I do not blame the mortals who stand against me. Likewise I don’t really have much of an opinion about the countless lesser Divines that follow the White Pantheon. Dogs will follow the lead of their owner to their deaths. In fact, I would say that I respect them for the fact they have chosen a side and are sticking to it.

It is the White Pantheon that baffles me. There are only two real answers I have, and I much prefer the former. They are self-interested and are threatened by my dominion. I suppose they take the grudges we share as exceptional rather than merely being common enough that they can be forgotten about with the snap of one’s fingers. Fer and Kassandora have waged wars against each other and they are mature enough to leave it behind them. Olephia has ingratiated herself into the sisterhood, even though there is not a single person out there before me that so much as thought about her, she carries no grudge for her loneliness. There exists not a single Divine who hasn’t wronged me and I don’t think there exists a Divine I haven’t wronged.

So it must be a grudge or stupidity. I can see it with Of Peace and Of Order most of all. Their little realms are quaint, they would of course be larger if they joined the Empire and served under me but it is not the wealth or the power forces them away. It is the fact they cannot serve under one. They would have to be totally broken before their proud minds would let them even acknowledge the thought of submitting. I expect one would have to die. That is a shame.

It better not be ideal. There is only one word for the types who side with other worlds in Arda’s war for its assured survival.

Traitor.

– Excerpt from God Arascus’, of Pride’s, private writings.

Lieutenant Jeanpierre, 2^nd Battalion, 4^th Brigade, 21^st Infantry, stared at the various kneeling villagers he had come across. The village of Entpellier had been taken without a shot fired. 1^st Battalion had lost two full platoons when it tried to intercept some man who could fly as high as a plane and throw as accurately as the Lemur artillery imported from Kirinyaa. 3^rd

Battalion had struggled to cross a river when some superhero had demolished the bridge they were about to cross. 3^rd Brigade was struggling with heavy resistance from men who dived into the ground as if they were sharks diving into water.

And yet 2^nd Battalion had not fired a single bullet as it entered Entpellier. Not a single a shot. The villagers had been called out of their homes and now sat in small groups as Imperial soldiers watched over them. The faces ranged from anything to everything. From women who were happy that Imperial forces had finally arrived to liberate Rancais from Anarchia’s grasp, to children staring at the soldiers with curiosity to the elderly who looked as if this was simply a matter of course. A few families had even brought their pets. Dogs lay on the ground and stared at the soldiers who marched in between them.

When Lieutenant Jeanpierre had been tasked to take over Entpellier, he had expected a bloody fight and a quick skirmish. He had expected needing to dig trenches and he expected house-to-house close quarters combat. He had even remembered the number to the 11^th Artillery which was tasked with supporting this region. And now, he stared at the entire population of Entpellier and wished something would happen. This village was far too close to a major highway to be left unguarded, but there was no way he trusted that all these people were good citizens who were happy to be liberated.

Jeanpierre turned to his soldiers. All of them wore dark-green camouflaged clothes. They had rifles in their hands and heavy backpacks. Dark green helms and dark boots. Behind them stood the EFV-1, the newly manufactured Doschian APCs, each one was a huge thing, six wheels in total and a small turret that carried a heavy autocannon. No one smiled. No one aimed their gun. No one looked as if they were happy. No one looked as if they were ready to kill. Somehow, they had set off feeling so ready for combat and the lack of a battle had utterly crushed morale.

Entpellier had been taken without a single shot fired. That was the issue.

Iliyal grit his teeth at the image Skyseer had got from a distance. Luckily it was too high for the manual anti-air of Ordeaux so it wouldn’t get shot down by some fucking lamp-post being thrown into the sky. But frankly, he would give a hundred of these Skyseer planes in return for what just happened.

Sergeant Itmann didn’t dive down. He let his legs collapse as he dropped down back into the Tank. He kicked Eckerheim across the head but didn’t care whatsoever. The cramped, hot, humid interior of Chief Four which was usually a nightmare to try and think in was suddenly a refuge. The blinking lights, the loader putting another shell into the cannon, the driver pushing down on the gas to get the tank to reverse, the secondary gunner, Eckerheim, who was on the side autocannon by the side of the turret, usually made this place feel so small that Itmann imagined it was what sardines felt like.

Yet now as Sergeant Itmann grabbed the Lubskan rifle, turned the safety off, pulled back the bolt and held the gun in his quivering hands pointed at the porthole in the top of the turret, he couldn’t help but appreciate how everything was within reaching distance. The radio turned on as the commander of Chief Two let out a scream. “CHIEF TWO DOWN!” Eckerheim shouted. “COMING ON US!”

“I KNOW!” Itmann shouted back. He tried throwing his headset and helmet off when it slid down but the movement did nothing. The blue cloudless blue sky, tarnished only by the white trails of condensation left behind by air support, was suddenly obscured by a human shape almost entirely silhouetted by the contrast of darkness.

Itmann pulled the trigger as the superhero slammed his fist into the porthole cover. The man managed to rip through an inch of steel just like that. The cover came off and Itmann pulled the trigger. Bullets slammed into the hero who had just landed on Chief Four and then bounced off and onto Sergeant Itmann. The superhero grabbed the sides of the porthole and grunted as he started to pull the turret apart. Steel twisted in his grip, Chief Four started to scream in pain as it was slowly torn apart.

Gunfire. Terribly deafening gunfire from an autocannon sounded from behind. Armour piercing rounds, designed to counter enemy armour rather than men. They tore through the superhero. Blood splashed down on Itmann, the body was launched backwards and the sergeant’s headset crackled to life.

“I’ve got you Itmann.” Sergeant Yerrick, commander of Chief Three, replied through the speaker. “I’ve got you.”

Iliyal took a deep breath as his mind processed all the possibilities and reasons for this situation. This shouldn’t have happened in the first place. He shouldn’t have given permission for Crimson Team to engage Anarchia. He should have created Anarchia as someone as competent as Fortia or Maisara and not like some inexperienced child. Frankly, it was his fault. This would have never happened in the Great War. Four sorcerers would never be given permission to engage a major Divine unless they were meant to die. There wasn’t a single general who would allow it. Yet Iliyal had.

Captain Douglas pulled the control stick of Raptor One as the plane started to tilt backwards and fly higher. It was supposed to be another bombing run on Ordeaux. The holds of Raptor One were stacked high with napalm bombs. They weren’t here to try and kill Anarchia anymore. They were here to cause her as much trouble as possible and buy as much time as possible by forcing her to stay in that city.

Captain Douglas had seen the cloud made by a continent being torn apart. He had seen Divines and sorcerers jump out of his plane. He had shot down Pantheon Planes and he had tried to intercept Anarchia. He had seen Anarchia’s superheroes knock his missiles out of the sky with their bare fists. But even now, Arda had new things to show him. Behind Raptor One was a man in the sky, dressed in red, who was somehow managing to keep up with Raptor One’s tremendous speed. Supersonic flight could be used on the way back but the weight of the napalm had forced fuel efficiency to be a consideration this once.

“GOOOoooo….!” Captain Douglas grit his teeth as the plane started to slow down. He kept the throttle on and checked the rear camera. The hero had stopped and was looking up at the huge beast that was Raptor One above him. Raptor One’s four massive engines came to a quiet stall as the plane starved for air and turned off. Douglas forced the control stick even further back. He tilted his head up, saw the world above him as Raptor One turned upside down, and then it fell into a dive.

Using nothing but the plane’s flaps, Captain Douglas lined up the reticule in his helmet with the superhero before the plane fell any distance. He pressed the button on the stick. Raptor One roared like a bird of prey. Its autocannon opened up. The span of a second saw more than six dozen rounds fired. The hero was torn apart by Raptor One’s steel talons.

The superhero fell down to the ground and Douglas felt the engines ignite again. Raptor One continued its mission to Ordeaux.

Iliyal replayed the video on a smaller screen. It was undeniable at this point. The situation on the front was going well but for how much longer? Could Anarchia now awaken sorcery within others? Even if she couldn’t, didn’t she simply need to show her followers how to use the art? Iliyal rewound the video one last time as he watched one more time. Anarchia, stood in the centre of the square, red disks of sorcery dancing around her as she cast sorcery.

Agrita, in her gold armour and battleskirt and helm from under which her dark hair spilled out, raised her spear to her side as soldiers from the Rilian front raced past her. This was the third retreat today. She didn’t know how the Doschian front was doing but the Rilian front, with the mountains in the south of Rancais, was a nightmare. Worse than the Epan War, it couldn’t even be compared. Holding against Fortia’s forces was… Well, there was no difference between Agrita holding against Fortia and Anarchia’s men holding against Fortia.

Light-green camouflaged soldiers dived down behind the Goddess of Rilia as Agrita started to walk forwards, the tip of her spear drew a line in the concrete as Agrita’s eyes scanned the skies and the mountains in the distance for anything that could hit her at range. Maybe there was, but then she couldn’t leave her men to be torn apart by that duo ahead.

A man and a woman, both in light green clothes and with facemasks on their heads. Their firsts were covered in blood and they had just torn through two platoons of soldiers. Bullets didn’t seem to work. That was all Agrita was given. The Goddess of Rilia remembered her training with Iliyal and her experience defending the south of her nation.

War was not a show. Agrita crouched down. War was not some game. Agrita tensed her calves. War was not about giving chances. Agrita took a deep breath. War was not about speeches. Agrita relaxed her upper body. War was not a demonstration of skill. Agrita calmed her mind and turned the sound of screaming Rilian soldiers off.

War was about killing whoever stood before you, because if you didn’t then they would kill you first.

Agrita launched forwards just as she had trained. The spear for the woman, her hand for the man. She was twice their size and twice as fast. The woman in green put one hand forwards as if ready to grab the Goddess’ weapon, then man lunged to the side to put distance between him and his partner.

Agrita put her foot down, slid along the concrete tarmac of the road, then turned and twisted. These two fools had obviously never trained against a Goddess, and especially not against Agrita. The Goddess of Rilia let her spear slide through her palm. She brought it round in a swing towards the woman as her palm closed around the man’s head. The fellow started to flail and kick as Agrita lifted him off the ground and brought the side of her spear slamming into his partner’s side.

The woman had been too focused on the spearhead to notice that the blow would come from the shaft itself. It struck her across the chest. Agrita heard a rib crack as she squeezed with the hand holding the man and brought the spear around in a flourish. One hand closed, one hand drove a spear down.

And Agrita stood over two unmoving bodies as her eyes immediately went to scan the horizon for further threats.

Iliyal realised what had happened. There were times when things were in his control. There were times when things weren’t. A father should never learn from his son’s mistake. It marked the failure of a parent if a child made mistakes that a parent could learn from. Yet that didn’t mean that the lessons of the son should be discounted.

Just as a child should not be afraid to ask their parents for help, a parent should not be afraid to pray to the Divines for when things got out of control.

Iliyal pulled out his phone and dialled Goddess Kassandora.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep