CHAPTER 65.

Chapter 65: The Blade That Burns the Sky

The skies ignited.

The moment Jean's vow echoed across the battlefield, the world moved.

From the shattered gates of the Luther Citadel, the Envoy Knights charged—the pride of the Luther Clan, each a Transcendent Master, cloaked in silver and crimson. Their auras gleamed like stars fallen to earth. They marched with perfect discipline, blades humming with death, faces calm as they strode toward the coming storm.

Leading them was Commander Aedan Voss, his greatsword slung across his back, eyes glowing with pale light.

> "For the blood we've lost," he whispered, "and the future she leads."

> "For the Emissary!"

They surged forward.

At the opposite end, a gate opened beneath a rising storm of arcane energy.

The Sages of the Magistery stepped through—floating above the ground, surrounded by constellations of glowing runes. Robes of indigo and gold rippled like banners in the wind. With them, spell-forged colossi lumbered in perfect sync, and at their center was Archsage Thaeron, once thought lost to age, now returned for this one final war.

> "All magic bends," he intoned, "before the will of survival."

Beside him, Ryan Magus stood silent, flames coiling around his hands like serpents.

And above them, Erin Magus hovered—her presence alone a shield against chaos.

Together, the Luther Clan and the Magistery marched toward the same enemy—for the first time in a thousand years.

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But they were not alone.

The Iron Empire unfurled their banners, red and black against the smoke-wracked sky.

Valeria Durnstahl, Iron Empress, led her imperial phalanx—armored titans marching in rigid lines, wielding halberds too heavy for normal men. Her dukes rode massive warbeasts, the ground quaking beneath their charge.

> "No dragon lives beyond this dawn," she roared. "By iron and oath—we kill them all!"

The Shadow Guild emerged from every broken crevice, every crater, every cloud of ash. Assassins with poisoned blades. Sharpshooters with whisper-bows. Warlocks with cursed flames.

Vaelros the Hollow walked through smoke like a ghost. Where he passed, dragons died without screams.

Even the Argon Sovereignty, sworn to neutrality, marched.

High Priests and Lightbearers formed a sacred shield wall, their chants forming a dome of divine resistance. They had refused war for centuries—but not now. Not against this.

> "We walk no longer in silence," said High Oracle Nemaiah, her staff held high. "We walk with Her."

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And at the center of it all: Jean Luther.

The Emissary of Light.

Her sword burned with Celeste's judgment. Whitney stood beside her, fur ablaze with the goddess's wrath.

As the elite of the world converged behind her, she stepped forward—one step, then another—toward Antares, whose wings now blotted the stars.

The Dragon Lord watched. Waited.

For the first time, he did not speak.

And then—he dove.

The sky ruptured.

Jean leapt to meet him.

And the final war—the Dragon War—began in truth.

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