Part 41

The drums of the Third Jarat War are sounding.
The Balan Empire and Samardun stand adorned for war.

From darkness toward light, the vision of the Aran Plateau slowly emerges. Far away, in the golden glow of dawn, twelve fortresses rise on the horizon—no, not fortresses, but moving centres of war. Twelve banners tear through the sky, each banner bearing a curse of its own.

The sky seems stained with blood. This is not the roar of thunder—it is rage itself. Three scents fill the air: blood, steel, and fury. Nature appears frozen in this ominous moment.
Birds have fled the sky, leaves tremble in fear, and the earth itself seems to wait for its own rupture.

******

The princes of the twelve realms have arrived.

From the front comes the army of Dara Balan. His chariot is no mere vehicle—it is a blazing volcano mounted on wheels, advancing forward. Behind him march ten thousand Kavanruth—each beast three times the size of a lion, their roars shaking the mountains.

The fur of the Kavanruth dances like living flames. Their eyes burn like glowing embers, visible for miles even through darkness. With every step, the ground ignites, grass burns to ash. Fire bursts from their breath, turning the air itself into something scorching.

Dara Balan stands upon his fire-chariot, sparks leaping from his armour. His face is carved like stone, yet his eyes blaze with the power of a thousand suns. He roared once—and ten thousand Kavanruth roared with him.

The sky split apart, the clouds trembled, and snowfall began upon the distant mountains.

“The Emperor of Fire has arrived,” whispered the wind.

From the second direction advances the force of fifteen thousand Thanlas under Gamar Balan. The earth trembles with their marching—no, this is not mere vibration, this is an earthquake.

The Thanlas resemble apes, yet each beast stands fifteen feet tall. Their bodies are covered in iron armour—no, not armour, but their own skin, harder than iron itself. In their hands are massive hammers, each weighing as much as a cow.
From their eyes fall tears of iron—shining like molten metal, burning craters into the ground where they land. With every step, the earth collapses and stone shatters.

Gamar Balan sits upon an iron throne carried by twenty Thanlas. His face holds no emotion—only merciless cruelty. He raised one hand, and fifteen thousand Thanlas struck their hammers into the ground together. The world lurched, and distant rivers began to flow backwards.

“The Emperor of Steel has arrived,” roared the mountains.

From the third direction, silently advancing, come six thousand Malth of Medan Balan. They are long like serpents, their bodies covered in iron scales. They move with their bellies against the earth—no sound, no tremor.

The eyes of the Malth are like bottomless voids. To look into them feels like staring into endless darkness. Their breath releases poisonous smoke that kills trees on contact and erodes stone.

Each Malth is fifty feet long, and they move so silently that even a falling leaf sounds louder than their advance.

Medan Balan stands upon the head of a massive Malth, holding a black staff from which smoke rises. A terrifying smile rests on his face—a smile that freezes the heart. He waved his staff once, and black rain began to fall from the sky—poisoned rain.

“The Emperor of Destruction has arrived,” cried the wind.

From the fourth direction comes the army of Orlan Balan—but they cannot be seen. Only shadows, vague forms hidden among the trees.
His soldiers are perfect hunters—invisible by day, their eyes glowing like wolves at night. There is no sound of footsteps, no sound of breath—they are the shadows of death.

Orlan Balan himself is unseen—only his voice drifts from deep within the forest. His laughter echoes—a cold, merciless laugh that freezes blood.

“The King of Darkness has arrived,” whispered the trembling leaves.

From the fifth direction comes the force of Delran Balan, like a storm of red desert sand. Beneath their feet lies desert, and with them comes scorching wind that drains all life.
His soldiers are thorned like desert cacti, their eyes burning with the fury of the desert sun. As they advance, green grass withers and rivers dry up.

Delran Balan sits atop a camel—no, not a camel, but a colossal scorpion. In his hand is a golden sword radiating heat.

“The Emperor of the Desert has arrived,” wept the clouds.

From the sixth direction, the army of Solran Balan advances like a rushing current of water. Behind them flows an artificial river.
His soldiers are hidden beneath the water, only the tips of their swords glinting above the surface. Wherever they go, floods follow.

Solran Balan stands upon the water itself, waves playing beneath his feet. His hair flows and dances like cascading streams.

“The King of the Sea has arrived,” thundered the clouds.

From the seventh direction, the soldiers of Belran Balan charge like madmen. They run, leap, and scream.
Madness burns in their eyes, blood stains their faces, and in their hands are weapons they use even upon themselves. Like wild elephants, they trample everything in their path.

Belran Balan himself laughs like a lunatic, his laughter making the entire battlefield tremble.

“The Emperor of Madness has arrived,” the earth screamed in terror.

The princes of the twelve realms have arrived.
These twelve princes—whose hearts are harder than stone, whose eyes burn with flashes of fire—know that Barzak Bhagar cannot be defeated easily.

Barzak is not merely a man—he is a living rebellion, a walking dream, every breath of his carrying the pain and hope of a thousand years. His death would mean the death of hope, the death of a dream—and dreams do not die.

Thus began the great war.

The twelve banners of the twelve realms now fly together. The sky has turned black.
The earth is shaking.
The sea has grown furious.