Iron, Blood, and Scolding

"When I led you out of the gates of Lokos and marched towards a nation that had abandoned righteousness and integrity, I did not foresee that we would walk into a trap."

Peturabo crossed one leg over the other, pulling the microphone closer to his mouth. The entire speech was torn to shreds, both out of anger and because it had become useless.

What he needed now was not encouragement or mobilization—that pre-war routine didn't need to be repeated after the war had already begun. His speech had almost returned to the most basic function of language, which was communication.

He simply wanted to speak his heart to his army.

"Perhaps you are wondering if this offensive violated the desire for peace. Perhaps you are already discussing why our army was suddenly attacked, and whether your commander will, like countless generals and commanders before, keep the most important secrets to himself, enjoy the spoils from the rear, and merely order you to charge, to bleed, to get injured."

He closed his eyes, the smell of gunpowder filling his nostrils. The roars of anger grew closer, he could hear the blood pounding against his eardrums, the drums of war thundering from all directions.

Peturabo stood up from his seat, the mechanical arm of the microphone moving automatically with him.

His heavy breathing was transmitted through the current into the auditory systems of countless soldiers, stirring the hearts of all soldiers and reminding everyone that no matter how much he resembled an artist, this was a born commander.

Even a tyrant.

"I am going to tell you now why we were ambushed. This is a trap set by your First Prince, my soldiers! This is the greed and depravity of your First Prince!"

"This is an unprecedented disgrace, a terrible betrayal. Your Prince with the Iron Crown is a traitor who colluded with other countries! What is there to hide? Are you happy? Is it worth celebrating? Do you feel honored?"

His fist slammed onto the table, causing countless small objects to jump up. He opened his eyes and opened the top of the chariot, allowing the bloody scent, like a warning, hidden within the seemingly beautiful and tranquil mountain and water scenery, to enter his nostrils.

In the silent military camp, countless people swallowed nervously, their teeth clenched in tension.

"Answer me!" Peturabo roared.

"No!" the soldiers replied, their voices pushing away the wind and trees in the valley, "This is a disgrace!"

Peturabo lowered his voice, his tone becoming deep and powerful.

"But I will not look down on the people of Lokos because of this, my soldiers. You are different from Harkon's followers; your luck and wisdom led you to choose me. While those foolish traitors are killed and slaughtered in the city, you! You will follow me to victory! To conquest!"

"Listen carefully, my soldiers! When you return home, go to the city walls, find the heads of those cowardly little men hanging from the tips of spears, and then tell that group the following words!"

"Tell them: You have defeated Kardis, Pelekontia, crossed Arex, Cadisia, Evrius, Valte, and breached the fortresses of Selenia, Sodalian, Delkhenia; you have crossed countless mountains, crossed river after river, your treads have crushed thousands of miles of grassland, and your cannons have aimed at passes that no one has ever broken."

"Tell those traitors that while they were engaging in their foolish little skirmishes, you were following Peturabo, dragging the whole of Olympia into war, to fight, to occupy, to unify, and to become the master of all of Olympia!"

"Tell me, what is this? Do you know what this is?"

"We know!" the soldiers' shouts were like the roar of the sea, "This is glory!"

"Then attack!" he shouted loudly.

Someone dialed his communication bell, and he went to answer it, but his hand trembled, knocking the electronic device to the ground.

He attributed it to the anger he had accumulated over the past few days.

From the death of the Mityad squad, the unexpected events, Harkon's betrayal, and the sudden attack, every incident had fueled his rage.

War brought submission, submission brought unity, and unity brought peace. His grand theater was to be put to use—he hadn't told anyone, but his theater was built for unification.

He remembered the Olympic Games that Mors had mentioned to him. Although Mors had never formally asked for anything through them, he wanted to witness that grand spectacle.

For this, he would make the earth burn.

The scorching sun had already risen from the edge of the sky, and the edges of all things emitted a deep red light. The scarlet blood filled the road leading to Kardis, scorching everything until it was as dry and bleeding as red sand.

Where his gaze fell, the color of blood spread to all the bright and dark places. In the bright and pale sky, the flowing clouds were as dim as rusted brass, and viscous blood flowed from the edges of the clouds, condensing into countless flowing blood lines in the air, connecting heaven and earth.

On the ground, the shadows of the marching army connected with the distant city walls that he was about to shatter. From the shadows emerged the outlines of withered bones. Yellowed, oxidized bone fragments replaced the stones on the road, solidifying into the road in the dark red shadows.

He lowered his head, and the eye sockets of the skull shattered under his gaze, turning into flying sand and merging into the river of blood.

Peturabo clenched the hammer in his hand, though his hand was empty. He gripped the steel handle, and with his other hand, he stroked the sharp blade protruding from the top of the hammer. With a slight effort, his own blood flowed over the entire metal surface.

"Let the blood of your enemies flow by your hand!" he heard a voice, incredibly rough and hoarse.

It was the voice of a warrior on the battlefield, the roar of the earth, and the pulse of a volcano. His blood surged in his veins, calling out, and more visions entered his eyes.

He saw himself holding a giant warhammer, crushing all enemies upon it. His body became incredibly large, and his strength supported him endlessly as he swung his weapon in any brutal and fanatical way.

He was a fighter, and he personally tore apart and crushed the bones of the dregs.

He was a leader, and the countless soldiers under his command yearned only for slaughter and death in battle.

He was a conqueror, his captives trembled in pools of blood, and countless spoils of war displayed his victory and glory in the form of severed limbs.

"I want victory..." he growled, "Take Kardis!"

"Come! Let the bones of your enemies submit beneath your throne!" the voice laughed wildly, echoing in his heart.

Peturabo saw more scenes.

He saw artillery bombardments hitting fortresses, high temperatures and thick white smoke erupting from within the breached fortresses. The treads of tanks crushed broken cities, and bombs and machine guns swept away all resistance into flowing blood. Gunsmoke soared into the sky, and layers of city walls shattered precisely in the explosions. Huge stones and metal broke inward, and the most direct fear originated from military force.

He destroyed everything before him with the greatest of ease.

His heart beat violently, the warhammer and his blood-stained hand tightly connected, as if they were one.

He alone was a terrifying war machine, he was an epic, a hero, a beast.

He was Peturabo, the eternal warrior born for war.

"Come, this is your destiny, your seat! You belong to us!"

The voice was tightly bound to his every heartbeat, emanating from the depths of his own soul. Peturabo couldn't deny the hoarse roar; this was what he wanted: a perpetual arena, an eternal victor, all courage and strength in unparalleled glory.

The iron in his blood mirrored the materials that forged him, his soul roaring aloud. He would tear apart and cleave through all obstacles, he wanted blood to flow freely, his steel was the source of all wars!

Peturabo turned his head.

His Iron Throne was there, its broad back forged from sharp swords, scythes, anchors, and hooks. The seat was a condensed mass of molten iron from melted shields, with a carpet of crushed bones and dried corpses. Blood flowed from beneath the throne, soaking the yellow sand into a deep iron-black.

He had just risen from the seat, but now it looked vastly different—or had it always been this way? Peturabo could no longer remember.

Only iron and blood.

He heard the wails of souls and the endless clang of battle. The closer he stepped toward the seat, the nearer the conflict on the battlefield became.

Peturabo reached out to the blood-stained iron throne.

"Peturabo! You damn brat, did some damned dog eat the composure you're so proud of?"

A familiar voice roared furiously at the edge of his soul. Peturabo felt as if a basin of ice water had been poured over him from the crown of his head to his toes. He shuddered violently, and the allure of the blood throne vanished instantly.

He immediately withdrew his hand, pretending nothing had happened.

"Mors, where are you?" Peturabo asked.

The surroundings were still yellow sand, blood, and withered bones. He scanned the area but couldn't see the black robe he had seen countless times.

"What do you care where I am! You can't stay clear-headed without me? Where's your brain, did you spread it on your damn multigrain bread with butter yesterday? Look around you, where are you trying to sit? Aren't you afraid that damn seat will impale you?"

Peturabo's face flushed red. He stumbled back a step, nearly falling.

"I wasn't sitting! You're talking nonsense, I didn't sit on it!"

"Do you have the nerve to say you didn't want to? What do I usually teach you, you little rascal? You sit down just because you see a seat? You believe anything just because it shouts a couple of times? Is this our great wise man Peturabo?"

"What did you teach me? You're always speaking in riddles... you guy! I don't even know what that is!"

"Don't let me know what word you were going to use, you brat."

"You..." Peturabo took a breath, daring to be angry but not to speak. "What are you doing here!"

Mors laughed in extreme anger: "Guess why I'm here? Hurry up and get out of that damn broken place... get out..."

The man's voice in the latter half suddenly became intermittent and unclear.

Peturabo tensed. "What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me? You cause me trouble every day, and you ask me what's wrong? I'm doing great! I'm finding an exit for you!"

Mors's anger continued to overflow. Peturabo inexplicably felt that the anger he had been brewing was insignificant compared to Mors's.

He retreated two more steps from the throne, keeping his distance.

The nagging voice from before roared from the dim yellow sky. Peturabo pretended not to hear anything.

"Should I not attack Cadisia for now?" Peturabo asked.

Now the roar in the sky vibrated like thunder.

"Keep attacking..." Mors's voice became disjointed again, "Finish attacking... then return to Lokos."

"What did Harkon do? Do I need to return for reinforcements?"

"Don't come back! Cough... wait for me to deal with this!"

Mors shouted urgently.

"Go fight your war properly! Turning back halfway on your first outing? What kind of joke is that? Are you playing games like a child, building sandcastles on the beach, and then saying you're not playing anymore? Cough... you're idle anyway, hurry up and unify Olympia for me..."

"These things," Peturabo glanced around, unsure how to refer to this abnormal phenomenon, "is it because of me?"

"Guess."

"Huh?"

"It's not because of you, fine! Speaking of which, they still owe me something, damn it, I don't even know what I lost..."

"What?"

"Don't ask me, if you have the guts, ask that guy later... I should have known, what a fated disaster... Come!"

In the vast yellow sky, a rift was suddenly torn open. A black cloth strip hung down from the rift. Although it looked incredibly thin and fragile, the golden runes flickering on it made it appear indestructible and exceptionally sacred.

Peturabo immediately grabbed the cloth strip. Although he hadn't practiced rope climbing much, the moment he grasped the strip, he knew what to do next.

"Quick..."

Mors's voice grew more distant. Peturabo quickened his movements, getting closer and closer to the rift in the sky.

The fresh wind from the mountains and forests blew through the rift from the real universe, sweeping away the bloody smell around Peturabo. However, before he could touch the sky, the entire cloth began to sway violently, making it almost impossible for Peturabo to hold on.

With a slight change in the grip of his fingers, his entire body immediately dropped a segment. Looking down, the cloth strip began to dissipate from the bottom up.

"Mors!" he shouted.

He didn't receive an immediate response. Then, he heard a gritted sigh: "I'm really damned to owe the two of you... Forget it..."

The three chains that had bound him for years shattered simultaneously. A surging power instantly filled his limbs, and countless pieces of knowledge penetrated the mist, returning to his brain, completing nearly all the gaps in the cognitive map he had built over the years.

He felt himself growing at an incredible speed, his body becoming tall, strong, and indestructible. His soul was filled with unique power, and his thinking speed accelerated a thousandfold once more.

Everything he already possessed was returning to him, fervently and without the slightest loss, as if all things had been wiped clean of dust and become incredibly bright once more.

The black cloth vanished completely, and Peturabo plummeted downwards until a brilliant, dazzling golden light pierced the yellow sand from the rift Mors had previously opened, taking the place of the dark cloth.

He gazed at the golden ribbon of light, his face growing wet.

Peturabo grasped the golden light and completed the final section of his climb.

The next moment, his consciousness returned to the real universe. From the rustling of leaves to the movement of the wind, the trajectory of everything reminded him that less than a thousandth of a second had passed since he finished his speech.

Peturabo raised his hand and wiped away a streak of blood mixed with tears falling from his eyes. All expression vanished from his iron-like face, leaving only a profound calm.

Seven days, no, five days.

He would finish this war within five days; he knew his warriors could do it.

At this exact moment five days from now, he would be victorious.

He would see Mors.