The void battlefield was already alive when the signal came.
Between the defensive structures in the void, two vast forces hovered in silence, held apart by nothing but distance and restraint. Demon formations stretched in layered arcs, ranks upon ranks of soldiers floating in disciplined alignment, their Essence glowing faintly like embers held back from ignition.
Opposite them, the Eternal army gathered like a spreading stain, abominations clustering together in grotesque masses while Phantoms drifted among them, tall and cold, their presence warping the void around them.
I watched from afar, my perception stretched thin across the battlefield, feeling the tension tighten with every passing breath.
At the front of the demon forces stood Ragnar.
Saleos had introduced him to his immediate reportees. He had declared Ragnar his acting right commander while Phegor recovered from his injuries, framing it as a temporary necessity and a chance to acclimate Ragnar to the flow of this battlefield.
Under Ragnar were thirteen captains, veterans hardened by years of fighting at this rift. Among them, two carried the rune anchors in their bodies, their Essence signatures tainted in ways invisible to most eyes. Saleos knew. I knew. And now, Ragnar knew.
Those two captains stood close to him, their expressions grim, their focus fixed on the enemy ahead. They believed they were being trusted. They believed this was an opportunity.
The signal flared when the Eternal forces charged.
The battlefield exploded into motion.
Both armies surged forward at once, closing the distance in a rush that bent space itself. Abominations roared as they charged, their misshapen bodies tearing through the void with raw momentum. Demon soldiers answered with disciplined advance, formations tightening as shields flared and weapons ignited with Essence.
Ragnar moved first.
He stepped forward, his massive frame cutting through the void like a falling mountain. His club shining with Essence and a mix of crimson mist came down in a brutal arc, slamming into the first wave of abominations with enough force to collapse their bodies inward.
BOOM!!!
Bone, flesh, and corrupted Essence burst apart under the impact, scattering into nothing.
"Come on, you ugly things," Ragnar bellowed, his voice echoing across the battlefield. "I’ve broken mountains tougher than you."
Gravity shifted around him. A ripple passed as he spun.
The Force Law answered his call, pulling enemies toward him against their will. Abominations stumbled mid-charge, dragged off balance as Ragnar waded into them, swinging his club in wide, devastating arcs. Each strike carried crushing force, bodies folding and collapsing as if struck by invisible hammers.
"What a brute human."
Phantoms descended to intercept him.
Three of them moved together, their forms blurring as they struck, blades of warped law slicing toward Ragnar’s throat and chest. He laughed as he met them head-on, planting his feet and slamming his club into the void between them.
BOOM!!!
The impact rippled outward.
The Phantoms froze mid-motion, their forms buckling as gravity spiked suddenly around them. Ragnar twisted, swinging again, and the force tore through them, throwing their bodies back before they could even put a defense.
Behind him, the two traitor captains led their units forward, fighting with defense and restraint. They struck when needed, defended when required, but never overextended. They were careful.
Ragnar noticed.
The fight intensified.
More abominations poured in, their movements all chaotic, but their attacks sharp. Demon soldiers clashed with them in brutal close combat, Essence flaring as laws collided. The void filled with light and shadow, with screams and roars, with the constant thunder of weapons meeting flesh and force.
Ragnar fought like a storm given shape.
He charged into clusters of enemies, swinging his club with reckless power, his aura flaring brighter with each strike. The groundless battlefield trembled as invisible forces bent under his will, enemies crushed or hurled away in bursts of repulsion and attraction.
Then Ragnar let go of his club and flickerd upward, arriving above his own army and facing the charging phantoms.
I felt it even from afar.
Essence and laws gathered around him.
Space compressed above him, pressure building into a massive shape that began to form in the void. A giant fist, forged entirely from condensed destructive force, took shape above him, its outline vast and overwhelming.
"Titan’s Fist," Ragnar growled.
The fist flashed forward like a meteor and slammed down.
The detonation was catastrophic.
The force exploded outward, tearing through a cluster of Phantoms and abominations alike, their bodies shredded under the overwhelming pressure. But Ragnar had guided it carefully, angling the core of the impact just slightly toward his own lines.
Toward the two captains and their forces, which now included many of the traitors Saleos had quietly realigned into their units.
The shockwave hit them hard.
Both captains were thrown violently aside, their defensive barriers shattering under the sudden pressure. Their bodies twisted unnaturally as the force tore through them, cracking their bones in multiple places. Several nearby soldiers were injured as well and which included all the traitors, the chaos masking the true intent behind the attack.
Cries rang out.
Healers rushed in almost immediately, pulling the wounded back as the battlefield surged on around them. The two captains were evacuated swiftly, their injuries severe enough to justify immediate removal from the front.
Ragnar did not slow.
He roared and surged forward again, crushing another wave of enemies, his club swinging with relentless momentum. The battlefield swallowed the incident whole, chaos moving on without pause.
I watched closely.
Over the next hours, Ragnar repeated the pattern.
Each time a traitor was positioned near him, a large-scale attack followed. Each time, the injuries were plausible, buried under the chaos of war. Soldiers were injured every minute on this battlefield. These were simply unfortunate casualties.
One by one, traitors were pulled from the front.
Each was sent back for recovery.
Each believed it was bad luck.
The battle raged on until the signal came again.
The Eternal forces withdrew suddenly, abominations pulling back in unison as if yanked by unseen chains.
The demon forces halted, holding formation, weapons still raised.
Another cycle complete.
The wounded were gathered quickly, transported away from the front in orderly waves. Floating carriers moved through the ranks, lifting injured soldiers and captains alike, ferrying them toward the medical bases embedded deeper in the defensive layers.
One such carrier drifted toward a quiet platform.
A nurse stepped forward to receive them.
She wore the simple uniform of battlefield medical staff, her expression calm and professional. Her movements were smooth and practiced as she guided the injured onto reinforced beds.
"Don’t worry," she said softly, adjusting restraints and stabilizing Essence flow. "I’ll take good care of you."
As she leaned closer, crimson mist flickered briefly around her fingers before vanishing just as quickly.
Lyrate had arrived.
And the first phase had begun.