Chapter 203: An Unstoppable Current
Night still clung to the watchtower of the outpost. Morning fog drifted down along the forest's edge, blurring the boundary between earth and sky.
A sentry frowned, one hand resting on the watchtower railing.
From somewhere far off, something stirred.
At first, there was only fog—but then came sound. Hoofbeats drumming against the earth, human footsteps rolling in at a steady rhythm. The clang of metal on metal, and beneath it all, a low, resonant hymn.
"……Have they finally arrived?"
A fellow soldier murmured. Even the one who'd spoken had no certainty.
And then, the fog split open, and the colors of humanity bled through. Not one. Not a line—even calling it a formation felt insufficient.
It was a front. Banners of different colors, crests, and textures blanketed the plain and stretched on without end. The moment the sentry rang the bell, the entire camp jolted awake.
Marik stepped out from his tent and swallowed a breath.
"All of that…… Is the reinforcement?"
The Mountain Rabbits offered only silence in reply. Everyone was too busy carving the sight before them into memory. Instinctively, they all knew—this was a scene they would never see again.
Volga let out a short, dry laugh.
"Well, I lived long enough to see something like this."
He shrugged.
"First time our side's got the bigger numbers. Guess there's no excuse to run anymore."
By then, the forms of the reinforcing forces had grown sharper.
First to enter view were heavily armored soldiers, moving in formation—their silver shields catching the light and shifting as one solid wall.
"Niboria."
Romance said.
Behind them came a group dressed in white and gold. Though armored, their hymn never ceased. Low, steady notes. Prayer had become the rhythm of their march.
"The Elvra Holy Knights."
Along the forest's left edge, the fog itself seemed to move. Few in number, yet their count proved difficult to gauge. There was no sound of footsteps. Through the leaves, a sharpness peculiar to the mountains grazed the skin.
The Viale elite.
Last to arrive were Latia's reinforcements. Mismatched equipment. Almost no two soldiers wore the same armor, and their weapons were just as varied. Yet their eyes were the same. Weathered, lean gazes—belonging to those who had crossed the sea.
The silence did not last long.
Someone asked, carefully.
"……What about movement from the desert side?"
No one answered.
Romance unconsciously turned to look west—then stopped himself. Everyone already knew. It was too soon to expect anything.
And so, tens of thousands of footsteps bore down upon the earth.
The outpost had not been ready to receive such a sound. And yet, it had no power to refuse that request.
The fog lifted.
Beyond the trees, a continent was converging.
***
At the center of the outpost, beneath a thick canvas tent, the champions of each nation had already gathered. Yet to call it a council would have been a stretch.
Those who had arrived from across the land occupied the same space, but not the same ground. Some leaned against the walls; others kept their distance across the table. When eyes met, they turned away just as quickly, and brief exchanges died before they could grow.
There was still no center.
Sevi Belgrado, the Master of Niboria, stood with his back against a tent pole, arms folded. The cloak bearing the alliance insignia grazed the floor. He met no one's gaze—yet somehow watched everyone at once.
Sier Lagrin of Elvra stood at the deepest end of the meeting space, facing the direction of the palisade gate. His lips were sealed, and his hands kept beginning and abandoning the sign of prayer. He seemed to be searching for Ella—but the Mountain Rabbits' key members were nowhere to be seen.
Serin Abra of Viale had stepped back one pace from the table. He stood within the shadow, studying the faces of those around him. His presence was faint, but his awareness was sharp.
Arankell, the young captain from Latia, sat at one end of the table. He picked up and set down a Gardia-style dagger over and over, running a thumb along the flat of the blade. A sailor's habit.
And then.
After a long silence, someone asked in a low voice.
"So…… Where is he?"
They were looking for Calix, but no answer came. The weight his name carried made the air inside the tent stiffen in an equally uncomfortable way.
At that moment, a commotion broke out outside.
Heavy boots striking dirt, the scrape of a stretcher being dragged, the huff of a horse shaking its head—sounds tangled together and bled in.
Then came a short shout.
"Is this the place!"
The tent entrance was thrown open, and with it came the smell of blood.
"Good to see you, comrades!"
Gregor, the veteran mercenary, was the first face to appear. He spoke without hesitation, as if greeting old friends.
But every eye was drawn to the man who stepped in behind him.
Dried red stains across his armor, a scabbard frayed along the edges. His breathing was steady—but that he had come straight from the front could not be hidden.
It was Calix.
The moment he appeared, all sound in the meeting hall cut out.
Regardless of rank or strength, every person drew a breath and straightened. Sevi Belgrado narrowed his eyes, then curved his mouth into a smile that carried no clear meaning.
Sier Lagrin instinctively lowered his head.
Serin Abra took one step back on instinct.
Arankell, the captain representing Latia, glanced around uncertainly and set the dagger aside.
Calix's gaze swept once around the room. Just that.
"Sorry to have kept you waiting."
One calm sentence.
He had been sweeping across multiple points on the front before any of them arrived—yet he offered nothing more. No explanation, no excuse.
He was not someone who reported. He had been the one driving this vast war forward, and now he had simply returned to his place.
When he finished speaking, movement followed naturally. Sevi walked toward the table. Sier took a position at the front of the meeting space. Serin stepped out from the shadow and into the lamplight. The Latia captain pulled out a chair and sat.
In an instant, the atmosphere of the meeting hall reoriented itself in a single direction.
Calix gave a short nod and spoke.
"Introductions can wait. Right now, we confirm only how far we move and how we do it."
At that, Serin, Viale's Master, asked.
"……And the desert—what do you intend to do about it?"
"They need a little more time."
A brief silence passed, but Calix did not look west. He had no need to check. He already knew that something was taking root in that direction.
***
The map spread across the center of the tent had not been drawn in a single day.
From the eastern defensive line all the way to the southeastern stretch connecting to Gardia. Red lines and black dots and hastily layered markings overlapped one another. Small notations covered the map throughout. Supply loss points, collapsed bases, day-long delay lines.
The representatives of each nation recognized those traces. This was no front line drawn from a desk. Before they had arrived, the Mountain Rabbits had not stopped moving.
They had held back the forces pressing in from the east, probed the south for information, and rebuilt lines that crumbled day by day. Messengers went and came without rest; exhausted horses died foaming at the mouth.
And all of that information—was now gathered here, on this map.
Sevi Belgrado looked down at the map in silence. His gaze moved along the lines.
"……Already solidified. They held remarkably well."
It was neither admiration nor provocation. It was closer to confirmation.
Calix neither nodded nor denied it. He simply placed his finger on the border between the eastern and southern lines.
"It isn't perfect, but it won't collapse anytime soon."
That answer was enough.
Only then did the representatives from each nation understand. Before this gathering, the war had already been shaped once—by his hands.
At that, Sevi fell into deep silence before opening his mouth.
"Niboria is ready. We'll put the Silver Shield Legion on the vanguard and take the front. The longer we delay, the more the enemy grows."
His tone was resolute. Royce gave a nod at that—but unexpectedly, a response came immediately from the Elvra side.
"I am opposed to acting separately."
It was Sier Lagrin. He met eyes with Ella, who had followed Calix in, then turned to face the gathered representatives.
"We must make active use of Divinity. If Sacred Ground can be reestablished, it may be possible to structure the entire battlefield around it."
Then Arankell of Latia raised a hand and cleared his throat.
"Ahem, what about moving along the coast? If the sea route is open, supply would be easier, and we could strike the flank as well. We'd be able to step outside the enemy's expectations."
Before those words had even finished, Serin Abra quietly pointed to the center of the map.
"The forest makes paths. Using the spirit's power, we can reduce movement time. In exchange, we'd have to split the troops into smaller units."
Each opinion was sound. Everyone was, in their own way, right.
And yet, all of them were different.
The air inside the tent began showing signs of falling back into disorder. Each approach, tangled with each person's own language, could not merge into a single picture.
It was then that Calix lightly rapped the table.
Every voice stopped at once.
"What we need right now—"
He spoke slowly.
"—Is not positioning on the battlefield, but preparing the best that we ourselves can produce."
Calix left the word ‘right now’ deliberately. He then drew a line on the map. It was not bold, nor sweeping. But there was no hesitation.
The vanguard was given to the Mountain Rabbits and Niboria; the center to Latia, Elvra, and Astria's supporting forces; the rear kept Viale as a separate detachment.
And on one side of the map, Kalahim's portion was left blank.
No one mentioned it. But eyes passed over that empty space. Without a word spoken, everyone felt it.
A force that had not yet arrived—but a variable that absolutely had to be drawn in.
"We move with this formation."
Calix declared, briefly. No objections were raised. Not because his words were perfect, as he himself had said—but because there was no alternative anyone could argue in place of it.
It was precisely then.
That the second bell rang from outside the tent.
Shortly after, the presence of someone drawing near was felt. Hoofbeats, ragged breath, the clatter of armor. Then the entrance opened.
A woman drenched in sweat and blood stepped inside.
It was Hadiya.
***
The atmosphere inside the tent had only just begun to settle.
The tent entrance was wrenched open. A woman entered, supported by a sentry. Her body tilted forward, and blood ran from where the shoulder of her armor had been torn away. Hadiya, whose skin was a deep tan, now wore a face drained of color.
Whatever had happened in the south, she barely managed to keep herself upright. Just drawing breath and pushing words out required a considerable length of time.
"……Scout report."
Hadiya's voice came out cracked.
"From the south…… The Corrupted Lord has begun to move personally."
That was the moment.
The entire outpost flinched.
A tremor spread as if something beneath the ground had shifted direction and passed through. Even with countless soldiers gathered in one place, a murmur of unease that could not be suppressed ran through them.
Calix walked straight out of the tent.
Beyond, the southern sky had warped—as if fractured with crimson cracks. Mana like black spores stained the sky, and a sound that was neither roar nor cry blurred and layered over itself.
Some swallowed their breath. Some gripped their weapons.
Calix said nothing.
The alliance had not yet been completed.
But the current of war no longer waited for them.