The clash of steel, the roars of beasts, and the cries of the wounded surged through the battlefield like a violent storm.


    The air was thick with the scent of blood and smoke, the very ground trembling beneath the weight of battle.


    The defenders still held their ground, but the monstrous horde seemed endless.


    For every ogre that collapsed in a heap of broken bones, another emerged, trampling its fallen kin.


    For every gnoll that was gutted by a sword, another bounded forward, its bloodied fangs bared in a frenzy.


    Lizardmen slithered through the chaos, their forked tongues flicking out as they lunged with razor-sharp blades, slipping between gaps in the defenses like striking vipers.


    Barbarians, their bodies riddled with arrows, fought with crazed abandon, hacking through the ranks of soldiers with wild, desperate swings.


    Their eyes were red with madness, their screams drowning in the cacophony of war.


    Trolls, towering and grotesque, roared as fire and steel tore through their flesh—only for their wounds to mend in mere moments, flesh knitting together in a hideous display of regeneration.


    They laughed, their deep, guttural voices thick with amusement, as if pain was nothing more than an inconvenience.


    The battlefield was a churning ocean of carnage, where every wave brought another tide of death.


    ---


    High atop the wall, Asael gripped the cold stone railing, his knuckles white.


    His eyes swept across the battlefield, his heart pounding in his chest.


    It wasn’t stopping. No matter how many they cut down, more kept coming.


    "Don’t worry." A voice, steady and calm, broke through his thoughts.


    Asael turned his head to see Sam standing beside him, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.


    "It’s a regular thing here," Sam continued.


    Asael stared at him. "A regular thing?" His voice was tight, disbelief laced in his words.


    He turned back to the blood-soaked battlefield, watching as men screamed, as monsters fell, as the earth was painted red. "This?"


    Sam let out a slow breath. "Yeah. Though today’s easier than usual because of your friends."


    Asael’s gaze followed Sam’s nod, landing on Anne and Steven.


    Anne stood amidst the chaos, radiant as the sun.


    Her hands glowed with divine light, mending wounds, shielding warriors, pushing back death itself.


    A beacon of hope in the darkness.


    Steven was a blur, a living storm tearing through the enemy ranks.


    Electricity crackled in his wake, bodies burning as his power raged unchecked.


    He was destruction incarnate, a force of nature that the monsters could not withstand.


    They were turning the tide of battle.


    And yet, despite their efforts, the horde still surged forward.


    The end was nowhere in sight.


    "Either way, it will be over soon."


    Sam said.


    And then, suddenly—


    A deep, metallic groan cut through the battlefield, a sound so heavy it sent a ripple through both defenders and monsters alike.


    The massive iron gate at the base of the wall creaked open, the sheer weight of it grinding against the stone.


    A wave of tension swept across the battlefield, the chaos momentarily stilled.


    The defenders instinctively parted, forming a clear path as footsteps echoed from within the stronghold.


    And then, he stepped out.


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    A man clad in silver armor, its surface polished yet marred by countless battles.


    His presence alone was enough to command the battlefield, radiating a strength that sent a shiver through friend and foe alike.


    A massive shield rested on his back, its edges scarred from war, a silent testament to its wielder’s endurance.


    Marquis Hector.


    Behind him followed a squad of warriors, their arms burdened with javelins carved with intricate runes, each one humming faintly with power.


    The air grew thick with unspoken tension.


    Even the monsters, mindless in their bloodlust, hesitated.


    Some primal instinct within them screamed a warning.


    And then, the silence shattered.


    The horde roared, their cries laced with fury and desperation.


    They knew. They knew who he was. They knew what he could do.


    And so, they rushed toward him, their movements driven by both rage and fear.


    But Hector was already moving.


    With a swift motion, he extended his hand.


    One of the warriors beside him immediately placed a javelin into his grasp.


    The moment his fingers curled around it, the air changed.


    A silver aura flared to life, crackling with raw energy, distorting the air around him.


    Asael’s breath caught in his throat.


    Hector shifted his stance. His muscles tensed, his body coiled like a predator preparing to strike.


    And then—


    He threw.


    The javelin tore through the air, splitting the wind with a deafening boom.


    It moved too fast for the eye to follow, a streak of silver light cutting across the battlefield.


    A barbarian, standing twice the height of a man, barely had time to snarl before—


    A sickening crunch.


    The javelin punched through its chest, exploding out of its back in a spray of blood and shattered bone.


    But it didn’t stop.


    A gnoll shrieked as its head snapped backward, its skull bursting like fragile glass.


    A goblin flinched, but never got the chance to scream as its body was torn apart.


    A troll, its throat gaping, staggered before collapsing in a heap.


    An ogre, massive and hulking, raised its arms in a futile attempt to defend itself—


    The javelin sheared through its forearm, ripping it clean off before burying deep into its ribs.


    The weapon did not stop until it had pierced through dozens.


    Until it had vanished beyond the horizon.


    A moment of stunned silence followed. No one spoke. No one moved.


    Then, Hector raised his hand again.


    Another javelin was placed into his palm.


    Asael swallowed hard.


    The air cracked once more.


    Another throw. Another devastating wave of destruction.


    ---


    The once unrelenting tide of monsters faltered.


    The roars that had once been filled with unyielding rage now carried something else.


    Fear.


    Even the trolls, those mindless regenerating brutes, hesitated.


    The confidence that had fueled their reckless charge wavered.


    They had come expecting an endless slaughter.


    But now, they were the ones being slaughtered.


    Marquis Hector stood unmoving, his gaze cold as steel.


    The javelins were not yet exhausted.


    And neither was he.


    -----


    After the fourth javelin left his hand, Marquis Hector finally stopped.


    He let out a slow breath, his chest rising and falling steadily.


    Though his face remained calm, his shoulders betrayed the weight of battle.


    Despite the devastation he had wrought, there was no sign of strain.


    It was as if the massacre he had unleashed was nothing more than routine, a duty he had fulfilled countless times before.


    “It’s tough to do this at my age,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders, a quiet sigh slipping past his lips.


    The battlefield lay in utter ruin.


    Corpses sprawled across the blood-soaked ground, a tangled mess of shattered limbs and lifeless eyes.


    The dirt had turned into a thick, crimson mire, swallowing the fallen into its depths.


    The monsters, once a relentless tide, were now a fractured mess.


    Their savage roars had faded, replaced by uneasy growls and the hesitant shuffling of feet.


    And yet—


    They did not stop.


    Their numbers had dwindled, but the madness in their eyes still burned.


    Marquis Hector took a step forward, gripping his spear.


    The true battle was about to begin.


    He moved forward, unhurried and unshaken, stepping over bodies without a glance.


    There was no wasted motion, no unnecessary flourish—only the raw efficiency of a warrior who had fought for decades.


    A gnoll lunged, its rusted blade swinging wildly.


    Hector barely moved.


    With a slight twist of his wrist, his spear lashed out.


    The gnoll’s throat split open.


    Blood burst forth in thick spurts, a gurgled scream lost in the wet, choking gasps that followed.


    It collapsed atop the corpses beneath it, twitching once before falling still.


    Then another.


    Two goblins sprang at him, daggers flashing under the dying sun.


    A single sweep of his spear.


    The steel tore through their torsos.


    Their upper bodies separated cleanly, entrails spilling like ropes of glistening crimson.


    They hit the ground with sickening thuds, twitching, their eyes wide with frozen terror.


    Hector stepped over them without a second thought.


    A barbarian, its muscles bulging, eyes burning with a frenzied hunger, charged toward him.


    The beast raised its greatsword, veins bulging as it swung with all its might.


    Hector did not flinch.


    He raised his shield.


    The impact rang like a bell of war, metal crashing against metal.


    The sheer force sent a tremor through the ground, dust exploding in all directions.


    But Hector stood firm.


    Then, without hesitation, he lashed out with his leg.


    His boot slammed into the barbarian’s stomach.


    The monster staggered backward, coughing up thick, dark blood.


    Before it could recover, Hector’s spear flashed.


    The tip pierced through its throat, bursting from the back of its neck in a spray of crimson mist.


    The barbarian shuddered, clawing at its ruined throat, before collapsing into the dirt.


    Hector yanked his spear free, flicking blood from its blade.


    And still, they came.


    But Hector was not alone.


    Across the battlefield, the defenders fought with everything they had.


    Giren roared as he swung his axe in wild, merciless arcs, carving through monsters as if they were no more than overgrown weeds.


    A troll lunged at him, massive hands outstretched.


    Giren did not hesitate.


    With a powerful swing, his axe buried itself deep into the troll’s skull, splitting it open like overripe fruit.


    The beast’s body went limp, toppling backward into the sea of corpses.


    Lily stood atop a mound of bodies, bowstring taut, her eyes sharp as a hawk’s.


    The battlefield was her hunting ground.


    Goblins, gnolls, and lizardmen rushed toward the wounded defenders—


    They never reached them.


    A storm of arrows rained down.


    Each shot found its mark, piercing skulls, throats, and hearts with ruthless precision.


    The monsters crumpled mid-stride, their bodies piling atop one another before they could even release their dying howls.


    Anne, moved through the ranks, her hands glowing with divine radiance.


    Where she passed, the wounded rose.


    Deep gashes sealed, shattered bones knitted back together, exhaustion gave way to newfound strength.


    Those who had been on the verge of collapse now gritted their teeth and raised their weapons once more.


    And above them all—


    Lightning streaked across the battlefield.


    Steven was a phantom amidst the chaos.


    One moment, he stood at the center of a swarm of lizardmen.


    The next—


    A blinding flash.


    Thunder roared as the monsters erupted in violent bursts of electricity.


    Their flesh blackened, their screams drowned in the storm’s deafening fury.


    The battlefield had become a vision of destruction, death sweeping through the enemy ranks like an autumn wind stripping the trees bare.


    And then—


    The horde hesitated.


    Their numbers had been slashed in half.


    Their strongest had fallen.


    And the man at the center of it all—Marquis Hector—had yet to fall.


    A troll, one of the last few remaining, took a step back.


    A gnoll’s ears flattened, its fur standing on end as its entire body trembled.


    The fear spread like wildfire.


    The retreat began as a trickle—some monsters slowly backing away.


    Then it became a flood.


    The once-relentless tide of death and fury now turned its back to flee.


    "Do not chase them!"


    Marquis Hector’s voice rang across the battlefield, cutting through the lingering chaos like a blade.


    "Hold your positions! Everyone, fall back!"


    The defenders obeyed without hesitation.


    There was no reckless pursuit, no unnecessary loss of discipline.


    They stood their ground, watching as the remnants of the horde vanished into the distance, their roars fading into the wind.


    The battle was over.


    For now.


    Hector exhaled, his grip on his spear loosening slightly.


    He turned to his men, his voice steady despite the exhaustion creeping into his bones.


    "Everyone, let’s return to the fortress."


    And so, they marched back, their footsteps heavy but victorious.


    Behind them lay a battlefield drenched in blood, littered with the fallen, and painted with the horrors of war.