The battlefield lit up with sudden fury.
Explosions tore through the high ridges where the enemy archers had taken position. Flame and smoke bloomed across the jagged heights, and bodies tumbled from perches like broken statues. The shriek of twisting metal and the thunderous roar of detonations echoed through the simulation chamber, drowning out even the clamor of blades.
Caelin stood at the front of the battered formation, sword clenched, eyes wide—not in surprise, but in resolve.
Laziel had done it.
Fire fell from the heavens, and with it, the tide turned.
Across the field, the Phalanx line—impeccably drilled, iron-locked—shook.
The sudden loss of covering fire had cracked their confidence. Heads turned. Shields faltered. Feet shuffled.
Caelin didn't hesitate.
He raised his blade high and bellowed, "Exodus—now! Over the shields! Break them!"
The Forsaken roared as one, rising from behind their shield dome like a tide of ash reborn. They vaulted over the protective curve, swords flashing in the simulated sun, eyes burning with fury long forged in exile.
The clash came hard and fast.
Exodus, once defensive, was now a hammer. They slammed into the wavering Phalanx like a storm of broken saints. Formation against formation—one perfect, the other wild—but it was the wild that struck deepest.
Caelin drove forward, shouldering through a line of polished steel. His blade sang, battering down the guard of a Swords of Eden knight, then piercing through to the shoulder beneath.
To his right, a woman screamed her war cry. To his left, a man wept as he swung—not in sorrow, but in defiant joy.
The Phalanx cracked.
Under the weight of fury and flame, of a brotherhood reforged in exile, the enemy's pristine wall of steel began to buckle. The front line fell first—shields shattered, spears splintered, their formation ruined by the blunt force of Exodus' charge.
Caelin led from the front, his voice cutting through the din like a banner in the wind. "Push! Break them! Do not stop!"
With a unified cry, the Forsaken surged.
The second line of the enemy staggered as the vanguard collapsed into them, their perfect order collapsing into chaos. No longer a formation—just men and women holding shields, desperate to regain footing. But Exodus had no such hesitation.
They were not trying to remember their training.
They were remembering pain. And that pain turned them into fire.
The Phalanx dissolved.
And then Caelin turned his eyes upward.
Beyond the broken lines, beyond the scattered enemy knights, the ridge loomed. Jagged stone. Crumbling ledges. The last height where the Swords of Eden held their ground.
Caelin pointed his blade to the summit.
"Up the rocks. Now!"
Without hesitation, the Exodi began their ascent.
It was no elegant maneuver. They climbed over broken ground, slipping and scraping up steep inclines, some on hands and knees. Others heaved one another upward, ignoring the burn in their muscles, the bruises on their limbs.
Arrows no longer fell—the ridge was smoke and ruin thanks to Laziel's strike—but there were still defenders above. Waiting. Ready.
"Let them wait," Caelin muttered under his breath, driving his sword into a crevice and pulling himself higher. "Let them see."
One by one, the Forsaken reached the ridge.
And as they rose—black tabards torn, blades red with simulated blood—they looked not like failures or exiles. But like revenants.
____________________________________
Ridgeside Gun Platform – Moments Later
The scorched deck of the mock artillery platform groaned beneath Laziel's boots as he dragged the targeting array into position. Sweat ran down his temple, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the display.
Below, the field was chaos—Exodus pushing up the rocks, their line surging like a rising tide. But behind them, a new wave of enemies pursued. Stragglers, fast-moving units, flankers—cutthroats meant to harry the wounded and finish the broken.
Not today.
He locked the cannon onto the slope.
Behind him, the clash of steel and the low thunder of power-hammers filled the air. The other nine Exodi were locked in brutal melee with the three heavy knights—Swords of Eden veterans clad in reinforced plate, trained and merciless.
"Just stay alive," Laziel muttered as he adjusted the targeting grip. "Give me thirty more seconds…"
A knight roared—his voice warped through vox-systems. "You'll die tired, boy! This is a mock war, but we're here to humiliate you."
One of the Exodi, a stocky fighter named Halek, answered by spitting blood and ramming both knives into the gaps beneath a knight's arm. "Then you should've brought more men."
Another Exodi, Ereni, staggered back, parrying a wide blow, yelling, "Laziel—now would be excellent!"
"Almost there," Laziel growled. His fingers danced across the controls, aligning the cannon on the slope. Dozens of red-clad enemies appeared in the sightline, weaving between stone and broken formations.
"Come on. Come on…"
The reticle blinked gold.
Laziel grinned.
"Time to sweep the trash."
With a roar of recoil, the first artillery round thundered down into the slope—detonating in a wave of simulated plasma and compressed shock. The earth lit up in waves. The stragglers, sprinting to collapse onto the Exodus rear, were scattered like leaves in a storm.
More blasts followed. Laziel worked the cannon like he was born to it, firing across the stone rise, clearing the rear path for his brothers and sisters above.
One of the Swords of Eden knights turned at the explosion. "What have you done?"
Laziel turned slowly from the cannon, drawing his sword at last.
"Levelled the odds."
Then he charged back into the fray.
____________________________________
The Ridge – Exodus Frontlines
The rocks shook beneath their boots as fire blossomed behind them.
Crimson light flashed across the jagged terrain. The hillside exploded in clouds of smoke and scorched earth—artillery rounds screaming down from above like divine wrath. Shattered fragments of the pursuing enemy force were flung backwards, their formation obliterated in seconds.
Caelin climbed near the front, shield slung across his back, blood and dust streaking his armor. Around him, the 333 surged upward, eyes wide, hearts pounding.
Then came the roar.
"Exodus! Exodus!"
The chant broke out like thunder. Dozens of voices. Then hundreds. The sound rolled up the rockface like a rising storm, a war cry not of arrogance, but of vindication.
"Ashes no more!" someone shouted.
Caelin turned toward the noise, standing tall on a ledge just as another blast rocked the lower ridge, sending enemy units scattering like ants.
He raised his sword.
"Forward!" he bellowed. "To the summit!"
Armor clanged as Exodus charged, reinvigorated, their line reformed with a fury that seemed to ripple with holy defiance. The shame they once carried—forgotten. The doubts—burned away by cannon fire and brotherhood.
They weren't just climbing a ridge.
They were rising from exile.
Through the falling dust and shattered stone, they charged together, not as outcasts—but as warriors reborn.
And at their head, Caelin strode like a blade through storm, his voice rising over the chaos:
"From ashes we rise— forward!"
Exodus crested the ridge like a wave of storm-born fury.
The top gave way to a flattened field of churned rock and steel, and beyond it—the enemy stronghold. The walls loomed, fortified, bristling with mounted crossbows and guard stations, but they hadn't expected Exodus to reach this far. The defenders were still repositioning, archers scrambling, front-line fighters turning too late.
Caelin's voice rang like thunder.
"CHARGE!"
Steel boots hit the dirt. Shields came forward. War cries burst from 333 throats. The Exodi surged down the last slope of the ridge and smashed into the outer ring of defenders with explosive force.
The clash was immediate—violent.
Sword met shield. Spears crashed against the front. Arrows whistled overhead, some glancing off the flanks, others embedding into armor and limbs. Screams filled the air, but the line held.
"Drive them back!" Caelin roared, his blade carving a path ahead of him. "Break their line!"
The Swords of Eden had reformed a defensive wall before the base's entrance—shoulder to shoulder, reinforced by knights from other major Houses. They held ground fiercely, pushing back against the ragged charge.
But Exodus was no longer ragged.
They pressed in with cohesion hard-earned in blood and sweat. Shield pairs rotated seamlessly. Strike teams flanked. Formation calls rang with unity instead of confusion.
The battle roared at the gates of the enemy.
Above, the cannons Laziel commanded fired again, striking deep into retreating support units. Fires bloomed across the rear lines.
The enemy base still stood.
But the field outside it was now a stormfront of violence—Exodus pushing, clawing, cutting toward the walls.
____________________________________
Artillery Ridge – Moments Later
The clash ended in a roar of steel and simulation sparks.
All three Swords of Eden heavy knights lay disabled—their armor scorched, their visors cracked, simulation defeat sigils glowing red across their breastplates. One of them let out a frustrated groan before his system locked him in a frozen, stiff pose.
Laziel's chest rose and fell with steady breaths. He kept his sword low, eyes never leaving the downed foes.
"No casualties," he confirmed.
"Only bruises," muttered one of the Exodi, wiping blood—simulated or real—from his brow.
Without hesitation, the team moved to strip the knights of their exo-frames—power-assisted armor pieces, reinforced gauntlets, auto-lock bracers. Laziel pointed. "You three—take them. We'll hold."
Three Exodi stepped forward, slipping into the enhanced gear. Hydraulic systems hissed to life, HUDs flashing and syncing with their neural links. The armor reshaped around them—bulky, but powerful.
Laziel keyed the final artillery adjustments.
"Coordinates locked," he murmured. "Last volley incoming—targeting the rear flank."
Then he turned to the others.
"We move now. Straight down into the enemy's spine."
The others gave a nod. One of them cracked his neck, the weight of the fight behind him now part of his momentum.
And then they ran—three in heavy exo-armor, seven in standard gear—charging down the ridge with the fury of the mountain behind them, racing to join the final strike.
____________________________________
Back At The Enemy Base
The Phalanx formation at the enemy gates had regrouped, hardened like a wall of iron. Their tower shields locked tight, spearheads jutting forward in a gleaming forest of death. It was a last line—disciplined, reinforced, and ready to repel.
Exodus slammed into it with the weight of desperation and wrath. But for every gap they forced open, another shield slid in to replace it. Caelin drove forward at the head, his borrowed sword—Dareth's—rising and falling like judgment itself, carving space in the crowd. Yet even he began to slow.
And then—
A tremor. A scream of engines.
Out from the dust and smoke, ten figures emerged from the ridge's right slope, charging across the fractured flank like descending angels.
Three of them gleamed—wearing exo-armor ripped from Swords of Eden heavy knights, the armor plates still bearing enemy sigils now marred and blackened. The other seven flanked them, fast and light.
Laziel's voice rang out: "FOR EXODUS!"
They slammed into the flank of the enemy formation like a hammer striking brittle glass.
Spears splintered.
Shields crumpled.
The Phalanx line broke.
Caelin didn't need to command.
He jumped the fallen shield in front of him, blade flashing, and bellowed, "NOW! PRESS THE ADVANTAGE!"
The 333 surged forward like water through a breached dam, pouring into the widening gap. Steel met steel, but now the momentum was theirs.
Behind him, Caelin saw the three in exo-armor lift entire enemy knights and cast them aside like debris. Laziel moved like a firebrand, fast and precise, his grin twisted in triumph.
For the first time since the match began, the enemy looked uncertain.
And Exodus moved forward like judgment.
Panic rippled through the once-ordered lines of the Swords of Eden.
They had expected a rout.
They had expected Exodus to shatter under pressure—to run, to break, to prove the whispers true. But the opposite had come crashing through their front like a prophecy fulfilled in reverse.
Their Phalanx was broken.
Their archers routed.
Now their standard—planted high behind their final shield ranks, towering on a pole of blackened steel wrapped in white silk—stood vulnerable, visible over the crumbling heads of their faltering line.
Knights from major houses, who had joined the Swords of Eden for glory, now shouted orders over each other. "Hold the line!" "Reform left flank!" "Get me another wall on the north!"
But it was too late.
Exodus wasn't a storm.
They were an avalanche—growing heavier the closer they came, fueled not by elegance or tactical finesse, but by something far more terrifying: conviction.
One Eden knight stumbled back, catching a glimpse of three armored titans in stolen exo-plates cleaving through the rear guard. "They've taken the heavy suits!"
Another shouted over his shoulder, "Where's our artillery?!"
No answer came.
He didn't know it had been turned against them.
The ranks compressed around the base of the standard. Shields raised. Blades out. But the formation was no longer a wall—it was a knot, tangled and desperate.
Then the first Exodi broke through.
A roar went up from their side, echoing through the chamber like thunder.
The standard still stood.
But the Swords of Eden were now fighting for containment, not victory.
Caelin strode through the thinning enemy ranks, his blade soaked in simulation-light, his armor cracked but unbowed. Behind him, the Exodi roared his name—not in idolatry, but as the cry of the rejected rising from dust.
Then the line parted.
Steel boots struck the ground with purpose. A knight in silver-etched armor stepped out from the shadow of the standard, helmet under one arm, cold eyes fixed on Caelin.
"Captain Caelin Thorne," the knight said with bitter familiarity. "Or should I say… Forsaken Caelin."
Caelin recognized the voice before the face. "Lucan."
Lucan gave a cruel smile. "Didn't think they'd let you crawl out of whatever ruin you were rotting in."
"I built something from my ruins," Caelin said. "Something you'll never understand."
"Oh, I understand plenty," Lucan replied, drawing his blade. "You were always too soft. Too merciful. Too… human. That's why Dareth kept you close. To remind him of what he wasn't."
"You were jealous then. You still are."
"I took your place, Caelin," Lucan spat. "Second in command of House Judah. The position you squandered for a woman's touch."
Caelin's grip tightened. "Her name was Maeria."
Lucan stepped forward, raising his voice. "She was a whore."
Caelin didn't flinch, but something in his eyes went dark.
"She was tried, convicted, and burned for lust," Lucan continued. "As she screamed, they said you wept like a boy. That they had to chain you to keep you from the flames."
"I didn't weep," Caelin said, voice low and steady. "I prayed."
"For what?" Lucan scoffed. "That your bastard would be born of ashes?"
"I prayed," Caelin growled, stepping forward now, "that the fire would take me too. That God would count my soul with hers. Because what we had was not sin—it was covenant."
Lucan sneered. "Covenant? She was your downfall."
"She was my wife," Caelin snapped. "And I will carry the weight of her ashes, bearing them better than you'll carry that stolen title."
Silence pulsed for a beat. Then Lucan raised his blade in anger and pointed it at Caelin's heart.
"Then let her memory die with you."
Caelin lifted his own sword, the Lion sigil of Judah glinting on the hilt.
"You dishonor yourself with such language. You cast stones, yet you are a sinner yourself, as are we all."
Caelin motions to everyone in the room.
Behind Lucan, the elite knights of the Swords of Eden stepped forward, but the older knight raised a gauntlet to halt them.
"No," Lucan said. "This is mine."
The chamber darkened, and the mock battlefield stilled—two warriors facing each other, the broken past between them like a drawn blade.