Rebirth of the Nameless Immortal God

Their army was too organized, the way they launched attacks was too smooth, even the commands the dandy called out were short, concise, and riddled with code.

This was either the greatest theater play of all time, or the opposition was an excellently trained militia the likes of which Commander Ragnor couldn't hope to measure up to.

It was then he saw just how correct his instincts were.

When the armies clashed, it was as though the Ragnors were being swallowed whole.

Seemingly sturdy lines of defense collapsed on the Mortal Alliance side, leading to a fervent charges in response by the Ragnors who believed they had gained the upper hand, only for them the be swallowed whole and cut off from their own backline.

The Mortal Alliance army could only be described as an amoeba eating its food. It ebbed and flowed with ease, biting off portions of the Ragnor army and conquering them piece by piece.

All the while, 'Commander' Ragnor was throwing a fit.

He tossed his amber haired beauty aside, not caring for even a moment that she lost consciousness banging her head against the floor. He stood and screamed at the top of his lungs, admonishing his warriors for being useless, but that only made the situation worse.

For the Thralls of the army, they knew that today would likely be their last day. They had little more status than a slave to begin with, just what would that commander do to them when they returned? If they returned at all? Would they too become like the amber haired woman?

At the very least, they should die on the battlefield, right?...

They remembered memories of their childhood, when their parents would tell them tales of Valhalla. If they died a warrior's death, they'd be able to go there, right? The mighty Gods of their past, their ancestors of old, they wouldn't forsake them like the Ragnors had, right?

Maybe that was all some of them needed. A faint hope, a light at the end of the tunnel. Their lives were holding on by the thinnest of strings imaginable.

It was then that a shocking thing began to occur across the battlefield. Tens of thousands, even hundreds of thousands of Thrall began to seemingly give away their lives.

Some 'accidentally' let their weapons fall, others pushed forward valiantly, leaving the front line of their army so far behind that the fell under a sea of piercing weapons, and some simply stared off into space, light smiles on their faces as their lives were ended one after another.

Bjorn was absolutely appalled by what he was witnessing. This wasn't the first time such a thing had happened on a Ragnor battlefield, but it had been so long since the last.

'The last time this happened… The Dukes and Duchesses…'

The invasion of the Dukes and Duchesses, those young geniuses that handed the Ragnors the greatest humiliation they had suffered throughout the whole of their history. It was against a battle against them that the Thralls responded in this way…

They were tired of giving up their lives, tired of being commanded to do what their superiors didn't dare to do.

The ironic part? After the Dukes and Duchesses returned to their lands, the Thralls were punished once more, as though their Emperor God Clan was blaming them for their own failures.

The current Emperor… Emperor Odin the Sixth… He was rotting their Empire from the inside out.

...

"RETREAT!"

Bjorn's roar sounded over the battlefield.

Commander Ragnor's head snapped back, his eyes reddened with rage. "Did I say to retreat?!"

Bjorn responded with a savage chop to the back of the young 'commander's' neck. Although nepotism was clearly rampant among the Ragnors, it didn't mean there were no fail safes. The task of keeping the Uidah in check was too important to the war on the Pakals to leave to this bumbling idiot alone.

He was no match for Bjorn. He likely didn't even realize what happened before his world went dark. In truth, this was already the fourth time Bjorn was forced to do this.

Alidor coldly watched as the Ragnors scrambled to retreat.

In the martial world, there were very few people who had Dyon's acknowledgement. Among them was Alidor. There was a reason he was the de facto Command in Chief of the Mortal Alliance army when Dyon wasn't present.

As an intelligent individual, Alidor knew that there were deeper secrets behind the demise of his Guatama Clan. It was simply logic. How could two Clans who co-ruled end in one so suddenly having a massive upper hand on the other?

Alidor was too young back then and didn't understand enough about the Clan affairs. As a result, he could only speculate, he had no way of knowing for sure. But he would be willing to bet his life on the fact there was a third party involved.

Now, whether that party was the Ragnors, the Pakals, or maybe some other unknown power, he had no idea. But… What he did know was that he had no intention of letting any of them off.

"Forward!" He roared.

Suddenly, the Mortal Alliance army that only seemed to know how to fight on the ground launched into the air, pushing forth with another bloody massacre.

It didn't take a genius to figure out Bjorn's destination. He believed the only way he'd be safe would be to reach the next tower and flip a disadvantage into an advantage.

Unfortunately, since he knew that, how could Alidor not?

In their maneuvering, the Mortal Alliance army had constantly retreated in a bid to feign weakness and surround the Ragnor army. Now that the Ragnors were retreating, they were now realizing just how deep into the Gravity Tower's domain they had entered.

They tried to retreat as quickly as possible, cutting through the flat dry plain as best they could, but they could only be demoralized after seeing their enemies shooting into the skies.