### Chapter 165: The Arrival of Chaos (Part 2)
To the north of the border defense line, where the once glorious Holy City stood as a site of pilgrimage, now loomed a darkened landscape, engulfed in clouds and scattered with ashes—a real-life horror show, but without the popcorn.
Saint Margaret, accompanied by her lovely band of saintesses, stood tall amidst the chaos. Leading more than two hundred knights was Safiros, while behind them loitered swathes of volunteers and militia, forming a makeshift army that looked like it had rolled out of bed just in time for the apocalypse.
As dusk fell, a mere kilometer away to the north, the campfire of the Shanter Falcon Army sprang to life, igniting the hillside basin with flickering flames, akin to a party that had gotten out of hand just as the sun started to set.
Lafael and Pasifal had rallied the Hunter Cavalry and met up with Margaret and Safiros in the valley, joining this impromptu gathering of concerned citizens.
This wasn’t the first rodeo for Her Holiness Margaret with the Shanter Army. She had previously encountered the new emperor of the Empire, Miss Silvya’s biological dad—talk about family ties! He was determined to resist the disaster, and frankly, it was hard not to feel inspired by that kind of resolve. It made sense that he had a daughter like Silvya.
The Western Continent still had a fighting chance.
Seeing the soldiers sprawled across the hills, their eyes alight with fiery determination, their roars echoing with confidence—there were moments when Margaret thought, “Maybe, just maybe, the West will be okay again soon.”
But then, reality crashed in like an unwelcome guest at a party. Late at night, when her mind turned back to the heavier thoughts, she knew deep down that might just be the worst kind of self-deception.
The Church had collapsed, the Council was no more, and even that once-sacred Holy City was now ashes. Countless scenes of brave knights meeting their doom still haunted Margaret during those sleepless nights. She hadn’t expected that sending off Pope Angel to the underground prison over six months ago would be the last she ever saw of him.
They had failed.
Pope Angel, St. George, Cardinal Michel, Cardinal Elena, the Owl, the Council… they all flopped harder than a fish out of water.
But they were the strongest, the ones who could have stopped the “Mad God.”
Now all that remained was a newly crowned emperor still trying to figure out where he parked his crown and a young queen, fresh off establishing some semblance of order in Ethanbel, about to dive into the most chaotic of chaotic wars, and… Margaret herself, who couldn’t even gather the remaining forces of the Church.
Could they win?
Margaret sure didn’t know.
For the past two months, she’d thrown herself into every conceivable plan she could haphazardly come up with—many people found her enthusiasm contagious. But deep inside, her faith in the West’s victory was beginning to wane.
Especially after witnessing the destruction of the Emerald City first-hand. She had seen the Abyss turn an entire royal guard into confetti without breaking a sweat. Those brave souls who dared to fight, their deaths only made the chaos stronger. It was a real “What was the point?” kind of situation.
They couldn’t win.
No matter if it was Skarlij, Elizabeth, or herself—none of them stood a chance.
She knew her thoughts were bleak, but then again, who better understands the meaning of “Mad God” than someone who has been in the thick of it? The only shred of willpower keeping her going was the wild card in this mess—Miss Silvya.
When Carlos came back from the Holy City to detail the grim situation, Margaret spent several sleepless nights tossing and turning, heart racing over the last glimmer of hope she had seen.
Hope—you know, that tiny flicker that always arrives just when you least expect it.
From that moment, she realized that not just she, but everyone—Emperor Skarlij, Queen Elizabeth, and the thousands of warriors charging to the front—had a single job: to protect that sliver of hope, whatever it took, to prevent it from being devoured by darkness once more.
“The minions of chaos aren’t necessarily coming after the Kingdom or the Empire.”
When she met with the Shanter Falcon Army, Margaret didn’t mince words and laid out her thoughts, which she had devised with Carlos, to the man rumored to be Miss Silvya’s brother—the commander of the Falcon Army.
“The Mad God is cornered in the Holy City. Your sister, Miss Peilo, has nearly pushed him to a dead end, but her battle with the Deity isn’t over yet. If we let the minions invade the Holy City now, that might be game over for us.”
“So, we’re heading there, doing everything possible to prevent the worst outcome.”
“But we can’t do it alone.”
…………
On May 8th, 1190, southwest of the border line, the Shanter Lion Hunting Army, led by Skarlij and Hunter Bella, arrived at the battlefield.
Two days later, Queen Elizabeth journeyed to the pilgrimage site and laid eyes on the smoky remains of the Holy City, in the midst of which stood an enormous tree—nearly a hundred meters tall, radiating a ghostly white light, seemingly growing right from the city’s center.
Meanwhile, back at the camp behind the defensive fortress, Barry was sipping soup while observing Lilith, wrapped in a fur blanket, blankly staring at the fire crackling nearby. Her hair was all wild and unkempt, but hey, it was a battle camp, after all.
After a few moments, Barry finally set down his soup bowl and tried to cheer her up. “Stop overthinking it; we’re going to win.”
He wanted to say more, but words escaped him.
Because even he wasn’t entirely convinced that “we’re going to win” was anything more than a nice sentiment.
From Lilith’s speeches—no, long before that, from the letters she had sent him—Barry had a fuzzy inkling of what awaited them. And now, he was more convinced than ever: this might just be humanity’s final stand against the Abyss disaster.
Win or lose, this was it.
That’s why they had to embrace this war head-on, for the homeland behind them, for those who were waiting for their victorious return—warriors like Barry were a dime a dozen with such thoughts.
Even his silent, fidgety co-combatant across the fire, Ryan, shared that sentiment.
Barry knew that Ryan, slightly older than him and still not the most mature of youths—though he probably should be considered a man at this point—used to be just a troublemaker in their village, the kind of kid who only knew how to goof off with the other boys.
Deep down, he was just a timid guy, and Barry knew that well.
Yet here he was, having signed up for the border defense without consultation, joining the frontlines against the Abyss.
So now, they were comrades who could trust each other with their lives.
“Ryan…”
Barry suddenly felt nostalgic, recalling their childhood skirmishes during celebrations, always exchanging glares because of Miss Silvya. They had been at odds for what felt like eternity.
“Honestly, I never thought you’d have the guts to come here.”
Ryan lifted his head to glare at him, pouting. “Come on, cut me some slack; now’s not the time for banter.”
Ryan was not in the mood, but Barry didn’t seem to get the memo, pressing on. “What, scared?”
“……”
Faced with Barry’s provocation, Ryan almost snapped but held it in. Finally, he lowered his head and asked quietly, “You mean if I d*e, would Miss Silvya be sad about it?”
Barry blinked, taken aback.
“Ha!”
He burst into laughter. “Can’t believe after all these years, you’re still hung up on that!”
If this had happened before, Ryan would have vehemently denied it and fired back, just like they did on that fateful day of the celebration.
But now, he was past that immature phase.
“I know I’m just an… inconspicuous guy.”
