Lord of the Truth

On the far side of the vast, trembling battlefield— "..."

Rinara stood high above the chaos, upon the gleaming hull of a Note of Destruction–II–class warship.

She did not look down. She did not flinch. She showed no concern for the countless lives being crushed and erased beneath her with every passing heartbeat.

All she did was watch the colossal mountain that loomed on the opposite horizon.

She wore a magnificent black-and-gold armor forged solely for her—a masterpiece of craftsmanship that radiated both elegance and dread. Even her nine flowing tails were encased in segmented metallic plates that shimmered faintly beneath the light of the burning sky, forming long, curved lines of gold along their length.

Her hair—long, pale, and silken—fluttered like threads of moonlight in the thin air, yet she showed no interest in the gentle winds whispering around her. Her eyes were sharp, narrow, and merciless—like the gaze of a serpent that had already coiled around its prey. From her body emanated a suffocating bloodlust, heavy and tangible, one that could be sensed from hundreds of meters away.

Every muscle in her body was tensed, ready to unleash devastation upon that mountain across the field—

and yet, she restrained herself. Something held her back. Something deeper than anger, colder than wrath.

"My Lady," came a firm voice from behind her.

Of the four warriors standing at her back, each clad in full heavy armor and bearing seven or eight tails, one stepped forward and bowed deeply before continuing,

"I have received the report. The army will commence the gradual withdrawal operation."

"..." Rinara simply inclined her head in silent acknowledgment, her expression unchanging.

The four soldiers behind her immediately saluted, then vaulted over the edge of the warship, soaring into the air in four separate directions.

Clatter Clatter

"..." Finally, Rinara's gaze drifted downward toward the chaos below.

Now, the army of the Centennial Cradle Empire began the legendary maneuver for which it was known across the sectors—the Progressive Replacement Formation.

This strategy was one of the Empire's most famous signatures. Everyone in the universe knew they were human, and everyone knew they walked the Third Path—the Path of Elixirs. But none could comprehend the depths of their alchemy. No one knew where they acquired such impossible quantities of materials, or how they brewed that rare and sacred substance known as the Affinity Elixir—a potion capable of amplifying human stamina and focus beyond mortal limits, allowing soldiers to fight for endless hours without faltering.

Even the mighty factions of neighboring sectors—those with no enmity toward the Cradle Empire—had sent ambassadors and scholars to negotiate for the formula or purchase it in bulk. But every offer had been refused. The secret of the elixir remained buried within the Empire's laboratories.

Yet no matter how miraculous the temporary enhancement was, the surge always came to an end. When the elixir's effect finally faded… that was when the true battle began—the decisive moment that determined victory or annihilation.

...At that moment, the front lines of the human army began to shift, executing the maneuver with disciplined precision.

The rearmost ranks advanced rapidly, slicing through the formation until they reached the front, unleashing fierce strikes upon the enemy's vanguard. Meanwhile, the weary soldiers of the first line—those who had been fighting for what felt like eternity—slowly retreated, disengaging from their foes one by one before leaping away in powerful bursts, their armor streaked with blood and dust.

The second line repeated the process, then the third, then the ranks of archers. Every unit began rotating in perfect synchronization, exchanging places with those who had just arrived from the rear.

Through this method, the exhausted frontline troops could fall back, rest, and take another dose of the Affinity Elixir before its current charge expired.

The tactic had been analyzed, documented, and refined to theoretical perfection across countless campaigns—but perfection on paper rarely mirrored reality.

For the battle-hardened veterans of the Cradle Empire—those who had trained and fought since the age they served beneath the banners of the Nine Paths Empire, back on the ancient world of Orlando—this maneuver was more than a tactic; it was instinct, a rhythm engraved into their very souls. They could execute it with flawless precision, moving as one living entity. To an outside observer, it looked less like warfare and more like an elegant, terrifying dance—one in which the flow of the battlefield itself bowed to their will.

In fact, the veterans often turned this rotation into a weapon of momentum: as fresh troops surged forward, the experienced soldiers used their renewed force to deliver devastating counterstrikes, pushing the enemy line back even further and seizing the upper hand in a single, unified motion.

However… not every soldier shared that mastery.

Reaching such perfection required years of brutal experience, sharp instincts, and the scars of countless near-deaths. And in this maneuver—where timing and coordination meant survival—every misstep, every hesitation, every moment of confusion was fatal.

The number of Cradle Empire armies that had been completely wiped out while attempting this same maneuver had reached seventeen.

Seventeen armies—each composed of tens, and at times hundreds of thousands of soldiers—had been utterly crushed across the centuries, all because of a single miscalculation during the replacement maneuver.

A single mistake in the rhythm of time.

A single heartbeat out of sync… and an entire legion would vanish beneath the weight of chaos.

Had that changed after all these long years of suffering, loss, and relentless refinement?

Not really.

The Centennial Cradle Empire had grown too vast, too swiftly. Its expansion was like a wildfire consuming the edges of the universe, spreading faster than wisdom could keep up. There was no longer any method—nor any manpower—that allowed the Caesar to send seasoned veterans to every new battlefield that erupted across their ever-expanding territories.

So the Caesar devised a new plan.

He gathered all the true veterans—the ones who had mastered the rhythm of war and time—and forged them into a single unified army, a living bastion that he kept stationed within the capital. They were to serve as the Empire's unbreakable shield, dispatched only to defend the heart of the realm or to crush the most violent, uncontrollable fronts of war.

As for the rest of the Empire's endless battlefields, they were left in the hands of the new generation—young soldiers still in training, still unpolished, still untested.

And today… was one of those training days.

"Now!!"

The enemy general roared the command as soon as he noticed the telltale movements of the Cradle army—the beginning of the progressive Replacement formation. His voice echoed like thunder across the blood-soaked field.

BOOM BOOM!

The entire first line of his troops suddenly halted combat. Shields raised, knees slammed into the dirt—they crouched in unison, forming a metallic wall.

Then, something massive shifted behind them.

Shoulder-mounted cannons.

Dozens—no, hundreds—of them.

Fwooooom!

A deep rumble shook the plains.

"Oh no…" Raiden's pupils dilated in dread. He had seen this tactic before, and he knew exactly what it meant. The timing was disastrous. "This won't end well…" he muttered under his breath before raising his spear high, shouting at the top of his lungs, "Special units! Advance—NOW!!"

From the distance, he could already see the terrifying formation of Terra Knights—their golden banners flaring in the wind, their charge like a living storm tearing through the horizon.

Just their arrival would be enough to decide the outcome of this battle.

But as Raiden's eyes darted across the battlefield once more… a cold realization struck him.

He was too late.

At least a quarter of this young, inexperienced army was doomed—victims of inexperience and hesitation.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The cannons unleashed a relentless barrage, shaking the air itself. The projectiles screamed across the battlefield, tearing through dirt, armor, and flesh. Most of the shots struck the newly rotated ranks who had just arrived at the front, blowing them apart before they could even orient themselves.

But they weren't the true targets.

The cannons were aimed at the retreating lines—the soldiers who had turned their backs and begun to withdraw.

The shells tore through the first twenty ranks effortlessly. With no formation and no order, the army had devolved into chaos—soldiers running in all directions, commands lost in the roar of explosions. The barrage punched through like lightning through paper, cutting down anyone trying to flee.

Within seconds, thousands were dead. The battlefield was painted red as bodies fell like rain.

The first twenty ranks had been reduced to nothing—shattered between corpses, crippled survivors, and confused soldiers who no longer knew their positions.

The army's formation had completely collapsed.

"CRUSH THEM!!" the enemy general bellowed, his voice filled with savage triumph. He raised his iron baton high, and his troops surged forward like a tidal wave.

It was time to finish the job—to slaughter whatever remained standing from those broken ranks, and then grind the final lines of resistance beneath their boots.

Today, the ground battle would end in glorious victory.

RRRRREEEEEEE!

But at that precise moment, the heavens trembled.

From above the battlefield, a shadow descended—vast, metallic, and blazing with golden lights.

A Note of Destruction–II–class warship tore through the clouds, its engines howling like thunder as it positioned itself directly over the killing field.

Then—its hangars opened.

Whoooosh Whoooosh!

Thousands of golden-armored soldiers rained down from the sky like divine punishment. They fell in disciplined formations, their massive tails trailing behind them, cutting through the smoke and ash like streaks of light.

Each one landed with explosive force, their arrival shaking the earth beneath the enemy's feet.

"Hmph!"

The figure standing at their forefront, clearly not a human with those ears and tails, he raised a hand, pointing toward the enemy's cannon squads.

His voice, cold and commanding, echoed like a verdict from the heavens:

"In the name of the Great Centennial Cradle Empire, today all shall witness the wrath of the Kiumaji race!"

And in that instant, the tide of the war shifted—time itself seemed to hold its breath.