The evening sky bled into hues of crimson and violet, the dying sun casting long, twisted shadows over the fortress walls.


    The air was thick with the scent of sweat, steel, and earth, the remnants of a long day''s training weighing heavy on the soldiers resting against the cold stone.


    Their bodies ached, their breaths were slow and steady, but the calm would not last.


    A sharp, urgent clang shattered the silence.


    The bell.


    The soldiers on the walls had seen something.


    A threat. An attack.


    Marquis Hector was on his feet in an instant, his voice like a blade slicing through the brief moment of stillness.


    "Everyone, let’s go!"


    Weapons clattered against armor as Asael and his companions sprang into action.


    The exhaustion in their limbs burned away, replaced by the electrifying rush of adrenaline.


    They bolted for the walls, their boots pounding against the ground.


    Then, they saw it.


    Beyond the trees, a monstrous tide surged forward, dark silhouettes shifting in the dying light.


    The horde moved as one—a writhing mass of claws, fangs, and hunger.


    Ogres with thick, gnarled limbs. Gnolls, their yellowed eyes gleaming with cruel delight. Trolls, towering and grotesque. Goblins skittering like vermin beneath their larger kin.


    Yet, no one faltered. This was not the first time.


    Marquis Hector’s voice was steady, unyielding. "Move out."


    The fortress gates groaned open, the creaking wood drowned out by the soldiers’ steady march onto the battlefield.


    At the front stood Marquis Hector, Giren, Steven, and Asael, their presence a solid, immovable force against the encroaching chaos.


    Behind them, a combined force of humans, elves, and orcs, once divided by blood and history, now stood shoulder to shoulder.


    Archers and mages lined the walls, bows drawn, spells thrumming with power.


    Lily and her elite elven warriors descended, their movements so fluid they seemed to melt into the air itself.


    Across the field, the monsters snarled and shrieked, their claws tearing at the ground in eager anticipation.


    Then, the battle began.


    Steven moved first.


    A blur of motion, a streak of blue lightning.


    His sword crackled with raw electricity, illuminating his face—a visage of determination, his silver hair whipped by the wind.


    An ogre lumbered forward, muscles flexing beneath its thick hide.


    Its massive club swung downward, the weight of it promising death.


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Steven never slowed.


    His blade cut upward in a precise arc, slicing through flesh like parchment.


    The moment steel met skin, a violent explosion of lightning erupted, illuminating the battlefield in a blinding flash.


    The ogre’s body convulsed, its veins igniting with electric fury.


    It let out a strangled howl, eyes rolling back as its torso split apart, ribcage bursting open in a grotesque display of charred organs and blackened flesh.


    The scent of burnt meat filled the air.


    The destruction did not end there.


    Lightning leaped from the ogre’s corpse, arcing wildly.


    Goblins shrieked as their bodies seized, limbs twisting unnaturally before they collapsed, twitching.


    Gnolls howled in agony, their fur catching fire, their flesh peeling away in steaming layers.


    For a breath, the monsters hesitated, stunned by the devastation.


    And hesitation was a death sentence.


    Asael charged.


    His golden sword flared to life, its radiant glow cutting through the dimming light like a beacon.


    The heat of it kissed his skin, but he welcomed it.


    A massive barbarian bellowed and lunged, rusted axe swinging down.


    Asael twisted, his blade singing through the air.


    The barbarian’s arm sailed through the sky, severed at the shoulder.


    Blood sprayed in an arc, painting the battlefield in crimson.


    But Asael did not stop.


    His sword whirled once more, slicing clean through the barbarian’s thick neck.


    The head thudded against the ground, its lifeless eyes frozen in fury.


    Another beast came for him—a troll, its jagged teeth bared in a snarl.


    It lunged, clawed hands reaching—


    Asael''s sword pulsed, stretching unnaturally in a flash of golden light.


    The blade found its mark, plunging deep into the troll’s chest.


    The creature let out a guttural gurgle, dark blood bubbling from its lips.


    Asael ripped his sword free, leaving behind a gaping hole.


    The troll staggered, its knees buckling, before collapsing into the dirt, its lifeblood pooling beneath it.


    His sword wove through the air in a deadly dance, severing heads, splitting bodies apart, and carving a golden path of carnage through the chaos.


    He tried to incorporate the techniques from Marquis Hector’s book—precise movements, strategic footwork—but the battlefield was no training ground.


    There was no room for refinement. Only survival.


    A misstep.


    Jagged claws raked across his side.


    Pain exploded as a gnoll’s filthy talons tore through flesh, warm blood spilling down his ribs.


    But before the agony could take hold, divine energy surged through his veins, knitting the wound shut in seconds.


    He released his golden sword mid-swing, and instead of clattering to the ground, it hovered—moving as if it were an extension of his will.


    It slashed through enemies on its own, severing heads and piercing chests, while Asael snatched up whatever weapons he could from the fallen—a rusted axe, a splintered spear, even a crude club—and turned them against their former owners.


    An orge roared and lunged, its massive blade raised high.


    Asael ducked under the wild swing, the wind from the strike whistling past his ear.


    He grabbed a fallen sword from the dirt and rammed it through the orge’s open mouth, the steel punching through the back of its skull.


    The beast’s eyes went wide, its body twitching violently before collapsing in a heap, blood gushing from its ruined maw.


    Giren fought like a storm unleashed.


    His towering form barreled through enemies, swinging his bloodstained axe with terrifying force.


    A goblin leapt onto his back, snarling, claws sinking into his shoulders.


    Without missing a beat, Giren reached over his shoulder, grabbed the goblin by the throat, and slammed it into the ground so hard its skull burst open like a rotten fruit, brain matter splattering across the dirt.


    A troll loomed over him, swinging a massive spiked club.


    Giren caught the club mid-air with his bare hands, yanked the troll forward, and cleaved its head from its shoulders with a single brutal swing.


    The creature’s body stood frozen for a moment before toppling forward, blood gushing from the ragged stump of its neck.


    Behind him, the orc warriors fought like demons unleashed, their war cries shaking the battlefield as they cut through the monstrous horde with raw, unrelenting savagery.


    The sickly-sweet stench of death filled the air.


    The ground was already a sea of corpses, a battlefield bathed in red.


    Above the chaos, Anne and Lily worked tirelessly.


    Anne’s hands glowed with a holy radiance, weaving through the air as she strengthened her allies and mended wounds as quickly as they were inflicted.


    Lily, positioned at the battlefield’s edge, loosed arrow after arrow, each shot finding its mark with deadly precision.


    A goblin shrieked as her arrow punched clean through its eye socket, the fletching quivering as the creature collapsed lifelessly.


    A troll raised its arm to shield itself.


    Her arrow sliced through the thick muscle as if it were paper, driving so deep that it pinned the troll’s arm against its own chest.


    The beast howled in pain, staggering, leaving itself wide open.


    Meanwhile, Marquis Hector moved through the battlefield like a ghost of death.


    His long spear glided through the enemy ranks in a merciless blur, piercing hearts, skewering throats, and impaling skulls in a flurry of elegant yet ruthless strikes.


    Every movement was calculated, every step measured, a stark contrast to the raw brutality surrounding him.


    His soldiers followed with renewed fervor, morale surging in the wake of his presence.


    The battlefield became an ocean of blood, severed limbs, and broken bodies.


    Everything seemed to be going smoothly.


    Until—


    A blazing fireball ripped through the air and slammed into the ranks of soldiers.


    The explosion swallowed men in a wave of searing heat.


    Bodies flew, some caught in the shockwave, others engulfed in flames. Screams of agony pierced the battlefield.


    A young soldier thrashed on the ground, his skin melting from his bones, his wails of terror clawing at the air.


    He reached out with a trembling hand, his eyes wide with horror, lips forming desperate pleas that no one could answer.


    Anne ran forward, divine light spilling from her hands as she tried to heal the wounded, but before she could finish—


    Another fireball streaked across the sky.


    The explosion slammed into the ground nearby, sending a shockwave of fire and debris in all directions.


    The heat was suffocating.


    Anne stumbled back, coughing, her vision blurred by the searing brightness.


    Panic spread like wildfire.


    Soldiers turned in all directions, confusion in their eyes.


    “What’s happening?!” someone shouted.


    Asael’s gaze snapped toward the source.


    His jaw clenched.


    A mage?


    It didn’t make sense.


    Monsters couldn’t use elemental magic.


    And yet—more fireballs streaked across the battlefield, carving paths of destruction through their ranks.


    The mages stationed on the fortress walls retaliated, casting barriers to block some of the incoming flames, but they were struggling.


    The fire wasn’t ordinary.


    A new force had entered the battlefield.


    And it was far deadlier than anything they had anticipated.