The pregnant woman stepped into the room, her fingers absently massaging the red mark circling her wrist.
She moved with the careful grace expected of her condition, yet something unspoken in her presence quieted these battle-hardened leaders like a stilled storm.
Lirae paused inside the meeting chamber, her gaze sweeping across all four men with undisguised contempt before settling on the grey-haired figure at the shattered table's edge.
She began, her voice cutting like chilled steel.
"Suppose… every other man here lacks wisdom despite their years and experience. Suppose even you prove the greatest fool among them. Shouldn't your priorities at least differ from theirs, when your own son fights for his life, and ours on that battlefield?"
Her words cut deeper than any blade, piercing even the imagined heart of the wind itself.
Not one of them lifted their head, let alone voiced an objection.
Her words kept coming, their venom raw and unchecked.
"You disgusting, rotting maggots. Your greed! Your stupidity! Your childishness brought the government to this ruin, and now you sit around this broken table—a perfect symbol of your worthless authority. What are you even fighting each other for anymore? Tell me."
She let out a bitter laugh.
"Oh, the Governor General will send forces! They'll never abandon their precious high offices. Of course!"
Her voice turned razor-sharp.
"You keep underestimating your enemy. Just proves what pathetic leaders you've all become."
In sheer, wordless disgust, she slapped a hand to her forehead.
"Bless Ul... No wonder people say citizens betray the government, abandon freedom's symbol to serve as slaves in private citadels and kingdoms for mere privileges. But I say this — it's never been about privileges. It's about your rotten leadership, you vermin, failing them for decades!"
The fat officer shifted uncomfortably. Even his thick skin seemed pierced by her lashing words.
Lirae arched one eyebrow.
"Something wrong with how I'm speaking, Ergon?"
The fat man hesitated. A slight tremor ran through him before he cleared his throat with unnecessary force.
"N-not that I... It's just..."
Her glare intensified with each stammered word until Ergon finally dropped his gaze, exhaling shakily.
"...Never mind."
Lirae swept her fiery gaze across them all. When she spoke again, her tone had cooled slightly.
"I joined the government believing freedom shouldn't be a curse people flee from, but a force that unites. I don't support Dante's military rule..."
Her voice hardened.
"But can we blame him for reaching that conclusion? Two hundred years of governance, and we barely control three cities. We scramble for rift resources like starving jackals. Even Milhguard Academy… our supposed crown jewel - lies abandoned by our own hands."
Her palm slammed the table.
"Everything! Everything is in ruins! How could any sane man not question what you've done these past decades?"
"Anyway, wha—"
Her words seized as the building convulsed as a colossal shockwave slammed into it.
Lirae staggered, nearly falling before Gordon—seated closest—lunged to steady her. She gasped as the child within her kicked sharply, then fixed her gaze ahead with sudden hope.
Gordon's voice, frostbitten with age, cut through as he helped her forward:
"Enough talk. What now?"
Lirae winced while lowering herself into a chair. When she spoke again, her voice—melodic yet steel—pierced the silence, undimmed even by the battlefield's thunder outside:
"There's only one path. We hope Rai wins. And we pray he does."
Veiled Light's lips twitched into a ghost of a smile.
"Moments ago, I feared the worst when his presence flickered. Yet now..."
He exhaled.
"He burns brighter than ever. That he still fights at all defies reason."
A grin threatened to break across Lirae's face before she schooled her features.
"Naturally. Anything less would disappoint."
She paused, rubbing her stomach as she added:
"He must be the first man to hold his child. No matter what."
As if answering her touch, something shifted inside her. But this movement felt different.
Her eyes gradually widened. Her fingers dug into the table's edge as the stirring continued.
"Lirae!"
"Lady Lirae!"
"Commandant!"
They called out as one, chairs scraping back as they rushed to her side. Hands steadied her gently while she fought against the waves of motion inside her, her eyes flaring wide with each new surge.
She locked gazes with Paragon Raizel's father, her voice breaking through clenched teeth:
"He's... he's... Coming!"
The old man's eyes flew open.
"Move! Now! Find bedding. Anything soft!"
Ergon charged from the chamber like a bull, crashing through doorways. The complex stood in ruins, a lone survivor amidst the devastation. While it seemed like a miracle—it was no miracle, he knew. They deserved none. Burning Storm must have intervened.
Minutes later, he returned, arms piled with linens. They spread them across the floor and carefully lowered Lirae down.
And so, as the earth shook beneath titans clashing outside, a legend's child prepared to enter the world.
***
Burning Storm's power was overwhelming, undeniable in its might but technical. Its complexity stretched so vast Northern doubted he could wield it all effectively in this fight.
Yet it exhilarated him. No matter how fiercely he moved, his muscles refused to burn or protest. His stamina held steady, unyielding. The ability felt like cheating nature itself.
Northern sensed his essence reserves being tapped, of course. But beyond that? Nothing. No strain, no toll.
Their battle had raged for minutes now, locked in a deadly dance of blocks and counters. Each clash sent shockwaves rippling through the air, weaving an invisible web of tension between them.
Lieutenant Dante surged forward, his silver blade slicing downward to cleave Northern in two. Northern didn't flinch—just watched as the sword met empty air above his head, scraping downward as if sliding down an invisible pane. Sparks flared silver in its wake.
Northern lunged, his bare hand spearing through the air with brutal force. Dante barely yanked his arm back in time to block. A mirror materialized at the impact point and shattered instantly, but Northern's strike had already carved through—only for dozens of new mirrors to bloom between his fingers and Dante's elbow.
Northern crushed through them all without slowing. Yet by the time his blow should have torn through flesh, Dante's tyrannical speed had already whisked him away.
The Lieutenant landed skidding, breath ragged. Silence. Then, between panting breaths, his hoarse voice came:
"You've... improved. Your crude swordsmanship... has refined. Impressive... for such short training."
Northern examined his hand, then raised an eyebrow.
"I'm not even holding a sword. Imagine when I am."