The room was dimly lit, the flickering glow of a lantern casting dancing shadows across the cold stone walls.


    The air was thick with the scent of herbs and dried blood, a silent testament to the wounds of war.


    A heavy silence lingered, pressing down like a weight on everything within the chamber.


    On the narrow bed, Asael lay motionless, his body wrapped in fresh bandages, his breathing slow and steady.


    His body was in much better condition.


    His eyes were also healed up.


    Then—


    His eyes snapped open.


    For a moment, he simply stared at the ceiling, his mind hazy, his limbs feeling impossibly heavy.


    A dull, throbbing pain coursed through his skull as he slowly lifted his upper body, a trembling hand gripping his forehead.


    His breath came uneven, ragged.


    His body felt… foreign.


    Something inside him had shifted, fractured, or perhaps… changed.


    It was as though the very core of his being had been altered, leaving him with a lingering sense of unease.


    "You’re awake?"


    A voice, calm but laced with relief, pulled him from his daze.


    Asael blinked and turned his head.


    A man stood in front of him, clad in light armor with a medic’s emblem stitched onto his chest.


    His face bore the exhaustion of someone who had spent too many hours tending to the wounded, watching over those teetering between life and death.


    Sam. The medic of Marquis Hector.


    "Wait here. I’ll call the Marquis." Sam’s voice was steady, but there was an urgency to his movements as he turned toward the door.


    Marquis Hector…


    The name felt familiar, yet distant, like an echo from a life that wasn’t quite his own.


    Asael’s thoughts swirled in a fog of confusion.


    He tried to grasp the last thing he remembered, but the memories came in fragmented flashes—


    A battlefield soaked in blood.


    A towering orc with scars carved across his flesh.


    A golden-haired archer standing amidst the chaos.


    And then—nothing.


    The door creaked open, the heavy sound of boots striking stone pulling him back to the present.


    A figure entered, tall and imposing.


    An old man, his silver armor gleaming in the dim light, his presence filling the room like an unshakable force.


    A battle-worn spear rested against his back, the weapon of a man who had seen countless wars and survived them all.


    His weathered face bore the marks of time, yet his gaze was sharp, unwavering.


    Even without meeting him before, Asael knew—instinctively, almost—this man was powerful.


    Far stronger than himself.


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    "Are you well enough to speak?"


    The old warrior’s voice was deep, steady, carrying the weight of authority.


    Asael hesitated before nodding, his muscles aching at the simple movement.


    "Yes… but how did I get here?" His voice came out rough, unfamiliar to even his own ears.


    "It has been three days. You lost control." Hector’s tone was blunt, unwavering. "Giren and Lily had to subdue you before things got worse."


    Giren. Lily.


    The names rang in his mind, familiar yet distant.


    "You’ll meet them soon." There was the faintest hint of amusement in the old warrior’s voice.


    Asael exhaled slowly, his thoughts still clouded with uncertainty.


    "…Thank you. For bringing me here."


    "It wasn’t out of kindness," Hector said simply. "We saw a golden light burst from the forest while patrolling. We went to investigate and found you and your friends."


    Golden light…


    Asael clenched his fists, his breath hitching.


    What happened back there?


    Before he could ask, the door burst open.


    A soldier, breathless and tense, strode in, his face etched with urgency.


    "Marquis! We need you on the battlefield—quickly!"


    Hector’s expression hardened instantly.


    "Understood."


    He turned to Asael, studying him for a brief moment before speaking again.


    "If you’re feeling well enough, you should come. Your friends are there, fighting."


    The words settled heavily in the air.


    Asael exhaled, his body aching, his strength barely returning—


    But he nodded.


    He couldn’t sit here.


    Not while they were out there, risking their lives.


    Hector gave a satisfied nod before turning on his heel.


    With unsteady steps, Asael pushed himself up from the bed.


    His legs trembled beneath him, but he forced them to hold firm.


    His sword was missing, but he didn’t need it yet.


    Hector strode toward the door, his steps firm and resolute.


    Asael followed, each movement sending waves of pain through his battered body.


    Beyond the walls of the fortress, the roar of battle raged on.


    ---


    Asael staggered onto the stone wall, his body still aching from his earlier wounds.


    His breath hitched as he gazed over the edge.


    A tide of darkness surged beneath him—a vast, writhing sea of monstrosities, howling and shrieking as they hurled themselves toward the fortifications.


    Ogres, their hulking bodies wrapped in crude, rusted armor, slammed their enormous clubs against the ancient stone, each strike sending tremors through the fort.


    Lizardmen, their scaled hides glistening like wet obsidian under the pale moonlight, darted through the chaos with predatory grace, their forked tongues flicking as they sought their next kill.


    Barbarians, their skin smeared with dried blood and war paint, bellowed like beasts as they hacked through fallen bodies, their eyes wild with madness.


    And amidst them—


    Trolls. Towering, grotesque creatures with flesh like rotting leather, their wounds closing almost as quickly as they were made.


    Arrows jutted from their torsos like twisted bristles, yet they pressed forward, unfazed, their guttural roars shaking the night.


    Gnolls and goblins, scavengers of war, swarmed like locusts, lunging at fallen warriors—friend or foe—ripping into the dying with jagged teeth, reveling in the carnage.


    Yet, despite their overwhelming numbers, the defenders stood their ground.


    Because of four warriors.


    ---


    The first was a towering orc, his dark green skin slick with blood, his broken tusk bared in a savage grin.


    Giren.


    He led his fellow orcs like a force of nature, their war cries splitting the air as they carved a path of destruction through the monstrous horde.


    A goblin lunged at him, shrieking.


    Giren caught it mid-air with one hand, his fingers tightening around its skull.


    A sickening crunch echoed over the battlefield as its lifeless body twitched in his grasp.


    He flung it aside and swung his battle axe in a wide arc, cleaving through a pack of snarling gnolls in a single motion.


    A troll raised its massive fist, a blow that could turn a man to pulp.


    Giren didn’t flinch.


    The impact crashed into him like a battering ram, yet his boots dug into the blood-soaked ground, his muscles tensing against the force.


    With a furious roar, he shoved back, sending the troll reeling.


    Before it could recover, he lunged, his axe carving through its knee with brutal precision.


    The beast toppled with a deafening crash.


    Giren was already moving, bringing his axe down in a final, merciless swing.


    The troll’s gargled scream was cut short as blackened blood gushed out, steaming in the cold air.


    But Giren had already turned to face his next enemy.


    ---


    From atop the wall, a storm of silver death rained down.


    A lone elf, her golden hair flowing like a banner, stood amidst a group of archers and mages.


    Her emerald eyes were sharp, unwavering.


    Lily.


    Her fingers danced across her bowstring, movements practiced and fluid.


    She did not hesitate.


    She did not miss.


    A group of gnolls broke through the front lines, charging toward the injured human soldiers near the barricades.


    Her eyes narrowed.


    A single breath.


    Twang!


    Her arrow whistled through the air, piercing cleanly through the first gnoll’s skull.


    Before the body could even collapse, two more arrows followed—


    Thud. Thud.


    Each struck its mark, burying deep into the hearts of the remaining gnolls.


    They crumpled to the ground, lifeless before they hit the dirt.


    She did not stop.


    A lizardman, its serrated blade glinting under the moonlight, raised its weapon, ready to finish off a wounded knight.


    Lily’s expression didn’t change.


    One moment, the lizardman was alive.


    The next—


    An arrow punched through its eye socket, embedding deep into its skull.


    It convulsed, letting out a choked hiss before collapsing in a heap.


    She did not waste an extra glance.


    One less enemy.


    ---


    Amidst the chaos, a blinding golden light shone like a beacon.


    At its center stood a woman clad in pure white robes, her hands glowing with divine radiance as she channeled power into her allies.


    Anne.


    Her voice, calm yet commanding, rang out across the battlefield.


    "Rise! Keep fighting! The Goddess watches over you!"


    Her magic swept through the ranks, mending torn flesh, sealing deep gashes, and filling the weary warriors with renewed strength.


    A knight, barely able to stand moments before, gasped as his wounds vanished, his torn armor restored as his breath steadied.


    Behind her, a monstrous ogre raised its spiked club high, its grotesque face contorted in rage.


    Anne closed her eyes, whispering a prayer.


    A pulse of golden light erupted around her, forming a shimmering barrier.


    The ogre’s club crashed into it with a deafening boom—only to be blasted backward, its massive frame sent tumbling like a broken doll.


    Sweat beaded on her forehead.


    But there was no time to rest.


    She had to keep going.


    ---


    And then, there was him.


    A lone warrior amidst the chaos.


    His blue hair whipped wildly in the wind, his blue eyes burning with raw fury.


    Steven.


    He moved like lightning, vanishing and reappearing in blinding bursts of speed.


    One moment, he was across the battlefield.


    The next—


    He was among the enemy.


    His sword crackled with electricity, and with a single swing—


    Thunder split the heavens.


    A bolt of pure lightning struck the battlefield, searing through waves of monsters.


    Their bodies burned instantly, the scent of charred flesh thick in the air.


    A troll roared, charging toward him, its massive frame casting a shadow over the carnage.


    Steven vanished.


    And then—


    Boom!


    He reappeared on the troll’s back, driving his blade deep into its skull.


    A pulse of thunder exploded outward, sending shockwaves rippling through the battlefield.


    The troll’s eyes burst, its entire body convulsing violently before it collapsed, smoke curling from its corpse.


    Steven turned, his face unreadable.


    The storm hadn’t stopped.


    And neither would he.