Opening:
Opening theme: Hibana (Tales of Arise)
Visuals: Starts out showing Odyn walking forward with Ruby following behind him as it pans up to the sky upon showing the title card: Flame and Crimson. The screen briefly goes to a shot of Odyn's hands before cutting to field surrounded in flames. Ruby looks up to the sky as the silhouettes of her family members are seen walking in the background of her mind. The camera then pans to Odyn reaching a hand towards Ruby, who accepts it as the they walk forward.
The camera then pans to others within the group of friends, ranging from Khanna and Mercury fighting off Grimm, to Syrrai and Jaune training as they clash swords. Roy and Yang are seen sparring before she falls to the ground frustrated with herself momentarily before Roy offers a hand to help her up to her feet. It then pans to several lights, representing the group of friends. Odyn reaches out towards Ruby and the two of them grab hands before standing back to back with their weapons drawn.
The dark elf then draws his blade as he rushes towards a giant Grimm. After slashing it, a few times and dodging it with Roy accompanying him. They're saved by a shot from Ruby's sniper scythe. The scene then pans to Baron and Flare fighting off a wyvern Grimm with Blake, Shallot, Yang, and Sun helping. As the beast closed in, Syrrai rushes in and knocks back the beast with an Arte from her shield.
This opened up things for Daikon to blast the beast away. Odyn is then seen to be clashing swords with someone in dark armor briefly before both gain distance and charge in again for a final clash. The clash causes the screen to go white, fading into a field where everyone meets and walks off towards mistral together.
Chapter 32: The Atlas- Dark Elf War
The Albanahr Republic Encampment - Outskirts of Former Vale Territory
General Thaelon Branwen surveyed the forward command center with quiet satisfaction, his amber eyes reflecting the glow of the tactical display showing Atlesian forces in steady retreat across the northern continent. Around him, dark elven officers moved with purpose and confidence, their once-hidden heritage now worn proudly in the open air. Maps of former Vale—now officially renamed the Albanahr Republic—decorated the war tent's walls, the borders already expanding beyond what the human kingdom had once claimed.
"Another successful push along the eastern flank," reported Commander Vash, her silver hair bound in a warrior's braid. "The Atlesian mechs don't function well in the forested terrain. Our rangers are picking them off before they can even identify targets."
Thaelon nodded. "And our casualties?"
"Minimal. Three wounded, none killed. The healing corps is already seeing to them."
Such reports had become commonplace in recent weeks. What Atlas had expected to be a swift suppression of the "elven rebellion" had transformed into a humiliating series of defeats. The technological superiority they had relied upon for generations was proving ineffective against combatants who had centuries of magical knowledge and guerrilla warfare expertise.
In the communal areas of the camp, off-duty soldiers shared meals and stories, an atmosphere of cautious celebration permeating the evening air. For many, this was the first time in generations they could openly display their elven heritage—pointed ears uncovered, ancestral markings proudly displayed, ancient languages spoken without whispers.
"To think," mused an older veteran, his face bearing the scars of fights long before this official war began, "my grandparents hid in the shadows of Vale, pretending to be human just to survive. Now we're reclaiming it as our homeland."
A younger soldier raised her cup. "To the Albanahr Republic. May our children never know what it means to hide who they are."
"To the Republic," came the chorus of responses.
Near the medical tents, civilians displaced by the fighting were being tended to—human and faunus alike. Unlike the propaganda spreading through Atlas communications, the dark elven forces had made deliberate efforts to minimize civilian casualties and provide safe passage for non-combatants.
"We aren't fighting the people of Atlas," Thaelon had declared in his now-famous address when the republic was established. "We are fighting a system that has oppressed not just elves, but faunus and even humans who don't conform to their rigid hierarchies. The enemy is prejudice, not people."
Such philosophical distinctions were easy to maintain when victory followed victory, when hope flourished where desperation once reigned.
Atlas Military Headquarters - Northern Continent
The contrast could not have been more stark. General Ironwood's command center, once a model of Atlesian efficiency and confidence, now bore the heavy atmosphere of a losing campaign. Officers spoke in hushed tones, battle reports were delivered with downcast eyes, and the strategic displays showed more red than blue with each passing day.
In the center of this deteriorating situation stood Jacques Schnee, his face flushed with anger as he paced before the military council.
"This is utterly unacceptable! How can the most advanced military in Remnant's history be losing to—to pointy-eared terrorists who were living in sewers mere months ago?" His voice echoed off the sterile white walls, making several officers wince.
General Ironwood maintained his composure, though the strain showed in the tightness around his eyes. "The situation is more complex than that, Jacques. The dark elves have revealed magical capabilities we hadn't anticipated. Their ability to disrupt our technological systems—"
"Excuses!" Jacques slammed his hand on the polished table. "I've invested millions in developing the weapons you assured me would maintain Atlas supremacy for generations. Now my Dust shipments can't even make it through their blockades."
"Perhaps," ventured a senior officer hesitantly, "we should consider diplomatic options. The elven leadership has repeatedly offered—"
"Diplomacy?" Jacques nearly spat the word. "You want to negotiate with creatures who have stolen an entire kingdom? Who threaten the very foundations of society?" He straightened his already-immaculate white suit. "The Schnee Dust Company will not support any administration that capitulates to these... insurgents."
The threat hung heavy in the air. Without SDC Dust, the Atlesian military would be crippled even further. Everyone in the room knew it.
In the barracks, the mood among common soldiers reflected a different reality than the one Jacques insisted upon. Many had witnessed firsthand the effectiveness of elven combat tactics, the precision of their magical attacks that rendered Atlesian technology useless.
"They don't even kill us when they could," muttered a sergeant to her squad. "Knocked out an entire platoon yesterday—disabled their weapons, neutralized their Auras, and then just... left them there. Took their scrolls so they couldn't call for backup, but otherwise unharmed."
"Psychological warfare," another soldier suggested. "Making us question what we're fighting for."
"Well, it's working," replied the sergeant, lowering her voice further. "My cousin lives in former Vale—says the elves are treating humans there better than Atlas ever did. No SDC labor camps, no poverty districts."
Such whispers were becoming more common, spreading through the ranks like a virus that threatened the military's resolve more effectively than any enemy weapon.
Back in the command center, as Jacques continued his tirade about elven inferiority and the need for more aggressive tactics, a young communications officer quietly passed a message to General Ironwood. The general's face remained impassive as he read it, but a subtle shift in his posture revealed the gravity of its contents.
Another Atlesian outpost had fallen. The dark elves were now within striking distance of the main supply routes to Mantle.
For the first time, Ironwood allowed himself to consider what had previously been unthinkable: Atlas might not win this war.
Atlas Military Headquarters - Secure Chamber
Later that night, when the command center had emptied of all but essential personnel, General Ironwood slipped away to a secure chamber deep within the Atlas military complex. The room was shielded from all surveillance, a precaution that had once seemed paranoid but now proved essential. Winter Schnee awaited him, her posture perfect as always, but with an unusual glint of satisfaction in her eyes.
"Jacques was particularly vocal today," Ironwood remarked, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "I believe his exact words were 'pointy-eared terrorists living in sewers.'"
Winter's expression tightened momentarily at the mention of her father. "His prejudice makes him predictable. High King Berethon anticipated his reaction precisely."
Ironwood activated the secure communication array, its soft blue light illuminating the otherwise dimly lit room. After a series of encoded signals, the holographic forms of two regal figures materialized—High King Berethon and High Queen Hyatan of the Dark Elven Council, their elegant features bearing the distinctive markings of elven nobility.
"General. Specialist Schnee." The High King's voice was melodic yet authoritative. "We received word of another 'defeat' of your forces. Most convincing."
"The casualties?" High Queen Hyatan inquired, her concern evident despite the formal tone.
"None, Your Majesty," Winter replied. "As agreed, our troops were evacuated before the 'attack.' The outpost now stands empty, ready for your forces to claim it."
Ironwood nodded. "Phase Three is proceeding exactly as planned. Jacques grows more desperate by the day, pushing for increasingly extreme measures."
"And the council?" asked Berethon.
"Divided," Ironwood confirmed. "Just as we needed. Half support diplomatic solutions, half demand military escalation. The deadlock prevents any coherent response while we continue to... lose ground."
The High Queen's expression softened slightly. "And the refugees? The humans and faunus from the borderlands?"
"Safe," Winter assured her. "The 'evacuation corridors' your forces have established are working perfectly. Most don't even realize they're being shepherded by your people rather than fleeing from them."
The elaborate deception had been months in the planning—a carefully orchestrated false war designed to achieve what generations of conflict had failed to accomplish: the peaceful integration of Dark Elven society into Remnant's power structure while simultaneously dismantling the corrupt influences that had poisoned Atlas from within.
"The SDC's stock value dropped another fifteen percent today," Winter noted with barely concealed satisfaction. "My father's allies on the council are beginning to distance themselves."
"And how is our other operative performing?" Berethon inquired.
Ironwood's smile widened fractionally. "Specialist Schnee's younger sister continues to play her part to perfection. No one suspects that Weiss Schnee's public 'defection' to support the elven cause was anything but a young idealist's rebellion."
"She has proven to be an excellent ambassador," Hyatan agreed. "The humans in the Republic territories respond well to her. It lends legitimacy to our governance."
The four conspirators reviewed the next phases of their plan—the strategic "failures" that would continue to cede territory, the carefully leaked intelligence that would further undermine Jacques' position, the economic maneuvers that would transfer power away from the corrupt elite of Atlas and into a more equitable coalition.
"We're approaching the most delicate phase," Ironwood cautioned. "If Jacques realizes he's being manipulated..."
"He won't," Winter stated with cold certainty. "My father's greatest weakness is his inability to imagine being outmaneuvered. His arrogance blinds him to possibilities that don't center him as the victor."
The High King nodded solemnly. "Two more weeks, then. By then, the 'war' will have progressed enough that our public peace negotiations can begin without suspicion."
"And Atlas will emerge with a new governance structure," Ironwood concluded, "one free from the stranglehold of corporations and old money."
"One that honors all peoples of Remnant," added the High Queen, "human, faunus, and elf alike."
As the communication ended and the holograms faded, Winter and Ironwood shared a look of determination. The path ahead remained dangerous—one slip, one leaked communication, one misplaced trust could unravel everything. But for the first time in generations, a true peace seemed possible—not through conquest, but through carefully orchestrated change.
"For a better Atlas," Winter said softly.
"For a united Remnant," Ironwood replied.
Beyond the walls of their secure chamber, the "war" continued—a masterful illusion of conflict concealing the birth of an unprecedented alliance.
The Inevitable Defeat: Flashbacks from the Front Lines
The Battle of Frosted Vale - Three Months Earlier
Colonel Marrow Amin crouched behind the remnants of what had once been an Atlesian defense turret, now nothing more than twisted metal bathed in the eerie purple glow of elven magic. Around him, the elite Ace Operatives—Atlas's finest huntsmen—huddled in various states of shock and exhaustion. What should have been a routine defense of a strategic outpost had devolved into a desperate fight for survival.
"How?" whispered Harriet Bree, blood trickling from a gash on her forehead, her semblance of super-speed rendered useless by the strange dampening field that had descended over the battlefield an hour earlier. "How are they neutralizing everything we throw at them?"
Marrow had no answer. The dark elven forces they faced seemed to anticipate their every move, countering Atlesian technological superiority with magic that felt ancient and overwhelming.
They watched as another squadron of Atlesian Knights—the robotic soldiers that formed the backbone of Atlas's military might—suddenly froze mid-stride before collapsing to the ground like puppets with cut strings. Among the advancing elven forces, mages moved with deliberate gestures, their hands weaving patterns that glowed with ethereal light.
"They're using some kind of arcane EMP," Vine Zeki theorized, his usually stoic demeanor cracking slightly as he watched his semblance flicker unpredictably. "Disrupting not just our technology but our very Auras."
Through a pair of binoculars, Marrow observed the elven commander—a tall figure with intricate facial markings and armor that seemed to shift colors with the terrain. Unlike Atlas's rigid formations, the elven forces moved like water around obstacles, adapting constantly, seemingly communicating without scrolls or earpieces.
"Fall back to position omega," came the crackling order over their still-functioning short-range communicators. "All units, strategic withdrawal. Repeat, strategic withdrawal."
Another retreat. Their fifth this month alone.
As they pulled back, Marrow caught sight of something that would haunt him later in his reports: the elven forces were not pursuing them beyond the strategic point they had claimed. There was no bloodthirsty advance, no desire to maximize Atlesian casualties. They simply secured their objective and established a defensive perimeter.
It wasn't a battle to them. It was a reclamation.
The Northern Corridor Ambush - Six Weeks Earlier
General Cordovin had been so certain of the plan's success. The narrow mountain pass known as the Northern Corridor was the perfect place to finally turn the tide—a natural choke point where the elves' mobility would be constrained, where Atlas's superior firepower could finally dictate the terms of engagement.
Five thousand troops, two hundred Paladins, air support from specialized Mantas. The largest single deployment of Atlesian forces since the Great War.
"They cannot possibly match this level of military might," she had declared confidently during the pre-mission briefing. "Today, we remind these insurgents of Atlas's supremacy."
Now, as she stood in the command Manta high above the battlefield, Cordovin watched in stunned silence as her carefully orchestrated operation disintegrated before her eyes.
The elves had been waiting for them.
Not just waiting—they had transformed the battlefield itself. Ancient glyphs had been carved into the mountainsides weeks earlier, dormant until activated by the elven battle-mages. As the Atlesian forces advanced into the canyon, these glyphs awoke, summoning dense fog that rendered targeting systems useless and causing localized gravitational anomalies that played havoc with the heavy Paladins' balance systems.
"Impossible," Cordovin whispered as she watched a squadron of Paladins topple like toys, their pilots struggling to eject as the multi-ton machines became death traps.
The elven forces struck from above, units of lightly armored rangers raining arrows that somehow—impossibly—penetrated the reinforced canopies of the Atlesian vehicles. The arrows carried localized tempest magic that short-circuited systems upon impact.
"Ma'am," her adjutant reported, voice tight with stress, "we've lost contact with the 3rd and 7th battalions. The fog is... it's not normal. Scrolls and communication arrays are going dark as soon as units enter it."
On the tactical display, blue dots representing Atlesian units were winking out one by one. Not destroyed—simply vanishing from their tracking systems.
When the order to retreat finally came, it was already too late for many units. The elves had collapsed the northern exit with controlled avalanches, forcing the Atlesian forces to withdraw the way they had come—directly into the teeth of an elven force that seemed to materialize from the very rock of the mountainside.
Later reports would confirm the devastating toll: three thousand troops captured, most of the Paladins abandoned or destroyed, and the revelation that shocked Atlas high command to its core—despite the scale of the defeat, Atlesian casualties were minimal. The elves had systematically disabled rather than killed whenever possible.
It was, perhaps, the most humiliating aspect of the defeat. The enemy they had dismissed as primitive had shown mercy when they had held total tactical advantage.
The Silent Night Operation - Two Weeks Earlier
It was supposed to be Atlas's masterstroke—a covert infiltration of the newly established elven capital in former Vale, now called Albanahr. Special operatives had trained for months, studying elven culture, learning to mimic their movements, even surgically altering their ears to pass as elven scouts.
Captain Winter Schnee had voiced objections to the operation, citing inadequate intelligence about elven defensive measures. She had been overruled by the council, with her father Jacques being particularly dismissive of her concerns.
"Their primitive magic cannot detect a properly executed Atlesian black operation," he had declared. "One surgical strike at their leadership, and this insulting rebellion collapses."
The mission parameters were clear: infiltrate the capital during the Festival of Stars, assassinate the elven leadership council, plant evidence implicating rival elven factions, and escape in the resulting chaos.
Twenty of Atlas's most elite operatives departed under cover of darkness. None returned.
The after-action report—pieced together from fragmented communications and a single recording recovered from a dead operative's scroll—painted a picture that sent ice through the veins of Atlas Military Intelligence.
The recording showed night-vision footage of operatives moving through the seemingly unguarded outer districts of Albanahr. Their confidence was evident in their smooth movements, their silent hand signals indicating all was proceeding as planned.
Until one operative froze, pointing upward.
The camera panned to reveal a sight that defied explanation—hundreds of tiny lights floating above the city, like stars brought down to hover just above rooftop level. Beautiful, mesmerizing... and, as became immediately clear, a sophisticated detection system.
"Moonspark sentinels," a cultured elven voice announced from the darkness. "They react to intentional deception. Your altered appearances may fool the eye, but not the ancient magics."
The recording dissolved into chaos—operatives finding themselves surrounded not by soldiers but by what appeared to be ordinary elven civilians, each holding orbs of concentrated light. These weren't warriors; they were citizens, yet each moved with the practiced precision of a trained fighter.
The final moments of the recording showed a tall elven woman stepping forward, her eyes glowing with internal light.
"Atlas sends its children to die in shadows," she said, her voice somehow both gentle and terrifying. "We offer them a choice instead. Surrender and learn the truth of what your leaders hide, or persist in this folly and face judgment."
The recording ended with the operative dropping to his knees, scroll tumbling to the ground.
Later intelligence would reveal the most devastating truth of all: the operatives had not been killed. They had been shown something—evidence of some kind—that had caused nineteen of the twenty to willingly surrender. They now lived among the elven population, apparently having chosen to defect after whatever revelation they had been presented with.
The Present: War Room Reflections
In the Atlas war room, General Ironwood stood before the assembled military leadership, the weight of these defeats and dozens of others reflected in the grim set of his features.
"Gentlemen, ladies," he began, his voice steady despite the gravity of his words, "it is time we acknowledge reality. The dark elven forces have outmaneuvered us at every turn. Our technological superiority has been systematically neutralized by magic we barely understand. Our tactical doctrines, developed over generations, have proven ineffective against their adaptive strategies."
Displays around the room showed territory maps with the unmistakable evidence of their failure—more than sixty percent of the former Kingdom of Vale now under elven control, supply lines to frontier outposts severed, multiple specialized forces captured or missing.
"Despite employing our full military doctrine—overwhelming force, technological dominance, specialized huntsmen operations, and covert actions—we have failed to secure a single significant victory," Ironwood continued. "More tellingly, our enemy has consistently demonstrated not just superior tactical acumen but a restraint that we must acknowledge as... deliberate policy."
The room remained silent as the implications sank in. The elves could have inflicted far greater casualties. They had chosen not to.
"Analysis of ammunition expenditure and casualty reports confirms that elven forces prioritize disabling over killing," Winter Schnee added, stepping forward with a data pad. "Their targeting patterns focus on weapons systems, communication arrays, and mobility functions rather than critical life support or personnel concentrations."
An older general—a veteran of campaigns against the Grimm—shook his head slowly. "Are we to believe they're fighting a war they don't wish to win through annihilation? What kind of enemy shows restraint in total war?"
"The kind," Winter replied carefully, "that perhaps doesn't see us as the enemy at all."
The implication hung heavy in the air—a perspective shift too radical for many to accept.
"Regardless of their motivations," Ironwood concluded, "the military reality is now undeniable. Without a fundamental change in approach, total defeat is not just possible but inevitable. The question before us is no longer whether we can win this war, but what terms we might salvage in its conclusion."
For the Atlas generals gathered in that sterile white room, surrounded by the most advanced military technology on Remnant, it was a bitter truth to acknowledge. They had been outmaneuvered not just militarily but philosophically—facing an opponent who fought not for conquest but for recognition, who valued life even when victory permitted its taking.
As Jacques Schnee continued to rage in political chambers about elven inferiority, the military leadership of Atlas had reached a different conclusion: they were not facing primitive rebels but a civilization with capabilities beyond their understanding—one that had chosen restraint when it could have chosen devastation.
It was, perhaps, the most profound defeat of all—the shattering of Atlas's certainty in its own superiority.
Operation Regicide: Atlas's Fatal Miscalculation
The midnight sky over Albanahr glowed with the soft bioluminescent lights that had become characteristic of the reclaimed elven capital. What once was Vale now breathed with ancient magic restored—buildings adorned with living runes, streets lined with trees that shimmered with gentle light, and the grand palace at the city's heart that seemed to have grown organically from the very bedrock.
Inside this palace, Jacques Schnee's last desperate gambit was unfolding.
The Infiltration
Team FROST represented the pinnacle of Atlas's Special Huntsman Operations—four elite warriors handpicked for their exceptional abilities and unwavering loyalty to Atlas. Commander Frost Ederne led the team, his semblance allowing him to lower his body temperature to match his surroundings, rendering him nearly invisible to thermal detection. With him were Reaver, whose weapon could cut through aura shields; Onyx, a master of silent movement and assassination; and Sentinel, their tactical specialist.
They had planned for months. Studied every available intelligence report on the elven rulers. Trained against simulations based on fragmented footage of elven combat techniques. Equipped themselves with experimental technology designed to counteract elven magic.
The mission brief had been delivered by Jacques Schnee himself, his voice cold with fury as he addressed them in a sealed chamber beneath the SDC headquarters.
"The council has authorized this action," he had told them, though several team members would later question whether 'the council' meant the full Atlas Council or merely those members aligned with Schnee interests. "Remove these self-proclaimed monarchs, and the elven resistance will fragment. This... rebellion ends with their deaths."
Their infiltration had been masterful—utilizing ancient service tunnels beneath the former Vale, pathways forgotten even by most elves. They had avoided the standard magical detection fields by moving through blind spots identified by their intelligence assets. Every step precisely calculated, every contingency planned for.
Or so they thought.
The Throne Room
When they finally reached the royal chambers shortly after midnight, they found the doors standing open, as if in invitation. This first warning sign was dismissed as luck or oversight.
The throne room beyond stretched impossibly large, its ceiling open to the night sky, walls adorned with living murals that seemed to shift subtly when viewed from different angles. Two thrones stood at the far end, crafted from what appeared to be living wood and crystal, empty and waiting.
"Too easy," Reaver muttered, her hand tightening on her vibro-blade.
"Spread out," Commander Frost ordered. "Standard elimination formation. They should be returning from the eastern prayer chamber within minutes according to intelligence."
The team moved into position, activating their optical camouflage and readying their weapons. Minutes passed in tense silence.
"Welcome," came a melodious voice that seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once. "We've been expecting you."
The air in the center of the throne room shimmered, and suddenly they were there—High King Berethon and High Queen Hyatan, standing back to back, neither showing any sign of surprise or alarm.
Berethon stood tall and regal, his silver hair flowing down his back, adorned with ceremonial braids and crystal beads that caught the moonlight. He wore no crown, but the intricate markings on his face—elegant lines that framed his eyes and swept across his cheekbones—identified his royal lineage more clearly than any headpiece could.
Beside him, High Queen Hyatan presented an image that immediately set alarm bells ringing in the Atlas team's minds. Unlike the delicate, diplomatic figure their intelligence had described, she stood with the unmistakable poise of a warrior. Her silver-blue hair was pulled back in a practical style, her ceremonial robes concealing what the trained eyes of the assassins immediately recognized as light combat armor. Most disconcerting of all were her eyes—violet and pupilless, glowing with inner light as they scanned the room, seeming to look directly at each hidden assassin in turn.
"Your optical camouflage technology is impressive," Berethon remarked casually. "Quite an advancement since we last encountered it."
Commander Frost gave the signal, and Team FROST sprang into action—their carefully choreographed attack pattern designed to overwhelm even the most prepared targets.
What followed was not combat as they understood it. It was a lesson in humility.
The Reality of Elven Royalty
Hyatan moved like water, her form seeming to flow around Sentinel's precisely aimed shots as if they traveled through molasses rather than air. When Reaver closed in with her vibro-blade—a weapon capable of slicing through military-grade armor—the High Queen caught the blade between her palms, her own aura visibly rippling as it neutralized the weapon's vibrations.
"Atlas still believes that technology alone grants superiority," she observed, her voice calm despite the lethal intent of her attacker. With a twist of her wrists, she shattered the specialized blade and delivered a palm strike to Reaver's chest that sent the elite huntress flying across the throne room.
Meanwhile, Berethon faced Commander Frost and Onyx with an expression of almost paternal disappointment. "You were misled," he stated simply, evading their coordinated attacks with minimal movement. "Sent here on false pretenses by those who care nothing for your lives."
"Traitor propaganda," Frost snarled, activating his semblance fully. The temperature around him plummeted, frost forming on the marble floor as he reached the peak of his ability. "For Atlas!"
He launched forward, ice daggers forming in his hands—a technique that had earned him his name and reputation. Berethon made no move to evade. Instead, the High King extended one hand, and the ice simply... reverted. The daggers turned to water in mid-air, the frost on the floor receding.
"Elemental manipulation is the first magic our children learn," Berethon explained gently. "What takes your semblance's full power is but a beginner's exercise to us."
Across the room, Sentinel had deployed his full tactical arsenal against Hyatan—smoke grenades, flash charges, gravity dust explosives—only to watch in disbelief as the High Queen wove complex patterns in the air with her hands. The smoke coalesced into solid form before dissipating entirely. The flash charges dimmed to harmless sparks. The gravity dust explosives imploded with a soft hiss rather than detonating.
"Your dust is our gift to Remnant," Hyatan explained, closing the distance between them in a blur of movement. "Did you think we would not understand its fundamental nature better than those who merely mine and refine it?"
One by one, the elite team fell—not killed, but decisively defeated, their weapons neutralized, their semblances countered, their specialized training rendered meaningless against opponents whose combat experience spanned centuries rather than decades.
Within minutes, all four members of Team FROST knelt in the center of the throne room, disarmed and subdued. Not one of the elven royal guards had needed to intervene.
The Truth Revealed
"Do you know why Jacques Schnee sent you here?" Berethon asked, his tone conversational as he circled the captured assassins.
"To remove tyrants who've stolen Vale territory," Frost replied through gritted teeth.
Hyatan laughed softly, the sound like crystal chimes. "Is that what he told you? That we stole something that already belonged to us for millennia before humans claimed it?"
She approached Sentinel, whose tactical visor was still attempting to analyze the elven rulers' capabilities—and failing spectacularly, its display flashing error messages and contradiction warnings.
"Your visor cannot quantify what we are because your scientists have deliberately erased the historical record," she explained. "The truth is simple: Berethon and I are not merely figureheads or political leaders. We are Archmages of the Third Circle, Lords of the Ancient Covenant, Guardians of the Veil."
The titles meant nothing to the Atlas operatives, but the demonstration of power they had just witnessed gave the words undeniable weight.
"Before humans built their first cities," Berethon continued, "before dust was mined and refined, before the creatures of Grimm emerged from the shadows, our people were already ancient. We taught the first human settlements how to harness dust. We helped establish the earliest protections against the darkness."
From his robes, he produced a small crystal that glowed with inner light. Within it, images formed—historical scenes showing elven mages working alongside early human settlements, teaching them technologies, helping them establish the foundations of what would later become the kingdoms.
"And in return," Hyatan's voice hardened slightly, "your ancestors drove us into hiding, forced us to conceal our nature, hunted our kind when we revealed ourselves."
"Lies," Commander Frost spat, though with noticeably less conviction.
"Perhaps you would believe your own leaders, then," Berethon suggested.
With a gesture, the air before them shimmered, and an image appeared—a recording showing Jacques Schnee in conversation with several Atlas Council members.
"Of course I know the elves have legitimate historical claims," Jacques's voice rang clearly through the throne room. "Why do you think my grandfather worked so hard to redact their existence from historical records? The SDC's entire dust monopoly depends on controlling the narrative. If the public learned that elves were the original masters of dust manipulation—that our 'discoveries' were merely rediscoveries of their ancient knowledge—we'd lose everything."
The recording continued, showing Jacques explicitly authorizing the assassination mission, callously discussing the operatives as "expendable assets" while emphasizing that their deaths, if captured, would serve as a useful pretext for more aggressive military action.
The expressions on Team FROST's faces shifted from defiance to shock, then to the bitter realization of betrayal. These were career soldiers, true believers in Atlas's righteousness. To hear their lives dismissed so casually by the man who had sent them to die was a wound deeper than any physical defeat.
The Choice
"You came here to kill us," Hyatan stated, no anger in her voice, only a sad acknowledgment of fact. "Under normal circumstances, such an action would merit severe consequences."
Berethon nodded solemnly. "However, we recognize you were manipulated. Used as pawns in a game whose rules you don't fully understand."
The High King waved his hand, and the team's restraints dissolved into mist. Their weapons remained on the far side of the room, well out of reach, but the gesture was clear—this was no longer a capture but a conversation.
"You have a choice now," Hyatan said. "You can return to Atlas—we will provide safe passage to the border. Or you can remain here, learn the truth about the history Jacques Schnee and his allies have tried so desperately to keep hidden, and make an informed decision about where your loyalties should truly lie."
Commander Frost looked at his team members, seeing in their eyes the same confusion and sense of betrayal that churned in his own gut. They had dedicated their lives to Atlas, believed in its superiority and righteousness. To discover that foundation built on deliberate historical erasure and lies was to have their entire worldview shattered.
"Why would you let us go?" Onyx asked, speaking for the first time since their capture. "We came to kill you."
Berethon smiled gently. "Because this conflict was never our choice. We do not wish to destroy Atlas—we wish to correct a historical injustice and reclaim our rightful place in Remnant. If that can be achieved without further bloodshed, all the better."
"The real enemy has always been ignorance," Hyatan added. "And those who weaponize it for their own gain."
In that moment, facing the mercy and wisdom of the leaders they had come to assassinate, Team FROST began to understand the true nature of the conflict they had been thrust into—not a simple military action against insurgents, but a reckoning with history itself, with truths buried beneath generations of carefully constructed lies.
The choice before them represented not just their own fates, but potentially the future relationship between elves and humans in Remnant. Stay and learn, or return to perpetuate a system built on historical erasure and prejudice?
As dawn began to filter through the throne room's open ceiling, the elite Atlas team faced the most difficult decision of their lives—one that would irrevocably change not just their futures, but potentially the outcome of a conflict that had been centuries in the making.
Outmatched: The Ace Operatives' Encounter with Elven Elite Forces
The designated rendezvous point—a secluded clearing in the dense forests surrounding the former Vale—had grown increasingly tense as hours passed with no communication from Team FROST. The four members of the Ace Operatives maintained their disciplined positions, but their growing unease was evident in subtle ways: Harriet's frequent glances at her tactical timepiece, Marrow's increasingly agitated tail movements, Vine's deeper-than-usual meditative breathing, and Clover's unusually tight grip on his weapon.
"It's been three hours past the scheduled communication window," Harriet finally stated, her voice crisp with professional concern. "Protocol dictates we maintain position, but—"
"But Team FROST has never missed a check-in," Clover finished, his usual optimistic demeanor subdued. As team leader, the responsibility weighed heavily on him. "Not in any of our previous joint operations."
Marrow shifted uncomfortably. "Something's wrong. Their operation should have been completed by now."
"I will perform another sweep of our defensive perimeter," Vine offered, his expression placid despite the tension.
Harriet's patience finally reached its limit. "No. We've waited long enough." Her decision formed with characteristic swiftness. "I'll do a reconnaissance run. My speed will allow me to approach the palace perimeter, assess Team FROST's status, and return before any potential hostile forces could intercept me."
Clover frowned but nodded after a moment's consideration. "Approved. But maintain strict observational protocol. No engagement unless absolutely necessary for extraction."
"Understood," Harriet confirmed, already beginning her pre-sprint stretches. "Ten minutes there, ten minutes back. I'll—"
Her words halted abruptly as her trained senses detected a shift in their surroundings. The forest had gone silent—no birds, no insects, no rustling leaves despite the gentle breeze that had been present moments before.
"We're compromised," Vine stated calmly, rising to his feet in one fluid motion.
Before any of them could assume defensive positions, the air around their perimeter rippled like heat waves over desert sand. Four figures materialized from seemingly nowhere, positioned at precise cardinal points around the clearing. The elven concealment magic dissipated like morning mist, revealing warriors whose presence radiated authority and lethal capability.
At the northern point stood a tall figure in gleaming crimson armor, ornate yet functional, bearing marks of countless battles. His helm was open, revealing aristocratic features and eyes that burned with an inner fire. The sigil on his breastplate identified him immediately to the Ace Operatives from their intelligence briefings—Valvaderhn Arkham, the Crimson Knight, High Commander of the Elven Vanguard.
"Specialists Ebi, Bree, Zeki, and Amin," Valvaderhn addressed them by name, his voice carrying effortlessly across the clearing. "Your presence constitutes an incursion into sovereign Albanahr territory."
To the east stood a female warrior whose armor bore nature motifs, vines and leaves crafted in silver over deepest green. A longbow of impossible craftsmanship was held loosely in her hand, an arrow nocked but not drawn. Lynnia Arkham, Master Ranger of the Eastern Marches, sister to Valvaderhn.
"Your additional team has been intercepted," she informed them, her tone almost apologetic. "They will not be joining you."
To the west, a figure in midnight blue robes adorned with arcane symbols studied them with scholarly interest. Runes danced across his fingertips like living things. Xander Arkham, Arcane Tactician of the Elven Council, brother to Valvaderhn and Lynnia.
"Your communication blackout was not accidental," he explained, his voice carrying the cadence of a lecturer. "We've been monitoring your position since you crossed our border six hours ago."
To the south, completing their encirclement, stood the youngest of the four—a lithe figure in light armor who carried no visible weapons yet moved with the unmistakable grace of a master combatant. Saibyrh Arkham, Ghost Blade of the Silent Watch, youngest sibling of the Arkham lineage.
"Your extraction routes have been sealed," she stated simply, her voice soft yet carrying an undercurrent of steel. "We control all approaches and exits."
Clover maintained his composure, stepping forward as team leader. "We are operating under the authority of the Atlas Military Council on a sanctioned reconnaissance mission. Any interference constitutes an act of war against Atlas."
Valvaderhn's expression showed no change, but his eyes flickered with something akin to pity. "Atlas declared war when it denied our existence, stole our heritage, and attempted to assassinate our leaders. Your diplomatic pretenses mean nothing now."
Harriet's patience snapped. With no further warning, she activated her semblance—becoming a blur of motion as she charged directly at Valvaderhn, her specialized weapon primed to deliver a devastating impact.
What followed was a demonstration of the vast gulf between Atlas's elite forces and the elven warriors they faced.
Valvaderhn made no attempt to dodge. Instead, as Harriet closed the distance, he simply raised his hand. The air between them solidified, and Harriet found herself running into what felt like a wall of hardened silk—yielding just enough to absorb her momentum before rebounding her back toward her team with matching force.
"Speed without strategy is merely haste," the Crimson Knight commented, not unkindly.
Vine reacted next, his semblance extending his aura into elongated tendrils that sought to entangle all four elven warriors simultaneously. The precise control that had made him legendary among Atlas forces was on full display as his aura manipulations weaved complex patterns of restraint.
Xander observed the approaching aura tendrils with academic interest before tracing a single rune in the air before him. Vine's semblance—extensions of his very soul—suddenly became visible as crystalline structures that shattered like glass, leaving the normally stoic operative gasping in pain.
"Fascinating," Xander remarked. "Your aura manipulation is quite advanced for a human, but you're working with only three of the seven aural dimensions. Limiting, isn't it?"
Marrow and Clover moved in concert, years of training evident in their coordinated attack. Marrow activated his semblance—"STAY!"—directing it at Lynnia while Clover used his good fortune semblance to execute a perfect flanking maneuver against Saibyrh.
Lynnia smiled as Marrow's semblance washed over her. For a moment, she appeared to be affected, her body stilling—before she simply stepped sideways, shrugging off the paralysis effect as one might a light rainfall.
"Temporal manipulation through vocal command," she noted with genuine interest. "Clever, but fundamentally limited by your understanding of time's actual nature."
Meanwhile, Clover's attack—which should have been perfect given his luck-based semblance—found nothing but empty air as Saibyrh seemed to exist in multiple locations simultaneously, afterimages trailing her movements like physical echoes.
"Probability manipulation," Saibyrh observed, her voice coming from everywhere and nowhere. "But probability is merely one thread in the tapestry of fate."
Within moments, the coordinated assault of the Ace Operatives—Atlas's premier fighting force—had been neutralized without any of the Arkham siblings appearing to exert significant effort. It wasn't combat so much as a demonstration, a lesson delivered with methodical precision.
The final phase of the confrontation was mercifully brief.
Lynnia's bow sang once, releasing an arrow that split into four mid-flight, each striking the ground at the exact midpoint between each Ace Operative. The arrows blossomed into intricate binding circles, elven script spiraling outward across the forest floor.
"Yield," Valvaderhn commanded, not from arrogance but from a place of absolute certainty. "Further resistance serves no purpose but to risk unnecessary injury."
The Ace Operatives found themselves immobilized by bonds of light that connected them to the earth beneath their feet. Their weapons, dust accessories, and communication devices had been rendered inert by proximity to the binding circles.
Clover, ever the pragmatist despite his semblance's focus on good fortune, made the tactical decision. "Stand down," he ordered his team. "We are outmatched."
"A wise assessment," Xander acknowledged with a respectful nod.
Valvaderhn approached the restrained Ace Operatives, his crimson armor catching the dappled sunlight filtering through the forest canopy. "Your Team FROST made the same decision when faced with reality beyond their understanding. They now enjoy the hospitality of the High King and Queen."
"They're alive?" Marrow asked, unable to hide his relief.
"Of course," Lynnia replied, seeming genuinely surprised by the question. "We are not barbarians who kill emissaries, even those sent with hostile intent."
Saibyrh moved among them, examining their restraints with professional thoroughness. "They are being offered a choice—as you will be. Truth or comfortable lies. Knowledge or continued ignorance."
Harriet, defiant despite their complete defeat, glared up at Valvaderhn. "What happens now? Prisoners of war?"
The Crimson Knight shook his head. "Guests, not prisoners. You will be escorted to Albanahr, where you will witness firsthand the reality of elven society—not the propaganda your leaders have fed you. Then, like your colleagues, you will make your choice."
As the binding circles began to lift them gently but inexorably to their feet, controlled by Xander's subtle gestures, the Ace Operatives found themselves experiencing an unfamiliar sensation—the absolute certainty that everything they had believed about their own superiority had been not just challenged but fundamentally disproven.
Clover, ever adaptable, was the first to accept their new reality. "We'll cooperate."
"Excellent," Valvaderhn nodded. "Your journey toward understanding begins now."
As they were led away, Vine, whose analytical mind was already processing the implications of what they had witnessed, voiced the thought that had begun to form in all their minds: "If these are their field commanders, what are their actual rulers capable of?"
The knowing smile that passed between the Arkham siblings was answer enough.
To be continued.....
Next time- Chapter 33: Truth unveiled; the fall of the SDC part 1