A New World, an immersive game experience

There, a simple one or two thousand were fighting. Each fighting a good distance from others. Their attacks sending ripples through the air. Rending any surviving foliage from the ground and bringing forth more carnage.

Occasionally, a spell would appear. Focused, sadly, on the outskirts. Changing the very landscape as it rolled over hundreds of men, women, and others.

In the middle of this battlefield, an elven maid danced. Her sword moving thought the air like flowing water, tracing beautiful arcs accompanied by fountains of blood.

Her visage appeared to flicker through the battlefield. Crossing kilometers in the blink of an eye. Leaving an open-eyed corpse spraying blood in her afterimage as she passed.

Even when facing the enemy commander, her dance did not stop.

Grunting, the orc warlord jumped back to give himself some reprieve from her relentless bladework. That was his first and last mistake in their engagement. But also the only option he had to himself.

Her attacks had rained down too fast for his eyes to follow, draining his strength as his regeneration abilities struggled to keep up. He had to retreat, or he would have ended up like his chieftains—who she had finished in all but a single attack.

The elven maiden did not chase as the warlord retreated. Instead, a dozen invisible attacks rained on the orc. Boring holes through his flesh and ripping his organs apart. Despite his vitality, the orc did not stand up again.

"Itireae. We must move to the next location." An elven guard said, looking at the site around the maiden with trepidation.

Because of the peace, she had never shown her strength. This had led to many talking ill of her, especially that she had snatched the role of supreme commander despite being only Tier 10.

Those voices were now quiet. No longer did they grumble in the shadows. No longer did they question their lord\'s decision—which they had thought came out of emotional debt to the girl. They finally saw her talent for what it was.

Few could stand against her, even though she had yet to reach Tier 10. Reaching that level was only a matter of time, that much was clear now. And she was not in a hurry. Having always taken restraint over haste, she had mastered everything she could while recalling tales of her father.

Her earliest memory was when he gifted her an egg. The egg that had born Mneme, her closest friend. It was also the only memory of her father she still recalled after these centuries.

Landing next to the elven maiden, the roc nuzzled its head against its master\'s shoulder. Who obliged and petted the bird as she gazed at the battlefield. Confirming that no more of their enemies were alive.

They would not remain to clean up the fringes. After killing the commander, they had to move to aid the next kingdom. Despite that, she did not want to leave just yet. For this would only buy the kingdom a temporary peace.

"When are you going to tame a true companion?" One captain asked. "One you can ride into battle and have fight by your side." The elf paused, looking at the Roc with disdain. "Instead of one you need to protect and send away when fighting."

Itireae did not reply, though her gaze turned cold. "You would never understand our bond." Itireae replied, her tone clarifying that she would allow no further discussion on the matter. "How are our casualties?"

"Eleven dead, twenty severely injured."

​ Getting the report, Itireae sighed. It was common for them to ignore the casualties born by their allies—those they had come to protect. After all, compared to them, they would die in the blink of an eye, regardless of the war and its outcome.

Itireae had once thought similarly. Until she had taken her time to pause her training and visit the front lines, according to Lord Athtar\'s command.

Where she had learned how much life their so called \'lessers\' experienced in a scant few years. Making most of every single day afforded to them.

Compared to those she had come to know, she could hardly call her past thousand years of life, living. The number of fond memories in the little over a year she had spent with the centaurs far outweighed the memories of the rest of her life.

Sure, they were far weaker than her. And they would die before she even reached true adulthood. But that did not change the value she had seen. The lives she had experienced and come to find joy in sharing.

"Our allies?" She asked, her tone shockingly cold. Confusing those around her. Though they were still quick to give their report. After all, this was not the first time she had asked.

The one to reply, however, was not one of her captains. Rather, he was a young recruit still in training. Too weak to join the main fight, she had sent him and others like him to support their allies in the fringes of the battle. "Of their army, half was annihilated."

"Of their kingdom," the elf continued, "a third has fallen. They have lost their bulwark, comprising five cities and multiple towns. I can\'t give a number for how many died."

Sensing that Itireae wanted an estimate, the elf did his best. "We can expect that over 5 million have died. Perhaps even 10."

Those numbers were devastating, but it meant little to the elves. To Itireae, however, it weighed heavy in her heart. For this was not the first time she received such a report. This was the tenth kingdom she was sent to give aid, and the tenth report of this magnitude. And it was a conservative estimate at that.

Respite her strength and that of the company she commanded, she could not save those she came to rescue.

Some might call their achievements great. Claiming they had stolen victory out of the jaws of defeat. But Itireae only saw those she had failed to protect. The wonderful lives, lived to the fullest, snuffed out before their time.

It made her recall when Pelaros was on his deathbed. Imaging the pain that those close to the deceased must be struggling with made her anger boil. Made her hate for this war grow. And made her realize her weakness. How, no matter how strong she was, she could not protect everyone.

Despite her strength, she could do little to change things in the grand scale of the war. At best, she could patrol around the kingdoms that fell within the Evehell empire.

But even then, she could not stop the senseless loss of life. And once the devil kings moved, things would only become even worse.

Her gaze moving over the battlefield, spreading hundreds of kilometers and including the three of the lost cities. She felt she finally understood. Finally understood the peculiar elf called Eldrian.

Understood why he rushed headlong into things, failing to think them through. Risking his life, time and time again. Why he appeared to always be in a rush, despite being an elf like her.

"Leave a squad to help in the recovery aid." It was the most Itireae could offer. A single squad might not sound like much, but each person in her company was a true High Elf.

Masters at dynamic casting. Their help in the rebuilding would be invaluable, and time was of the essence. This was not the first and it would not be the last attack.

The true war had started. No longer were it just the outcasts attacking. The bandits of the chaos lands, if you would. No, now it was the princes and princesses. And soon, the kings, queens, and even the emperor would join.