A few days went by. During that time, the City of Portroi and the Revolutionary Army maintained an uneasy peace without a single clash.

Of course, for anyone other than the higher ranks of the two sides, that peace was fragile at best. Portroi had lost more than half its standing army because of Nekator, while the Revolutionary Army had marched hundreds of kilometers with enough momentum to fight at any moment. Friction between them was only natural.

The only reason things hadn’t already turned ugly was that there were five Masters stationed in Portroi. Each one alone was an asymmetrical force equal to an entire legion. Grania the Archmage was not at his best, but that didn’t change the fact that he was someone still immensely devastating in large-scale warfare.

Archmagi were terrifying during sieges, but where they were truly monstrous was in defense. Using castle walls and soldiers as shields, they could bombard attackers with large-scale strategic magic again and again until the besieging army broke.

“This is troublesome. Extremely troublesome,” mumbled Redmond, the viscount serving as strategist under Lyon’s private corps, the Vultures, as he stroked his beard. “According to plan, we were supposed to enter the Gateway City, let the troops rest, and reinforce its defenses until the second division arrived.”

“Nothing we can do about it, Viscount,” Gilbert said. “If we just had to deal with Master Grania, maybe—but four other Masters? No army could handle that. Even after our reinforcements arrive and we’re fully organized, we wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“It feels like we’re seeing every Master on the continent gathered in one place. I can’t tell if that’s good luck or bad,” Redmond grumbled.

“That would depend on how we decide to look at this situation,” Lyon joined, his words drawing everyone’s attention.

How could this possibly be good luck? They hadn’t managed to occupy their target, and now four unknown Masters were blocking their advance.

Lyon, however, didn’t take back what he’d said and continued. “They’re not our enemies yet. Once we achieve our goal of overthrowing the Mad Emperor in the capital, they’ll leave the Empire soon enough.”

“Your Highness, do you know these Masters?” Redmond asked.

“Yes, I do.”

At that, murmurs filled the Vultures’ war council. Becoming a Master was the result of a lifetime of talent, training, and luck. It was a glimmer of perfection born of genius and opportunity. Even counting across the entire continent, there were fewer than thirty. Yet four of them had suddenly appeared right in front of them.

Because none of them had ever fought in the old war, like the veterans Grania and Dayton, they failed to recognize even Adela among them.

“I can’t name them all, but I can confirm two,” Lyon said.

“Who are they, Your Highness?”

“Cardinal Adela and Saintess Elahan from the Holy Church.”

The room erupted as if lightning had struck.

“A Cardinal?!”

“T-the Saintess?!”

Even among the nobles, there were followers of the Church. A few devout ones instinctively clasped their hands, while others froze at the sheer weight of that revelation.

The Holy Church was a massive organization not bound by borders, one whose every movement reshaped the history of the continent. When it acted, the world took note. And the Saintess and Cardinal were its two greatest figures.

“In that case, there really is nothing we can do...” Redmond said, sighing deeply. “The Holy Church has maintained absolute neutrality in inter-nation conflicts for centuries. But if both the Cardinal and the Saintess are stationed here in Portroi, that must mean...”

“That the Mad Emperor has the Evil Order behind him,” Lyon finished Redmond’s thought.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Redmond nodded once at Lyon’s calm response. “The Holy Church won’t turn against us unless we strike first. But attacking the Mad Emperor and Calelum, without their cooperation—when he has the exolaw bishops at his side—would be...”

Redmond trailed off, unable to finish the thought out of respect, but Lyon understood and nodded.

“Yes. That would be impossible. We cannot avoid cooperating with the Holy Church.”

There wasn’t even room to debate whether to cooperate—they had to. It wasn’t a matter of preference; it was a necessity.

While it was unlikely that all of the Nine Hell Bishops were stationed in the capital, according to the information Leon had brought, at least two were confirmed to be there—Morse of Chaos and Nekator of Destruction.

Nekator alone was a monster who required at least three or four Masters working together just to have a chance of victory. Against something like that, the Revolutionary Army’s current strength was far from enough.

“Thankfully, Sir Gilbert has recently begun showing signs of stepping into the realm of a Master himself, but...”

Even counting Cedric, they had only two who could be considered near that level. If Lyon himself reached the Master realm, that would make three.

But considering the capital’s defensive forces, the fortifications, and the disadvantage of fighting deep in enemy territory, their odds of victory were less than ten percent. Betting everything on such a chance would make them gamblers, not commanders.

The meeting room of the Vultures fell into heavy silence.

“My lord!” The silence broke as a knight burst through the tent flap from outside and immediately knelt before Lyon. “Enemies, my lord! A force of roughly twenty thousand is approaching!”

“Twenty thousand!? Impossible!”

“There’s no way a rebel army could organize that many troops!”

“Everyone, calm yourselves,” Lyon silenced his officers with a single gesture. “What’s the level of their formation, and what types of units are approaching? If anyone sees their banners, have them describe them in detail.”

“I, Luas, will report personally, my lord,” Luas, one of Lyon’s knights, explained what he saw. “Their formation was flawless—no gaps in discipline. Four knightly orders at the front, followed by charioteers and cavalry. And their standard bore an emblem of two swords protecting a crown.”

“No... way...” Lyon muttered in shock before Luas confirmed his worst suspicion.

“My lord. It was the army of the Kingdom of Ferma.”

***

Leon’s group reacted immediately. Just as he had sensed the Revolutionary Army’s arrival before, Grania detected the approaching army, and the four of them left the fortress at once.

Even though they moved quickly, the Revolutionary Army and Ferma’s troops were already within minutes of clashing, close enough to strike at any moment, weapons in hand.

“This way,” said Gilbert, who had been waiting for Leon’s party without even being informed of their movement, leading them with hurried steps.

His pace was understandable. The Kingdom of Ferma was a nation that had been exploited for centuries as a vassal of the Clyde Empire. Its people had forged their strength from resentment and rage. To put it simply, their true enemy was Clyde itself. Whoever sat upon its throne mattered little.

Whether it was the Mad Emperor or Lyon himself, as long as they bore imperial blood, the Ferma army would not hesitate to draw steel. And indeed, that assumption proved right. As Leon’s group reached the main command tent, they heard angry voices clashing violently inside, voices thick with killing intent.

It sounded like a sword fight could erupt at any moment.

“You wretch! Do you have such a death wish?!”

When Leon stepped into the tent, the first thing he saw was a middle-aged man glaring at Cedric with murderous fury. The man was strong.

The air itself warped in response to the man’s rage as he manifested his will so intensely that it distorted reality. It was the mark of one who had reached the realm of a Master, and it was one that backed up the lack of yielding before the Sword Demon.

Cedric replied, “Kill me? You? Ha! Hahahahahaha! If your goal was to make me laugh to death, you’ve succeeded! I can hardly breathe from how funny that is!”

“You bastard!”

“Yeah? Go on, draw your sword! See what happens!”

Two Swordmasters faced each other, their murderous intents clashing like storms. Everyone else in the tent turned pale, trembling, but neither combatant cared or even noticed.

Both men’s hands inched toward their hilts. The moment bloodshed was about to begin—

“Enough!”

A surge of pressure exploded from a third direction. Both Masters instantly withdrew, their instincts screaming at them to stop.

Had the newcomer’s presence been any weaker, it would have only triggered the battle to begin, but the one filling the room was just as heavy as theirs. It was unmistakably that of another Master.

Marquis Valter of Ferma blinked in disbelief and demanded, “And who might you be?”

Even for an empire in the chaos of civil war, so many Master-level figures appearing out of nowhere, with their affiliations unknown, was absurd.

He couldn’t make sense of the young man before him. Had he been more informed, he might have recalled the recently promoted S-rank adventurer named Leon, but Valter was the model of a steadfast noble. He was too focused on the imminent war with Clyde to care about rumors.

Just then, Adela stepped out from behind Leon.

“Masters brawling in front of an audience like children? Do you even realize what’s happening right now?”

“And who are you?”

Valter was about to dismiss her as a cheeky brat, but the weight of her presence made him bite back the words. Masters were not supposed to be this common, and it was becoming overwhelming for even Valter, who was one himself.

Before he could ask further, Elahan stepped forward and answered for her.

“We represent the Holy Church.”

“What?!”

“Cardinal Adela of the Fourth Seat, and the Eighth Saintess, Elahan. We’ve come to mediate this situation. And you are?”

“I am Marquis Valter of Ferma,” he replied.

No one looked surprised; everyone had already guessed. After all, Ferma had only two publicly recognized Masters—Swordmaster Valter and Archmage Chehalis. Since this man clearly wasn’t a mage, it could only be him.

“I’m afraid we cannot accept your mediation,” Valter said politely but firmly. “We’ve heard of such proposals before you arrived, and we’ve rejected them all. We came here to end Clyde—to cut its lifeline—not merely to depose the Mad Emperor and walk away.”

“A campaign of vengeance... Is it?” Elahan asked.

“That’s right,” Valter said, his tone unwavering. “To appease the souls of those who died in agony, the head of one crazy emperor is nowhere near enough.”

Lyon quietly stepped into the conversation between the two sides.

“I’ll cede eight border territories between Ferma and the Empire. And for the next twenty years, I can also promise to pay compensation at a fair rate.” 𝑓𝘳𝘦𝑒𝑤𝑒𝘣𝘯ℴ𝘷𝘦𝓁.𝑐𝑜𝑚

“I’ll say it again. I refuse, Prince Lyon.”

Valter’s eyes gleamed with a thin thread of killing intent as he glared at the face he faintly remembered from the imperial palace long ago.

“For us, executing the Mad Emperor is only part of the process. And you expect us to use Ferma’s power to crown the next emperor? Don’t make me laugh.”

“Would you reconsider?” Lyon asked one more time.

“No. And that answer is final,” Valter said, not backing down even before the Holy Church. “I respect the authority and power of the Holy Church, but your principle is strict neutrality in all conflicts between nations. I would ask that you refrain from crossing that line.”

Adela snorted, her face showing clear irritation.

“Don’t you think you jackasses are the ones crossing the line here?”

“Cardinal,” Valter warned.

“What? You mad that a kid’s talking back? The Church’s principle wasn’t made for you to throw around in arguments—it’s there to stop people from abusing the Goddess’s power for petty ends. But if something isn’t petty, we can break that rule as much as we damn well please.”

“Even so,” Valter said flatly, “our stance will not change.”

He and Ferma were stubborn to the end. Leon judged that Valter wouldn’t change his mind no matter what. Time might dull emotions, but hatred only grew thicker and darker.

At this rate, a clash between the Revolutionary Army and Ferma was inevitable. No matter who won, countless lives would be lost, and the Evil Order lurking in the capital, Calelum, would surely watch the carnage with glee, applauding humanity’s foolishness.

The real problem is that even we can’t openly intervene, Leon thought.

Both Valter and Adela were right. The Holy Church’s neutrality in inter-nation conflicts was an unbroken law for centuries. Leon and Karen might act independently, but Adela and Elahan couldn’t wield the Church’s full authority without breaking its principles, unless there was a way to intervene while still remaining neutral.

“Ah.”

At that instant, Leon’s eyes lit up with a sudden, outrageous idea. He leaned close to Adela and whispered it in her ear.

“What...?” Adela muttered, her eyes and mouth widening in disbelief. “Ahaha! Ahahahahaha! I love it! What a perfect idea! I love it! I can see why our cutie Saintess is so head over heels for you!”

Her laugh was loud enough to shake the tent and instantly shift the atmosphere. Valter, sensing the change, narrowed his eyes.

“Cardinal Adela! Do you intend to break the Church’s law!?”

“As you said yourself, the principle is absolute neutrality. So long as we don’t take sides, there’s no problem with getting involved, right?”

“What...?”

“I’ll just knock both sides flat and make you cooperate with the Church!”

“Are you insane?!”

Even Lyon was left speechless at the absurdity, while Cedric actually looked pleased, without a hint of alarm. His hand drifted to his sword hilt, a grim smile tugging at his lips. The murderous aura leaking from his body left no doubt. This was real.

“Good. I’ve been wanting another match with you,” he said to Adela with a grin.

Adela smirked at him and replied, “Didn’t getting flattened once teach you enough?”

“Call it a poor excuse, but I wasn’t at full strength that day.”

“You’re right. That is a pretty shitty excuse.”

But Cedric wasn’t lying, and Adela could tell. Her eyes flicked to the sword hanging from his hip. A faint, ominous energy was seeping from its scabbard. She hadn’t figured out the reason behind it last time, but this time, she swore she would.

The tension in the tent thickened like coiled wire. One wrong move and everything would explode. Even two Masters facing off could tear the air apart, but now there were six, each watching the others warily.

Yet, no battle broke out.

“Heh... Looks like I win by decision,” Adela muttered, grinning as she sensed something approaching from outside.

Cedric and Valter both frowned almost simultaneously. Even with their own keen perception, they could feel the absurdly powerful presence closing in.

Leon’s group turned toward it with unmistakable relief. There were many unfamiliar presences among the newcomers, but one was instantly recognizable.

“It’s His Eminence Irexana!”

The one who had mobilized the Holy Iron Inquisitors, the very man who was both Jugend’s Grand Meister and the Third Cardinal of the Holy Church, had finally arrived with the reinforcements.