion's distraction, cleared his throat deliberately to bring him back to the present.

The room fell silent as all eyes turned to Kaedryn. Letting out a long sigh, he finally broke the silence.

"I agree with the Holy father... Pope"

Kaedryn said, his tone heavy.

"This could very well be the work of a Fiend Lord. And the only Fiend Lord I know who's of the Beastmaster Class is... the third Fiend Lord of Plague and darkness...Belial, a priest of the Demon God Thyraxos."

For centuries, the Apostle Rankers and Heretic Rankers had been at each other's throats. Apostle Rankers, followers of strict codes of righteousness and holiness, worshiped the Divine Gods. Their unwavering faith and adherence to the path of virtue made them mortal enemies of their dark counterparts—the Heretic Rankers.

Heretics, in stark contrast, followed no moral code. Ruthless and unrelenting, they sought power at any cost, even if it meant the destruction of entire civilizations. These worshipers of the Demon Gods were the eternal foes of the Apostles in the land of Aeons.

Among both factions, a select few were chosen by the deities they served. Apostles blessed by a Divine God ascended to a higher plane, receiving divine holy assistance and becoming Saint Lords—the pinnacle of their path to righteousness. With six Divine Gods, there could only ever be six Saint Lords at a time.

Heretics chosen by Demon Gods, however, were granted corrupted and unholy blessings, rising to become Fiend Lords. These six catastrophic Rankers wielded unmatched strength, making them far deadlier than their counterparts.

Breaking the silence, the Pope turned his gaze to Kaedryn.

"So, what is the plan, Flame Saint? You are the only one at the Imperium Rank, and a two-star at that. With the other House Patriarchs at your side, what are our chances of victory? Hundreds of Apostles have already fallen... and the battle has barely begun."

The Pope's words echoed in Kaedryn's mind, pushing him to the edge of his resolve. His dragon-like eyes ignited, flickering with the raw intensity of a blazing furnace.

"I will end this war myself Holy Father..."

Kaedryn growled, his voice low but resolute.

"As the third Saint Lord, I will do whatever it takes. If my strength as a warrior isn't enough, if my cultivation rank isn't enough…"

He rose from his chair, the weight of his armor barely hindering his movements. The heavy silver plates, adorned with a gleaming cross on the chest, caught the dim light. A long white robe trailed behind him, capped with fur at the collar. With deliberate strides, he began moving toward the tent's exit.

"…then I'll use my trinkets—all of them—even if it destroys me. The Church will prevail. Avalon must be saved."

The resolute words stirred something within Lancelot. Rising to his feet, he gripped the legendary weapon of the Pen Dragon lineage—the blade passed down through generations from King Arthur himself.

The Excalibur.

"We'll fight beside you, Kay"

Lancelot said, his voice steady with both admiration and concern.

"Don't forget—even as a Saint Lord, you're not alone. How could I ever face Elyssia and Zal if something happened to you?"

Kaedryn paused at the threshold of the tent, one hand brushing the heavy fabric aside to let in the unforgiving rays of the sun. He glanced over his shoulder, offering Lancelot a rare, grateful smirk.

"Thank you, my old friend."

Outside, the soldiers stood in sea of disciplined formations, awaiting orders. The ground beneath them quaked violently, as if echoing the approach of the enemy.

In the distance, over kilometers of wasteland, the next wave of Scavengers surged forward like a monstrous tide. Yet, even as their grotesque forms grew closer, the true mastermind remained hidden, biding its time.

"Prepare yourselves!"

Kaedryn's voice thundered across the ranks.

"The light of the Divine Gods is upon us!"

From the tent emerged three figures. Their very presence on the battlefield stilled the air and sparked an almost uncontrollable surge of hope among the soldiers.

Kaedryn led the trio, his steps leaving scorched magma prints on the ground, heat radiating off him like an inferno barely contained.

To his right was Lancelot, blue eyes crackling with electric energy, his armor humming with barely suppressed power. On the left walked the Pope, his holy staff emanated an aura that banished fear and doubt, replacing them with courage and resolve.

"Rise"

Kaedryn's voice echoed with command though his gaze was set at the far ends and kilometers of the boarders. As a two-star Imperium Rank Master, Kaedryn's heightened senses allowed him to see far beyond what normal eyes could perceive. Across the barren wasteland, the ravenous horde of Scavengers became visible—a grotesque army rushing toward the empire.

"Mystic-level Scavengers"

He muttered, his tone laced with frustration.

'Still no sign of the main threat. Which Fiend Lord is behind this? …is it really you Belial?'

The war drums began to thunder, and the soldiers braced themselves. The Patriarchs of the Empire took their positions at the frontlines, each leading their respective ranks.

Kaedryn and Lancelot held the center of the formation, while the Pope remained at the rear as a six-star Elite Rank Cleric, prepared to shield and support his allies.

The atmosphere was thick with tension when, suddenly, the sky above ripped apart. A streak of energy pierced the clouds, descending at an inhuman speed. It slammed into the ground with devastating force, sending smoke and debris billowing into the air.

When the dust settled, a figure knelt before Kaedryn. He wore dragon-like armor, a white cape draped over his shoulders, and his short brown hair was disheveled from panic.

"Greetings, my lord"

The man said hastily, his voice trembling.

"This is an emergency."

He unfurled a scroll bearing the Emperor's seal and handed it to Kaedryn. Taking it without hesitation, Kaedryn's eyes scanned the contents quickly. Two lines were all it took to drain the calm from his face. His grip on the scroll tightened, the paper nearly crumpling in his fist.

Lancelot immediately sensed the shift in Kaedryn's demeanor. The Flame Saint's composure twisted into a storm of fury. His body radiated unbearable heat, forcing everyone around him to take a cautious step back.

His fiery eyes blazed with unrestrained anger as waves of mantra energy erupted from his form.

Through gritted teeth, a single name tore from his lips in a guttural, smoky growl:

"Cecilia!"