The golden radiance descended upon the generals atop the white wall, revealing an old man draped in regal purple robes. His presence commanded immediate attention, and the air grew heavier with his arrival. This was His Holiness Jerom, the Pope of the Goddess Church, the highest religious authority in the Azarin Empire, and a High Champion Priest capable of wielding Divine Force.
As Jerom’s feet touched the wall, all the generals bowed low, their expressions a mix of deference and wariness. Respect for the Pope was ingrained in the fabric of the empire, but beneath the surface, a flicker of annoyance simmered in their eyes. The Church of Glory, despite its undeniable power and influence, was a source of frustration for the military leaders.
From the inception of the empire, Jerom had used his authority to pluck the most talented and promising soldiers from the military ranks, inducting them into the Church of Glory to become Paladins or Clerics. While these individuals grew more powerful within the church, they also cut all connections with the military.
It was a point of contention that none of the generals dared to voice, knowing that to offend the High Champion Priest was to risk everything. After all, while the Pope of the Church of Glory resembled a kind old man, he was a petty individual who could not accept any form of criticism.
Jerom, however, seemed oblivious to their silent discontent—or perhaps he simply did not care. As he reached the top of the thirty-meter-tall wall, his first action was not to assess the enemy forces but to rebuke the soldiers standing before him.
"Incompetents," Jerom intoned, his voice dripping with disdain and carrying the might of his energy pool, making the general grow pale. "You have allowed the enemy to besiege the capital of our glorious empire. This is a disgrace, a failure of duty that will not be easily forgiven."
His words cut through the air like a knife, and the generals could only bow their heads in silent acknowledgment. Jerom continued, his tirade lasting several minutes as he chastised them for their perceived failures. There was an army approaching, but it seemed that rebuking the general was more important for the Pope.
Finally, as if sensing the need to temper his harshness, Jerom softened his expression into one of magnanimity. "But fear not," he declared, his voice now carrying a tone of assured benevolence. "For I am here now, and with the grace of Goddess Lucia, all will be well. The light of the Goddess will guide us to victory, and these heathens shall be cast down."
The generals, despite their inner turmoil, murmured their agreement, though the forced nature of their words did not escape Jerom’s notice. He paid it no mind, however, as he turned his gaze outward, toward the enemy forces that surrounded the capital. His confidence was absolute as he believed himself an avatar from God that mortals could not defy.
But as his eyes swept across the horizon, taking in the massive dust clouds to the east and the approaching forces from the west, something unexpected happened. His gaze shifted to the south, where a smaller, more concentrated group advanced.
Jerom’s confident demeanor faltered. His eyes widened in shock, a flicker of horror flashing across his face. The generals, who had been watching him closely, noted the change immediately.
"How...?" Jerom whispered, though his voice was barely audible. His gaze was fixed on the southern group, more specifically on the young man leading them.
The generals, curious and alarmed by Jerom’s uncharacteristic response, followed his gaze. It was not hard to see that the Pope was focusing on the man who led the smallest group, but while he was imposing, they did not understand the reason for Jerom’s dread.
How could those generals know that the young man was the same person who had appeared in Jerom’s nightmares for weeks? The old man could still not forget how he had arrived at Strong Hammer Military Base full of confidence, only for that same young man to butcher all his forces and force him to flee in fear.
Jerom stumbled back a step, his previous confidence shattered. "No... it cannot be," he muttered, his voice trembling with fear. He remembered the wounds that the man had sustained, injuries that could have crippled anyone for life, yet he had reappeared less than a year later, stronger than before.
The generals exchanged worried glances. If Jerom, the most powerful figure in the empire, was shaken by the sight of this young man, then the threat they faced was far greater than any of them had anticipated.
Despite the immense distance, Vlad sensed the presence of the Pope of the Church of Glory. His eyes burned with monstrous wrath and killing intent so intense that the air around him grew colder as if the atmosphere itself was recoiling from his rage. The memory of his first clash with the man, and the tragic death of Cazan, surged to the forefront of his mind, stoking the fire of his anger. But Vlad was a Depravita; his very nature was to dominate his emotions, not let them dominate him. He channeled that intense fury into a cold, calculating focus, keeping his composure as he led his forces toward the capital.
As they advanced to within three hundred meters of the imposing white walls of Radiance City, Vlad raised a hand, signaling his soldiers to halt. The Royal Guards and the rest of the forces began to unpack their gear and form a camp. The same actions were mirrored by the Golden Wave Legion and the Shadowstrike Legion, and the soldiers smiled as they were finally able to rest.
Each legion had advanced with shocking speed toward the capital. Their rapid approach had been achieved by breaking the army into smaller, more agile groups, each soldier carrying several weeks’ worth of provisions.
Dividing an army into smaller units and having them advance separately was a risky tactic. It exposed them to the possibility of getting lost, ambushed, or isolated. However, with Overlord’s guidance, the danger was mitigated, and the soldiers regrouped seamlessly, forming a unified force right at the doorstep of the Azarin Empire’s capital.
Back on the city’s walls, Jerom watched in mounting horror as the forces of the Xaos Kingdom stood so close, almost within striking distance. The memory of the young man—the same one now leading this terrifying army—unleashing a beam of energy that had sundered a military base in half resurfaced in his mind. The fear and panic from that day washed over him, clouding his judgment.
"Channel the full power of the walls into the south! Blast them to pieces!" Jerom shouted, his voice tinged with desperation. His command was rash, driven by fear rather than strategic thought.
Richard quickly interjected, his voice calm but firm. "Your Holiness, that won’t work. They are still too far away for the city’s defenses to reach them effectively."
Jerom’s panic only deepened with the realization that his initial plan wouldn’t work. The sight of the enemy so close, yet out of reach, was maddening. Driven by an urgent need to act, he issued another command, this time even more reckless.
"Send the soldiers out of the city! We must attack them now before they get any closer!"
The generals exchanged glances, their expressions a mixture of dismay and concern. Sending troops out of the fortified city to engage an enemy of this magnitude was tantamount to suicide. The walls of the capital were their greatest defense, and abandoning them to meet the enemy on the open ground was a strategy they all knew would end in disaster.
"Your Holiness, with all due respect, we must hold the walls," General Kallos said carefully, trying to temper Jerom’s panic with reason. "Our best chance is to force them to attack us here, where we have the advantage."
But Jerom was beyond reasoning, his fear overwhelming his usual prudence. "Do as I say!" he bellowed, his voice trembling with the weight of his terror. The generals hesitated, torn between their duty to follow orders and their knowledge that those orders would lead to a slaughter.
Amid this tension, Vlad observed the city from his position, his sharp eyes taking in the movement along the walls. He could sense the panic and confusion radiating from the city’s defenders.
Vlad allowed himself a small, cold smile. The psychological advantage shifted in his favor, but did not dare to be reckless. For now, he focused on the task at hand, ensuring that his forces were well-prepared for the coming assault.
The forces of the Xaos Kingdom moved with methodical precision, setting up their encampment just out of reach of the city’s defenses, like a predator waiting patiently for the right moment to strike. Every single military move was being monitored by Overlord, granting the soldiers a sense of confidence, as they knew that the ancient entity never made