Lead the way
The heavy rain poured down from the sky like a waterfall, accompanied by thunder that rumbled, briefly illuminating the sky in a flash of white.
Raindrops drummed relentlessly on the tent roof, creating a constant "pitter-patter" sound.
Inside the command tent, five priests gathered around a table, their expressions grave.
On the table lay a sand table model of the Celestoria Mountain Range, alongside reports from the front lines.
Each document deepened the somber looks on their faces.
Father Raphael sat at the table, his expression uncharacteristically unsettled.
His brow was furrowed as he gripped a cup of strong coffee, taking a forceful sip in an attempt to stay alert, though the weariness in his eyes was unmistakable.
Dark circles under his eyes revealed the toll of constant pressure and challenges that had deprived him of rest.
The other four priests looked equally worn, standing silently around the table, their faces etched with exhaustion, and the atmosphere in the room was so heavy it seemed to weigh down the air itself.
"We've been stuck in the middle of the Celestoria Mountain Range for over a month, and Father Marco from the rear has been sending letter after letter asking why we haven't broken through yet."
Father Raphael's deep voice finally broke the silence.
He took another sip of the bitter coffee, his hands trembling slightly, trying to maintain his focus.
The strong coffee was his only means of staying alert these days, but no amount of caffeine could erase the anxiety gnawing at him from within.
"Supplies are running low as well, and every day we receive more letters urging us to move forward," he sighed heavily.
The other four priests exchanged weary glances but said nothing, their fatigue evident in every line of their faces.
At the start of the battle, the situation had been promising.
The church's army had advanced deep into the mountain range, almost seeing the light of victory.
But the magic beast army's counterattack had been like a sudden storm, trapping them firmly in the middle of the range.
More than a month had passed, and not only had they failed to advance, but they were now in danger of being forced to retreat.
The situation deteriorated daily, with dwindling supplies and plummeting morale.
The priests remained silent, their faces showing the strain of countless failed strategies.
They had tried every tactic they could think of—ambushes, defensive stands—but nothing had shifted the balance.
The number of magic beasts hadn't decreased; if anything, it seemed to be growing.
There had been discussions about retreating, especially among the frontline commanders.
They had watched their soldiers fall one by one, worn down by the endless fighting with the magic beasts, their morale and strength slowly draining away.
Yet, despite this, every suggestion to retreat had been rejected.
The reasoning was simple: the higher-ups believed the war had not reached a point of no return, that there was still a glimmer of hope if they pressed on.
After all, they had not yet breached the core of the Celestoria Mountain Range.
Retreating would mean abandoning the entire front line.
The five priests, their eyes bloodshot, sat silently in the tent. The oppressive stillness weighed heavily on them.
Outside, the sound of soldiers' footsteps occasionally broke the silence, but even these usual noises seemed to carry a heavier burden in the oppressive atmosphere.
Father Raphael was about to speak again when his eyes suddenly narrowed, his gaze locking onto the tent's entrance.
There was an unsettling presence in the air, something foreign.
The other priests had also noticed this shift, glancing at each other before turning their attention toward the tent flap.
The next moment, the flap was suddenly pushed aside, and a tall, muscular man with white hair stepped in.
He radiated an aura of power, with a prominent scar across his left eye and a deep green right eye.
His clothes were drenched, clearly having just braved a storm.
The man shook his head casually, scattering water droplets from his silver-white hair, a roguish smile on his face.
He bared his white teeth, his grin filled with a mix of ease and mischief.
"Don't be so tense," he said lightly, as though the tense atmosphere had nothing to do with him.
Rainwater dripped from the tent flap behind him, and when he noticed it wetting the floor, he paused briefly before letting the flap fall back down. He casually patted the water off his clothes.
"Sorry about that," the white-haired man said with no hint of actual apology.
The five priests continued to watch him intently, his sudden appearance catching everyone off guard.
The man, however, seemed completely unbothered, walking right up to Father Raphael and, without hesitation, picking up a cup from the table, drinking it all in one go.
He grimaced, his face showing a trace of bitterness.
"So bitter! Do you guys drink this kind of coffee every day?" he asked, glancing at Father Raphael.
As soon as he finished speaking, the white ring on his left hand shimmered, and a large jug of wine appeared in his hand.
Ignoring the priests, he casually uncorked the jug and took a deep swig, the rich scent of alcohol filling the tent.
"Anyone want some?" he asked, sweeping his gaze across the priests.
No one responded.
Seeing that no one was interested, he shrugged and continued drinking, acting as if nothing around him mattered.
Father Phillips watched the white-haired man with a frown and finally broke the silence.
"You didn't come here just to offer us a drink, did you?"
The white-haired man set down the jug, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
He smiled.
"My lord wants to invite you all for a chat," he said.
Father Thomas had already begun gathering earth element magic, ready to counter any potential threat.
"Father Thomas, a guest is a guest."
Father Raphael's calm voice stopped Thomas from acting impulsively.
Thomas hesitated for a moment before slowly dispersing the energy he had gathered.
"Alright, I'll go," Father Raphael said calmly.
This response surprised both the white-haired man and the other priests, who hadn't expected Father Raphael to agree so readily.
The white-haired man's face lit up with a broad smile, a glimmer of approval in his eyes.
"Good! My lord has always admired Father Raphael's decisiveness."
The other four priests were about to object, but before they could speak, the white-haired man raised his hand, his sharp gaze sweeping over Father Carsey, Father Thomas, Father Weiss, and Father Phillips.
"You four are coming too.
My lord doesn't want to miss out on any important guests."
His words were like a stone dropped into a still lake, causing ripples of tension.
The priests' expressions darkened, and their hands instinctively tensed, preparing for a fight.
But in the next moment, a powerful pressure emanated from the white-haired man, like a sudden gust of wind engulfing the entire tent.
The priests' breaths caught in their throats, their hearts pounding as if an invisible force was pressing down on them.
In the midst of this pressure, they could vaguely make out a giant white tiger apparition, its fierce eyes glaring, as if warning them not to make any rash moves.
The four priests felt their hearts tighten, and the magic they had been gathering came to an abrupt halt.
Father Raphael remained calm, staring at the white-haired man.
Despite the overwhelming pressure, his expression remained unaffected, as if none of this concerned him.
The white tiger's phantom roared in his face, but he stood firm, showing no sign of fear.
"You don't need to use such tactics to intimidate us. We've already agreed to meet your lord."
Father Raphael's voice was steady.
The white-haired man blinked in surprise before a smile crept across his face.
With a wave of his hand, the pressure and the tiger apparition disappeared as if they had never existed.
"Haha, good! Very good! As expected of Father Raphael, truly brave!"
The four priests discreetly breathed a sigh of relief, though they remained wary of the white-haired man.
Father Raphael nodded slightly and spoke.
"Lead the way. We'll go with you to see your lord."