The battlefield in the forest.
Ophelia, Snow Forest, stood with his hair disheveled, yet the weapon in his hand remained spotless. It wanted to be stained with blood.
But no matter what he did, he could not break through the human knight before him. Legendary battles were always extreme—either decided in an instant, or drawn out for a very long time.
And the Brandt before him just had to keep climbing in combat strength again and again. Even his younger brother Felix was gradually unable to maintain his composure, losing his elegance. For an Elf, that was a kind of wretchedness.
Yet compared with those things, the state of the war was what made them feel truly pressed. Ophelia looked at Ryan on horseback in the distance. This was war, a war he had to win.
Too many Elves had died on the battlefield. This was a pain the forest could not endure. Someone had to answer for it, and if he did not hold the scepter of victory, then he, Ophelia, could hardly escape blame.
He did not want to die, and even less did he want to lose the war. Especially when this concerned Winterwood's future.
The situation in the north was not optimistic. When he received that news, he had already settled on the plan to behead the enemy commander. He had merely kept delaying it, hoping to see some other possibility.
Things went against his wishes. Even now, they still went against his wishes.
"Brother."
Ophelia looked at Felix. Winterwood had produced a genius who surpassed the Valkyries. If he had been female, he would certainly have been able to become the leader of the Valkyries.
But even as a man, Felix could still walk at the pinnacle of the rangers. He had defeated many Valkyries,