《Advent of the Demon King》 Chapter 1 For centuries, the ancient lore has spoken of a fearsome event destined to recur once every three hundred years: the rise of the Demon King. This malevolent entity, born of darkness and chaos, would unleash his wrath upon the world, leading a relentless army that would devastate everything in its path. Villages would burn, kingdoms would fall, and the fragile peace that humanity clung to would be shattered like glass. But within this same lore, there is a glimmer of hope¡ªa prophecy intertwined with the darkness. Every three hundred years, a Hero or an Apostle chosen by the gods would also emerge, a beacon of light to counter the encroaching shadows. This hero, imbued with divine power and guided by the gods'' will, would stand against the Demon King, striving to restore balance and peace to the world. This cycle of destruction and salvation has been the cornerstone of myths and legends, whispered by the elders around campfires, recounted in ancient tomes, and passed down through generations. It is a story of hope and despair, of light and darkness, of a never-ending struggle between good and evil. --- [Goddess Aria Temple ¨C Saintess Praying Hall] In the heart of the temple, the saintess knelt in fervent prayer, her simple robes flowing around her like a gentle whisper. Her fair skin glowed softly, and her blonde hair cascaded down her back, catching the light from the flickering candles that lined the hall. Before her stood a grand statue of the goddess Aria, serene and majestic, watching over her devout follower. The saintess clasped her hands tightly, her eyes closed in deep concentration. A delicate aura of light emanated from her body, illuminating the dim hall with a divine glow. The paladins guarding the entrance watched in silent awe, captivated by the ethereal beauty of the scene. Suddenly, the light around the saintess began to intensify, growing brighter and more radiant. The paladins shielded their eyes from the blinding brilliance. Without warning, the light vanished, and the saintess collapsed to her knees, her face ashen and her body trembling violently. "Saintess! Are you alright?" one of the paladins exclaimed, rushing to her side. The saintess struggled to rise, her strength nearly spent. "The Demon King¡­" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "What?" the paladin asked, confusion etched across his face. This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. "The Demon King has emerged!" she cried, her voice trembling with fear. The paladins froze, the gravity of her words sinking in. The ancient prophecy had come to pass. Panic flashed in their eyes as they exchanged worried glances. "We must inform the Pope immediately," the saintess commanded, her usual composure shattered by dread. "Yes, Saintess," the paladins replied in unison, hastily leaving the hall to carry out her orders. Left alone, the saintess turned her tear-streaked face toward the statue of Aria. "Oh, Goddess, please help us," she pleaded, her voice breaking. "Grant us your protection and guide us through this darkness." Her prayer echoed through the empty hall, a desperate plea for divine intervention in a world on the brink of chaos. ------ [Feria Territory ¨C forest area] Feria Territory lies on the edge of the kingdom, a bastion of defense against the neighboring forest teeming with monsters and demons. The terrain is rugged and shadowed, with ancient trees towering like sentinels, their twisted branches weaving a dense canopy that barely allows the sunlight to pierce through. This foreboding woodland is a constant reminder of the ever-present threat lurking just beyond the kingdom''s borders. To safeguard the realm, a massive wall and an imposing fortress have been erected, a testament to the kingdom''s resilience. The soldiers of Feria Territory bear the heavy responsibility of defending against the monstrous hordes. Every day, scouts are dispatched to gather intelligence on any movements or changes among the creatures, or to subjugate any that venture too close. Today, a group of scouts, clad in gleaming armor and armed with swords, shields, and spears, set out on their patrol. The air was filled with the rhythmic clinking of their equipment and the crunch of leaves underfoot. The forest seemed unusually quiet, the silence only broken by their idle chatter. "Hey, do you think we¡¯ll find any strong monsters today?" one soldier asked, his voice carrying a hint of both excitement and apprehension. "No idea. For the last few years, the number of monsters has dwindled," another replied, his tone casual. "Yeah, it¡¯s true. So why do we have to patrol every day?" a third soldier grumbled. "It¡¯s our duty," the leader of the group responded firmly, though his demeanor was relaxed. He was a seasoned veteran, his armor worn but well-maintained, and his eyes held a certain calm confidence. The soldiers continued their patrol, more relaxed than vigilant, exchanging banter and stories as they moved through the forest. They dispatched any creatures they encountered¡ªmostly goblins and gnolls¡ªwith practiced ease, their movements efficient and routine. As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows through the forest, their captain decided it was time to return. "Let¡¯s head back. There¡¯s nothing unusual today," he said, turning to lead the way home. Just as they were about to leave, the captain suddenly halted, a frown creasing his brow. "Hey, how many soldiers were deployed for this patrol?" he asked, a note of urgency in his voice. "Thirty, sir," one of them replied promptly. "Count everyone," the captain ordered, his voice tense. The soldiers quickly counted, the initial casualness giving way to concern. The result was unsettling¡ªonly twenty-three soldiers stood in their ranks. Seven were missing. A chill ran down the captain¡¯s spine as he looked around the darkening forest. The once familiar and almost mundane patrol had taken a sinister turn. "We need to find them," the captain said, his voice steely with determination. The soldiers moved carefully, the earlier camaraderie replaced by a tense silence. The forest was eerily still, every sound amplified in the quiet¡ªthe rustle of leaves, the whisper of the wind, even the sound of their own breathing. "Everyone be careful. Something is strange," the captain warned, his eyes scanning the shadows. Suddenly, a blood-curdling scream shattered the silence. "Aaaghh!!" Panic rippled through the group. "What was that?" a soldier gasped, the fear palpable in his voice. The captain''s eyes narrowed. "Everyone, let¡¯s move carefully and stick together," he commanded, taking the lead with renewed urgency. They navigated through the trees and dense underbrush, hearts pounding as they approached the source of the scream. The scene that greeted them was one of pure horror. Seven bodies lay scattered on the ground, brutally torn apart. Limbs, legs, and heads were grotesquely dismembered, blood soaking the earth. Amidst the carnage, a towering figure sat, its presence more menacing than any being they had ever encountered. The creature exuded an aura of pure malice, and the instincts of the soldiers screamed at them to flee but the fear rooted them to the spot. "Everyone, run!" the captain yelled, his voice cracking with fear. But it was too late. They were already surrounded. Goblins and gnolls emerged from the shadows, their eyes gleaming with savage glee as they closed in on the soldiers, cutting off any chance of escape. The captain''s mind raced, desperately seeking a plan, but then the monstrous figure rose to its full height, casting a long, ominous shadow over them. The creature''s eyes locked onto the captain, and it spoke in a voice that resonated with dark power. "Go back," it commanded, stepping forward with terrifying ease. "Go back and tell every human being to prepare themselves." In one swift motion, the creature grabbed a soldier by the head and crushed it as if it were made of paper. "Because I''m coming." Blood splattered across the captain''s face, the warm droplets a stark contrast to the cold terror gripping his heart. "I''m coming to raze their grounds, annihilate their species, and destroy everything," the being declared, its voice echoing with the promise of untold destruction. Only then did the captain realize the true identity of the creature standing before them. The Demon King. "So, go back and tell them to stop me if they can." In that moment, the captain felt the weight of their predicament crush down upon him. The legends were true, and the harbinger of chaos had returned. Chapter 2 [Feria Fortress] Feria Fortress stood as a formidable bastion at the edge of the kingdom, crafted from the finest stone and reinforced with sturdy iron. Its towering walls bore the scars of countless battles, yet it remained unyielding, a steadfast shield against the monstrous forces of the nearby forest. The parapets bristled with soldiers and archers, each one vigilant, ready to defend the fortress with every breath. Intricate artifacts lined the walls, emitting faint glows of magical energy¡ªeach one imbued with protective spells to bolster the fortress¡¯s defenses. On the high platform overlooking the territory, two men walked side by side. Soldiers stationed on the wall saluted them with respect as they passed, their reverence evident. The elder of the two was Count Marcus, a man of dignified bearing, his graying hair and finely crafted uniform exuding authority and wisdom. He was the lord of Feria Territory, and his presence alone commanded loyalty and respect. Beside him walked a young man in his twenties, his sharp blue hair catching the sunlight. His armor gleamed, and a finely wrought sword rested at his side. This was Steven, a scion of a renowned swordmaster family, hailed as one of the kingdom''s rising stars. Driven by a thirst for experience and the honor of his family name, Steven had ventured into Feria Territory to witness the heart of the kingdom''s monster defenses. As they strolled along the platform, Count Marcus gestured to the fortifications and defenses below. "So, what do you think of our territory?" he asked, a hint of pride in his voice. "It¡¯s impressive," Steven replied, his gaze sweeping over the disciplined ranks of soldiers and the carefully maintained walls. "As expected of Count Marcus. This place stands strong." The count gave a satisfied nod, pleased with the approval of someone from the famed swordmaster family. They continued their tour, their conversation light and respectful as Marcus pointed out various features of the fortress and its surrounding city, proud to show Steven the heart of the kingdom¡¯s defenses. But their exchange was abruptly interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps. A soldier ran towards them, his face pale and strained, eyes wide with urgency. "My lord! My lord!" he called out, barely catching his breath. Count Marcus turned to him, his expression shifting instantly to one of concern. "What has happened?" he asked, his voice steady yet edged with tension. The soldier struggled to speak, glancing quickly at Steven before focusing on the count. "My lord, the captain of the patrol team has an urgent message. He requests to inform you immediately." Marcus frowned, the lines on his face deepening. "Very well, tell him I¡¯ll be there shortly," he replied, glancing apologetically at Steven, aware that their tour had been cut short. "No, my lord," the soldier interrupted, his voice trembling slightly. "He insisted¡­ he needs to speak to you as soon as possible." The alarm in the soldier¡¯s voice left no room for further delay. Marcus nodded gravely. "Alright. Bring him here at once," he ordered.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. The soldier bowed and dashed off, leaving Marcus and Steven standing in a moment of tense silence. Steven¡¯s gaze turned to the forest in the distance, his expression hardening with anticipation. The captain soon arrived, his staggering steps drawing the attention of everyone present. Count Marcus, Steven, and the surrounding soldiers looked on, their faces shifting from curiosity to shock. The captain''s appearance was a far cry from his usual steady composure; he looked exhausted, his face drawn and pale, eyes wide with terror. Blood stained his face and armor, and his hands trembled as he struggled to stand upright. Marcus stepped forward, his voice laced with concern. "What happened? Why are you in this condition?" The captain opened his mouth, but the words seemed to choke him, as though he were haunted by what he had witnessed. "D-Demon King¡­!" he stuttered, the fear in his voice unmistakable. Marcus frowned, leaning closer. "What are you talking about? Speak louder!" he commanded, his voice calm but his heart beginning to race. The captain took a shuddering breath, his eyes meeting Marcus¡¯s with a look of dread. "My lord¡­ the Demon King is coming here." Marcus felt as if the world had fallen silent around him. He blinked, staring at the captain in disbelief. "What? What do you mean?" His voice wavered, the words almost foreign to him. This was the last thing he had ever expected to hear. The soldiers around them, as well as Steven, felt their blood run cold. The mere mention of the Demon King struck fear into the heart of even the bravest. Tales of his wrath, his merciless destruction, had been passed down for centuries, but no one had ever truly believed they would live to see such a day. "What nonsense are you talking about?" Marcus asked, his voice sharp, as if trying to snap the captain out of a nightmare. The captain swallowed hard, his voice barely steady. "My lord¡­ while we were patrolling¡­ he attacked us. Our men were slaughtered¡­ and then he spared me¡ªonly me. He let me go to deliver a message." He looked down, his voice trembling. "He said he would come here. He plans to attack our fortress in a week." A stunned silence fell over the courtyard. Marcus¡¯s face darkened, the weight of the captain¡¯s words sinking in. He knew the horrors the Demon King could unleash¡ªhe had heard the stories since he was a child, but now those stories had become their grim reality. Around him, he could see the same dread etched on every face, soldiers exchanging fearful glances, their hands gripping their weapons tighter as though they were already bracing for the oncoming storm. Marcus took a deep, steadying breath and turned to Steven, his eyes resolute. "We have no choice but to prepare immediately. Fortunately, we have a strong ally with us," he said, his gaze full of trust as he looked at the young swordmaster. Steven nodded, his expression grim but unwavering. He understood the weight of what they were about to face, yet his resolve didn¡¯t falter. "I¡¯ll stand by you, count," he said, his voice steady. "We won¡¯t let him break through." Marcus¡¯s voice was calm, yet the urgency was clear. "Inform every soldier to begin preparations at once. Gather the archers, the mages, everyone. And send the messenge to the king and the duke. They must be warned." The soldiers nodded, their fear replaced by a steely determination. With renewed purpose, they scattered to carry out the count''s orders, their movements quick, yet the grim understanding hung over them. They were preparing not for an ordinary battle, but for survival against a force of legend, a nightmare incarnate. The entire Feria Territory became a hive of urgent activity, a place transformed by the looming threat of the Demon King. Every soul, from seasoned soldiers to humble villagers, felt the pressing weight of what lay ahead. The peaceful routines of daily life vanished, replaced by the relentless rhythm of preparation. The Demon King¡¯s dark promise hung over them, a shadow that haunted every waking moment. Throughout the fortress, soldiers trained harder than ever before. Clad in their armor, they drilled tirelessly in the practice yards, each strike of their swords echoing across the courtyard like the tolling of a funeral bell. Sweat drenched their faces, muscles aching from long hours of training as they perfected formations and strategies under the watchful eyes of their captains. The archers, too, took to their drills with a fierce intensity, sparring with grim determination, their minds set on one single purpose: survival. The fortress walls, already sturdy, were reinforced with fresh layers of stone and steel. Skilled masons worked tirelessly, their hands raw as they fortified weak points, strengthened gates, and sharpened the parapets. The air smelled of dust and sweat as they labored, knowing that every stone laid could mean the difference between life and death. Food and supplies were stockpiled, every crate carefully packed with essentials to withstand a siege. Farmers from the surrounding countryside delivered what they could spare, their faces etched with worry as they entrusted their harvest to the fortress. Blacksmiths worked around the clock, their forges blazing as they crafted swords, shields, and armor for every man and woman who could wield them. The clanging of hammers and the hiss of cooling steel filled the fortress, a rhythmic song of defiance against the encroaching darkness. Mercenaries from distant lands arrived, grim-faced and scarred, lured by promises of gold but hardened by years of fighting monsters. They took up positions on the outer walls, blending with the regular soldiers as they prepared to face creatures most had only ever heard of in legends. Their hardened faces spoke of experience, yet even they could not hide the fear flickering in their eyes when they heard whispers of the Demon King¡¯s approach. Magical artifacts, dormant for years, were carefully inspected and recharged by skilled enchanters. The faint hum of magical energy filled the air as the fortress¡¯s mages wove protective spells over the walls and gates, binding layers of magic to the stone and wood. They worked with focus and urgency, their hands moving with practiced precision as they cast wards and barriers to slow the approach of dark forces. Summoned from nearby towns, additional mages arrived, adding to the arcane strength of the fortress. Their robes swept through the fortress as they worked in silence, murmuring spells and prayers under their breath. In the town below, the tension was palpable. Civilians watched the feverish preparations with wide eyes, feeling a growing dread with every passing day. Farmers hurried to harvest what they could, while mothers gathered their children close, casting worried glances toward the fortress. Priests held nightly gatherings, offering prayers and comforting words, yet even their voices held a tremor as they spoke of courage and hope. The fortress chapel, typically quiet, now became a place of sanctuary for both soldiers and townsfolk alike. People came in droves, lighting candles and kneeling in silent prayer, their whispered hopes and fears mingling in the dim light. It was here that many found a moment¡¯s solace, yet even within those sacred walls, the looming threat of the Demon King felt inescapable. Steven, the young swordsman, could be found training alongside the soldiers, his blue hair damp with sweat, his eyes steely with focus. He pushed himself beyond his limits, determined to face whatever came with unwavering resolve. Count Marcus, despite his years, walked the walls each night, inspecting every corner of his fortress, speaking words of encouragement to his soldiers. His presence was a pillar of strength, a reminder that they were not alone in this fight, yet even he could not mask the worry that lingered in his gaze. Finally, the week drew to an end. The fortress stood ready, its walls bristling with soldiers, archers, mages, and mercenaries. Every blade had been sharpened, every shield polished, every magical ward set in place. Yet, beneath the readiness, a heavy silence lay over the territory. Everyone knew what was coming, and the waiting was perhaps the cruelest part of all. As dawn broke on the final day, a mist rolled in from the forest, shrouding the land in a ghostly fog. The soldiers took their positions on the walls, hands gripping their weapons, eyes fixed on the distant treeline. Hearts beat faster, breaths came shallow and quick. No one spoke, for words had long since run dry. They were ready, but no one knew if readiness would be enough against the ancient evil that now approached, driven by a hatred as old as time. In the chill morning air, a faint, ominous rumble echoed from the depths of the forest. Chapter 3 Count Marcus and Steven stood side by side atop the fortress wall, their faces etched with grim determination. Around them, soldiers gripped their weapons tightly, mages murmured protective spells, archers held their bows steady, and mercenaries readied themselves, each face pale but resolved. The air was thick with tension as their eyes stayed fixed on the dense forest line across the open, desolate plain that lay before them. This plain had been cleared of trees years ago, a calculated effort to prevent ambushes and expose any approaching threats. It stretched wide and empty, a stark, barren ground that seemed to swallow any sound, amplifying the unnatural silence that hung in the air. Even the birds were still. Only the low rustling of armor and the whispered prayers of a few soldiers could be heard as they prepared to face what no mortal should ever have to encounter. Then, a faint stir. The silence broke as a figure emerged from the forest¡¯s shadows, stepping into the light with a slow, deliberate stride that resonated with a menacing power. It was as if the air grew colder, and every heartbeat on the wall seemed to freeze. His figure, massive and imposing, towered over the open ground, and with each step he took, his presence seemed to press down upon them, filling every soul with a deep, primal fear. The Demon King. There was no mistaking him. His body was an intimidating canvas of sinew and muscle, rippling beneath ash-grey skin that looked as hard as stone. Intricate, heavy golden armor clung to his form, adorned with macabre skull motifs and haunting, ancient symbols carved into the gleaming metal. Each piece of armor told a story of conquest, of lands and lives claimed in his wake. Broad shoulder pads bore skulls that grinned back at the onlookers, twisted and silent as though bearing witness to centuries of darkness. Upon his head sat a crown of dark gold, encrusted with gems that gleamed like the eyes of predators in the dark. In its center rested a single, large skull, its empty sockets somehow seeming to leer down upon those who dared to look. Two enormous, curved horns rose from the sides of his head, twisting menacingly upwards, while his eyes burned an unholy red, piercing and cruel. His long, purple hair flowed down his shoulders, blending with a thick, braided beard that hung down his chest, framing a face set in a stern, almost regal expression. His gaze met the fortress walls, and in that instant, every soldier felt it, a weight that reached into their very souls. His crimson eyes narrowed, and it was as though he could see each of them, laying bare their fears, their weaknesses, their hidden doubts. A wave of terror washed over them, a suffocating presence that held them captive, rooted in place as they stared, helpless, at the monster who now stood before them.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. Skeletal wings, large and menacing, unfurled from his back, each wingbone covered in dark, sharp edges that glinted in the weak daylight. The bony framework rose and stretched as though reaching for the walls, a grotesque display of unnatural power. A long, sinuous tail swayed behind him, its spiked end dragging through the dust as he moved forward, leaving a scar on the ground like the mark of a curse. Writhing, serpentine-like figures were etched into his skin, almost alive as they wound up his arms, ending in hands adorned with heavy rings of gold and blood-red stones. On the walls, the silence broke as fear took hold. Every soldier''s heart pounded, their breaths quickening as they watched this nightmare come to life. Some muttered hurried prayers under their breath; others gripped their weapons so tightly that their knuckles turned white. Even the hardened mercenaries, veterans of countless battles, felt their resolve falter as they faced this being of pure, unrelenting malice. Marcus forced himself to breathe, steadying his heartbeat as he surveyed the soldiers under his command. His face remained calm, but inside, he felt the weight of their fear and his own mounting dread. He glanced at Steven, whose eyes held a fierce determination despite the tension in his jaw. Their shared glance was brief but spoke volumes¡ªa silent vow that they would fight, no matter the cost. "Hold your positions!" Marcus called out, his voice firm yet thick with urgency. "Prepare yourselves!" The soldiers snapped back to focus, positioning themselves with a last, shaky breath. The archers lined up, bows raised, arrows notched. Mages readied their spells, their hands glowing with faint, crackling energy. Everyone stood at the ready, yet a gnawing dread remained, unshakable, as they prepared to face the Demon King, the embodiment of the legends they¡¯d grown up fearing, a nightmare they¡¯d hoped would remain as nothing more than ancient myth. And there he stood, mere steps away from the forest''s edge, surveying the fortress before him, as if savoring the fear he inspired. As the Demon King took his ominous stand before the walls, two other figures emerged from the forest¡¯s shadowed depths, each carrying a dark aura that seemed to poison the very air. The first, a towering lizardman, was larger and more terrifying than any alpha his species could produce. His scaled body rippled with muscle beneath the armor that clung to his form, and his eyes glowed with a sinister yellow. Across his shoulder rested a massive, jagged sword that seemed almost too large for any creature to wield, yet he held it with an ease that sent a shiver down the spines of the soldiers watching from the walls. He was a warrior born for destruction, a beast with a cunning intelligence that left a dark promise in the air. But it was the second figure that stirred unease on a different level. The soldiers¡¯ eyes fixed on a strange, masked figure shuffling forward. His mask was carved with an ancient, twisted design, framing eyes that burned with an unnatural fire. Tattoos snaked across every inch of his visible skin, each line and swirl a testament to forbidden rites, blasphemous rituals, and long-lost magic. This creature¡ªif he could even be called that anymore¡ªwas known to some as a witch doctor, or as the legends whispered, a Voodooist. Exiled by their kin for delving too deeply into dark ceremonies, these beings had forsaken their humanity, embracing the Demon King¡¯s dark gifts to gain power beyond imagination. His body was draped in a primitive garb fashioned from animal hides and bones, totems dangling from his neck and waist, each imbued with malevolent energies. And in his skeletal fingers, he held a slender flute, carved from bone and decorated with tiny, ominous symbols. As he lifted it to his lips, his eyes locked on the wall as though savoring the tension that gripped every person atop it. At the Demon King¡¯s command, he nodded and began to walk forward, his steps slow and deliberate. The witch doctor, Tores, played a single, haunting note on his flute, and the sound rippled through the air, a melody as intoxicating as it was sinister. The tune was beautiful in a twisted way, filling the silence with an eerie sweetness, yet the soldiers found no solace in it. Instead, a deep unease settled in their hearts, as if each note carried a curse that crept closer with every beat. Count Marcus¡¯s face hardened as he shouted, ¡°Archers, loose your arrows! Mages, ready your spells!¡± His voice cut through the haunting music, and the soldiers sprang into action. A hail of arrows shot forward, streaking toward Tores with deadly intent, but as they neared him, a shimmering barrier flickered into view. Each arrow stopped just short of him, hovering for a split second before clattering harmlessly to the ground. Tores¡¯s magical shield held fast, the force around him unwavering. He continued to play, his melody shifting from sweet to sinister, notes laced with mockery and disdain. The soldiers¡¯ hands tightened on their weapons, but they couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that something was horribly wrong. They could feel the music seeping into their minds, a dark influence that clouded their thoughts with fear and hesitation. And then, with a twist of his wrist and a change in tune, Tores summoned something darker. The notes grew sweeter, almost beguiling, like a lullaby luring them into some ancient, cursed slumber. Suddenly, a rustling came from the forest, the low crackle of movement against the silence. Long, thick vines erupted from the ground, coiling and writhing like serpents as they slithered toward the fortress walls. They twisted and stretched, reaching up like the greedy fingers of some hidden creature beneath the earth. The vines latched onto the stone, crawling upward, binding themselves in dense layers across the fortress¡¯s face. Panic spread through the soldiers as they stared, wide-eyed, at the growing web of vines. They clawed and wove together with terrifying speed, strong and nearly indestructible, creating a living barrier that cut off their view of the advancing threat. Soldiers tried to hack at them, but for each vine severed, three more sprouted, coiling and snarling around their arms, choking their movements. The mages tried to burn the vines with flames, yet the resilient plants merely writhed away from the heat, smothering any progress. The soldiers looked to Marcus and Steven for guidance, their faces stricken, breaths ragged as they struggled to maintain their courage. The beautiful yet sinister music of Tores¡¯s flute filled the air, its sweet tones mocking their helplessness as the vines rose higher, inching closer with every second. As Tores played on, his eyes gleamed from behind his mask, savoring the terror that he had sown. He tilted his head, the music swelling into a crescendo, promising that this was only the beginning. Chapter 4 The fortress walls of Feria now appeared as if they were being swallowed by an immense, green serpent. The vines twisted and wove together, dense and unyielding, their rapid growth producing a sound like hundreds of tiny whips cracking in unison. The soldiers hacked at them desperately, swords clanging and axes biting deep, but for each vine cut away, others surged back, thicker and stronger. The mages, their brows furrowed and sweat trickling down their faces, muttered incantations, casting flames that flickered and sputtered against the relentless greenery. The small bursts of fire were enough to singe the vines, but not enough to stop their advance, and the mages dared not summon greater flames for fear of setting the entire fortress ablaze. Count Marcus stood tall on the battlements, eyes scanning the chaos below. His jaw was clenched so tightly it ached, his mind racing for a solution. The tension in the air was suffocating, and the soldiers¡¯ panicked shouts blended into a cacophony of fear. He glanced at Steven, who stood with sword drawn, his blue hair whipping in the wind, eyes narrowed and fierce. Yet even Steven¡¯s composure seemed strained, a flicker of uncertainty shadowing his otherwise determined expression. Then, abruptly, the music stopped. The haunting, cursed melody that had coiled around their minds like an unseen snake was gone, and in its place, an eerie silence fell over the plain. It was so sudden, so complete, that it felt as if the world itself held its breath. But in that silence, another sound emerged¡ªa low rumble, like distant thunder, growing louder by the second. The soldiers¡¯ eyes darted to the tree line, the dark mass of the forest trembling as if alive. And then, from between the gnarled, ancient trunks, they appeared. First a trickle, then a wave¡ªhordes of goblins, swarming forward like a living tide. Their eyes glowed with malice, and their ragged war cries split the air. Each one was armed, their crude weapons glinting wickedly despite their poor craftsmanship. Rusted blades, jagged spears, clubs wrapped in barbed wire; their arsenal was as varied as it was deadly. Amidst the swarm were larger figures, goblin warriors with bulging muscles and snarling expressions, their bodies draped in stolen armor that barely fit their hulking forms. They towered over the smaller goblins, driving them forward with guttural roars and sweeping gestures. And moving among them, almost spectral, were the goblin shamans, their twisted staffs topped with skulls and bones that clattered as they chanted in a tongue that made the hair on the back of Count Marcus¡¯s neck stand on end. Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! His breath caught in his throat as he took in the sheer number of them. Hundreds, no¡ªthousands¡ªsurged forward, more than he¡¯d ever thought possible. For years, the reports had spoken of dwindling goblin sightings, leading many to believe the threat had receded. But now, with the ground shaking under the force of their charge, the truth became sickeningly clear. They had not vanished; they had been waiting, gathering in the dark, preparing for this moment. The purpose of the vines, once a mystery, now revealed itself in terrifying clarity. The goblins reached the base of the fortress and, with the agility of spiders, began scaling the vine-covered walls. Their green, clawed hands dug into the twisted plants, pulling themselves up with ease. The soldiers on the walls watched in horror as the first goblins reached the parapets, their grotesque faces leering with wicked glee. ¡°Push them back! Don¡¯t let them breach the walls!¡± Count Marcus roared, his voice cutting through the panic like a blade. The archers loosed a barrage of arrows, the twang of their bows blending into a single, desperate sound. The arrows struck true, felling goblins mid-climb, but for each one that fell, more took its place, their shrieks filling the air. The soldiers at the walls hacked at the advancing creatures, their blades meeting green flesh and bone, but the goblins were relentless, driven by some dark purpose they couldn¡¯t fathom. Steven also leapt into action, his sword a blur as he cleaved through goblin after goblin, the weight of his strikes knocking some back into the seething horde below. His swings were strong, fast and tore apart goblins. Yet even as he fought, the sheer number of enemies began to press against the soldiers, pushing them back step by step. Amidst the chaos, Count Marcus¡¯s heart pounded in his chest, the metallic taste of fear sharp on his tongue. He knew that this was not just a battle for their territory; it was a battle for survival. The goblins kept coming, their numbers seeming endless, their war cries blending into a single, terrible roar that threatened to drown out even the bravest heart. And beyond them, watching the siege unfold with cold, calculating eyes, stood the Demon King, a dark silhouette of power and ruin, unmoving but commanding every shadow that crept across the plain. The air was thick with the acrid tang of sweat, blood, and the metallic hum of steel clashing against bone. The archers on the walls shot until their quivers were nearly empty, the strain of drawing bowstrings making their arms tremble. Every arrow loosed struck true, piercing goblin eyes and chests, sending them shrieking into the writhing sea of bodies below. The mages stood in tight formations, their voices hoarse from chanting incantations, palms blistered from the heat of their magic. Bolts of fire and crackling arcs of lightning cut through the hordes, lighting the night like a storm unleashed. Yet for every spell that found its mark, the goblins surged anew, driven by an unyielding hunger. On the battlements, the soldiers and mercenaries fought with desperate resolve, their blades slick with black-green ichor. The clash of metal rang out in a deafening chorus, punctuated by the guttural snarls of goblins and the shouts of men and women straining to hold their ground. The creatures climbed the walls in an endless wave, their limbs clawing over the lifeless bodies of their fallen kin without pause, their eyes glowing with an unnatural, rabid intensity. The vines they used to scale the stone ramparts were slick with blood, both human and goblin, a gruesome testament to the battle¡¯s ferocity. ¡°Push them back! Do not yield!¡± Count Marcus¡¯s voice cut through the din, sharp and unrelenting. But even as he barked commands, a cold dread settled in his chest. His eyes flitted briefly to the figures standing on the edge of the forest¡ªthe Demon King and his generals, unmoved and watchful. Why haven¡¯t they moved yet? The question coiled in his mind like a snake, suffocating in its implications. Steven, sweat dripping down his face, lunged forward, cleaving a goblin warrior in two with a roar. But the goblins didn¡¯t stop. The goblin warriors were monstrous, towering figures that soaked up blows like they were nothing. Their jagged weapons, stolen from long-forgotten skirmishes or forged in primitive fires, crashed against shields with bone-jarring force. For every one that fell, another took its place, driven not by intelligence but a raw, animalistic instinct to fight and consume. A soldier nearby screamed as a goblin shaman¡¯s spell hit him, dark tendrils of energy wrapping around his body and crushing him with merciless speed. The shamans, scattered behind the main lines, chanted in guttural unison, their staffs pounding the ground in a rhythmic, blood-chilling beat. Defensive spells shimmered around them, thwarting the mages'' attempts to strike from afar. The soldiers on the walls gritted their teeth as another volley of arrows bounced harmlessly off the magical barriers, leaving only frustration in their wake. A sudden surge of goblins reached the parapets, their claws tearing at armor and skin. One soldier was dragged screaming over the edge, his cries cut short by the sickening thud of his body hitting the ground below. Another fell, throat slashed by a goblin''s jagged blade, blood spurting in an arc that splattered across his comrades. Still, the defenders did not falter, their faces etched with grim determination and fear. They swung their swords, hacked with axes, and shoved with shields, each motion an act of survival. But deep in their hearts, a question pulsed like a silent drumbeat: How long can we hold them off? The Demon King watched it all with eyes as cold as polished obsidian, unmoved by the massacre unfolding before him. His two generals flanked him, statuesque in their power. The lizardman, muscles coiled and eyes slitted with anticipation, rested his colossal blade on one shoulder, a silent promise of bloodshed. The Voodooist, Tores, stood still, the flute clutched loosely in one hand as if waiting for a cue. And that¡¯s what it felt like to Count Marcus and Steven¡ªa game, a cruel performance orchestrated by beings who could end it with a mere gesture. The goblins weren''t just an assault; they were an overture, a prelude to something far more terrifying. Blood coated the walls, staining them a dark, sickly green. The soldiers'' feet slipped on the slick stone, their breaths labored, eyes darting to their comrades who were fighting, bleeding, dying. Yet the goblins kept coming, clawing over their fallen like a mindless tide, driven by terrifying instinct: they felt no fear. Chapter 5 The walls shuddered under the relentless force of the goblin swarm, a living, writhing mass clawing their way upward, fueled by primal rage and an insatiable will to destroy. Soldiers and mercenaries fought like cornered wolves, blades slick with dark, putrid blood, their muscles screaming in protest as they struck again and again. The screams of the wounded mingled with the roars of battle, each cry a haunting reminder of how precarious their position had become. For every goblin they felled, more clambered over the writhing pile of bodies, driven by sheer, mindless instinct. Steven¡¯s gaze darted to the mages, their faces pale as they hurled spell after spell, their reserves of mana dwindling dangerously low. The sight of goblins breaking through their defenses sent a shiver down his spine. His heart hammered in his chest as he saw two creatures slip past and lunge at the nearest mage, their eyes gleaming with savage hunger. Without hesitation, Steven leaped into action, his sword a flash of silver that cleaved through the air, cutting the goblins down before they could strike. "Count! I don¡¯t think we can hold out much longer!" Steven shouted over the din, sweat streaming down his face as he met Count Marcus¡¯s grim eyes. Count Marcus clenched his jaw, his expression shadowed with worry as he parried a goblin''s spear and shoved it back into the mass below. "Do you have any plan?" he called back, voice taut with strain. Steven glanced at the horizon, searching desperately for any sign of their reinforcement, but the plains stretched out empty, save for the roiling sea of goblins. "How much longer until reinforcements arrive?" he demanded, his eyes flicking to Count Marcus. Count Marcus''s expression faltered, and his response came with a heavy weight. "A few hours at best," he admitted. The words hung between them, a silent acknowledgment of the impossible odds they faced. Steven¡¯s jaw tightened as he watched another soldier fall, his scream cut short as goblin claws tore into him. The defenders'' line was faltering, breaking under the onslaught. His mind raced, weighing their few options. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he made his decision. "Cover me, Count. I¡¯m going down there to clear the way and buy us time. Tell the soldiers to regroup and brace for the next wave!" Count Marcus''s eyes widened in shock. "Are you insane? That''s too dangerous!" But there was no room for doubt in Steven¡¯s gaze, only a fierce, unyielding resolve. "I know," Steven said, voice steady as a heartbeat. "But it¡¯s our only chance."Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Count Marcus swallowed hard, seeing the determination etched on Steven¡¯s face. With a reluctant nod, he shouted, "Archers, cover him! All units, regroup and hold the line!" Steven moved forward, gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly that his knuckles blanched white. With one powerful leap, he vaulted over the edge of the wall, plunging into the chaos below. The wind roared in his ears as he descended, and goblins screeched, their red eyes tracking his descent. Time seemed to slow as he fell, and an electric energy built around him, crackling blue and alive. The charge coursed through his body, igniting with raw, focused power. The ground rushed up to meet him, and with a deafening boom, he landed. The impact sent shockwaves rippling outward, and the energy erupted from him in a dazzling burst of blue light. Goblins near him were shredded, their bodies disintegrating in a violent flash, limbs and torsos hurled away like ragdolls. For a breathless moment, there was silence, as if the world itself had paused to witness the power unleashed. Blood and dust mingled in the air, and the goblins nearest to Steven hesitated, their instincts reeling from the sudden display of force. The few heartbeats of reprieve were enough for the defenders above to catch their breath, eyes wide with awe and fear. Steven stood in the clearing he had created, chest heaving, the light of the charge still crackling along his blade. His eyes blazed with determination as he met the feral, countless eyes surrounding him. This was far from over, but he had bought them precious moments. And moments, in battle, could mean the difference between life and death. The goblins surged forward, a relentless tide of green, gnashing teeth, and crude weapons. They clawed at the walls, clambering over the writhing mass of their dead and injured kin. But this time, standing between them and their goal was Steven, his blue hair matted with sweat and goblin blood, eyes like steel and unwavering. He gripped his sword, the blade humming with a lethal energy that seemed almost alive. The Driesell family was renowned, a name spoken with respect and awe across the kingdom. Descendants of a line blessed by Indra, the god of thunder, they were famed for wielding a unique and devastating power: Thunderstorm. It was said that when a Driesell took up their sword, even the heavens shuddered. Yet not all in the family could master this technique, for it demanded not just skill but an indomitable spirit. Steven, still young by the standards of war-hardened soldiers, had proven himself a prodigy. His training was incomplete, yet even a fragment of Thunderstorm in his hands was a weapon unlike any other. Steven stood his ground as goblins poured towards him, their snarls echoing in the blood-soaked air. He shifted his stance, the muscles in his arms tensing. As he swung, a brilliant arc of blue lightning crackled from the blade, searing the air with a hiss. The strike connected with a group of goblins, their shrieks cut short as their bodies were obliterated in a flash of electric fury. The ground scorched black where they stood, the acrid smell of charred flesh rising in thick waves. Each swing of Steven¡¯s sword was a symphony of destruction. Lightning surged from the blade, bolts snapping and ricocheting in unpredictable directions, leaving smoldering craters in their wake. The goblins hesitated, their base instincts warring with the command to advance. But more still came, driven by the insatiable will of their shamans and the looming figure of the Demon King in the distance. The wall above teemed with soldiers and mercenaries, eyes wide with both terror and newfound hope. They watched Steven carve a path of devastation below, his form almost godlike amidst the swarm. Yet their battle was far from idle; arrows rained down from the archers, each shot aimed to pick off goblin shamans whose foul chants bolstered the horde. Mages focused, their eyes alight with power as they hurled bolts of flame and ice into the fray. The shamans countered with waves of dark magic, but the defenders pressed on, sweat streaming down their brows, hearts pounding in tandem with the chaos. The soldiers on the wall used the brief reprieve Steven provided to push back. They worked feverishly, tossing goblin bodies from the ramparts and clearing space. Shields were propped up, spears bristling outward to impale any goblin that dared climb. The mercenaries, ragged but determined, hurled spears and weighted nets, tangling goblins in a death grip before finishing them off with sharp thrusts. Blood slicked the stones, turning the wall into a treacherous battlefield of crimson and grit. Steven¡¯s body moved on instinct, the Thunderstorm coursing through him like a second pulse. Each step forward was a calculated gamble, his boots slipping on gore but never faltering. The surge of lightning that spilled from his sword illuminated his face, revealing eyes locked in a mixture of determination and exhaustion. His breath came in ragged gasps, but he pushed forward, teeth clenched against the searing pain in his muscles. The green blood of the goblins splattered over him, warm and sticky, soaking through his armor and painting him in a grotesque testament to his defiance. The soldiers on the wall caught glimpses of Steven¡¯s defiance and felt something stir within them. Tired arms lifted swords, wounded men gritted their teeth and took aim once more. The hopelessness that had gripped their hearts began to shift, replaced by a flicker of belief. For the first time since the battle began, they felt a chance¡ªa slim, razor-thin chance¡ªthat they could hold the line. A sudden bellow rose from the mass of goblins as a hulking goblin warrior, twice the size of the others and wielding a jagged axe, barreled toward Steven. The creature¡¯s eyes were crimson slits of rage, its muscles rippling with raw power. Steven steadied himself, feeling the crackle of energy surge from his core to the tip of his sword. The warrior swung its axe with a force that could shatter bone, but Steven sidestepped, bringing his sword down in a blinding arc. The Thunderstorm leapt from the blade, and the warrior¡¯s roar was choked off as the lightning tore through its body, leaving a smoking husk where it once stood. Cheers erupted from the wall, raw and fervent, as the sight of Steven¡¯s victory emboldened them. But there was no time to rest. The wave of goblins continued, an endless tide against their desperate stand. The Demon King and his generals stood motionless in the distance, their presence a chilling reminder that the true battle had yet to begin. Chapter 6 Steven stood at the base of the wall, chest heaving as the steady, metallic tang of goblin blood filled the air. He pushed back the exhaustion creeping into his limbs, forcing himself to remain sharp. The relentless tide of goblins had been momentarily stemmed, their broken bodies scattered like autumn leaves across the battlefield. For the first time since the onslaught began, there was a glimmer of hope reflected in the eyes of the soldiers above. But that hope was soon shadowed by a deep, rumbling voice. "Movok," the Demon King called, his tone calm and unyielding, as if summoning a storm. A hulking figure stepped forward from the ranks. Movok, the lizardman general, stood taller than any beast Steven had faced before. His scaled body shimmered in hues of deep green and black, each scale edged with a metallic gleam that caught the dying light. He gripped a sword so massive it looked more like a slab of raw iron, its weight pressing into the earth as he moved. His eyes, slit-pupiled and cold, locked onto Steven, promising nothing short of death. The goblins around Movok parted, their shrill cries silencing as they retreated to form a wide, jagged circle around the two combatants. The tension was palpable, seeping into the marrow of every soldier watching from the fortress walls. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Steven''s fingers tightened around his sword hilt until his knuckles blanched. The blue tendrils of thunder that crackled along its edge hissed and sparked, a stark contrast to the calm, predatory grace of Movok. He knew instinctively that this was no ordinary foe; the lizardman exuded a power that felt ancient and unwavering, as if he had crawled out of the deepest, darkest parts of the world. Without waiting for pleasantries or battle cries, Steven lunged. His blade sliced through the air, trailing arcs of blue lightning that crackled and snarled. The sound was sharp, almost deafening, and the light momentarily illuminated the fear-stricken faces on the walls above. But Movok met the attack without a flinch. He raised his scaled arm, not even bothering to lift his sword, and caught Steven¡¯s blade with the hardened plates covering his forearm. The clash sent a shudder through Steven''s entire frame. Sparks leapt wildly as the thunder''s energy ricocheted off Movok''s scales, scattering harmlessly into the dirt. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. The shock jolted Steven back, disbelief flashing across his face as he staggered a step. Movok¡¯s eyes narrowed, a faint curl of what could have been amusement tugging at his scaled lips. He moved so fast it was almost impossible to follow, his free arm lashing out and slamming into Steven¡¯s chest with the force of a battering ram. Steven flew backward, the world a blur of colors and motion, before he crashed to the ground. Pain splintered across his ribs, stealing the breath from his lungs. He coughed, tasting copper as blood spattered against the inside of his helmet. Above him, the soldiers gasped, their newfound hope wavered by the sheer power of the lizardman. Pushing himself up, Steven¡¯s vision swam, but he forced himself to focus on the figure now striding toward him. Movok''s heavy steps pressed deep imprints into the earth, his sword dragging behind him, carving a cruel path. The sound it made¡ªa low, resonant scrape¡ªsent a chill up the spines of those watching. Steven rose shakily to his feet, his sword still sparking with defiant energy, but the weight of realization settled on his shoulders: this was not a battle he could win with mere skill alone. Movok¡¯s scales shimmered ominously, reflecting the storm that raged in Steven''s eyes, but for the first time, doubt coiled tightly in his gut. The fortress wall above was silent, the soldiers too stunned to cheer or shout. Count Marcus clenched his fists, his expression twisted in anguish. He wanted to call out, to tell Steven to fall back, but he knew the young swordsman wouldn¡¯t listen. Steven''s resolve was iron, forged by a legacy that would rather die than retreat. The battlefield waited, holding its collective breath as the two warriors stood facing each other. One, a young man wielding a storm, and the other, a monster that seemed immune to it. Steven¡¯s breath came in ragged, shallow gasps as he faced Movok. The world around him shrank to just the towering figure before him. Every sound¡ªthe distant clash of steel, the cries of wounded soldiers, even the crackling thunder still sparking around his blade¡ªfaded into the background. It was just him and the lizardman general now. Movok¡¯s eyes glinted with a cruel curiosity as he gripped the hilt of his monstrous sword. His muscles tensed, veins bulging beneath the dark green scales. With a swift, powerful movement, he raised the blade high, the edge gleaming ominously in the dim light. Time seemed to slow as the massive weapon began its descent, cutting through the air with a whistle that seemed to slice into the very soul of those watching. ¡°Steven!¡± Count Marcus¡¯s voice roared from the wall, panic thick in his tone. But Steven didn¡¯t flinch. His eyes burned with a fierce determination, even as his body trembled under the weight of exhaustion and pain. Gritting his teeth until they ached, Steven thrust his sword upward. The clash resounded like a thunderclap, a shockwave rippling outwards. Sparks flew as thunder met steel, and for a heart-stopping moment, Steven¡¯s knees buckled under the force. But he held. He held because there was no other choice. The thunder wrapped around him was wild and erratic, arcs of blue lightning licking at his skin and singeing his flesh. It seared through his veins, a double-edged gift that both fueled his strength and scorched his insides. Blood trickled from cuts and burns, dripping down his face and arms, yet Steven¡¯s grip on his sword never wavered. With a grunt of raw effort, he pushed Movok¡¯s blade aside, deflecting the attack. A murmur of disbelief rippled through the soldiers above. Movok¡¯s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise crossing his reptilian features. But it lasted only a second. The lizardman¡¯s lips curled into a grin that split his scaled face, and then came a sound that chilled everyone to their core¡ªa deep, guttural laugh, guttural and mocking. ¡°Heh¡­ Hehehe! HAHA!¡± The laughter erupted from Movok¡¯s chest, reverberating through the battlefield. "Interesting!" He said and started to swing his sword in rapid, punishing arcs, each strike an avalanche of power. Steven moved to block, his blade meeting Movok¡¯s again and again, each collision jarring his bones and shredding what little strength he had left. The force of each swing pushed Steven back step by agonizing step, his boots dragging through the blood-soaked earth. His arms screamed in pain, muscles straining and tendons threatening to snap. Each deflection sent lightning streaking wildly into the air, illuminating the battlefield in flashes of electric blue. Despite the brutality, Steven stood his ground, eyes blazing with an unyielding resolve. He wouldn¡¯t fall here¡ªnot before reinforcements arrived, not before he bought his comrades a chance at survival. But Movok, now openly smirking, was only toying with him. The lizardman¡¯s strikes were quick but calculated, a predator¡¯s playful swipes before the kill. And then it happened. Movok¡¯s eyes narrowed, and his movements shifted¡ªno longer playful. With a sudden burst of speed that belied his massive frame, he brought his sword crashing down in a blow that rattled the earth itself. Steven braced, but the weight was too much, the pain too searing. His sword held for a breath, and then his vision exploded with white-hot agony as Movok¡¯s scaled hand moved with a speed that caught him off guard. A sharp, blinding pain shot through his neck, and his entire body went numb. The world spun around him, the chaos of the battlefield twisting into a blur of muted sounds and smudged colors. Movok had struck him with a precise, brutal chop to the side of the neck. The force was enough to make his vision falter, and his legs gave out beneath him. The last thing Steven saw before darkness claimed him was Movok¡¯s golden eyes, glinting with a mixture of respect and something darker. Movok¡¯s words, deep and almost reverent, echoed in his fading consciousness: ¡°Let¡¯s fight another time, young human.¡± Steven¡¯s sword slipped from his fingers as he collapsed into the churned earth, unconscious, leaving the field in stunned silence. For a moment, even the goblins halted, their gleeful shrieks and movements frozen as if in tribute to their fallen foe. Above, the soldiers¡¯ collective gasp mirrored the collective thud in their hearts. Hope flickered and wavered like a dying flame. Chapter 7 Steven¡¯s body crumpled to the ground, motionless, the thunder that once surrounded him flickering and fading away. His sword, still crackling weakly with residual energy, lay beside him in the blood-soaked earth. The collective gasp that had echoed across the wall now hung like a heavy shroud over the defenders. Hope, so fragile and fleeting, shattered into pieces. A grim, suffocating silence blanketed the battlefield, as if the world itself held its breath. But it was not to last. A guttural growl rose from the goblins below, a sound that grew into a cacophony of shrill cries and howls. Their eyes gleamed with newfound confidence, and their clawed hands reached for the vines with renewed vigor. The goblins surged forward like an unstoppable wave, their bodies scrambling over one another, their savage grins twisted in victory. The soldiers on the wall, already weary and battered, faltered at the sight. Panic was a living thing, spreading through their ranks, a silent scream in their eyes as they realized their strongest warrior had fallen and no one stood in the path of the oncoming storm. Movok, the lizardman general, approached Steven¡¯s unconscious form. His golden eyes gleamed with a mixture of disdain and satisfaction. Without a second thought, he seized Steven¡¯s limp body by the tunic and tossed him aside like a broken doll, clearing his path. The sound of Steven¡¯s body hitting the ground echoed like a drumbeat of finality, drawing stifled gasps from those who dared to look. Movok released his massive sword, letting it thud heavily against the ground as he reached for the vines. In a single, fluid motion, he leaped, his powerful claws finding purchase. He scaled the wall with ease, muscles flexing beneath his scaled hide. The soldiers closest to him watched in horror, their limbs frozen, breaths caught in their throats. Before they could react, Movok reached the top of the wall, his form a towering shadow that blotted out the sky. Without hesitation, he launched into the fray. His first punch collided with a soldier¡¯s chest, the force of the blow sending the man flying backward, crashing into a cluster of his comrades. Bones shattered, and screams erupted as bodies tumbled like ragdolls. The next soldier, braver or more desperate, raised his sword and charged. Movok¡¯s hand lashed out, catching him mid-stride by the throat. The lizardman¡¯s grip tightened, and the soldier¡¯s eyes bulged as he clawed helplessly at the scaled hand choking the life from him. Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Movok¡¯s gaze was cold, emotionless, as he flung the man over the wall¡¯s edge. His scream cut off abruptly as he hit the ground below with a sickening thud. Chaos erupted. The defenders splintered under the onslaught. Goblins, now flooding the walls in swarms, hissed and shrieked as they descended on the soldiers and mercenaries. Steel clashed with crude blades, arrows flew wildly, and the sharp tang of blood filled the air. The defenders, who moments ago had dared to hope, now found themselves in a fight for their lives. Soldiers in polished armor stood their ground, sweat streaming down their faces, muscles straining as they fought off goblin champions with ferocity born of desperation. Yet even they struggled against the relentless onslaught. Movok¡¯s presence loomed like a specter, every movement calculated, every blow devastating. Mages tried to summon fire and ice to break the advance, but the goblins were too close, their sharp daggers and claws slashing through robes and silencing spells with brutal efficiency. The archers, once perched confidently with quivers full, found themselves drawing daggers in a futile attempt to defend against the horde that clambered over the ramparts. And then Movok¡¯s eyes met Count Marcus. The count stood firm, his sword in hand, face pale but determined. He knew there was no retreat, no second chances. With a roar, he charged, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the din of battle. Movok met him head-on, their clash a meeting of two storms. Count Marcus¡¯s blade struck true, but Movok¡¯s scales were impenetrable. With one swift, crushing motion, Movok¡¯s arm lashed out, striking Count Marcus in the chest. Count Marcus staggered, pain splintering through his body. He swung again, desperation in every sinew, but Movok¡¯s next blow caught him across the face, sending him sprawling. The count fell, his vision blurring as he looked up at the towering beast. The last thing he saw was Movok¡¯s merciless eyes before darkness took him. A roar of triumph erupted from the goblins as they overran the wall. The once proud fortress was awash in green and red, blood and bile mingling as the defenders were driven back or slaughtered where they stood. Beyond the great walls of Feria, the citizens huddled together, hearts pounding with an uneasy rhythm as the sounds of the battle pierced the air. The clash of metal, the shouts of soldiers, and the inhuman growls of goblins had reached fever pitch, then waned into a dreadful silence. The people exchanged anxious glances, some clutching loved ones close, others silently praying to gods they weren''t sure were listening. Yet none dared move, their feet glued to the cobblestone streets as if movement itself might summon the horrors beyond the walls. Then, as if to answer their unspoken fears, the first crimson drips appeared, seeping through the stone cracks and cascading down the wall like a grotesque waterfall. Gasps of horror rippled through the crowd. The coppery scent of blood thickened in the air, mingling with the faint, acrid stench of fear-sweat and bile. It wasn¡¯t long before they saw it¡ªbodies, broken and twisted, hurled from the ramparts, landing with sickening thuds and splattering the ground. A few citizens screamed, children cried, and old men sank to their knees, faces ashen with despair. Before they could process the nightmare, a new, more horrifying sight emerged. Goblins, snarling and cackling, their jagged teeth tearing at the fallen soldiers¡¯ flesh, climbed over the blood-soaked battlements and descended like a plague into the city. The streets, once bustling with life, became choked with the guttural sounds of feasting and the sharp cries of the dying. Men and women froze, paralyzed with fear, while others began to scatter, only to be intercepted by the goblins that lunged and pounced, ripping into them with savage glee. Chaos unfurled in every corner¡ªpeople trampled one another in their frenzied attempts to escape, mothers clutched their children only to be dragged down, their screams cut short. Blood splattered walls, painting a macabre mural of suffering. From the heart of the wall, the heavy, ancient gates groaned and then swung open, their creaking like the howl of a dying beast. A figure stepped through, his presence silencing even the most desperate screams. The Demon King. His eyes like burning coals that surveyed the panicked masses with cold indifference. Every inch of him radiated power¡ªancient, ruthless, and unyielding. Movok emerged beside him, blood still dripping from his scales, a grim smile curling his reptilian lips. He knelt, casting a quick glance at the Demon King, whose expression remained unreadable. ¡°What should we do with them, my lord?¡± Movok¡¯s voice was low and guttural, carrying across the square with a dreadful weight. The Demon King¡¯s gaze shifted from the crowd, taking in the wide eyes, the trembling hands, the frail bodies pressed against crumbling stone. For a moment, his expression faltered, eyes narrowing as a memory surfaced, unwanted and raw. He saw flashes of himself as a child, huddled in a dim corner with other young demons, fear in every breath as human knights closed in, their laughter sharp and cruel. He remembered their words, cold and final, as they began their slaughter. ¡°Leave none alive.¡± The Demon King¡¯s jaw tightened, the echo of those words fueling the fire in his chest. His expression hardened, and he spoke, voice low but resolute, a death knell in the air. ¡°Find every one of them and kill them.¡± Movok¡¯s grin widened, and Tores stepped forward, fingers caressing the flute he wielded with lethal precision. A haunting note rose as he played, its sound wrapping around the crowd like an iron chain, paralyzing them in place. Movok hefted his sword, its edge glistening red, and moved with brutal efficiency into the crowd. The goblins surged forward, eyes wild, screams blending with the shrill, heart-stopping notes of Tores¡¯ song. The massacre was swift, merciless. No one was spared¡ªneither the strong nor the weak, neither the old nor the young. Blood pooled and flowed in rivulets, staining the streets as the lifeblood of Feria spilled, soaking into the earth that once supported joyous markets and laughter. In the end, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a final golden glow over the shattered walls and lifeless streets, the echoes of battle faded into a deathly silence. Feria, once a proud territory, was now nothing but a graveyard of broken bodies and shattered dreams. The Demon King turned away, the memories of his own suffering blending with the present scene of ruin, and marched onward with his generals. The conquered city lay behind, a testament to the price of war and the unyielding cycle of vengeance. And so, in span of few hours, Feria was wiped from the world, a memory drowned in blood and fear. Chapter 8 [Conrad city¨CKingdom Capital] Conrad City is a sprawling metropolis set in a vast, fertile plain that stretches as far as the eye can see, framed by rivers that glisten under the sun. The city is surrounded by formidable stone walls with watchtowers at regular intervals, each adorned with pennants that wave proudly in the breeze. Inside, cobblestone streets wind through busy marketplaces filled with merchants peddling exotic wares and street performers captivating passersby. The architecture blends grand stone buildings with elegant timber-framed houses, showcasing intricate carvings and archways. At the heart of Conrad City rises the majestic castle, a vision of opulence and power. Constructed from smooth, pale stone that seems to glow under the sunlight, the castle features towering spires capped with gilded tips that shimmer like fire in the dusk. The central tower, known as the King¡¯s Beacon, looms high above, offering a breathtaking view of the city and surrounding lands. The castle gates are monumental, made of dark iron reinforced with golden filigree that depicts heroic tales of yore. Inside, the halls are vast, with marble floors that echo each step, and walls adorned with tapestries recounting the kingdom''s storied past. A courtyard lush with vibrant gardens and splashing fountains adds a touch of tranquil beauty to this fortress of majesty and might. The grand hall of Conrad City¡¯s castle was cloaked in a heavy silence, pierced only by the muffled crackle of the torches lining the stone walls. Tension pulsed through the air like a living thing, coiling tighter with each breath. King Serom sat upon his gilded throne, a figure of authority marked by age and the weight of a crown that seemed heavier than ever. His hair and beard, once a deep chestnut, had long since faded to white, framing a face lined with worry and the burdens of a kingdom on the brink. The royal cloak of deep blue and gold draped around his shoulders barely moved, as if even it felt the gravity of the situation. Before him stood a gathering of nobles, advisors, and generals¡ªeach clad in ceremonial garb that now felt almost mocking in the face of the looming threat. Murmurs rippled across the room like a restless tide, hushed voices laced with doubt and fear. The news of Feria¡¯s fall had spread faster than wildfire, and the specter of defeat was etched in every anxious glance and furrowed brow. King Serom''s voice broke through the room, brittle yet commanding. "So, what do you all suggest we do?" A beat of silence followed, and then an older man cleared his throat, stepping forward. It was Duke Driesell. The man stood tall, his uniform of deep blue adorned with the sigil of a storm, signifying the legacy of the Driesell lineage¡ªwarriors bound to thunder and steel. The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. His eyes, usually calm and calculating, blazed with barely contained fury, and grief shadowed their depths. It wasn¡¯t just the loss of Feria that tormented him; it was the sight of his son, Steven, returning broken in spirit and body, haunted by the cries of the fallen. "Your Majesty!" Duke Driesell¡¯s voice thundered, startling those who stood nearby. "We must not delay any longer. We cannot afford more hesitation! Give me the command, and I will personally lead my men to sweep the Demon King and his forces from our lands." His declaration sent a ripple of surprise through the room. Whispers erupted, a cacophony of worry and skepticism. But Duke Driesell¡¯s eyes never wavered from the king, his fists clenched at his sides as he held his breath. Rage warred with a deeper emotion inside him¡ªa father¡¯s guilt. The image of Steven lying on his bed, eyes blank and distant as he replayed the battle in his mind, gnawed at Duke Driesell¡¯s heart. His son¡¯s voice, usually so full of confidence, now whispered words of blame. Those words had shattered the duke more than any sword could. King Serom met his gaze, the old king¡¯s eyes softening as they recognized the raw desperation in one of his most trusted vassals. He knew what it meant for Duke Driesell to volunteer so fiercely. The duke¡¯s desire for vengeance wasn¡¯t just for Feria, or even the kingdom¡ªit was for his son¡¯s honor and peace of mind. But before the king could respond, another voice cut through the hall, deep and laced with caution. "Duke Driesell, while your courage is unquestionable, we can¡¯t act recklessly." It was Marquis Ebran who stepped forward, the king¡¯s chief advisor and a man whose sharp intellect was matched only by the severity etched into his features. His voice was calm, measured, but carried the weight of authority as he addressed the gathered court. "The Demon King is indeed fearsome," he began, his gaze sweeping across the room. "But do not forget the rebels lurking within the Empire¡¯s borders. They are shadows, hidden and unpredictable, ready to strike when the opportunity arises. The Demon King¡¯s movements are known to us; his next target is clear. The rebels, however, are a threat we cannot see nor anticipate. We need you here, Duke Driesell, to prepare for the unknown as much as the known." His words hung in the air, deliberate and calculating. Yet, they were met with a fierce rebuttal. ¡°So you suggest we sit here, planning endlessly, while that monster continues his rampage?¡± Duke Driesell¡¯s voice rose, trembling with restrained anger. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his jaw tightening as if he were physically holding back his fury. "Every moment we hesitate, more innocents are slaughtered, more families are destroyed!" Marquis Ebran¡¯s calm fa?ade cracked ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing. His response came sharp and cutting, like a blade aimed at the heart. "Lives will be lost either way, Duke Driesell!" he snapped, his voice rising for the first time. The harsh truth of his words sliced through the room like a whip. "But we must decide¡ªwill they die for nothing, in a futile rush to battle? Or will they be sacrificed for a real chance at victory?" The tension between the two men thickened, a storm brewing in the confines of the grand hall. Gasps echoed among the nobles, their fear and uncertainty fueling the charged atmosphere. The weight of every argument bore down on the room, suffocating and oppressive. "Enough!" The king¡¯s voice thundered through the chamber, cutting through the rising storm like a beacon of authority. His hand slammed down on the armrest of his throne, the sound reverberating across the walls. At his command, both men fell silent. Marquis Ebran¡¯s lips pressed into a thin line, and Duke Driesell¡¯s fiery glare turned reluctantly toward the king. The hall grew still, save for the faint rustle of cloaks as the assembled nobles waited, breaths held, for their ruler¡¯s next decree. The king¡¯s hand trembled slightly as he gripped the arm of his throne, his gaze shifting between the faces before him. The cries of his people echoed in his mind, mingling with the cold, brutal news that Feria had been wiped from the world¡ªa city that once thrived now a graveyard of echoes and ash. The memories of fallen friends and towns lost over the years returned, ghosts reminding him of the cost of hesitation and the price of rashness. King Serom drew a deep breath, his decision hanging in the balance. "Marquis Ebran, you are well aware that the Demon King has declared his next target is none other than Cria Territory!" the king bellowed, his voice reverberating through the grand hall like a tolling bell. The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, and all eyes turned to Duke Driesell, whose expression hardened, a mix of anger and hatred flickering across his face. Once again, the Demon King had delivered his proclamation through cruelty¡ªa grim echo of Feria''s destruction. This time, Steven, Duke Driesell''s son, had been spared, not out of mercy but as a messenger of doom. He had been sent back, battered and broken, to deliver the chilling news: Cria was next. The king¡¯s hand tightened on the armrest of his gilded throne, his knuckles whitening as the memory of Feria¡¯s fall resurfaced. Cria was no ordinary territory; it was a linchpin in the kingdom''s defenses, a bulwark against the tide of intruders. If it fell, the heart of the kingdom would lie exposed, vulnerable to annihilation. "He is mocking us," the king said, his voice a low growl laced with frustration. A collective gasp rippled through the chamber, the tension palpable as nobles exchanged panicked whispers. The murmur of dread grew, punctuated by sharp intakes of breath and the rustling of heavy robes. Faces paled, the weight of the Demon King¡¯s impending assault sinking in. Marquis Ebran rose from his seat, his face a mixture of determination and desperation. "Your Majesty, I am fully aware of the gravity of this threat," he said, his voice steady but strained, like a man grappling with an impossible burden. The king¡¯s gaze bore into him, unyielding as steel. "If you know, Marquis," he said sharply, "then do you have any better idea than Duke Driesell?" The room fell silent. The king¡¯s question hung in the air, a challenge and a plea rolled into one. His tone was resolute, but his eyes betrayed the weight of his decision. If no alternative was presented, Duke Driesell would be sent to defend Cria. Duke Driesell stood rigid, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He was ready to go at any moment. Marquis Ebran hesitated, his mind racing for a solution that wouldn¡¯t condemn more lives to ruin. But the silence stretched, a cruel testament to the hopelessness of their situation. Chapter 9 The court was steeped in a suffocating silence, broken only by the faint whispers of the ministers. They exchanged furtive glances, their expressions marred with worry and dread as they deliberated the impossible. Both the Demon King and the shadowy rebels posed insurmountable threats, and no clear path lay before them. ¡°Your Majesty,¡± one of the ministers finally ventured, his voice tentative, tinged with a fragile thread of hope. ¡°Perhaps we could seek aid from a neighboring kingdom?¡± The room held its breath, clinging to the suggestion like a lifeline. King Serom¡¯s lips pressed into a grim line, and he leaned forward slightly, his exhaustion visible in the heavy set of his shoulders. ¡°If only it were that simple,¡± he said, his voice carrying the weight of a ruler burdened by impossible decisions. ¡°Even if they agreed to help¡ªwhich is far from guaranteed¡ªit would take time. Precious time we do not have. The Demon King will not wait.¡± His words struck the room like a blow, the fragile hope shattering into pieces. The ministers fell silent, their faces pale, their gazes dropping to the floor as the gravity of their situation pressed down on them. The air grew heavy with despair, the unspoken truth settling over them like a dark shroud: they were cornered, their plans crumbling, and the kingdom teetering on the edge of ruin. Suddenly, a sharp voice pierced the stillness, startling everyone. "Then what if we take the fight to him first?¡± All eyes snapped to Marquis Ebran, their shock and confusion evident. A ripple of murmurs swept through the room, questions and disbelief surfacing in equal measure. ¡°What do you mean, Marquis Ebran?¡± King Serom asked, his tone sharp as he regarded his chief advisor with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. Ebran stepped forward, his every movement deliberate, his expression resolute. With a flourish, he unfurled a large, weathered map across the grand table in the center of the hall. The parchment spread out like a battlefield before them, its inked lines tracing the borders of their kingdom and beyond. His hands pressed firmly against the map, his fingers brushing over the marked territories as though commanding their attention. His voice was steady but carried an intensity that drew everyone in. ¡°This is Cria Territory,¡± Marquis Ebran declared, his voice cutting through the room''s tension like a blade. He tapped the area on the map with practiced precision, the sound sharp against the heavy silence. His finger then trailed to the two territories flanking Cria. ¡°Velyria and Braemir are positioned close enough to support Cria directly,¡± he continued, his tone calm yet commanding. ¡°What if we mobilize the armies from all three territories and launch a preemptive strike against the Demon King¡¯s forces?¡± The room erupted into murmurs and gasps, the council members exchanging uneasy glances. The flicker of hope in some eyes clashed with the pale worry etched into others. The audacity of the suggestion rippled through the hall, its implications sparking a mix of fear and cautious optimism. ¡°It¡¯s reckless!¡± an older minister exclaimed, his voice trembling with the weight of his years and the urgency of his objection. His wrinkled hands clutched the edges of the map as if he sought to physically restrain the boldness of the proposal. ¡°A preemptive strike could spell disaster if we act without enough information. We risk not only our soldiers but the entire defensive strategy of the kingdom!¡± The air in the chamber grew heavier, the older man¡¯s words sinking into the hearts of the assembled council like stones into water. Fear and doubt swirled among them, threatening to drown the fragile hope Ebran had ignited. But Ebran stood firm, his posture unwavering as he faced the room. His sharp gaze moved across the council, meeting their apprehensive stares head-on. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. ¡°But if we scout ahead,¡± Ebran countered, his voice calm but with an edge of steel, ¡°if we send out reconnaissance to observe their numbers and positions, we can act on real intelligence. We won¡¯t march blindly into the jaws of death.¡± His hand hovered over the map, fingers pausing above Cria as though willing the territory itself to bolster his argument. ¡°I won¡¯t lie to you,¡± he admitted, the candor in his tone cutting through the tension. ¡°This plan will not guarantee a decisive victory. But it could buy us something more precious¡ªtime.¡± He turned to the king, then to the ministers, his voice rising slightly, resonating with conviction. ¡°Time for the royal knights to rally and reach Cria. Time to prepare our people for what lies ahead. Time to force the Demon King to face us on ground of our choosing, rather than his.¡± The room fell silent again, the weight of his words sinking in. Faces flickered between doubt and reluctant agreement, the enormity of the decision pressing down on them all. King Serom¡¯s gaze lingered on the map, his expression unreadable, the weight of his kingdom¡¯s fate bearing heavily on his shoulders. The grand hall fell silent as his gaze swept over the gathered ministers. The weight of the kingdom¡¯s survival bore heavily on his shoulders, and now, he sought the consensus of his council. ¡°What do you all think?¡± he asked, his voice steady but lined with weariness. A heavy pause followed, the ministers exchanging uncertain glances. Whispers filled the room, punctuated by nervous coughs. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, one of them stepped forward, his voice trembling. ¡°It sounds like a good plan, your majesty... we agree.¡± King Serom¡¯s eyes shifted to Marquis Ebran, who nodded gravely and turned toward Duke Driesell. ¡°And what of you, Duke Driesell?¡± Ebran asked, his tone firm. The duke¡¯s expression hardened, his voice cutting through the room like ice. ¡°what if they all die before the royal knights can reach them?¡± Marquis Ebran didn¡¯t flinch. His response was calm but resolute, his tone carrying the weight of unshakable conviction. ¡°Then we will go with your plan, Duke Driesell. But if we don¡¯t act now, we¡¯re only delaying the inevitable.¡± Driesell stared at Ebran, the tension between the two palpable. Finally, he exhaled sharply, his rigid stance softening ever so slightly. "Hmm... fine. I also agree.¡± Ebran nodded, turning back to the king. ¡°Your Majesty, what do you say?¡± King Serom stood from his throne, his presence commanding as he addressed the room. "Very well. I agree with this plan. Inform the commander of the royal knights to prepare his forces. Send word to the lords of Sima, Creta, and Cria. We move forward.¡± ¡°As you command, Your Majesty,¡± the ministers said in unison, bowing deeply before dispersing to fulfill their duties. --- [Cria Territory] The air in Cria¡¯s war room was suffocating, thick with the weight of looming battle. Flickering torchlight danced across the stone walls, casting jagged shadows over the weary faces of the men gathered around the central table. Count Valor stood at its heart, his broad shoulders hunched with tension as he stared at the purple sphere before him. The device, glowing faintly with arcane energy, seemed to pulse in rhythm with the dread that hung in the room. ¡°So,¡± Valor said, his usually steady voice edged with urgency, ¡°what word from His Majesty?¡± The sphere crackled, and the face of an old mage materialized within its depths. The mage¡¯s features were worn, his eyes heavy with both knowledge and burden as he began to speak. ¡°Count Valor,¡± the mage¡¯s voice carried the weight of the king¡¯s command, each word a blow to the fragile calm in the room. ¡°His Majesty has ordered you to dispatch scouts immediately to assess the Demon King¡¯s forces. Reinforcements from Velyria and Braemir territories will arrive to support you. Together, you are to prepare for a coordinated strike.¡± Valor¡¯s fists tightened at his sides, his jaw clenching as he absorbed the message. The words pressed heavily on him, as if the responsibility of the entire kingdom had been thrust onto his shoulders alone. ¡°And?¡± Count Valor pressed, his jaw tight, his voice sharp enough to cut through the thick tension in the room. The mage hesitated for a moment, his gaze faltering as he drew a deep breath. When he spoke again, his tone was heavy, every word weighted with the gravity of the king¡¯s command. ¡°And¡­ if the scouts believe we have even the faintest chance at victory, we are to strike,¡± he said, his voice steady despite the unease flickering in his eyes. ¡°If not, you are to hold the line and defend Cria with all your might. Buy us time¡ªtime for the royal knights and reinforcements to arrive. The lords of Velyria and Braemir have sworn to stand by this decision.¡± The war room stirred with murmurs, the low hum of anxious voices spreading like ripples in water. Soldiers and advisors exchanged uneasy glances, their faces etched with worry and dread. The prospect of confronting the Demon King¡¯s forces without the full strength of the kingdom sent chills through even the most seasoned warriors. This wasn¡¯t just another battle¡ªit was a test. A test of loyalty, of courage, and of their willingness to sacrifice everything for the kingdom¡¯s survival. At the head of the table, Count Valor stood motionless, his broad frame cast in shadow by the flickering torchlight. His gaze remained fixed on the map splayed across the table, his expression unreadable. But his hand betrayed him¡ªgripping the hilt of his sword so tightly that his knuckles turned white, the veins in his arm taut with strain. He felt the weight of his territory pressing down on him, the heartbeat of Cria thundering in his chest. Every face, every voice, every life in his land depended on the decisions he would make in the coming hours. Their fate rested in his hands¡ªa burden that felt heavier than the steel he wielded. At last, he spoke, his voice cutting through the room like the crack of a whip. ¡°Then we shall carry out His Majesty¡¯s will,¡± Count Valor declared, his voice ringing with conviction. His sharp gaze swept over the room, meeting the eyes of every soldier and advisor before him. ¡°We will scout the Demon King¡¯s army with every resource we have. If there¡¯s even the faintest hope, we will fight. We will not falter.¡± His words, steady and powerful, seemed to crack the heavy silence that had enveloped the war room. Like sparks catching on dry kindling, his resolve ignited something in those gathered around him. Shoulders squared, backs straightened, and eyes¡ªonce clouded with doubt¡ªgleamed with newfound determination. This was not a moment of choice; it was a call to arms. They would fight, not just for the honor of their kingdom but for the families waiting in their homes, for the children who slept unaware of the encroaching darkness. Cria had given them everything, and they would give their all in return. From the edge of the room, a young soldier stepped forward. His armor seemed too large for his slender frame, and his hand trembled slightly as he gripped the hilt of his sword. Yet his eyes burned with a fierce light, his voice breaking the tension with a mix of fear and resolve. ¡°Count, we won¡¯t let you down,¡± the boy said, stepping forward. His voice cracked with the weight of his inexperience, but the unyielding resolve in his eyes betrayed no fear. Count Valor¡¯s stern expression softened, just for a moment. He saw in the boy a reflection of his younger self¡ªa spark of courage and determination that refused to dim, even in the shadow of the Demon King. For a moment, the grim atmosphere of the war room lifted, and Valor allowed himself a small nod of acknowledgment. ¡°What is your name, soldier?¡± Valor asked, his deep voice carrying both authority and warmth. ¡°It¡¯s Shaun, my lord,¡± the young man replied, his tone polite but laced with pride. He stood straighter, trying to appear taller under the Count¡¯s scrutinizing gaze. Valor stepped closer, his sharp eyes narrowing. ¡°Why do you wish to fight, Shaun, knowing what lies ahead? Why stand against the Demon King himself?¡± Shaun hesitated, his hands clenching at his sides. Then, taking a deep breath, he met the Count¡¯s gaze head-on. ¡°Because, my lord, this territory is my home. Here, my mother and I have been able to live a peaceful life. I want to protect that peace¡ªnot just for us, but for everyone who calls Cria their home.¡± A faint smile tugged at Valor¡¯s lips. There was a sincerity in Shaun¡¯s words, a raw and unpolished courage that was rare in even the most seasoned warriors. But his next question came sharper, testing the boy¡¯s resolve. ¡°And your father?¡± Shaun¡¯s expression flickered, but he held his composure. ¡°He was a soldier, my lord. He died in a war years ago.¡± For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath, the weight of the boy¡¯s words settling over those gathered. Valor felt his chest tighten, a pang of grief and admiration mixing within him. ¡°Shaun,¡± the Count said finally, his voice firm but laced with an unexpected gentleness, ¡°I promise you this¡ªwe will win this battle. For Cria, for your mother, and for every family in this land. You have my word as the ruler of this territory.¡± Shaun¡¯s eyes widened, and he straightened further, his young face lighting up with pride and determination. ¡°Yes, my lord. I will not fail you!¡± Valor turned to the rest of his soldiers, his voice rising like a clarion call. ¡°Everyone, prepare yourselves! Gather your weapons, your courage, and your resolve. Remember, we are Cria!¡± He paused, letting the words sink in, his gaze sweeping over each and every one of them. ¡°And we do not fall. Not to the Demon King. Not to anyone.¡± A roar erupted from the gathered soldiers, their voices uniting in a battle cry that shook the very walls of the room. The men sprang into action, readying themselves for the fight to come, while Valor watched them with a steadfast gaze, his heart filled with both pride and the heavy burden of leadership. Chapter 10 As the first light of dawn stretched its golden fingers across the battlefield, a sea of soldiers stood ready beneath the banners of Cria, Velyria and Braemir. The air was crisp, heavy with the scent of dew and the anticipation of battle. Lines of armored warriors gleamed in the sunlight, their faces a mixture of determination and fear. Mages clutched their staffs, whispering incantations under their breath. Archers tested their bowstrings, the faint twang cutting through the silence, while the mounted cavalry tightened their grips on their reins, their horses snorting and pawing at the ground. At the heart of the encampment, a podium had been erected, its shadow cast over the assembled forces. There stood the three leaders of the territories: Count Valor, his jaw set and eyes blazing with grim resolve. Count Ambrose of Velyria, his weathered face betraying years of hard-fought battles. And Count Sylas of Braemir, his calculating gaze scanning the horizon like a hawk sizing up its prey. The tense silence was broken by the sound of hurried footsteps. A group of scouts emerged from the distance, their dust-covered forms moving with urgency. They stopped abruptly before the podium, their leader dropping to one knee before Count Valor. ¡°What did you find?¡± Valor demanded, his voice sharp and commanding, cutting through the morning stillness like a blade. The scout leader raised his head, his face pale but his voice steady. ¡°My lord, the Demon King is there, along with his two generals. But¡­¡± He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then continued, ¡°Their forces are thin. Far fewer monsters than we feared. If we strike swiftly, I believe we might have a chance to end this.¡± A ripple of shock passed through the gathered troops and commanders, whispers spreading like wildfire. Count Valor¡¯s eyes narrowed as he processed the scout¡¯s words, his mind racing. He turned to his companions, his expression unreadable but his shoulders taut with tension. Count Ambrose, the eldest of the three, was the first to speak. ¡°This could be it,¡± he said, his voice gravelly but resolute. The battle scars etched into his face seemed to deepen with the weight of his words. ¡°If the Demon King is truly vulnerable, we¡¯d be fools to let this opportunity slip. I say we attack.¡± Count Sylas, ever the strategist, stroked the hilt of his sword thoughtfully. His lips thinned into a calculating line. ¡°It¡¯s a gamble,¡± he said, his voice smooth but laced with caution. ¡°But a calculated one. If the tide turns against us, we retreat immediately. We¡¯ll lose the element of surprise if we hesitate now.¡± Count Valor¡¯s gaze flicked between the two counts, then settled on the horizon. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword as he wrestled with the enormity of the decision before him. The lives of thousands hung in the balance, as did the fate of the kingdom. A charged silence enveloped the podium, the weight of expectation palpable in the air. Finally, Valor exhaled, his voice steady but filled with unyielding determination. ¡°Prepare the troops,¡± he ordered, his words carrying the finality of a death knell. His eyes gleamed with a fierce light as he looked out over the assembled forces. ¡°We will march to Feria.¡± A roar of approval rose from the gathered soldiers, a sound that echoed across the fields and into the morning sky. The armies moved as one, a tidal wave of steel and purpose advancing across the desolate plains. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. The cavalry led the charge, their horses breathing heavy puffs of mist into the crisp morning air, their hooves pounding the earth in an unrelenting rhythm. The knights atop them were resolute, their polished armor glinting like distant stars. Their eyes were fixed ahead, their faces steeled with determination, as if the weight of the kingdom rested solely on their shoulders. Behind them marched the archers, their quivers brimming with arrows tipped to pierce even the darkest of horrors, while mages whispered ancient words that hung in the air like an unspoken promise of hope. The infantry followed close behind, a wall of unwavering resolve, their synchronized steps a drumbeat of defiance against the approaching storm. As they neared Feria Territory, a suffocating chill gripped the air, colder than any winter wind. It seeped into their bones, not from the elements but from the unseen, oppressive weight of dread. The ground seemed to sag beneath their feet, heavy with the memories of untold suffering. The shattered remnants of Feria loomed ahead like silent gravestones, their jagged edges scorched black and stained with the blood of the innocent. Then, he appeared. The Demon King stood in the distance, his form towering and monstrous, exuding an aura of absolute power. His crimson eyes glowed like twin infernos, their unyielding stare burning into the souls of all who dared to meet them. His dark aura twisted and churned, distorting the air around him, as if reality itself bent to his will. To his left stood Movok, the lizardman general whose brutal form seemed carved from nightmares, his scales glistening with an unnatural sheen of blood and battle. To his right, the voodooist Torex stood still, an unsettling figure draped in tattoos that seemed alive and a face hidden behind mask. Behind them gathered the horde¡ªa smaller force than anticipated but no less horrific. Eyes filled with primal hunger and cruelty gleamed as they awaited their master¡¯s command, their growls forming a symphony of impending doom. A ripple of disbelief passed through the human ranks, followed by a faint murmur of hope. Could this truly be their chance? Was this force, smaller than expected, a crack in the Demon King¡¯s armor? Courage flickered in their hearts like a fragile flame, and their grip on their weapons tightened. At the forefront, Count Valor pulled his steed to a halt, the beast stamping impatiently as if it sensed the tension in the air. He raised his sword high, its polished blade catching the faint sunlight and casting a brief, fleeting brilliance across the field. His voice rang out, a rallying cry that sliced through the fear and uncertainty. ¡°We all are here to defeat you wicked monsters!¡± A deafening roar erupted from the soldiers behind him, a cry of defiance that surged like a tidal wave. Their voices merged into a thunderous promise that they would fight until their last breath, that they would not falter, no matter the odds. The Demon King stirred at the sound, his form radiating an aura of disdainful amusement. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped forward, his every movement heavy with purpose. His burning gaze swept over the human army, cold and calculating, as though assessing the worth of each life before him. His generals and monstrous horde remaining ominously still behind him. The battlefield seemed to hold its breath, the eerie silence broken only by the faint rustle of wind through the barren remnants of Feria. Each of his steps was deliberate, the heavy thud of his boots echoing across the field like the toll of a death knell. His aura was a suffocating wave of malice, pressing against the hearts of even the bravest knights. It was not the chaotic bloodlust of a beast but the cold, calculated confidence of a predator certain of its kill. In the ranks of the human army, a ripple of unease spread like wildfire. One knight, gripping his reins so tightly his knuckles turned white, whispered in a trembling voice, ¡°This¡­ this isn¡¯t just any foe. He¡¯s¡­ something else.¡± The soldiers exchanged nervous glances, their helmets barely concealing the doubt etched into their faces. Even the horses, trained for battle, shifted uneasily beneath their riders, their ears pinned back and their breaths coming in sharp, restless snorts. Fear threatened to take hold, a dark seed growing rapidly in the hearts of men. Their resolve began to falter, the sight of the Demon King¡¯s lone, unflinching advance sapping their courage. Then, cutting through the heavy silence like a blade, came Count Valor¡¯s voice, strong and commanding. ¡°Stand firm!¡± he bellowed, his words carrying over the battlefield with the weight of a man who refused to bow to despair. "Do not falter! We are superior in numbers. We can this!¡± His rallying cry was a spark in the growing darkness, igniting a flicker of courage in the hearts of his soldiers. The knights straightened in their saddles, their grips tightening on their lances. The archers raised their bows with renewed determination, their fingers steady as they nocked their arrows. Mages steadied their trembling hands, the flickering lights of their spells glowing brighter as their whispered prayers turned into resolute chants. The Demon King¡¯s lips curled into a faint, mocking smile as he watched the army steel itself. To him, their courage was a futile defiance, but he let them have their moment. ¡°For the kingdom!¡± Count Valor roared, raising his sword high. The command was like a thunderclap. The cavalry surged forward, their lances gleaming, the thunderous rhythm of hooves pounding the earth as if to shake the heavens. Behind them came the foot soldiers, shields locked and spears raised in unyielding resolve. A sea of humanity, a tide of determination, they advanced toward the solitary figure that stood before the ruins of Feria¡ªa beacon of dread cloaked in silence. For a fleeting moment, hope flickered in the soldiers¡¯ hearts. Perhaps their numbers, their unity, their sheer will, could overcome the monster before them. The Demon King remained still, calm, his crimson eyes surveying the oncoming army with detached amusement. His aura rippled like heatwaves in the cold air, oppressive and suffocating, gnawing at the edges of their courage. Without a word, he turned and approached a nearby tree, his deliberate movements heavy with menace. And then, it began. The Demon King¡¯s body contorted, shifting grotesquely. His arms swelled, the flesh darkening to a sickly green, his muscles bulging to monstrous proportions. His torso expanded, his frame becoming that of an ogre, though his two glowing eyes burned with intelligence far beyond that of a brute. Soldiers gasped as they witnessed the transformation, their confidence wavering under the sheer absurdity of his power. With an effortless motion, he wrapped his massive hands around the tree¡¯s trunk and wrenched it from the earth. Roots snapped and dirt sprayed into the air as he hoisted it like a weapon. Then his legs warped, thinning and elongating, their flesh taking on the slimy texture of a frogman¡¯s limbs. Still, the army charged, their momentum unstoppable, their battle cries ringing out in defiance. And then the Demon King leaped. The air cracked like thunder as his frog-like legs propelled him skyward, the massive tree gripped in his hands. The soldiers below watched in horror as his shadow loomed over them, blotting out the sun. He descended with terrifying speed, slamming the uprooted tree into the earth with devastating force. The impact was catastrophic. The front line disintegrated under the sheer power of the blow. Soldiers were crushed instantly, their bodies broken beyond recognition. Horses reared and screamed, their legs buckling under the shockwave. Those nearby were thrown from their mounts, colliding with one another in a chaotic tangle of limbs and armor. The ripple effect was disastrous. The soldiers in the rear couldn¡¯t halt their momentum in time. They crashed into the fallen, creating a deadly pile-up of men and beasts. Cries of pain and confusion filled the air, the once-organized charge now a scene of carnage. In the midst of the chaos, the Demon King rose. His crimson eyes glowed brighter, and his monstrous form was painted with blood and dirt. He moved with unrelenting brutality, his massive hands snatching up fallen soldiers like ragdolls. He crushed their skulls with terrifying ease, the sound of bones snapping like dry twigs piercing through the battlefield. For a moment, the soldiers froze, paralyzed by the sheer horror of what they were witnessing. Their training, their discipline, their resolve¡ªall seemed meaningless in the face of this unstoppable force. At the backline, Count Valor and the other two lords watched in stunned silence, their earlier confidence shattered. The Demon King was no ordinary foe. He wasn¡¯t even a being they could comprehend. He was a nightmare given form, a harbinger of death standing alone yet untouchable. The soldiers who had survived the initial carnage found themselves unable to advance. Fear took root in their hearts, spreading like wildfire. The Demon King stood amidst the chaos, his monstrous form towering over the broken remnants of the front line. His gaze swept over the remaining soldiers, a predator surveying its prey. Slowly, a cruel smile spread across his grotesque face. "Come," he said, his voice low and mocking, each word dripping with malice. "Show me the strength of your conviction. Show me your hope¡­ before I shatter it.¡± The battlefield was silent, save for the groans of the wounded and the distant crackle of fires in the ruins of Feria. The soldiers trembled, their courage crumbling under the weight of despair. This was no battle. It was a massacre in the making. Chapter 11 The battlefield was unnervingly quiet. A suffocating tension hung in the air, as if the earth itself held its breath. The soldiers stood frozen, their hands gripping their weapons tightly, their faces pale with dread. Even the horses, usually steadfast in the chaos of war, shifted uneasily, their eyes rolling with unease. At the center of this oppressive silence stood the Demon King, a figure who defied the boundaries of human comprehension. He towered over the broken bodies of the fallen, his presence a monument to destruction. Each step he took was deliberate, unhurried. His heavy legs crushed the corpses beneath him, splintering bones and staining the ground further with blood. His hands, massive and brutal, occasionally reached out to smash a body that dared to twitch in its final moments. Arrows rained down from the archers, their tips glinting in the faint light as they sped toward their target. The Demon King didn¡¯t flinch, didn¡¯t bother to evade them. The arrows struck his body with hollow thuds, only to shatter or bounce harmlessly off the lizard-like scales that now covered his flesh. The mages unleashed their spells, bright arcs of fire and lightning lancing through the air to explode against him. The ground around him trembled with the force of their magic. For a fleeting moment, hope flickered again in the hearts of the soldiers as smoke obscured the Demon King. But then the smoke cleared. He stood there, unscathed. Where the magic had struck, faint burns marred his skin, but even those injuries closed within seconds, the flesh knitting itself back together in grotesque detail. His regeneration was inhuman, like that of a troll magnified tenfold. A cruel smile spread across his monstrous face as he continued his slow, relentless advance. The sight was more terrifying than if he had charged. There was no urgency in his movements, only the confidence of a predator toying with its prey. The soldiers wavered, their ranks faltering as fear clawed at their resolve. Many stumbled back involuntarily, their instincts screaming to flee. The three commanders, standing at the rear, exchanged grim looks. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. ¡°This isn¡¯t a battle anymore,¡± one of the lords muttered, his voice barely audible. ¡°It¡¯s slaughter.¡± Count Valor clenched his jaw, his knuckles white around the hilt of his sword. His mind raced, calculating the losses, weighing the options. Every second they hesitated cost more lives. The Demon King¡¯s mere presence was unraveling their formation. Finally, he made his decision. ¡°Everyone, retreat!¡± Valor¡¯s voice boomed across the battlefield, sharp and commanding. ¡°Fall back! Fall back now!¡± The soldiers hesitated for a heartbeat, the weight of shame and fear dragging at their limbs. But survival instinct won out. Slowly at first, they began to back away, shields raised, weapons still trembling in their hands. The retreat gained momentum. The archers and mages turned first, their roles on the front line complete. The leaders followed, ensuring the foot soldiers began their withdrawal. Men stumbled over the bodies of their comrades, slipping in the blood-soaked mud as they fled. Despite their disarray, the Demon King didn¡¯t move. He stood amidst the carnage, his cruel smile widening as he watched them retreat. His arms hung at his sides, his fists dripping with blood, his monstrous form framed by the lifeless battlefield. It wasn¡¯t mercy that stayed his hand¡ªit was mockery. The message was clear. Run as far as you like. Hide wherever you can. It won¡¯t matter. In the end, you all will also meet the same fate. As the soldiers reached a safe distance and broke into a full sprint, the fear in their hearts only deepened. The sight of the Demon King standing motionless, like a monument to their failure, was burned into their minds. Behind them, the battlefield grew silent once more. Only the wind carried the whispers of despair, as if the very air mourned the futility of their stand. ----- Soon, they reached the borders of Cria Territory, their spirits weighed down by defeat. The soldiers, battered and bruised, staggered into the safety of the territory, their faces etched with exhaustion and fear. The once-proud banners of their armies hung limp, splattered with blood and mud, as if mourning the loss of their comrades. In the grand hall of Count Valor¡¯s mansion, the atmosphere was equally grim. The three commanders¡ªCount Valor, Count Sylas, and Count Ambrose¡ªsat around a long oak table, their expressions shadowed by the flickering light of torches mounted on the walls. Around them, their most trusted advisors and vassals stood in tense silence, waiting for someone to break the oppressive air of despair. Count Valor, his armor still dented and stained from the battle, leaned forward, his hands pressed against the table as if to anchor himself. His voice, usually commanding, carried a note of weariness. "We underestimated him¡ªa grave mistake," he admitted, his tone heavy with regret. Count Sylas, a seasoned warrior with graying hair and a scar that ran across his cheek, shook his head slowly. "Defeating a monster like that is beyond us. What we faced wasn¡¯t just a foe; it was a force of nature.¡± Count Ambrose, the eldest among them, spoke next. His voice trembled, not with fear, but with the weight of experience. "In all my years, I have never seen anything like him. It was as if we fought an amalgamation of every nightmare that walks this earth." The memory of the battle replayed vividly in their minds: the Demon King¡¯s ogre-like strength, troll-like regeneration, frogman¡¯s agility, and lizardman resilience. Each transformation had turned him into a new monster, erasing weaknesses and amplifying terror. It was like fighting a legion of creatures rolled into one unstoppable entity. The room grew heavier with silence as despair seeped into the hearts of everyone present. The clink of a servant refilling goblets of wine was the only sound, a fragile interruption in the stifling quiet. Count Valor sighed deeply, the sound cutting through the oppressive stillness. His voice steadied as he forced himself to speak. "Regretting our failure won¡¯t change anything now. We need a plan. Does anyone have any suggestions?" Eyes darted around the room, but no one spoke. Faces turned downward, shame and helplessness writ large in their expressions. Even the most seasoned advisors, those who had seen countless battles, were at a loss. "Haa¡­" Count Valor sighed again, his frustration barely concealed. The weight of leadership pressed heavily on him. "How long until the royal knights arrive?" he asked, his gaze shifting to one of his vassals. The vassal stepped forward, bowing slightly. "It will take two to three days, my lord. They are marching as swiftly as they can." Count Valor nodded slowly, rubbing his temples as he considered the implications. His voice grew firmer, a leader regaining his composure. "Very well. We will hold our ground until they arrive. From now on, we abandon all thoughts of attacking the Demon King. Instead, we will fortify Cria and defend it as though it were a fortress." His words stirred a faint spark of resolve in the room. The vassals straightened, nodding in acknowledgment. "As you command, my lord," one replied solemnly. Count Sylas, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, voiced his agreement. "A sound decision. We cannot afford to face him directly again. Our only hope lies in holding our ground." "I also agree," Count Ambrose added, his voice steady despite the grim circumstances. "If we must fight, let him come to us, where we have the advantage of fortifications." The other vassals echoed their lords¡¯ sentiments, murmuring their agreements. The room, though still weighed down by the enormity of their predicament, now carried a faint undercurrent of purpose. "Prepare the defenses," Count Valor commanded, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "Strengthen the walls, secure the gates, and ensure every soldier is armed and ready. We may not win, but we will not fall without a fight." "As you command, my lord!" the vassals replied in unison, their voices firm. The meeting adjourned with a renewed sense of urgency. As the lords and their vassals departed to carry out their duties, Count Valor remained seated for a moment longer. His gaze lingered on the map spread across the table, his fingers tracing the borders of Cria. "May the gods have mercy on us," he murmured, his voice low, almost a prayer. Chapter 12 The territory of Cria was in chaos. News of the Demon King¡¯s approach and the devastating defeat at Feria had spread like wildfire. Whispers of dread filled the air, as though the very wind carried tales of the monstrous foe. In every corner of the territory, unease reigned. Farmers abandoned their plows, merchants left their stalls, and children clung to their mothers, their innocent eyes reflecting the fear etched on every adult¡¯s face. Would Cria share Feria¡¯s fate? Would their homes, their lives, their loved ones be consumed by the same darkness? These questions weighed heavily on every heart. Yet, amidst the fear, there was resolve. Desperation gave rise to unity, and the people of Cria rallied together. Soldiers, archers, mages, and mercenaries worked tirelessly alongside common citizens. Everyone did their part, driven by a shared determination to survive. The walls of Cria became a hive of activity. Blacksmiths hammered out weapons and reinforced armor. Engineers and craftsmen fortified the defenses, placing crossbows, ballistae, and magical artifacts at key points along the battlements. Mages carved protective runes into the walls, their hands trembling with both fatigue and urgency. Even children carried water and supplies, their small contributions crucial to the effort. Vigilance became their lifeline. Scouts patrolled the perimeter, and soldiers remained stationed on the walls at all hours, their eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of movement. Every creak of wood, every rustle of leaves sent hearts racing, the tension coiling tighter with each passing moment. Despite their preparations, an air of insufficiency hung over them. No matter how hard they worked, how much they fortified, it never felt enough. The shadow of the Demon King loomed large in their minds¡ªa nightmare they could not wake from. Then, on the second day, their worst fears materialized. The alarm bell rang out, its sharp, urgent peals slicing through the air. Soldiers on the walls cried out, their voices carrying a single, chilling message: ¡°The Demon King is here!¡± This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. Panic rippled through the streets. Citizens screamed, clutching their loved ones and fleeing to their homes or the keep for safety. Mothers wept as they ushered their children to hiding places, their tears mingling with whispered prayers. Within moments, the soldiers, archers, and mages rushed to the walls, their training taking over despite the terror gnawing at their nerves. Among them were the three leaders, Count Valor, Count Sylas, and Count Ambrose. Count Valor was the first to arrive, his silver armor gleaming in the pale light as he climbed the steps to the battlements. He moved with the urgency of a man who knew the weight of his responsibility. Reaching the top, he took his position at the forefront, his eyes narrowing as he gazed out at the approaching enemy. And there they were. The Demon King stood at the head of his army, a dark titan among mortals. His massive frame radiated a palpable aura of malice, his crimson eyes glowing like embers of hellfire. Beside him strode his two generals: Movok, the towering brute whose spiked armor dripped with menace, and Torex, the eerie voodooist whose staff seemed to pulse with an otherworldly rhythm. Behind them marched the horde¡ªa sea of goblins, their grotesque forms a blur of green skin and jagged weapons. They moved in chaotic unison, snarling and growling, their yellow eyes gleaming with savage hunger. The sight was enough to chill even the bravest hearts. Yet Count Valor stood firm, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. ¡°Steady!¡± he commanded, his voice cutting through the mounting fear. ¡°Hold your positions! We fight for Cria, for our families, and for our survival!¡± The soldiers rallied behind his words, straightening their spines and raising their weapons. Archers nocked their arrows, their hands trembling only slightly as they aimed at the advancing horde. Mages began their incantations, their voices rising in a chorus of power as magical energy crackled in the air. The ground trembled beneath the marching horde, the weight of their steps echoing like the drums of war. The Demon King did not rush. He advanced slowly, deliberately, his cruel smile a promise of carnage yet to come. As the bell¡¯s final toll faded, the defenders of Cria braced themselves for the storm. On the horizon, death approached, and with it, the battle for their very existence. Just as before, the Demon King advanced alone, a shadow of death that needed no army at his side. The soldiers atop the walls of Cria watched with bated breath. Their knuckles whitened around bows and staves, sweat dripping from their brows despite the cool air. They had hope¡ªfragile and wavering but present. The walls, they believed, would be their salvation. But their flickering hope turned to horror. The Demon King stopped, his crimson eyes gleaming with cruel anticipation. Slowly, something began to shift on his back. The air filled with grotesque cracking sounds as bones erupted from his flesh, stretching outward like the limbs of a ghastly insect. Muscle wrapped around the skeletal structure, followed by a layer of dark, leathery skin. Wings. Massive, monstrous wings unfolded, their sheer size casting a dark shadow over the battlefield. The Demon King flexed them with a sickening grace, the sound of their movement like a whip slicing through the air. His cruel smile widened, his sharp teeth glinting in the dim light. It was the smile of a predator toying with its prey, reveling in their despair. The sight froze the soldiers in place, their faces pale, their hearts hammering in their chests. ¡°Archers, shoot! Mages, attack! Target his wings!¡± Count Valor¡¯s command rang out, snapping them back to reality. The archers loosed their arrows, the sharp twang of bowstrings filling the air. Mages unleashed their spells, a symphony of fire, ice, and lightning streaking toward the airborne menace. The attacks converged on the Demon King, their brilliance momentarily lighting the battlefield. Arrows struck his body, tearing through flesh, and crimson blood sprayed onto the earth below. Frost spread across one wing, while flames scorched his side, leaving charred marks. Bolts of lightning struck his form, causing the beast to falter momentarily. For a fleeting moment, hope flickered anew. But then, as if mocking their efforts, the Demon King spread his wings wide. The green hue of his scales deepened, spreading across his entire body. The wounds on his flesh sealed shut, the frost evaporated, and the burns vanished as if they had never existed. His regeneration was monstrous, beyond comprehension, a sight that struck despair into even the most steadfast hearts. The Demon King flapped his wings once, and a powerful gust of wind swept across the battlefield. Dust and debris rose like a storm, forcing the soldiers to shield their eyes. Then, with terrifying speed, he ascended into the sky, his dark figure blotting out the light. The defenders scrambled in panic. Archers and mages aimed desperately, firing shot after shot, but nothing seemed to reach him. The Demon King cut through the air like a hawk descending on helpless prey. With a thunderous crash, he landed on the walls of Cria, the stone beneath his feet cracking under the force. Dust and rubble exploded outward, and the soldiers near him were thrown back, their cries of pain lost in the chaos. The Demon King straightened, his towering form casting a shadow over the defenders. His glowing red eyes scanned the trembling soldiers, each clutching their weapons as if the mere act of holding them could keep the inevitable at bay. And then he smiled. It wasn¡¯t just a smile¡ªit was a declaration. A wicked, bone-chilling expression that spoke of merciless slaughter and the futility of resistance. Some soldiers fell to their knees, their courage shattered. Others gripped their weapons tighter, their hands shaking but unwilling to abandon their duty. Above it all, Count Valor¡¯s voice rang out once more, filled with defiance despite the terror gripping his heart. ¡°Stand your ground! Don¡¯t let him break through!¡± But as the Demon King took his first deliberate step forward, the defenders couldn¡¯t help but feel that the battle had already been lost. Chapter 13 The wall was alive with tension. Soldiers lined every inch of it, their armor gleaming under the harsh light of the setting sun. Behind them, archers nocked their arrows, and mages whispered incantations, their hands glowing with magical energy. The leaders, Count Valor, Count Sylas, and Count Ambrose, stood at the forefront, their faces grim. Yet there was a gap¡ªa wide, ominous arc where the Demon King stood, separated from the defenders by an unsettling silence. He towered at one end of the wall, his grotesque form casting an unnatural shadow that stretched across the stone. The Demon King¡¯s calm, deliberate steps echoed in the soldiers¡¯ ears, louder than the chaotic heartbeat that pounded in their chests. His cruel smile widened as he advanced, unhurried, as if savoring their fear. The leaders exchanged tense glances and retreated behind the soldiers, their presence a silent acknowledgment that this was no ordinary foe. ¡°Archers! Mages! Fire!¡± Count Valor¡¯s command cut through the heavy air like a blade. Arrows whistled through the sky, a deadly rain aimed at the Demon King. Flames, shards of ice, and crackling bolts of lightning followed in their wake, streaking toward the monstrous figure. The Demon King didn¡¯t flinch. The arrows struck his scaled skin, most bouncing harmlessly off. A few managed to pierce the thinner patches, drawing dark, viscous blood, but the wounds closed almost instantly. The magic attacks left scorch marks and frost, but his troll-like regeneration erased any trace of damage within moments. Undeterred, he moved forward, his footsteps deliberate, each step grinding stone beneath his feet. A handful of soldiers, their courage¡ªor desperation¡ªspurred them into action, charged at him, swords and spears raised high. The Demon King¡¯s body began to shift. His arms elongated, the skin darkening and sprouting coarse fur. His hands twisted into enormous claws, sharp as razors, while his mouth extended into the grotesque snout of a lizardman, jagged teeth glinting in the dim light. The first soldier thrust his spear at the Demon King¡¯s chest. With a blur of motion, the beast swiped his claw, the soldier narrowly dodging the attack. But the momentum sent him sprawling. Another soldier lunged at his legs, his spear finding purchase for a brief moment before the wound healed before his eyes. ¡°Attack his legs! Slow him down!¡± Count Valor shouted. The soldiers obeyed, moving in coordinated strikes. Spears jabbed, swords slashed, and shields clanged as they pressed the assault. The Demon King snarled, his movements a terrifying blend of feral strength and calculated brutality. He lunged forward, his claws slashing through the air. Stolen story; please report. One soldier wasn¡¯t fast enough. The sharp talons tore through his chest, splitting armor and flesh alike, blood spraying as the man fell lifeless to the ground. Another soldier raised his shield in time to block the lizardman¡¯s jaws, but the sheer force of the bite crumpled the metal like paper. Before he could react, the beast''s teeth clamped down on his arm, tearing it clean off. His scream was drowned out by the chaos of the battle. Despite the gruesome losses, the soldiers didn¡¯t falter. More joined the fray, filling the gaps left by their fallen comrades. They drove the Demon King back for a moment, only for him to retaliate with a flurry of attacks. Above, the archers loosed another volley of arrows, this time aimed at his exposed joints and softer parts of his body. Some arrows managed to embed themselves, drawing black blood. Before the Demon King could tear the arrows out, the soldiers charged again, their movements synchronized in a desperate attempt to overwhelm him. Blades clashed against his claws, sparks flying. A soldier drove his spear into the Demon King¡¯s leg, only for it to snap under the immense pressure as the beast stepped forward. The Demon King¡¯s claws tore through the air with terrifying precision, each slash meant to end the lives of those who dared to stand against him. Soldiers with shields raised met his fury head-on, the impact of his blows rattling their bones. Some managed to deflect his attacks; others were not as fortunate. His claws sliced through armor like paper, and his teeth found their mark, severing heads with grotesque ease. Yet, every time he struck down one soldier, another stepped forward to take their place. The battlefield was a chaotic symphony of steel clashing, screams, and the guttural roars of the Demon King. A brave soldier darted forward, a spear clutched tightly in his trembling hands. His battle cry echoed across the wall as he lunged at the towering figure. The Demon King¡¯s claw lashed out, slicing clean through the air and severing the man¡¯s head in a single, brutal motion. But in his final moment, the soldier¡¯s spear found its mark, piercing deep into the monster¡¯s torso. It was a small victory, but it emboldened the others. ¡°Push forward!¡± one of the leaders bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos. More soldiers surged in, their weapons aimed at the weak points already marked by arrows and spears embedded in the Demon King¡¯s flesh. They struck where the arrows had landed, hoping to drive their blades deeper. The Demon King¡¯s body became a grotesque tapestry of weapons: arrows jutted out of his scales, spears protruded from his torso, and swords had carved into his arms. Crimson blood, darker and thicker than a human¡¯s, streamed down his grotesque form, pooling at his feet. But still, he stood tall. His movements were as fluid and deadly as ever, and his smile¡ªmocking and cruel¡ªremained unbroken. The soldiers, however, were faltering. Their breaths came in ragged gasps, their movements slower with exhaustion. Their relentless attacks were taking a toll, but it was clear that the Demon King¡¯s endurance far surpassed their own. And then, the mages acted. Positioned along the walls, their hands glowing with ethereal light, they unleashed a flurry of spells¡ªnot to attack, but to debilitate. ¡°Bind him! Slow him down!¡± Blue chains of pure magic materialized in the air, snaking toward the Demon King with uncanny speed. They coiled around his massive arms and legs, their glow pulsating as they tightened, pulling him down. Frost began to creep up his scales as the ice mages cast their freezing spells, each layer slowing his movements further. The temperature dropped sharply around him, steam rising from his blood-soaked body as ice locked onto him. For a moment, he stilled. ¡°Now!¡± Count Valor roared. The archers released another devastating volley. Hundreds of arrows descended like a deadly rain, their sharp tips aimed at every inch of the immobilized Demon King. At the same time, the artifacts stationed along the walls activated. Their ancient runes flared with light, unleashing concentrated blasts of fire, lightning, and other elemental energy. The remaining mages joined in, their offensive spells weaving together to form a barrage of destruction. Explosions rocked the battlefield. Fireballs burst against the Demon King¡¯s chest, lightning crackled across his body, and shards of ice drove into his scales. Smoke and debris filled the air, obscuring the monstrous figure from view. The soldiers held their breath, weapons trembling in their hands. For the first time, there was a flicker of hope¡ªperhaps they had finally done enough to bring him down. Finally, they relaxed for a moment. ¡°We did it!¡± someone cried, their voice trembling with relief. Cheers erupted across the walls. The sight of smoke and debris where the Demon King had once stood was a sign of victory. Their relentless assault, the combined efforts of mages, archers, soldiers, and artifacts, had finally brought down the monster. Or so they thought. A voice, cold and sharp as ice, pierced the air. ¡°Was that all?¡± It wasn¡¯t loud, yet it carried a cruel mockery that froze the jubilant soldiers in place. The sound seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, wrapping around their hearts like a vice. Their cheers died. Silence fell. Slowly, they turned their eyes back to the dissipating smoke, terror rising in their throats. As the haze cleared, their hope shattered. A monstrous figure emerged, and the very sight of it drove a wave of despair through their ranks. Its body was crimson, glistening like freshly spilled blood. The skin was grotesque and uneven, with patches of hardened scales blending with sinewy flesh, each part bearing the traits of different monsters. Its face was a nightmare incarnate¡ªfour glowing, yellow eyes, each burning with malevolent intelligence. They stared in every direction, unblinking and predatory, exuding an overwhelming aura of menace. The absence of a nose only made its visage more alien, while its wide mouth stretched unnaturally, filled with rows of jagged teeth sharp enough to tear through steel. But it was the arms that made it truly monstrous. Six appendages jutted from its body, each belonging to a different creature. One was the thick, muscular arm of a troll, veins bulging as if ready to crush anything in its grip. Another was the green-skinned, clawed hand of a high orc, nails curled like talons. The third arm was wolf-like, furred and ending in razor-sharp claws that gleamed in the light. The fourth was the bulky, armored arm of an ogre, with spiked protrusions running along its forearm. The remaining two were unrecognizable¡ªone covered in smooth, black chitin like an insect¡¯s limb. And the other appearing as if it belonged to a molten creature, with cracks that glowed faintly with searing heat. Its legs were monstrous as well¡ªone resembled that of a frogman, webbed and powerful, while the other was reptilian, covered in scales with a taloned foot that crushed the stone beneath it with every step. A long, segmented tail thrashed behind it, ending in a wicked, scythe-like blade dripping with venom. Its very presence radiated despair. The creature didn¡¯t just look like an amalgam of monsters; it was a grotesque fusion of destruction itself, a being that should not exist in any realm. The soldiers trembled as the Demon King spread his six arms wide, his mouth curling into a smile that revealed those horrifying teeth. His voice echoed once more, deep and guttural, yet disturbingly articulate. ¡°Your efforts amused me¡­ but now, let me show you what despair truly feels like.¡± The sight of him, this abomination of power and chaos, filled the air with a suffocating fear. He wasn¡¯t just a monster; he was the embodiment of ruin, the harbinger of annihilation. A being whose existence was an affront to life itself. Chapter 14 The soldiers stood frozen, paralyzed by the sight of the monstrous Demon King. His grotesque, fused form loomed larger than life, an embodiment of raw power and terror. Fatigue weighed heavy on their limbs, and fear gnawed at their hearts. But the Demon King gave them no time to recover. With a thunderous leap, his frog-like leg propelled him forward in a terrifying blur, his other leg maintaining the momentum with each crushing step. The ground trembled beneath him, cracks spidering outward from every impact. His movement was unnervingly fast for his hulking form, and before the soldiers could react, he was upon them. The air seemed to shatter as his six arms lashed out in a whirlwind of death. The troll arm seized a soldier by the torso, crushing him with a sickening crunch before tossing the lifeless body into the ranks. Another soldier raised his shield in desperation, but the ogre¡¯s hand slammed into it with the force of a battering ram, shattering it and sending the man flying backward, his ribs caving in. Those who managed to dodge one attack found themselves ensnared by the other arms. The wolf-like claws slashed through armor as though it were paper, tearing limbs and leaving trails of crimson in their wake. The insectoid arm impaled another, its chitinous appendage piercing through his chest like a spear, while the molten arm grabbed a soldier by the throat. Steam hissed as the heat seared flesh, and his agonized screams echoed before his body went limp. The Demon King¡¯s tail whipped out with devastating force, cleaving through the line of soldiers like a scythe through wheat. Shields were splintered, helmets crushed, and bodies thrown against the stone walls. His mouth gaped wide, the jagged teeth biting into another unfortunate soldier, tearing off his head in a horrifying display of savagery. His four glowing eyes darted in every direction, leaving no corner of the battlefield unobserved. Every movement was calculated, every attack precise. The soldiers¡¯ coordinated efforts crumbled under his relentless assault. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. Blood painted the walls, the floor, and the Demon King himself, who reveled in the carnage. His crimson skin glistened with gore, his wicked smile never faltering as he tore through the ranks. Screams filled the air, each one more desperate than the last. Some soldiers clung to their weapons, hands shaking as they tried to summon the courage to fight. Others dropped their swords and spears, overcome by the sheer futility of their resistance. Their once-strong formation now lay in shambles, bodies strewn like discarded dolls. The archers on the walls fired desperately, but their arrows barely grazed his scaled skin. The mages flung their spells, but even the strongest fireballs and lightning bolts failed to slow him. His wounds closed almost as quickly as they were inflicted, the unnatural regeneration of his troll-like abilities mocking their every effort. Soon, the chaos subsided, leaving silence in its wake. The stone floor was littered with bodies, many missing limbs, others still twitching in the throes of death. A few soldiers, miraculously alive, crawled away from the carnage, their faces pale with terror. The remaining soldiers could only watch in horror, their resolve crumbling as the Demon King turned his attention toward Count Valor. The path between them was now clear, lined with the mangled corpses of those who had dared to stand in his way. The Demon King¡¯s four glowing eyes locked onto the Count, a chilling smile spreading across his monstrous face. His steps echoed ominously as he began to move forward, each one a harbinger of death. Count Valor gripped his sword tightly, sweat beading on his brow. He took a deep breath, his gaze steady despite the terror in his heart. The Demon King loomed closer, a force of nature that could not be stopped, a living nightmare that promised nothing but destruction. The Demon King¡¯s slow, deliberate steps towards Count Valor sent a chill through the air, each step heavy with the promise of death. But just as the monstrous figure closed the distance, a young man stepped forward, placing himself between the Demon King and the Count. Count Valor¡¯s eyes widened in shock as he recognized the figure. "Shaun!" he shouted, his voice laced with both alarm and disbelief. "Move aside!" Shaun stood firm, his back straight despite the tremor in his hands that gripped the hilt of his sword. His disheveled brown hair clung to his sweat-soaked forehead, and his emerald-green eyes¡ªthough filled with fear¡ªstayed locked on the Demon King. His armor, slightly too large for his lean frame, bore scratches and bloodstains from the earlier chaos. Yet despite his trembling, the young soldier radiated a determined defiance. "Count!" Shaun¡¯s voice quivered but held an edge of unwavering resolve. "Please retreat to safety. Let me hold him off!" "Shaun, no!" Count Valor¡¯s voice thundered, desperation creeping into his tone. "You can''t fight him. Move back!" But Shaun¡¯s gaze didn¡¯t waver. His breathing was ragged, his fear palpable, but something burned brighter within him¡ªa loyalty and duty that surpassed even his terror. "Your safety is the priority, Count," Shaun said, his voice louder, more resolute. "Move back. That¡¯s an order!" Count Valor barked, his frustration mounting. "I''m sorry, Count." Shaun shook his head, his voice cracking under the weight of his decision. "I cannot follow that order. A soldier¡¯s duty is to protect their ruler, no matter the cost." Before Count Valor could argue further, other soldiers gathered around him, forming a protective ring. Their faces mirrored Shaun¡¯s determination, but there was a shadow of despair in their eyes. They knew what awaited anyone who faced the Demon King. The Demon King halted, watching the exchange with a mocking grin. His twisted smile deepened, and his grotesque form began to shift. The monstrous amalgamation of limbs and features receded. The troll¡¯s crushing arm and the insect¡¯s impaling appendage dissolved, replaced by muscular, humanoid arms. The crimson scales vanished, revealing his dark, blood-red skin. His four glowing eyes merged back into two burning amber orbs. The lashing tail disappeared, and his legs returned to their original form. The Demon King stood now in his original state¡ªa tall, imposing figure exuding an aura of dark majesty. His sharp, angular face twisted in amusement as he raised one hand, gesturing mockingly for Shaun to come closer. The young soldier swallowed hard, his knuckles white against the sword¡¯s hilt. He took a step forward, then another, each one slow and deliberate. To those watching, the contrast was stark. Shaun, a boy barely out of his teens, his messy hair plastered against his dirt-streaked face, his thin frame trembling under the weight of his courage. And the Demon King, a towering figure of raw power and menace, radiating an aura of invincibility. It was a predator toying with its prey. Yet Shaun didn¡¯t falter. His voice echoed softly, more to himself than anyone else: "I am a soldier of Cria. If I die today, it will be with honor." The battlefield fell silent, all eyes fixed on the lone figure standing against an overwhelming force. Every breath held, every gaze unblinking, as Shaun raised his sword, the blade trembling slightly in his hands, and took another step toward the Demon King. Chapter 15 Shaun stood before the Demon King, his legs trembling like reeds in a storm. His hands, gripping the hilt of his sword, shook uncontrollably, but his feet remained planted. His eyes, filled with fear, refused to waver from the towering figure in front of him. The Demon King tilted his head, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips. "What are you waiting for? Come at me," he mocked, his voice laced with disdain. Shaun¡¯s grip tightened around the sword, his knuckles white. He inhaled sharply, then charged forward, the clang of his armor echoing across the walls. With a desperate swing, he aimed at the Demon King¡¯s chest, but the strike missed entirely as the Demon King sidestepped with ease, as if dodging a child¡¯s tantrum. Shaun spun and swung again, this time aiming for the neck, but his blade cut through only empty air. A third strike came, but the Demon King didn¡¯t bother dodging. Instead, his leg shot out like a whip, his foot slamming into Shaun¡¯s stomach with a thunderous thud. The young soldier was hurled backward, his body tumbling across the stone floor. Shaun gasped for breath, clutching his abdomen as waves of pain wracked his body. His sword clattered out of reach, sliding a few feet away. The Demon King approached slowly, his footsteps deliberate and heavy, and bent to pick up the fallen blade. With a mocking smile, he tossed the weapon back near Shaun, the metallic clang ringing in the air. "Try again," he sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. Shaun¡¯s gaze darted between the Demon King and the sword. His body screamed at him to stay down, but his resolve pushed him to his feet. Staggering, he picked up the sword once more, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. This time, Shaun tried to steady himself. He adjusted his stance, breathing heavily, and charged again. His attacks were more calculated, his swings aimed at weak points¡ªjoints, the neck, the legs. This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. But the Demon King danced around him, evading every strike as if he could predict each move before Shaun made it. The Demon King¡¯s grin widened, and he lashed out, grabbing Shaun¡¯s sword arm mid-swing. With a sickening crunch, he crushed Shaun¡¯s hand, the sound of bones shattering echoing across the walls. Shaun screamed in agony, the sword falling from his grasp again. Despite the pain, Shaun refused to stop. His free hand fumbled for the hilt, his movements slower now. His strikes became weaker, each one met with either a dodge or a mocking shove from the Demon King. Blood seeped from wounds on his torso and arms, staining the ground beneath him. "You''re persistent," the Demon King said, almost amused, before delivering a powerful backhand. Shaun flew backward, landing in a crumpled heap. His body trembled, barely able to hold itself upright. As he struggled to rise, the Demon King approached, gripping Shaun¡¯s head with one massive hand. He lifted the young soldier effortlessly, holding him aloft as if he weighed nothing. Shaun¡¯s legs dangled, his strength all but gone. "Any last words?" the Demon King asked, his voice cold and final. Shaun coughed, blood staining his lips. Despite the agony, he forced his gaze to meet the Demon King¡¯s fiery eyes. "It... was an honor... to die for Cria," he whispered, his voice trembling yet resolute. The Demon King twisted Shaun¡¯s neck with a gruesome crack, his body falling limp instantly. Without a second thought, the Demon King flung the lifeless form aside like a discarded doll. Shaun¡¯s body landed with a dull thud against the cold stone, motionless, his sword lying just out of reach. For a moment, the battlefield was silent. The soldiers on the walls stood frozen, their breaths caught in their throats. All eyes were on the lifeless form of Shaun, his blood pooling around him, and the towering figure of the Demon King, who now turned his mocking gaze to the rest of them. A wave of despair washed over the defenders. Shaun¡¯s bravery had been admirable, but his sacrifice only underscored the insurmountable power they faced. But then, cutting through the oppressive stillness, a voice rang out. "For the kingdom!" The cry was raw, filled with desperation and a flicker of courage. A lone soldier, older than Shaun but inspired by his bravery, gripped his spear tightly and charged forward. His eyes burned with determination, his body trembling not from fear, but from resolve. The Demon King turned his fiery gaze toward the man, his smirk widening. The soldier''s bravery was commendable, but it was futile. Before the spear could even come close to its target, the Demon King¡¯s massive hand shot out like a viper, wrapping around the soldier''s neck. With a single twist, the soldier¡¯s life was extinguished, his body crumpling to the ground like a broken doll. Yet his cry had sparked something in the others. "For the kingdom!" "For the kingdom!" Voices rose, one after another, soldiers shouting the rallying cry as they surged forward. Courage burned in their hearts, ignited by Shaun''s sacrifice and the soldier''s defiance. But bravery alone was not enough. The charging soldiers met the Demon King¡¯s wrath head-on. His claws slashed through their armor like paper, each swing leaving behind trails of crimson. His molten tail lashed out, breaking bones and shattering shields. The air filled with screams as bodies were torn apart, limbs severed, and lives ended in an instant. Spears, swords, and halberds struck against the Demon King¡¯s scales, but they might as well have been striking against a mountain. Any minor wounds inflicted were erased in seconds, his regeneration mocking their every effort. The archers atop the wall let loose volley after volley of arrows, their faces etched with desperation. But the arrows bounced harmlessly off his armor-like scales or fell short, unable to penetrate his defenses. Without the protection of soldiers, the archers became easy prey. The mages followed, unleashing their spells in a last-ditch effort. Fireballs, lightning bolts, and torrents of ice rained down on the Demon King, briefly lighting the battlefield. But he walked through the attacks unscathed, as if the magic itself feared him. With a flick of his claw or the swing of his tail, the mages fell one by one. Even the two leaders, stalwarts of the kingdoms of Sima and Creta, joined the fray. They fought valiantly, their skills honed over decades of battle. But against the Demon King, even their experience meant nothing. One leader fell with his chest torn open, the other decapitated in a single, brutal strike. The once-proud wall of Cria was painted red. Blood seeped into the cracks of the stone, pooling around the lifeless bodies of soldiers, mages, and leaders. The pungent stench of death and iron filled the air, choking the lungs of any who still drew breath. Amidst the carnage, only two figures remained standing. Count Valor knelt on the blood-soaked ground, his sword lying forgotten beside him. His head hung low, not in fear, but in unbearable shame and despair. He had failed¡ªfailed his people, failed his kingdom, and failed himself. The weight of thousands of lives crushed his spirit, leaving him hollow. The Demon King stood across from him, his towering figure drenched in the blood of his enemies. His crimson scales shimmered darkly in the pale light, his eyes blazing with a cruel satisfaction. He moved forward slowly, each step echoing ominously on the stone, the sound amplified by the silence of the dead. Chapter 16 The Demon King walked with deliberate steps, his towering figure casting a suffocating shadow over the kneeling Count Valor. Each step felt like the toll of a bell, signaling the inevitability of doom. When he reached the count, he bent down slowly, his piercing crimson eyes locking onto Valor''s defeated gaze. For a moment, there was silence¡ªbroken only by the distant cries of the dying and the crackle of fire. ¡°What¡­ are you?¡± Count Valor whispered, his voice trembling with both fear and curiosity. The Demon King tilted his head slightly, as if pondering the question, his lips curling into a faint, mocking smile. ¡°With this much power,¡± Valor continued, his voice growing louder, the frustration in his tone bubbling over, ¡°you could¡¯ve ended this battle long ago. Why? Why did you act alone? Why didn''t you use your army?" The Demon King¡¯s smile widened. His voice was calm, yet chilling, carrying an air of unshakable authority. ¡°Despair,¡± he said simply. ¡°What?¡± Count Valor¡¯s brow furrowed in confusion. The Demon King leaned in closer, his breath cold against the count¡¯s face, his tone dripping with malice. ¡°Do you know what despair truly is?¡± he asked. ¡°Not fear. Not loss. But the crushing weight of knowing you were powerless to stop the inevitable.¡± Before Valor could respond, the Demon King grabbed him by the collar with a single hand, lifting him effortlessly. The count struggled against the grip but found it as unyielding as iron. ¡°Let me show you,¡± the Demon King said. With a powerful leap, he landed near the inner edge of the city wall. He held Count Valor there, forcing him to look down at the city below. The sight that met Valor¡¯s eyes was a scene from his worst nightmares. The gates of Cria had been breached, and a tide of goblins poured through, their grotesque forms moving with chaotic frenzy. They swarmed into the streets, their crude weapons glinting in the dim light. If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. The city, once a proud bastion of hope, was now drowning in chaos. The goblins attacked without hesitation. Men who tried to protect their families were overwhelmed. One man, wielding a hammer, managed to crush the skull of a goblin, the creature¡¯s blood splattering onto the cobblestone. But before he could even take a breath, three more goblins pounced on him, their jagged daggers plunging into his chest and stomach. His screams echoed briefly before he fell silent. Women clutched their children, their faces pale with terror. A mother tried to shield her young son, her arms wrapped tightly around him. But a goblin¡¯s blade slashed through her back, and she collapsed, her blood pooling beneath her. The child¡¯s cries for his mother were cut short as another goblin dragged him away. Elderly citizens, unable to flee, were mercilessly cut down where they stood. One old man, leaning on a cane, pleaded for mercy, his voice quivering. The goblins responded with cruel laughter before driving their weapons into him. The young were not spared either. Children screamed as they were chased down, their small legs unable to carry them far. A girl, no older than fifteen, tripped and fell. She looked back, her tear-streaked face filled with terror, as a goblin loomed over her. Fires spread through the city, consuming homes and shops alike. Smoke billowed into the sky, adding to the chaos. The air was filled with the acrid stench of burning wood and the metallic tang of blood. The screams of the dying and the wailing of the survivors were a symphony of agony that filled every corner of Cria. Count Valor¡¯s eyes widened in horror. His lips trembled, and his body went limp in the Demon King¡¯s grasp. ¡°Stop this!¡± His voice cracked, raw with desperation. ¡°Please, stop this!¡± His cries carried the weight of a broken man, pleading for mercy not for himself, but for the innocents below. The Demon King¡¯s laughter filled the air, a deep, hollow sound devoid of compassion. It reverberated off the bloodied walls, chilling the hearts of any who could still hear it. His glowing crimson eyes turned to the count, blazing with malevolence. ¡°This is despair,¡± the Demon King said, his voice calm yet cruel. ¡°To watch your people suffer. To know you cannot save them. That is true despair.¡± With a dismissive motion, he released Count Valor, who crumpled to his knees against the cold stone wall. The count¡¯s trembling hands gripped the edge, his knuckles white, his body wracked with the weight of his failure. Below, the cries of his people being slaughtered filled his ears, each scream like a dagger to his heart. Tears streamed down his face, a mixture of anguish and shame. ¡°Why are you doing this?¡± Valor whispered, his voice barely audible. Then he screamed, his voice breaking with raw emotion, ¡°What do you gain from killing all those people?¡± The Demon King tilted his head, a wicked smile curling his lips. ¡°Satisfaction,¡± he said, his tone laced with venom. ¡°I feel¡­ happy.¡± Valor¡¯s tear-filled eyes widened in shock and disbelief. ¡°What?¡± he stammered, his voice trembling. The Demon King¡¯s expression darkened, his smile fading as his tone turned sharp and venomous. ¡°It wasn¡¯t I who started this,¡± the Demon King began, his voice rising with rage. ¡°It was you humans. You, with your endless greed and insatiable hunger for power. You massacred countless species, trampled their homes, spilled their blood¡ªall for your petty conquests. For land. For resources. For nothing more than your selfish desires.¡± The Demon King¡¯s body trembled with barely restrained fury, his claws digging into the stone wall. His voice grew louder, filled with unrestrained hatred. ¡°Your hunger destroyed everything. My people. My friends. My family.¡± His voice cracked, and for a fleeting moment, a glimmer of pain flashed in his eyes. "My wife and my daughter¡­ the ones I loved more than anything. The ones I wanted nothing more than to protect and live peacefully with.¡± His gaze bore into Valor, blazing with raw emotion¡ªanger, grief, and an unquenchable thirst for vengeance. ¡°But your hunger for power,¡± he spat, ¡°your hunger for control, destroyed it all. You left me with nothing. NOTHING!¡± The Demon King¡¯s tone turned cold, colder than the harshest winter wind, as he leaned closer to Valor. ¡°And now, I¡¯m hungry,¡± he hissed. ¡°I hunger for retribution. For vengeance. For destruction. The despair you feel right now¡ªthe helplessness of watching your people die, knowing you can do nothing to stop it. That same despair consumed me once. Now, I will ensure it is etched into the hearts of every human being.¡± Count Valor¡¯s tears stopped. Instead, his face hardened, his jaw clenched as he stared into the face of the monster before him. ¡°One day,¡± he said, his voice steady but filled with quiet fury, ¡°you will meet a horrific end. Mark my words.¡± The Demon King¡¯s lips curled into a cold, mocking smile. ¡°I¡¯ll wait for that day,¡± he said, his voice dripping with disdain. With a swift motion, he raised his clawed hand. The sound of the wind slicing through the air was the only warning before the count¡¯s head was severed cleanly from his body. For a moment, time seemed to stand still. The count¡¯s headless body slumped forward, collapsing to the blood-soaked stone wall. His lifeless eyes stared into the distance, as if still witnessing the destruction below. The Demon King stood over the corpse, his crimson eyes glinting with triumph. He wiped the blood from his claws, his gaze sweeping over the city engulfed in blood and chaos. The territory of Cria had fallen, and with it, its last hope. Chapter 17 [Conrad City ¨C The Palace Meeting Room] The room was filled with a heavy silence, the weight of recent events pressing down on everyone gathered. The grand chamber, usually reserved for court sessions, now housed the king, his closest ministers, and a select few high-ranking nobles. They stood around a massive, ornately carved table, its surface covered in maps, reports, and hastily scribbled notes. King Serom, a man who had seen many trials in his reign, leaned forward, his face etched with worry. His crown, a symbol of authority, felt heavier than ever. He broke the silence with a grave tone that carried the weight of despair. "I''m sure you all must¡¯ve heard about what happened in Cria," he said, his voice measured but strained. A murmur of acknowledgment passed through the group. ¡°When the royal knights arrived at Cria, it was already¡­¡± The king paused, swallowing the lump in his throat. ¡°Ruins.¡± The room remained still. No one dared to meet his gaze. ¡°There were signs of a monster attack,¡± he continued, ¡°but all the monsters had already vanished by the time our knights arrived.¡± One of the ministers, his face pale, nodded and added, ¡°The knights informed us through the communication orb, Your Majesty. Cria has been utterly destroyed¡­ not a single soul survived.¡± The king closed his eyes, exhaling deeply as he placed a hand on the table to steady himself. The gravity of those words hung in the air like a storm cloud. ¡°I summoned this meeting because we must act¡ªimmediately,¡± King Serom said firmly, though the tremor in his voice betrayed his fear. ¡°What should we do? Does anyone here have any ideas?¡± His question was met with silence. The ministers exchanged uneasy glances, but no one spoke. ¡°Haa¡­¡± The king sighed heavily, his frustration evident. The sound of his breath seemed to echo in the room, amplifying the oppressive atmosphere. Breaking the silence, he turned toward one of his advisors. ¡°What about the temple? Any word on the hero¡¯s progress?¡± A minister stepped forward, wringing his hands nervously. ¡°Your Majesty, the temple reports that the hero is still in training. They say he is not yet ready to face such a threat. Moreover¡­¡± He hesitated, his voice faltering. ¡°Speak,¡± the king commanded. Stolen novel; please report. ¡°The saintess,¡± the minister continued, ¡°remains unconscious. Her condition is unknown, and the temple cannot act completely until she recovers.¡± The king''s fists clenched at his sides. ¡°What do we do now?¡± he muttered under his breath, his gaze fixed on the table as if searching for an answer in the intricate carvings. Suddenly, a deep voice cut through the tension. ¡°Your Majesty, allow me to go,¡± Duke Driesell said, stepping forward. The king looked up, studying the duke¡¯s face. A man of unwavering resolve, Driesell¡¯s eyes burned with determination. The king¡¯s lips parted as if to argue, but no words came. Finally, he nodded. ¡°I suppose that¡¯s our only option for now.¡± ¡°But, Your Majesty¡ª¡± Marquis Ebran began, his voice laced with concern. Duke Driesell interrupted, his tone firm. ¡°You agreed, Marquis. You said that if you failed, I could act as I saw fit.¡± Ebran fell silent, his face grim. ¡°Haa¡­ Fine then,¡± he relented. ¡°I won¡¯t stop you.¡± Driesell nodded, his jaw set. King Serom straightened, addressing the room once more. "Good. But do we have any clue where the Demon King might strike next? Did he¡­ leave anyone alive to deliver a message?¡± The room fell silent again. A minister, hesitant but compelled to answer, finally spoke. "No, Your Majesty. This time¡­ the Demon King left no one alive.¡± The words hit the room like a thunderclap. King Serom closed his eyes, his shoulders sagging under the weight of despair. The air in the room grew heavy, suffused with an almost oppressive tension. "Does anyone have any idea?" King Serom¡¯s question about the Demon King¡¯s next target lingered, unanswered. ¡°Yes, Your Majesty,¡± Marquis Ebran finally spoke, his voice trembling slightly as he unrolled a map across the table. He pointed to the territory marked Qeino. ¡°If he wishes to reach the capital swiftly, then Qeino Territory would logically be his next target. From Cria, it¡¯s the most direct route¡ª¡± Before he could finish, the large double doors to the chamber slammed open with a force that echoed throughout the room. Everyone turned sharply, their eyes narrowing at the interruption. A soldier stumbled in, his face pale as death and drenched in sweat. His breathing was ragged, his eyes wide with terror. ¡°What kind of insolence is this?¡± one of the ministers barked. ¡°Do you not realize this is an urgent meeting?¡± ¡°Enough,¡± King Serom said sharply, silencing the others with a single word. His stern gaze shifted to the soldier. ¡°Speak. What has happened?¡± The soldier tried to form words, but his voice cracked. ¡°Your Majesty, it¡¯s... it¡¯s...¡± Before he could finish, a massive, clawed hand emerged from the shadows behind him and shoved him aside with effortless force. ¡°Move.¡± A deep, resonant voice filled the chamber, sending chills down the spines of everyone present. The sound wasn¡¯t merely commanding¡ªit was oppressive, laced with a malevolence that seemed to seep into the very walls. The being who entered was larger than life, his towering form dwarfing the guards who stood frozen in fear. His body was an intimidating canvas of sinew and muscle, rippling beneath ash-grey skin that appeared as impenetrable as stone, a testament to his otherworldly power. Intricate, heavy golden armor clung to his imposing form, glinting faintly in the dim light. Each piece bore macabre skull motifs, twisted grins etched into the gleaming metal, and haunting ancient symbols carved with unnerving precision. The designs seemed alive, pulsating faintly as though imbued with the souls of his countless victims. His broad shoulder pads featured grinning skulls that seemed to mock the room¡¯s occupants, twisted and silent witnesses to centuries of darkness. The armor exuded an air of conquest, every piece telling a story of lands razed and lives extinguished in his wake. Upon his head sat a crown of dark gold, its surface adorned with predatory gems that gleamed with an unsettling light, as if watching the room. Two enormous, curved horns jutted from the sides of his head, twisting upward in a menacing arc that exuded raw power. Long, flowing purple hair cascaded down his shoulders, blending seamlessly with a thick, braided beard that hung down his chest. Together, they framed his stern, regal face, an expression that was both calm and terrifying in its authority. His eyes, an unholy crimson, burned with an intensity that made the room feel like it was on fire. They were piercing and cruel, searing through flesh and mind alike. When his gaze swept over the gathered leaders, it wasn¡¯t just a look¡ªit was a force. Every man and woman felt it, a crushing weight that reached into their very souls, unearthing their deepest fears and most hidden doubts. The light from the chandeliers dimmed, casting long, eerie shadows that flickered with every movement he made. He strode with deliberate slowness, his heavy steps reverberating through the chamber, each one hammering a nail into the coffin of hope. Everyone could feel who he was. The Demon King. The Demon King¡¯s lips curled into a sinister grin, revealing sharp, fang-like teeth. His voice was low and mocking as he spoke. "So, this is where the leaders of humanity have gathered. How quaint.¡± The ministers, nobles, and even the king froze, their faces pale with dread. Some clutched at their chairs for support, while others instinctively backed away, their breaths quickening. Without hesitation, the Demon King moved to the massive table at the room¡¯s center. He reached out with a clawed hand, his movements slow, deliberate, and eerily calm. He grasped one of the heavy oak chairs as if it weighed nothing, dragging it across the floor with a screech that made everyone wince. He placed it directly opposite the king and sat down, his crimson eyes scanning the room, taking in every terrified face. His grin widened, his sharp teeth catching the dim light. ¡°So,¡± he said, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down their spines. ¡°You¡¯ve all gathered here¡­ to discuss about me, haven¡¯t you?¡± His chuckle was dark and hollow, resonating in the room like a death knell. His crimson eyes shifted to the ministers, each one shrinking under his scrutiny. "Shall we talk, then?" The monstrous figure¡¯s grin widened, its sharp teeth glinting menacingly as it leaned in closer, exuding an aura of unsettling confidence. Chapter 18 The meeting room was a pressure cooker of fear and tension. Nobles and ministers sat frozen in their seats, their faces pale, while the king tried to maintain composure despite the unease radiating from his throne. The air felt heavy, suffused with dread, except for one figure who stood defiantly against the tide of terror. "How dare you come here?" Duke Driesell¡¯s voice thundered through the room, breaking the silence. His sharp gaze was fixed on the towering figure of the Demon King. Despite the oppressive aura emanating from the intruder, there wasn¡¯t a trace of fear in the duke¡¯s eyes¡ªonly seething anger. The Demon King tilted his head slightly, the faintest hint of amusement flickering in his crimson eyes. His deep, rumbling voice followed, calm but laced with mockery. "Calm down. I¡¯m not here to fight." The simple statement only seemed to inflame Driesell further. He rose halfway from his chair, his hand instinctively moving toward the hilt of his sword. "You¡ª" "Stop, Duke!" the king interjected, his tone firm yet uneasy. He gestured for Driesell to sit. The duke hesitated but obeyed, though his glare remained fixed on the Demon King. The king turned his gaze to the uninvited guest, his voice strained but steady. "If you¡¯re not here to fight, then what do you want?" The Demon King leaned back slightly in his chair, his massive horns casting long, jagged shadows across the walls. His lips curled into a small, mocking smile. "I¡¯m here to inform you," he said, his voice calm yet dripping with menace, "about the next place I will attack." Gasps rippled through the room. Whispers broke out among the nobles, their voices trembling with disbelief. "You... dare to flaunt your intentions in front of us?" a minister stammered, but the Demon King ignored him entirely. With deliberate movements, the Demon King reached out a clawed finger, dragging it across the map spread on the table. A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. The sharp talon traced three territories, his actions slow, methodical, and unnervingly precise. "This one. And this. And this." He tapped three locations on the map, his voice devoid of emotion. "As we speak, these territories are under siege. You can try to protect them, send your armies, and resist with all your might... but you will fail. Most likely." The room erupted in shock and outrage, but the Demon King remained unflinching. His burning gaze silenced them all as his finger moved again, this time stopping at a new location. "And this," he said, tapping firmly on the map, his crimson eyes locking with the king¡¯s, "this will be my next target." The room fell into a stunned silence. Every eye turned to the map, focusing on the territory the Demon King had pointed to: Norvik. A collective gasp echoed through the chamber. Norvik¡ªa vital trading hub, the beating heart of the kingdom¡¯s economy and a critical point of defense. Its destruction would not only cripple the kingdom financially but leave its borders vulnerable, making infiltration and attacks devastatingly easy. The king¡¯s hands trembled as he leaned forward, his eyes scanning the map in disbelief. "Norvik... Why?" The Demon King¡¯s lips curled into a sinister smile, his eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. "Why not?" he said. His words hung in the air, cold and calculating, as the weight of his revelation crushed the room. The nobles whispered among themselves in panicked tones, but no one dared challenge the figure before them. "Why are you doing this? What do you want?" King Serom demanded, his voice strained as he tried to suppress the fear creeping into his words. The Demon King chuckled, a low, guttural sound that sent a chill rippling through the room. His crimson eyes gleamed with malice as he leaned forward slightly. "That¡¯s a stupid question," he said, his tone calm yet dripping with mockery. "I want you all to despair." The ministers shivered, their faces pale. His words carried a weight, an ominous promise of suffering that seemed to fill the room like a thick fog. "And I will make sure you all feel it," he added, his voice now cold and unwavering. The atmosphere was stifling, the tension suffocating¡ªuntil a sudden thud shattered the silence. From his place near the Demon King, Baron Ford¡ªa muscular noble with a fiery temper¡ªhad swung his massive spiked mace with all his might. The weapon connected squarely with the Demon King¡¯s head, the force of the blow crushing it instantly. Blood sprayed across the room, splattering the polished floors and nearby furniture. The Demon King¡¯s body crumpled to the ground in a lifeless heap, dark crimson pooling beneath him. A stunned silence followed, broken by an eruption of cheers from the ministers. "Very good, Earl Ford!" one of them exclaimed, his voice trembling with relief. "Good job, Earl Ford! You deserve a reward for this," King Serom added, his tense expression softening as he allowed himself a small smile. Marquis Ebran nodded in agreement, his chest swelling with pride. "The kingdom owes you a great debt." But amidst the jubilation, one man remained silent. Duke Driesell stood with his arms crossed, his expression as hard and unyielding as ever. The king noticed and frowned. "What¡¯s the matter, Duke? You don¡¯t seem happy. Surely, this is cause for celebration?" Driesell¡¯s eyes never left the Demon King¡¯s body. "It¡¯s not over, Your Majesty," he said, his voice a low rumble. "What do you mea¡ª" Before the king could finish, a faint, unsettling sound filled the room: the creak of movement. All eyes turned back to the Demon King¡¯s corpse. Slowly, unnaturally, one of his hands twitched, then moved to his neck. His fingers clasped the jagged stump where his head had been, and he began to lift himself. Gasps filled the room as the headless body stood upright. A moment later, flesh and bone began to knit themselves back together. The regeneration was grotesque, the wet squelch of muscles reforming and veins reconnecting echoing eerily in the chamber. Within seconds, the Demon King¡¯s head was fully restored. His crimson eyes flared to life once more, a cruel smile tugging at his lips. "This," he said, his voice as calm as ever, "is not how you kill someone." The ministers who had been celebrating moments before now sat frozen in their seats, their faces drained of all color. Dread hung heavy in the air, their earlier triumph replaced with abject terror. The Demon King turned his attention to Baron Ford, his expression one of chilling amusement. "If you intend to kill someone," he said, his voice cold and mocking, "make sure they¡¯re actually finished." In one swift motion, he seized Earl Ford by the head, his massive hand engulfing it completely. With a firm grip, he slammed the baron¡¯s head onto the table, the wood creaking under the pressure. "Let me show you how it¡¯s done," he said, his tone almost casual. Raising the spiked mace¡ªFord¡¯s own weapon¡ªhe brought it down with terrifying force. The impact was sickening, the baron¡¯s skull shattering under the blow. Blood and fragments of bone splattered across the table and nearby ministers, eliciting screams of horror. The Demon King straightened, tossing the broken body aside like discarded trash. He cast a final, piercing glance around the room, his gaze lingering on each terrified face. "I should go now," he said, his voice calm as though nothing had happened. He turned and began to walk toward the door, his heavy footsteps echoing in the stunned silence. Just before leaving, he paused and looked over his shoulder, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Ah, one more thing," he said. "The next time we meet, your end will be the same as his." He gestured toward the mangled remains of Baron Ford. "So, do try your best to resist. It¡¯ll make this more entertaining." With that, he went back, leaving behind a room full of trembling men and a blood-soaked table as a chilling reminder of his power. Authors note Hello, dear readers! I wanted to take a moment to explain a few things about [Advent of the Demon King] and provide some context to enhance your reading experience. About the Story At its core, [Advent of the Demon King] focuses on the hero¡¯s journey¡ªhis struggles, losses, triumphs, companions, and his ultimate quest to defeat the Demon King. The chapters you¡¯re currently reading serve as a foundation for the main story. Think of them as an extended prologue designed to set the stage for the epic tale to come. Because of this, some parts might feel a little rushed, but rest assured, everything is building toward something greater. About the Map Let¡¯s talk about the world of the story. Below is a simple map (please excuse my drawing skills??), but I¡¯ll explain it in detail to help you visualize the setting. https://imgur.com/a/2yOS8vG The Human Kingdom and Its Surroundings The human kingdom is surrounded by forests and mountains, creating both natural barriers and dangers. A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. The mountains are divided into two distinct regions: - The Frozen Wasteland: An area so cold that survival is nearly impossible, home only to fearsome snow monsters. - The Dwarven Mountains: A warmer, habitable region where the dwarves have established their kingdom. The Forest - Beyond the dwarven kingdom lies the elven forest, where the elves reside. - Further east, the forest transitions into the orc lands, inhabited by the orcs. - Beyond the orc territory lies a far more dangerous area where barbarians dwell. - Traveling even farther east, the forest becomes completely perilous and is known as the Forest of Monsters. - It is from this dreaded forest that the Demon King has emerged. The Human Kingdom¡¯s Internal Structure https://imgur.com/a/kOZwkBB The human kingdom is ruled by a king, who is supported by key figures: 1. Duke Driesell: The strongest warrior in the kingdom. 2. Marquis Ebran: The royal advisor and chief strategist. 3. Marquis Hector: Known as the ¡°Wall of the North¡± for his role in defending against barbarian and monster invasions. Other notable figures include: - The Commander of the Royal Knights. - The Master of the Mage Tower. - The Pope of the Holy Temple. Territories of the Kingdom The kingdom is divided into several territories, each with specific roles: 1. Border Counties These territories are the first line of defense against the Forest of Monsters. Each border county is governed by a Count. 2. Secondary Fortresses Positioned behind the border counties, these territories have dual purposes: - Fighting off enemies and monsters. - Protecting vital trading hubs and mining territories. 3. Mining Territories These regions supply the kingdom with ores, metals, and other valuable resources critical for the economy and warfare. 4. Trading Hubs These are the lifelines of the kingdom, facilitating trade among various regions. They also provide vital support to both the border counties and the northern territories, ensuring a steady flow of resources. Each trading hub is equipped with warp portals, enabling quick transportation. Warp Portals Warp portals are a crucial part of the kingdom¡¯s logistics, but their efficiency depends on two factors: - Distance: The farther the destination, the fewer people the portal can transport at a time. - Capacity: Shorter distances allow for larger groups to travel. I hope this explanation helps you better understand the world and context of [Advent of the Demon King]. If you have any questions or want further details about anything, feel free to ask in the comments¡ªI¡¯d love to hear from you! Thank you for reading and supporting the story! Chapter 19 As soon as the Demon King left, the tension in the room still lingered like a heavy fog. The ministers, though visibly shaken, forced themselves to refocus. King Serom broke the silence with authority in his voice, though it carried the undercurrent of unease. "Quickly gather information about the three territories he mentioned¡ªLyshar, Kreyas, and Kaelor," he commanded. The room stirred with renewed urgency as one of the ministers hastily bowed and left to carry out the king¡¯s orders. Lyshar was a crucial secondary fortress, a shield for the kingdom¡¯s inner territories. Kreyas, another secondary fortress, was a vital supply route to the northern regions. And Kaelor, nestled in the mountain ranges, was a mining territory rich in ores and minerals that fueled the kingdom¡¯s economy and weaponry. Losing any of these territories would be disastrous. The king turned toward Duke Driesell, the tension in his voice barely masked. "Duke Driesell, what do you think about him?" The duke¡¯s stern face showed no trace of fear, only a calculated seriousness. "He¡¯s far stronger than I anticipated, your Majesty. I believe I can defeat him in a direct fight, but the cost would be severe. He could easily inflict catastrophic damage before I manage to bring him down." Driesell¡¯s gaze darkened as he recalled the Demon King¡¯s unholy regeneration. His earlier had thought to confront the Demon King. But watching his regeneration capabilities. He stopped as he knew even if he defeats him. He would be able to hurt others even the king, in the process. "I see," the king muttered, his hand gripping the edge of the table as though steadying himself. "We must tread carefully." Moments later, the minister who had been sent to gather information returned. His hurried steps and pale face betrayed the gravity of the news he bore. "What did you learn?" the king asked, his voice sharp. "Your Majesty," the minister began, his voice trembling, "Lyshar is under attack by a horde of monsters, led by a towering lizardman." If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. A murmur of dismay rippled through the room. Malane, a fortress designed to hold against monster incursions, was faltering. "And Kreyas?" the king pressed. The minister¡¯s face grew even more grave. "The situation in Kreyas is¡­ unusual. Internal chaos has erupted. The citizens are rebelling, attacking soldiers and nobles alike. It seems the Demon King has sown discord among the populace." Gasps filled the room. The idea of citizens turning on their protectors was unthinkable, yet here it was¡ªproof of the Demon King¡¯s sinister influence. "And Kaelor?" The minister hesitated, his lips quivering before he forced the words out. "Your Majesty¡­ Kaelor is already destroyed." The room fell silent, as if the very air had been stolen away. "What?" King Serom¡¯s voice broke, disbelief and shock evident in his tone. "The mining facilities have been razed to the ground, and the few survivors report that the Demon King¡¯s forces swept through like a storm. Nothing remains," the minister said, his eyes lowered. The king slumped back into his chair, his hand running through his hair as he tried to process the staggering speed and devastation of the Demon King¡¯s campaign. "How¡­ how could this happen so quickly?" he muttered to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. The room was heavy with despair. The realization was dawning on everyone present: the Demon King wasn¡¯t merely attacking territories¡ªhe was dismantling the kingdom, piece by piece, with a chilling precision that none of them had anticipated. Duke Driesell clenched his fists, his voice cutting through the silence. "Your Majesty, we must act immediately. If we allow this chaos to continue, the kingdom will crumble before we even have a chance to strike back." The king straightened, his gaze hardening despite the heavy weight of the grim news. His resolve shone through the despair etched on the faces around him. "Yes, you''re right," he said, his voice firm but carrying a hint of urgency. "Send word to our neighboring kingdoms. Inform them of the threat and ask for their assistance. Offer them anything they require¡ªaid, alliances, even trade concessions. No price is too high for their support." The ministers nodded, their expressions a mix of determination and unease. "Yes, Your Majesty!" they chorused before dispersing to carry out his command. The king then turned his focus to the towering figure of Duke Driesell. "Duke, begin preparations immediately. Norvik must be protected at all costs." Driesell bowed slightly, his voice resolute. "As you command, Your Majesty." But before the room could move further into action, Marquis Ebran stepped forward, his brows furrowed with concern. "Your Majesty¡ª" The king¡¯s gaze flicked to him, his patience thin. "What is it now, Ebran?" "We cannot ignore the rebels, Your Majesty!" Ebran said, his tone urgent. The king exhaled sharply, his hand rising to his temple. "Haa!" he sighed, the frustration palpable in the air. The once-mighty kingdom, feared and respected by all, was now besieged by internal and external threats. The rebels had grown bold, taking advantage of the chaos, and now the Demon King loomed as an even greater danger. "Damn it," the king muttered under his breath. His gaze swept across the room, meeting the eyes of his most trusted men. "The Demon King is our most immediate threat. We can¡¯t delay addressing him any longer." One of them said. Duke Driesell nodded in agreement. "He¡¯s right. If we waste time, Norvik will fall, and the kingdom will be exposed." Marquis Ebran, ever the cautious strategist, stepped forward again. "I understand, Your Majesty, but please¡ªjust one more time¡ªhear my plan. If we act now, we might stop the Demon King before he reaches Eslyn." The king pinched the bridge of his nose, the weight of leadership bearing down on him. "Fine, Ebran. Speak. I¡¯ll decide after hearing you out." Marquis Ebran approached the map laid out on the table, his finger tracing the routes. "After attacking Norvik, the Demon King will likely move toward Eslyn next. From there, he¡¯ll advance to Orvel and, finally, to Conrad itself." The room fell silent as everyone¡¯s eyes followed his finger across the map, the path of destruction he outlined sinking into their minds. Ebran continued, his voice calm but intense. "Between Norvik and Eslyn lies a dense forest route. The Demon King¡¯s forces will likely be exhausted after the attack on Norvik. If we can station reinforcements from our allied kingdoms to intercept him from the front while the royal knights strike from behind, we might have a chance to trap him there." "And if we fail?" Duke Driesell¡¯s voice cut through the room like a blade, his sharp gaze fixed on the marquis. Ebran didn¡¯t falter. "If we fail, you¡¯ll already be stationed at Eslyn, Duke. It¡¯s not only strategically vital but also home to the Holy Temple. Their divine powers and blessings will give us a significant advantage. Eslyn must be fortified as our last line of defense." The duke frowned, his fingers tapping against the hilt of his sword. Finally, after a long pause, he nodded. "Fine. I¡¯ll follow your plan one more time, but if this fails, the consequences will be dire." Ebran gave a slight bow. "I understand, Duke, and I will take full responsibility should it come to that." The king, watching the exchange, finally spoke, his voice cutting through the tension. "Good. It¡¯s decided, then. We act as Marquis Ebran has outlined. Prepare immediately. Every moment we waste brings us closer to disaster." The room buzzed with activity as the ministers and commanders hurried to their tasks, the weight of the kingdom¡¯s survival pressing down on them all. As the door closed behind the last of them, the king sank back into his chair, staring at the map before him. Chapter 20 The Lyshar territory stood as one of the kingdom''s proud secondary fortresses, a bulwark against invading threats. It was well-manned, its walls reinforced, and its soldiers battle-hardened. The Count of Lyshar, a fierce and fearless warrior known for his unyielding nature, took great pride in his forces. When word came of Movok¡¯s approach, the Count did not hesitate. Retreat or defensive tactics were not in his nature. "We will face them head-on!" he bellowed, rallying his troops with fiery determination. "Let them taste the steel of Lyshar!" Movok, the towering lizardman general, marched toward the fortress with an army of terrifying diversity¡ªgnolls with their bloodthirsty grins, goblins wielding crude but deadly weapons, and other lizardmen clad in makeshift armor. The sight of their disciplined march and guttural roars was enough to unnerve even seasoned soldiers, but the Count¡¯s men stood firm, trusting in their leader¡¯s unwavering confidence. As the battle began, the air was thick with the clash of steel and the guttural cries of combatants. Arrows rained down from the walls of Lyshar, finding their marks in the ranks of Movok¡¯s army. Goblins fell in clusters, their high-pitched shrieks piercing the chaos. Yet, the enemy pressed on, undeterred. Movok himself led the charge, a behemoth of muscle and scales wielding a massive greatsword that seemed to cleave the air itself. The Count, mounted on his warhorse, shouted commands as his soldiers surged forward to meet the oncoming horde. The clash was brutal. Soldiers from Lyshar swung their swords, axes, and spears with all their might, cutting down goblins and gnolls, but for every enemy they felled, two more seemed to take their place. Blood splattered the ground, the metallic tang of it filling the air. Movok was a force of nature. With each swing of his greatsword, he cleaved through multiple soldiers, their screams cutting short as they crumpled to the ground. Arrows and spears aimed at him glanced off his scaled hide, his roars shaking the resolve of even the bravest warriors. The Count charged directly at Movok, his lance aimed at the lizardman¡¯s chest. The blow struck true, the tip piercing Movok¡¯s armor, but the beast barely flinched. With a guttural growl, Movok grabbed the lance, snapping it like a twig, and swung his sword in a wide arc. The Count¡¯s horse reared, its cries of pain mingling with the shouts of the dying. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. Meanwhile, the gnolls wreaked havoc in the melee, their feral grins never fading as they tore through soldiers with their claws and jagged weapons. The goblins, though smaller and weaker, overwhelmed the flanks with sheer numbers, swarming the soldiers like a tide of death. The gates of Lyshar became a scene of desperate last stands as lizardmen scaled them with clawed hands, dragging defenders into bloody brawls. Soldiers who had trained for years fell like wheat before the scythe, their cries swallowed by the chaos. By the time the battle reached its climax, the ground was slick with blood and littered with bodies. The once-proud soldiers of Lyshar were broken, their lines shattered, their spirit crushed. The Count, bloodied but unbroken, faced Movok one last time. "You¡¯ll pay for this, beast," he snarled, gripping a fallen soldier¡¯s sword. Movok tilted his head, a cruel grin splitting his reptilian features. The duel was short and brutal. Movok¡¯s strength was overwhelming. The Count managed a few fierce strikes, but Movok¡¯s counterattacks were devastating. With one final swing, Movok¡¯s greatsword severed the Count¡¯s head, his lifeless body collapsing to the blood-soaked earth. The soldiers of Lyshar who survived dropped their weapons, their will to fight extinguished. Movok roared in triumph, lifting the Count¡¯s severed head high for all to see. His army echoed his roar, a cacophony of victory and terror. The fortress of Lyshar was razed to the ground. Flames consumed the wooden structures, and the stone walls crumbled under the force of Movok¡¯s army. The once-thriving territory was reduced to ash and rubble, a grim testament to the Demon King¡¯s growing power. ----- The territory of Kreyas, one of the kingdom¡¯s proud secondary fortresses, stood tall with its formidable walls. Renowned for their thickness and height, these defenses had withstood countless sieges. Unlike Lyshar, the Count of Kreyas chose a different approach when news of the Demon King¡¯s forces reached them. "Hold the gates and stay within the walls. Reinforcements will arrive soon," the Count commanded. His voice carried confidence, and his soldiers trusted the strategy. Behind the towering walls, they believed themselves untouchable. For days, the walls held firm. Movok¡¯s monstrous horde bypassed Kreyas, leaving the territory seemingly untouched. However, the real danger didn¡¯t come from the outside¡ªit came from within. A few days before, strange occurrences began to unsettle the citizens of Kreyas. It started with whispers¡ªfaint voices no one could locate. Shadows moved where none should, and fleeting glimpses of figures haunted the periphery of vision. Then came the melody. A haunting flute played faintly in the night, its tune soft but chilling. Citizens reported hearing it in their dreams, and soon it bled into their waking hours. The melody was enchanting yet oppressive, creeping into their minds like a disease. At first, the illusions were dismissed as paranoia, but the symptoms spread like wildfire. Entire families claimed to see horrors: their loved ones turning into monsters, the walls crumbling to reveal endless darkness, and unseen entities clawing at their doors. Panic set in. Citizens barricaded themselves in their homes, clutching makeshift weapons. Then, the voices began. "Kill them," they whispered, "save yourself." Chaos erupted. The citizens turned on one another, believing themselves cursed. They saw enemies in every face, monsters in every shadow. The soldiers of Kreyas, sworn to protect their people, were thrust into an impossible situation. "Stand down! Cease this madness!" the Count bellowed as his men tried to quell the riots. But the citizens were relentless, their eyes glazed with madness, their movements erratic and violent. The soldiers hesitated, unwilling to harm those they had sworn to protect. "They¡¯re just frightened," one soldier muttered, only to be stabbed by a frantic citizen moments later. The fortress devolved into chaos. Soldiers subdued rioters where they could, but every skirmish left them more battered and exhausted. The once-unified defenders of Kreyas were now fractured and weary. Then came the final blow. In the dead of night, a sudden gust of wind blew through the fortress, extinguishing torches and plunging the territory into darkness. The gates, thought to be impenetrable, creaked open. A lone figure stepped through¡ªTores, the Demon King¡¯s general, cloaked in shadow. His bony fingers clutched a wooden flute, the source of the cursed melody. His pale, hollow eyes swept over the chaos with satisfaction. Without a word, Tores lifted the flute to his lips and began to play. The melody was sharper this time, more menacing, carrying a malevolent energy that seeped into the air like poison. The citizens, already on the brink of insanity, succumbed entirely. Their screams filled the fortress as they turned into frenzied attackers, clawing and biting at the soldiers. "Hold the line!" the Count cried, but it was futile. His men, injured and exhausted, could barely defend themselves. They fell one by one, overwhelmed by the sheer numbers and the madness infecting their own people. Tores walked calmly through the carnage, the melody guiding the chaos like a conductor leading an orchestra of despair. Blood stained the stone streets, and the air was thick with cries of agony and despair. The Count, refusing to abandon his post, confronted Tores. "You won¡¯t take Kreyas without a fight!" he roared, brandishing his sword. Tores paused, lowering his flute. He regarded the Count with a cold smile. The Count lunged, but before his blade could reach its mark, Tores raised a hand. Vines erupted from the ground, sending the Count crashing into the stone wall. The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was the flute in Tores¡¯ hand, still dripping with malice. By dawn, Kreyas was no more. Its proud walls stood unbreached, but inside, the fortress was a graveyard. Bodies littered the streets, and the survivors¡ªcitizens and soldiers alike¡ªwere nothing more than hollow shells, their minds lost to the cursed melody. Tores stood atop the fortress¡¯s central tower, his flute silent for now. The setting sun painted the ruins in hues of red and orange, a grim reminder of the destruction wrought not by brute force, but by the insidious power of dark magic. Kreyas had fallen, not to an army, but to madness itself. Chapter 21 The territory of Kaelor, nestled in the heart of the mountain ranges, was the lifeblood of the kingdom¡¯s resource supply. Rich with minerals and ores, its mines fed the forges of blacksmiths, the trades of merchants, and the defenses of soldiers. Yet, this crucial territory was not built for war. Its army, though skilled, was scattered across the treacherous routes guarding the mines and ensuring smooth transportation of goods. Korran, the third general of the Demon King, saw Kaelor not as a challenge but as an opportunity. Unlike the brute force of Movok or the insidious magic of Tores, Korran was a predator who hunted with patience and precision. A tigerkin by birth, his dual forms were a testament to his versatility. As a humanoid, he moved like a shadow, quick and silent. In his tiger form, he was raw power¡ªan unstoppable beast who could tear through walls and soldiers alike. But it was Korran¡¯s mind that made him truly dangerous. He was a strategist, the kind who relished dismantling his prey piece by piece before delivering the killing blow. Months before his attack, Korran began weaving his web of destruction. Under the cover of darkness, he infiltrated Kaelor, placing spies among the miners and merchants. These spies fed him a steady stream of intelligence: the location of soldiers¡¯ camps, the timing of supply routes, and even the weaknesses of the territory¡¯s leadership. When the time was right, Korran made his move. The first blow was subtle but devastating. Korran''s forces, using the knowledge gleaned by his spies, severed the supply routes leading to and from Kaelor. Roads were destroyed, bridges sabotaged, and messengers intercepted. The once-bustling routes became silent, cutting off the territory from reinforcements and supplies. "Why haven¡¯t the reinforcements arrived yet?" Count Halvern, the leader of Kaelor, demanded as he paced the war room. His advisors exchanged nervous glances, unable to provide answers. Unbeknownst to them, Korran''s forces had already begun their second phase. One by one, the scattered camps of Donin¡¯s soldiers fell. Korran struck under the cover of night, his forces swift and coordinated. At one camp, soldiers sat around a dwindling fire, sharing stories to ward off the chill of the mountain air. The stillness was broken by the faint rustle of leaves. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. "Who''s there?" one soldier called out, his voice tense. Before he could react, a figure emerged from the shadows. In his humanoid form, Korran moved with lethal grace, dispatching the soldier with a single strike. His beastmen warriors followed, their claws and fangs gleaming in the moonlight. The camp descended into chaos, but it was over almost as quickly as it began. Similar scenes played out across the territory. Soldiers, already spread thin, stood no chance against Korran''s calculated attacks. By the time the sun rose, the camps were deserted, the soldiers either dead or scattered. With Kaelor isolated and defenseless, Korran unleashed the full might of his forces on the central territory. The miners, engineers, and remaining soldiers scrambled to mount a defense, but it was futile. Korran led the charge in his tiger form, a monstrous figure with muscles rippling under striped fur. He tore through barricades with ease, his roar echoing through the mountains and striking terror into the hearts of his enemies. Count Halvern stood atop the main hall, his sword drawn. "We will not yield to monsters!" he shouted, rallying the remaining defenders. Korran leaped onto the roof in a single bound, landing mere feet away from the Count. He transformed back into his humanoid form, his golden eyes gleaming with a predator''s focus. "Your bravery is laughable," Korran said, his voice low and mocking. The Count lunged, his blade aimed at Korran''s heart. But the tigerkin sidestepped with ease, his movements a blur. With a single swipe of his clawed hand, he disarmed the Count, sending the sword clattering to the ground. "This is the end for you," Korran growled. He struck with his claws, and the Count fell, his body crumpling lifelessly to the stone floor. As the central hall burned, Korran stood amidst the destruction, his forces cheering their victory. The mines that once provided prosperity to the kingdom now lay in ruins, their entrances collapsed and their workers either dead or captured. He transformed back into his tiger form, his silhouette illuminated by the flames, and let out a triumphant roar. The sound echoed through the mountains, a chilling declaration that Kaelor had fallen¡ªand the kingdom was next. ------ In the heart of the forest, where the dense canopy filtered the sunlight into scattered shards of golden light, the Demon King stood tall, an imposing figure that radiated power and menace. The air around him seemed heavier, charged with an unnatural energy that made even the bravest of creatures steer clear of his presence. Before him knelt his three generals¡ªMovok, the towering lizardman with scars etched across his scales like battle trophies; Korran, the cunning tigerkin whose sharp eyes gleamed with intelligence and malice; and Tores, the voodooist whose dark aura seemed to pulse like a living shadow. ¡°Rise,¡± the Demon King commanded, his voice deep and resonant, carrying an authority that could not be denied. The generals stood, their gazes fixed on their master, awaiting his words. ¡°How did your missions go?¡± he asked, his tone calm but laced with an undertone that promised retribution for failure. Movok was the first to speak, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. ¡°It was a success, my lord. Lyshar has fallen, its soldiers crushed beneath our might.¡± Korran followed, his words smooth and precise. ¡°The mining territory of Kaelor lies in ruin, my lord. Its defenses were dismantled piece by piece, and its lifeblood now runs dry.¡± Tores merely nodded, his eerie silence speaking volumes of the chaos he had sown in Kreyas. ¡°Good,¡± the Demon King said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His satisfaction was palpable, yet his gaze remained cold and calculating. He turned his crimson eyes toward Korran. ¡°Korran, what of the humans? What are their plans?¡± Korran bowed his head slightly before replying, ¡°My lord, they have reached out to the other kingdoms for aid. Reinforcements are being summoned.¡± The Demon King tilted his head, his expression unreadable. ¡°Is that so?¡± he mused, his voice low, almost contemplative. ¡°Yes, my lord,¡± Korran continued, his tone steady. ¡°They plan to attack us when they believe we are weakened from the assault on Norvik.¡± The Demon King¡¯s gaze sharpened, his lips curling into a smirk. ¡°Fools. And what is your suggestion, Korran? You always have a plan.¡± Korran stepped forward, unfurling a map from his satchel and laying it on a nearby rock. ¡°Indeed, my lord. The kingdoms of the dwarves, elves, and orcs have agreed to join the battle. Their forces will strike from the front while the royal knights attack from behind.¡± He pointed to the map, his claws tracing the routes. ¡°Our goal is not to defeat them outright but to delay them, ensuring they cannot disrupt your conquest of Norvik.¡± Movok crossed his arms, his scaled muscles flexing. ¡°And how do you propose we do that?¡± Korran¡¯s voice took on a predatory edge. ¡°Movok, you will handle the orcs. Meet their brute strength with your own. Your only task is to keep them engaged, to keep them from advancing.¡± Movok¡¯s lips split into a feral grin. ¡°Consider it done. I¡¯ll keep those beasts occupied.¡± Korran¡¯s gaze shifted to Tores. ¡°Tores, the elves are yours. Use your magic to stop them.¡± Tores nodded, his dark eyes glinting with unspoken delight at the prospect. ¡°As for the dwarves,¡± Korran continued, ¡°I will face them myself. I will ensure they cannot aid the humans.¡± He paused, then added with a sly smile, ¡°The royal knights will be stalled by the rebels. They are already under my control, my lord.¡± The Demon King¡¯s gaze narrowed. ¡°You are certain the rebels will act?¡± Korran¡¯s confidence did not waver. ¡°Yes, my lord. Their anger and desperation are my tools. They will do as I command, whether they realize it or not.¡± The Demon King considered the plan, his crimson eyes scanning the map before returning to Korran. ¡°Very well. Your strategy is sound. This will buy us the time we need to destroy Norvik and advance further.¡± He straightened, his voice carrying the weight of finality. The three generals bowed deeply, their loyalty and determination etched into their every movement. As they turned and disappeared into the forest, the Demon King remained, his figure casting a long shadow over the ground. ¡°Soon, everything will be over,¡± he murmured, the words a promise of the chaos yet to come. Chapter 22 [Norvik Territory] Nestled at the crossroads of vital trade routes, Norvik stood as one of the kingdom¡¯s most critical hubs. Its bustling markets supplied not only the nearby border counties but also the entire northern region. Losing Norvik would be catastrophic, not just for the surrounding areas but for the kingdom itself. The road to Eslyn¡ªthe heart of faith and strength¡ªran through Norvik. If Norvik fell, Eslyn and eventually the entire kingdom would follow. Understanding its importance, Norvik was fortified like no other trading hub. Its walls stood tall, a testament to years of careful planning and strategic development. Merchants and mercenaries filled its streets daily, their presence a constant reminder of the city¡¯s economic and military vitality. Yet, beneath the surface, an uneasy tension gripped the territory as the shadow of the Demon King loomed closer. The fate of Norvik rested in the hands of Count George, a man unlike most noble rulers. Where others governed from the safety of their manors, George was a warrior first and a noble second. He had earned his position not through lineage but through blood and valor. Once a mere mercenary, his skill and countless victories on the battlefield had elevated him to a baron, and later, a count. Unlike many nobles who avoided the frontlines, George thrived there. His hands were calloused from years of wielding a blade, his movements honed by countless battles. His mastery of the sword rivaled that of the kingdom''s elite knights¡ªwarriors who wielded the mysterious power of aura, a force so rare that only the royal knights boasted its consistent use. When news reached him that Norvik was the Demon King¡¯s next target and of the kingdom¡¯s plan to ambush the demon¡¯s forces, George¡¯s response was resolute. Even knowing the slim chance of survival, he did not waver. George wasted no time assembling his forces. His army was composed mainly of soldiers and cavalrymen, disciplined and loyal. But Norvik''s strength lay not only in its formal troops. The city¡¯s status as a mercenary haven brought a wave of experienced fighters eager to defend the territory. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Among the mercenaries were legends¡ªfighters whose names were whispered with reverence. Battle-hardened veterans and fearless adventurers flocked to Norvik¡¯s banner, their weapons ready to clash with the forces of darkness. The mage tower sent its envoys as well, their robes shimmering with enchantments as they prepared spells capable of devastating hordes of enemies. Beside them stood priests from the holy church, their chants filling the air with a sense of calm amidst the growing chaos. They carried relics imbued with divine power, ready to heal the wounded and smite the unholy. The gathered forces filled Norvik¡¯s streets and training grounds, a vibrant yet tense mix of determination and dread. Every clang of a hammer on steel, every shouted command, and every prayer uttered added to the growing anticipation. Count George stood at the heart of this storm, his presence steadying those around him. He knew the stakes. If Norvik fell, it wouldn¡¯t just be a loss of land¡ªit would be the kingdom¡¯s death knell. Looking out at his assembled forces, he saw not just soldiers and mercenaries but the faces of those who had chosen to stand against the tide of darkness. They were young and old, seasoned warriors and fresh recruits, all united by a singular purpose: to protect Norvik at all costs. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the fortified walls, George addressed his army. His voice, rough from years of barking commands on the battlefield, carried with it a solemn weight. "I will not lie to you all. Tonight might be our last night. The Demon King is coming here to attack us, to take away everything dear from us. This battle will be unlike any other. But if we fall, we fall knowing we gave everything to protect our home, our people, and our kingdom." His words rippled through the crowd, igniting a fire in their hearts. And so, they waited. Soldiers sharpened their blades, mages chanted spells into the night, and priests prayed for divine protection. The tension in the air was suffocating, broken only by the distant cry of a hawk or the occasional clatter of armor. As the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, a chilling silence fell over Norvik. Far in the distance, the faint rumble of approaching forces began to echo. The Demon King was coming. And with him, the fate of Norvik would be decided. ---- The Demon King stood atop a hill overlooking Norvik, his crimson eyes glowing faintly in the pale morning light. The fortress lay ahead, nestled amid the bustling territory. Compared to Feria and Creta, the walls of Norvik appeared less formidable¡ªno towering stone barriers or imposing gates. Yet, his sharp gaze caught the faint shimmer of defensive enchantments woven into the air. Artifacts, magic, and strategy fortified this place, compensating for the lack of imposing structures. "So, this is Norvik?" he muttered, his voice a low growl that carried an edge of intrigue. The walls teemed with archers and mages, their weapons gleaming in the sunlight. Though no soldiers could be seen on the ground, the Demon King knew better than to underestimate their defenses. "Are you all ready?" he asked, his gaze shifting to his generals. "Yes, my lord," Movok, Korran, and Tores replied in unison, their tones brimming with anticipation. "Good." He turned to Tores. "Summon the army." Tores stepped forward, his skeletal hands weaving intricate gestures as he began a guttural chant. Mana surged around him, crackling like static in the tense air. The ground trembled, and glowing mana circles flared to life beneath the earth, their shapes pulsating with an eerie light. From the circles, twisted forms began to emerge. First, bony fingers clawed their way to the surface, followed by grotesque faces with jagged teeth and glowing yellow eyes. Goblins of varying sizes crawled out, their green skin slick with the dampness of magic. They carried crude weapons¡ªrusty blades, splintered clubs, and jagged spears. From the larger circles, hulking gnolls rose. These hyena-like creatures stood taller than men, their armored forms bristling with savagery. Their snarls echoed as they gripped heavy weapons: spiked maces, great axes, and war hammers. Among them, lizardmen slithered forward, their scales gleaming like polished emeralds. Armed with halberds and swords, their disciplined movements contrasted starkly with the wild gnolls and goblins. Finally, beastmen emerged¡ªwolfkin, bearkin, tigerkin and others¨Ceach exuding primal strength and ferocity. They carried ornate weapons, a testament to their elevated status among the army. The land quaked under the weight of the assembled horde, their snarls, growls, and guttural cries forming a chilling symphony of destruction. The Demon King surveyed his army with satisfaction. "All of you, move forward," he commanded, his voice resonating like a thunderclap. The horde roared in unison, a deafening cry that sent birds scattering from the trees. Like a tidal wave of chaos, they began their march, their footsteps shaking the earth. As planned, the generals diverged to execute their respective roles. Movok led his lizardmen to forest, their scaled bodies blending with the forested terrain. Korran, accompanied by the beastmen, took the western path, his sharp mind calculating every move. Tores, true to his sinister nature, moved alone, his flute tucked away, ready to unleash his dark magic at the opportune moment. The Demon King remained at the center, his crimson cloak billowing behind him as he strode with his army toward Norvik''s walls. His towering presence exuded an aura of malice and invincibility, a harbinger of doom advancing relentlessly. Chapter 23 The Demon King and his army emerged from the dense treeline, stepping onto the wide, open field before Norvik¡¯s imposing gates. The earth trembled under the march of gnolls and goblins, their guttural growls and bloodthirsty cries filling the air. As they drew closer, the massive gates of Norvik creaked open. From within, a disciplined force marched forth, gleaming under the afternoon sun. Soldiers clad in polished armor carried weapons of steel and iron, their presence exuding confidence. Among them were mercenaries¡ªrugged, battle-hardened warriors who bore scars of countless fights. At the head of the formation was Count George, an imposing figure encased in a resplendent silver full-body armor. His sapphire cape billowed behind him, and in his hands was a long, ornate spear. He radiated authority, his sharp gaze sweeping over the enemy forces. Despite the numbers before him, his expression remained resolute. For a moment, silence hung heavy in the air as both sides stared each other down. The Demon King raised a single hand, his crimson eyes narrowing. "Charge forth!" His voice cut through the silence like a blade, a command that rippled through the monstrous ranks. With a deafening roar, the goblins surged forward, their crude weapons glinting in the sunlight. Behind them, gnolls lumbered forward, their snarls shaking the air. Count George raised his spear, pointing it toward the charging horde. "Hold your formation! For Kingdom, charge!" The soldiers roared their battle cry, their voices merging into a single, defiant sound. With shields raised and swords drawn, they surged forward to meet the oncoming wave. The two forces collided in the middle of the field, the impact echoing like a thunderclap. The frontlines were a chaotic maelstrom of clashing steel and blood. Goblins swarmed the soldiers, their jagged blades clanging uselessly against the polished armor. The soldiers counterattacked, their weapons slicing through green flesh with precision. Heads rolled, and goblin blood splattered across the battlefield. Despite their crude armaments, the goblins¡¯ sheer numbers made them dangerous. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. They swarmed like ants, clinging to soldiers and stabbing at the weak points of their armor. A soldier screamed as a goblin¡¯s dagger found the gap between his chest plate and shoulder guard, the blade sinking deep. Yet, the mercenaries were undeterred. Experienced in dealing with such rabble, they worked in small groups, cutting through goblins with practiced efficiency. Their movements were precise, their strikes lethal. But the real threat came from the gnolls. Towering over the goblins, these hyena-like monsters were feral and relentless. They swung massive weapons¡ªspiked clubs, rusted axes, and heavy maces¡ªwith devastating power. A gnoll swung its club, shattering the shield of a soldier and sending him flying backward, his armor crumpling under the force. Another soldier managed to pierce a gnoll¡¯s side with his sword, but the beast snarled and yanked the weapon free, unfazed by the gushing wound. "They feel no pain!" one mercenary shouted, his voice tinged with desperation as he dodged a gnoll¡¯s wild swing. The soldiers fought valiantly, their swords and spears finding their marks, but the gnolls¡¯ sheer resilience was terrifying. Even when an arm was severed or a leg crushed, the gnolls continued their rampage, their bloodlust unwavering. For every goblin or gnoll they cut down, another two seemed to take its place. The endless wave of monsters wore down the soldiers¡¯ defenses, and cracks began to show in their formation. A mercenary stumbled, his sword arm trembling from exhaustion. A goblin leapt onto him, shrieking as it drove a jagged blade into his neck. The man¡¯s scream was cut short, his lifeless body falling to the ground. Count George, at the heart of the battle, fought tirelessly. His spear was a blur, piercing goblins and gnolls with precise thrusts. Blood coated his silver armor, but he remained steadfast, rallying his men with his presence. "Hold the line!" he roared, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Do not falter!" The soldiers responded with a renewed surge of determination, their weapons flashing as they pushed back the horde. From the safety of the fortress walls, archers and mages provided relentless support, their attacks raining death upon the monstrous horde below. Arrows darkened the sky, their tips gleaming as they descended into the mass of goblins and gnolls. Screeches and howls erupted as arrows found their marks, piercing through crude armor and gnarled flesh. Mages stood behind the archers, their hands aglow with arcane energy. Fireballs exploded in the midst of the monsters, engulfing them in flames, while bolts of lightning tore through multiple enemies, leaving only charred remains. Above the cacophony, priests stood at the ready, their voices rising in fervent prayer. Their divine magic surged across the battlefield, imbuing the soldiers with renewed vigor. Wounds knit together as healing light washed over the injured, while holy enchantments enhanced the strength and speed of the weary warriors. For a time, the defenders managed to hold the line, their combined efforts keeping the monstrous tide at bay. But the strain of the unending battle was beginning to show. The goblins and gnolls attacked without hesitation, their sheer numbers overwhelming. Every time a soldier cut one down, another two stepped over the corpse to take its place. Goblin champions¡ªhulking brutes wielding oversized weapons¡ªwere especially fearsome, their savage strikes capable of shattering shields and breaking bones. "Focus on the champions!" a captain shouted, his voice hoarse. A group of soldiers surrounded a goblin champion, their swords and spears striking in unison. But the beast fought with feral fury, swinging its massive club in wide arcs, scattering the attackers like leaves in a storm. Meanwhile, goblin shamans stood behind the horde, their chants weaving dark magic. Bolts of shadow and fire hurtled toward the walls, targeting the archers and mages. Battle gnolls, serving as their guards, deflected retaliatory arrows with their thick hides and makeshift shields. The battlefield became a nightmarish hellscape of blood and screams. Soldiers cried out in pain as claws and crude blades found their marks, their lifeblood soaking the ground. The goblins¡¯ high-pitched shrieks mingled with the gnolls¡¯ guttural growls, creating an unbearable cacophony. Above it all, the Demon King stood at a distance, his crimson eyes fixed on the chaos. He hadn¡¯t moved a single step since the battle began, his towering frame exuding an aura of quiet menace. His inaction was maddening to the defenders¡ªa silent mockery of their efforts. ¡°Why doesn¡¯t he move?¡± a soldier muttered, his voice trembling as he glanced toward the imposing figure. ¡°Don¡¯t think about him!¡± another snapped. ¡°Focus on what¡¯s in front of you!¡± Despite their best efforts, fatigue was taking its toll. The relentless onslaught of goblins and gnolls was pushing the soldiers to their limits. Even with the aid of the archers, mages, and priests, the human forces were beginning to falter. Just as despair began to creep into the defenders¡¯ hearts, a chilling stillness settled over the battlefield. The goblins and gnolls abruptly ceased their attacks, parting like a tide as their master began to move. The Demon King stepped forward, his massive figure cutting an imposing silhouette against the backdrop of carnage. His armor glinted ominously in the dimming light, and with each step, the ground seemed to tremble. ¡°He¡¯s coming¡­¡± a soldier whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his own heart. The defenders braced themselves, gripping their weapons tightly. Count George raised his spear, his voice ringing out with defiance. ¡°Do not waver! Stand your ground!¡± The soldiers rallied around him, forming a tight formation as they prepared to face the true terror of this invasion. The Demon King¡¯s steps were unhurried, almost casual, as if the countless lives lost meant nothing to him. His crimson gaze swept over the defenders, a cruel smile tugging at the corners of his lips. The air grew heavy with his presence, and for a moment, even the goblins and gnolls fell silent, their twisted faces lit with reverence and fear. The battlefield, once alive with the chaos of battle, now awaited the clash between mortal defiance and unholy might. Chapter 24 While the battle between the Norvik army and Demon King¡¯s army was going on. The generals of Demon King were approaching the forest as planned. Movok led his contingent of lizardmen deeper into the dense forest. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth, and the faint light filtering through the canopy barely illuminated their path. The lizardmen, with their scaly hides and sharp weapons, moved silently, their predatory instincts honed for this mission. They were here to halt the orcs, a war-loving species known for their ferocity in battle. As they ventured deeper, the faint sound of heavy footsteps reached their ears. Movok raised a clawed hand, signaling his group to stop. Then, from the shadows of the forest, they appeared. Large, muscular figures stepped into the clearing, their green skin glistening with sweat and their sharp tusks gleaming in the faint light. Each orc carried an imposing weapon¡ªmassive axes, heavy hammers, and greatswords¡ªresting easily in their massive hands. Their leather armor was crudely stitched together from the hides of beasts they had hunted. The orcs stopped, their eyes narrowing at the sight of Movok and his lizardmen. "So, you all are here," Movok said, his deep, gravelly voice breaking the tense silence. He folded his arms, his scaly lips curling into a grin. The orcs glanced at one another, confusion flickering in their expressions. "What are they doing here?" one of the orcs growled, gripping the handle of his hammer tightly. Despite their surprise, there was no fear in their stance. These were orcs¡ªcreatures bred for battle, who thrived on the thrill of combat. Each one looked ready to charge at a moment¡¯s notice. One orc, however, behaved differently. His dark green skin stood out among the others, and a jagged scar ran down the side of his face. One of his tusks was broken, giving him a slightly lopsided snarl. His green eyes locked onto Movok with a mixture of disbelief and rage. "You!" he roared, stepping forward. His voice boomed, filled with raw fury. "How are you still alive?" This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. Movok tilted his head, his grin widening as he examined the orc. "Boss! What''s wrong?" one of the orcs asked, glancing nervously at the larger figure. The dark-skinned orc didn¡¯t respond, his entire focus on Movok. His grip on his massive axe tightened until his knuckles turned white. Movok chuckled, a deep rumble that echoed through the clearing. "Do I know you?" he asked, his voice mockingly casual. "You should¡¯ve died that day!" the orc bellowed, his voice shaking with anger. "How are you here? How can you be alive?" Movok¡¯s eyes narrowed as the orc¡¯s words sparked a memory. A faint flicker of recognition crossed his face before his grin returned, sharper and more sinister. "Wait¡­ dark green skin¡­ broken tusk," Movok muttered, his clawed finger tapping against his chin. "Ah, yes. It¡¯s you, isn¡¯t it?" The orc¡¯s breathing quickened, his rage almost tangible. "What was your name again?" Movok continued, his tone dripping with mockery. "Umm¡­ Giren? Yes, that¡¯s it. Giren. How have you been?" Giren¡¯s fists clenched, his knuckles cracking audibly. The orcs behind him exchanged uneasy glances, sensing the tension radiating from their leader. Movok''s sharp yellow eyes gleamed as he took a step forward, his greatsword resting casually against his shoulder. His towering form seemed to grow even larger under the dim forest light, casting an imposing shadow over the battlefield. His grin was wide and mocking, his voice dripping with cruel amusement. "Look at you," Movok sneered, his deep, gravelly voice reverberating through the tense silence. "All grown up, leading an army. You must think you''re something now. But why waste lives? Since we know each other, why don¡¯t you and your army just retreat? Save yourself the humiliation." Giren, standing firm with his massive axe gripped tightly in both hands, glared at Movok with unyielding determination. His muscles tensed, the veins on his neck bulging as he resisted the overwhelming urge to charge immediately. "We won¡¯t retreat," Giren growled, his voice steady despite the anger simmering beneath. "And today, Movok, I¡¯ll make sure to kill you with my own hands." Movok tilted his head, his grin widening further. "Say that again," he said, his voice low and mocking. "I said," Giren growled, stepping forward, "I¡¯ll finish you today." His grip on the axe tightened, his knuckles turning white. For a moment, the forest seemed to hold its breath. Then, Movok threw his head back and laughed, a sinister sound that echoed through the trees. "Finish me?" Movok repeated, his voice dripping with derision. "Have you forgotten how your father died? How your tribesmen fell, one by one? Have you already forgotten the monster standing before you?" He slammed the tip of his greatsword into the ground with a resounding thud. The ground trembled slightly, and the sound echoed like a drumbeat of war. But Giren did not flinch. His resolve was unshakable. "Everyone, don¡¯t interfere!" Giren barked, his voice firm and commanding. The orcs hesitated for a moment, glancing at one another before stepping back, forming a loose circle around their leader. Their faces were grim, and their hands gripped their weapons tightly, but they respected Giren¡¯s order. Movok chuckled, raising his hand to signal his lizardmen. "Fine then. Don¡¯t interfere," he said. His troops immediately stepped back, forming their own circle, their reptilian eyes watching with cold precision. Movok stepped forward, his movements deliberate and predatory, closing the distance between him and Giren. The two combatants now stood face to face, a tense silence enveloping the battlefield. Movok¡¯s towering frame loomed over Giren, his scaly skin glinting faintly in the dim light. Though Movok was taller, Giren¡¯s muscular build made him appear equally formidable, a mountain of strength and fury. Without warning, Giren roared and swung his massive axe in a wide arc, aiming directly for Movok¡¯s torso. The blade whistled through the air with deadly intent. Movok shifted his stance, raising his greatsword to block. The weapons collided with a deafening clang, sparks flying as the force of the impact reverberated through the ground. Giren didn¡¯t relent. He followed up with a series of quick, powerful strikes, his axe a blur of motion. Each swing was precise, fueled by years of training. Movok parried each attack with calculated ease, his greatsword moving with surprising speed for its size. "You¡¯ve improved," Movok said, his voice calm and taunting. "But you¡¯re still not good enough." With a sudden surge of power, Movok pushed Giren back, their blades locking momentarily before Giren was forced to step away. Movok counterattacked with a horizontal slash, the sheer force of the swing cutting through a nearby tree trunk as Giren dodged just in time. The forest echoed with the sounds of their battle¡ªmetal clashing against metal, the crack of wood splintering, and the heavy thud of footsteps as the two warriors danced their deadly dance. Giren gritted his teeth, his muscles burning from the relentless assault. Each blow from Movok felt like a battering ram, testing the limits of his endurance. But he refused to back down. This wasn¡¯t just a fight; it was a reckoning. Movok smirked, deflecting another strike with ease. "Your are weak, just like your father," he spat. "He begged for mercy at the end. Will you do the same, Giren?" Fueled by rage, Giren let out a battle cry and charged forward, his axe glowing faintly with a fiery aura. He swung with all his might, the blade aimed directly at Movok¡¯s neck. But Movok sidestepped at the last moment, bringing his greatsword down in a punishing counterstrike. The ground beneath them cracked from the impact, and Giren barely managed to block in time. The force sent him skidding backward, his feet digging into the dirt to regain his balance. Around them, the orcs and lizardmen watched in tense silence, their faces grim as the duel unfolded. Each side silently willed their leader to emerge victorious, knowing the outcome would shape the course of the battle. Giren¡¯s breath came in heavy pants, but his grip on the axe remained firm. His eyes never left Movok, burning with a fire that refused to be extinguished. "You¡¯ll pay for everything you¡¯ve done," Giren said, his voice steady despite his exhaustion. Movok chuckled, his grin widening. "Come then," he said, raising his greatsword. "Show me the strength of your resolve." The two warriors charged at each other once more, their weapons clashing with a force that shook the very forest. Chapter 25 The battle between Giren and Movok raged on, the air thick with tension and the metallic scent of blood. Every strike, every movement carried the weight of vengeance and dominance. Giren, the orc leader, fought with unrelenting fury, his muscles straining as he swung his massive axe with all the strength his battle-worn body could muster. On the other hand, Movok, the hulking lizardman general, appeared calm and composed, almost as if the battle was a mere game to him. He dodged and deflected Giren''s strikes with calculated ease, a mocking grin never leaving his reptilian face. Giren let out a guttural roar and slashed downward, his axe glinting in the sunlight as it came down with deadly intent. But Movok caught the attack mid-air with his clawed hand, gripping Giren¡¯s wrist like a vice. Before Giren could react, Movok drove the hilt of his greatsword into Giren¡¯s other shoulder, sending a sharp jolt of pain through his body. Giren gritted his teeth, his legs trembling as he wrenched his arm free from Movok¡¯s grasp. Ignoring the pain, he attempted a swift kick aimed at Movok¡¯s side. The blow landed, but Movok barely moved, his towering frame absorbing the impact as if it were nothing more than a breeze. Giren charged again, his axe raised high. But before he could land his strike, Movok¡¯s sword intercepted the attack with a resounding clash of steel. With a twist of his wrist, Movok disarmed Giren, sending the axe flying from his hands and crashing to the ground. Giren¡¯s eyes widened in disbelief, but before he could retrieve his weapon, Movok casually tossed his own sword aside, the massive blade embedding itself into the dirt. "Let¡¯s finish this properly," Movok said, motioning for Giren to come at him with his clawed hand. Giren roared in defiance, his pride refusing to let him back down. He charged forward, his fists clenched tightly. He swung a powerful punch aimed at Movok¡¯s jaw, but the lizardman sidestepped with uncanny speed, his movements fluid and precise. Movok retaliated with a sharp jab to Giren¡¯s shoulder, targeting the same spot he had already weakened. Giren winced but didn¡¯t falter. He threw another punch, followed by a flurry of strikes, but Movok¡¯s sheer agility and experience allowed him to dodge and counter effortlessly. A low growl escaped Movok¡¯s throat as he delivered a crushing blow to Giren¡¯s legs, forcing the orc to stumble. He then attacked his waist immediately followed by shoulder again. Giren was unable to defend himself. The duel continued. Giren¡¯s movements grew sluggish, his fatigue evident in the way his punches became slower and less coordinated. Movok, on the other hand, remained relentless, each of his strikes precise and calculated. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. Eventually, Giren dropped to one knee, his breathing ragged and blood dripping from numerous wounds. Movok seized the opportunity, his clawed hand darting forward to grab Giren by the neck. He lifted the orc effortlessly, holding him aloft as Giren¡¯s legs dangled helplessly. Movok stared into Giren¡¯s defiant eyes, his grip tightening just enough to make his dominance clear. "Do you remember that day, Giren?" he said, his voice low and dripping with contempt. "The day I stood over your father¡¯s lifeless body? I took your tooth instead of your life because you weren¡¯t worth killing." Giren snarled, his hands clawing at Movok¡¯s arm in vain. "You... bastard," he choked out. Movok¡¯s grin widened, his sharp teeth glinting in the dim light of the forest. "And you¡¯re not worth killing now, either," he said, his tone mocking as he slowly loosened his grip, letting Giren collapse to the ground in a heap. "You¡¯re weak, Giren. Pathetic. But you have something I want." Movok leaned down, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "Your brother¡ªhe must be the king of your pathetic little kingdom by now. Go to him. Tell him about me. Tell him I¡¯ll be soon coming there to hunt him." Movok straightened, his imposing figure towering over the battered and bloodied Giren. Turning to the orcs who had been watching the fight in stunned silence, he barked his command. "Take your leader and get out of my sight. I¡¯ll let you live this time, but if any of you linger, I won¡¯t be so merciful." The orcs hesitated for only a moment before rushing forward to lift Giren¡¯s broken form. They carried him away, their retreat marked by their leader¡¯s labored breaths and the shame that hung heavily in the air. Movok watched them disappear into the forest, his golden eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He turned to his lizardmen, a triumphant grin spreading across his face. "We¡¯re done here," he declared, his voice booming. The lizardmen roared in response, their morale bolstered by their leader¡¯s dominance, as they followed Movok deeper into the forest. ---- The forest was alive with whispers of nature, a serene haven of tall, ancient trees and a soft canopy of light filtering through golden leaves. Among the gentle hum of birdsong and rustling leaves, a group of seven elves moved silently, their fair skin and golden hair blending seamlessly with their surroundings. Their long, pointed ears twitched at every sound, their sharp eyes scanning the dense underbrush as they leaped from branch to branch with effortless grace. These elves, were among the elites sent by the Elven Kingdom, carried an air of calm confidence. There were only seven because of the limitations of warp gates. They were the protectors of their people, gifted with natural agility and strength, blessed with the ability to communicate with nature and spirits. Yet, as they ventured deeper into the forest, the atmosphere changed. The light seemed dimmer, the air heavier, and the once-familiar sounds of the forest grew faint. Beneath a towering tree, in a small clearing, sat a figure in a lotus position. His face was hidden behind a bone-white mask, his body covered in tattoos. An eerie aura emanated from him, a sinister energy that made the elves pause. Tores, the general of the Demon King¡¯s army, sat in silence, his hands resting on his knees, a slender wooden flute resting in his lap as he muttered incantations under his breath. The elves, sensitive to the harmony of nature, felt the disturbance like a jarring dissonance in a familiar tune. Their leader, Lily, a tall elf with piercing green eyes, signaled to the group. Without hesitation, one elf drew her bow, the string taut as she aimed an arrow directly at the masked figure. The arrow soared through the air with a soft whistle, but before it could reach Tores, it struck an invisible barrier with a sharp clang, falling harmlessly to the ground. Tores remained motionless, his incantations uninterrupted, as if the attack hadn¡¯t even registered. Slowly, his hand reached for the flute, bringing it to his masked face. A haunting melody filled the air, its notes low and eerie, weaving a sinister symphony that seemed to resonate with the very ground beneath him. The elves stiffened; the music wasn¡¯t merely sound¡ªit carried an oppressive weight, as if the forest itself recoiled in discomfort. The elves exchanged wary glances. Another arrow was nocked, but this time, it glowed faintly with the energy of the spirits. The archer released it, and the enchanted arrow streaked toward Tores. When it struck the barrier, the shield around him shattered like glass, emitting a low hum as its protective energy dissipated. Tores slowly raised his head, his masked face tilting toward the canopy where the elves hid. The melody from the flute shifted, its notes sharper, more menacing. Though his features were obscured, they could feel his gaze, cold and calculating, piercing through the foliage. The ground around Tores began to tremble, and the air grew heavy with malevolent energy. The elves could feel it¡ªa dark, unnatural power surging from him, tainting the very essence of the forest. The haunting flute music grew louder, its notes rising and falling in an unnatural rhythm, as if commanding the forest to bend to his will. Thick, gnarled vines erupted from the ground, coiling protectively around Tores, their movements synchronized with the melody. The elves acted quickly, releasing a volley of arrows toward him. Yet the vines, swaying and twisting to the tune of the flute, intercepted the arrows with unnerving precision, splintering them mid-air. Adjusting their positions, the elves leaped to different branches to avoid being detected. But as Tores¡¯s incantation reached its climax, the ground split open, and more vines surged upward, lashing out violently. The elves moved with practiced precision, their natural agility allowing them to evade the lashing vines. One elf, a younger warrior, was caught mid-leap, the vines coiling around her legs and pulling her down. She let out a sharp cry, but with a flick of her wrist, her dagger¡ªimbued with the energy of the spirits¡ªsliced through the vines with ease. Another elf raised his hand, calling upon the spirits. A glowing green orb of energy formed in his palm, and with a swift motion, he hurled it toward the vines. The orb exploded on contact, burning through the dark magic and clearing a path. Tores, however, remained unfazed, his fingers dancing over the flute with an almost hypnotic grace. The vines responded to his music, twisting and turning with renewed vigor, striking with the precision of a predator. The forest itself seemed caught in a battle of wills. The elves, connected to nature through the spirits, channeled their energy to resist the corruption spreading through the ground. Tores, on the other hand, bent nature to his will, manipulating it with his dark magic. The vines pulsed with his power, their movements growing more erratic yet purposeful, as if the forest itself obeyed the sinister melody of his flute. Chapter 26 The forest resonated with the haunting melody of the flute, each eerie note weaving through the air like an ominous spell. The once-peaceful haven of golden leaves and soft whispers had become a battlefield, tainted by Tores¡¯s sinister power. The vines, summoned by his dark magic, lashed out toward the elves with relentless fury. Thick and gnarled, they twisted and writhed as though alive, their movements synchronized with the rising and falling notes of the flute. The elves moved with agility that seemed almost otherworldly. They leaped from branch to branch, their daggers slicing through the attacking vines in clean, precise movements. Their natural grace and speed allowed them to evade the vines'' attacks, but their relief was short-lived. The severed vines writhed on the forest floor, and before the elves could even process what was happening, they began to multiply. From each cut, new tendrils emerged, thicker and faster than before, now covered in sharp, gleaming thorns. One elf miscalculated a leap. The vines shot up and coiled tightly around his legs, yanking him to the ground. He let out a sharp cry as the thorns pierced his skin, drawing dark crimson blood. The vines snaked further up his body, their thorns digging deeper with every inch. His scream of agony echoed through the forest as his struggles weakened. ¡°Hold on!¡± cried another elf, her voice laced with urgency. She leaped gracefully from a nearby branch, her dagger glowing faintly with spirit energy. In a swift motion, she slashed through the vines holding her comrade. The wounded elf fell to the ground, his breaths ragged, as another elf knelt beside him, chanting softly. A warm green glow surrounded her hands as she used healing magic, the spirit¡¯s energy knitting the wounds shut. Though the immediate danger was averted, the look in their eyes revealed the growing realization¡ªthey were being overwhelmed. The vines were relentless, their numbers growing with every strike. The thorns glistened with blood, a chilling reminder of what awaited any mistake. The elves regrouped, retreating to the edges of the clearing, just outside the vines¡¯ range. Lily, stood at the forefront. Her golden hair shimmered even in the dim light, and her piercing green eyes glowed with determination. She clenched her bow tightly, her jaw set. She was no ordinary elf. She was a protector, a warrior whose connection to the spirits ran deep. Her calm demeanor concealed a fiery resolve, and she could feel the forest crying out under the weight of Tores¡¯s corruption. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. She glanced at her comrades. ¡°Stay back and cover me. This is more than just an attack¡ªhe¡¯s stalling us. We can¡¯t let him continue.¡± The elves nodded, their trust in her absolute. A soft green energy began to radiate from Lily¡¯s body, flowing through her bow as she nocked an arrow. The spirits answered her call, their power infusing the arrow with a faint glow. She aimed at Tores, who sat motionless, the flute resting against his masked lips. His melody hadn¡¯t faltered, its dark notes filling the air like a hymn of despair. She released the arrow, and it streaked through the air with a faint hum. A vine shot upward, intercepting the arrow just before it could reach Tores. The melody continued, unbroken. Lily narrowed her eyes. She reached for another arrow, firing it without hesitation. This one pierced through the first vine but was stopped by another. But Lily did not relent. She loosed arrow after arrow, each one striking true, breaking through layer upon layer of the defensive vines. The melody wavered as the vines struggled to keep up with her relentless assault. Finally, one arrow broke through. It soared past the writhing defenses and struck Tores in the abdomen. The melody of the flute faltered, a single sour note ringing out before silence fell over the clearing. Tores¡¯s head tilted slightly, his masked face turning toward the arrow embedded in his side. The dark, viscous liquid seeping from the wound dripped onto the forest floor, pooling like ink and staining the earth. For a fleeting moment, the forest seemed to hold its breath. The vines, which had lashed out in relentless fury moments before, fell still, their movements suspended as if bound by some unseen command. But then, a low, chilling muttering broke the fragile silence. It came from Tores, his voice cold and mechanical, reciting incantations in a tongue that felt alien to the elves. Each syllable dripped with malice, resonating through the corrupted forest like the toll of a death knell. Tores paid no mind to the arrow in his abdomen, his focus unbroken as his dark magic surged forth. Beneath him, the ground darkened and cracked, giving way to a blood-red circle etched with ancient runes. The circle pulsed faintly, glowing brighter with each drop of his blood that soaked into it, as though it were feeding on his very essence. Realizing the growing danger, the elves sprang into action. Arrows whistled through the air, their tips glowing faintly with the energy of the spirits. Each one aimed to disrupt Tores¡¯s spell before it could reach completion. But the vines reacted faster. They surged upward, coiling around Tores in a protective cocoon, forming a dense, writhing ball of thorn-covered tendrils. The arrows struck the vines, shattering them on impact, but for every vine they broke, another would emerge, thicker and more menacing. Inside the cocoon, Tores continued his chant, his voice blending with the faint hum of energy radiating from the runic circle. Then it began¡ªa haunting melody, low and sorrowful, rising from the depths of the forest. Tores¡¯s flute had returned to his lips, and with it came an unholy resonance. The notes were dark, twisted, each one more oppressive than the last. The vines uncoiled violently, lashing out like wild beasts. But the forest itself joined the attack. The ancient trees, once serene sentinels of the elves¡¯ homeland, now moved as if possessed. Branches creaked and groaned, twisting unnaturally, their sharp ends striking like spears. The lush greenery that had blanketed the forest with life began to wither. Flowers shriveled and turned to ash. The vibrant grass dulled, then blackened, crumbling into lifeless dust. It was as though nature itself had succumbed to Tores¡¯s sinister melody, its harmony twisted into a dance of death. An elf cried out as a thick branch swept through the air, narrowly missing her head. Another elf parried an oncoming vine with his dagger, the blade glowing with spirit energy as it cleaved the tendril in two. Yet for every attack repelled, two more followed, unrelenting in their assault. ¡°Hold together!¡± Lily shouted, her voice cutting through the chaos. ¡°Don¡¯t let them separate us!¡± The elves regrouped, their movements precise and unified. Each one guarded the other¡¯s back, forming a defensive circle. Their weapons, imbued with the energy of the spirits, glowed with faint green light as they slashed and parried the onslaught of branches and vines. A towering tree groaned as it bent unnaturally, its massive branches sweeping downward. One elf rolled out of the way just in time, the ground where he stood seconds before splintering beneath the force of the strike. Another elf raised her hands, chanting softly. A barrier of shimmering green light formed around the group, momentarily pushing back the encroaching vines. The spirits answered their call, granting them fleeting moments of reprieve amidst the relentless attacks. Lily, standing at the center of the group, surveyed the battlefield. Her sharp green eyes scanned the chaos, noting every movement, every weakness. Her gaze locked onto Tores, still seated within the glowing runic circle. His form remained motionless as he played, the melody controlling the corrupted forest like a master puppeteer. ¡°He can¡¯t move,¡± she murmured, her voice filled with a mix of revelation and urgency. ¡°The spell binds him in place. That¡¯s his weakness!¡± The other elves glanced at her, their expressions hopeful but cautious. They knew what she meant¡ªTores was powerful, but if they could endure this, he would tire. And then, he would be vulnerable. Renewed determination surged through them. They fought with everything they had, slashing at the attacking branches and vines, holding their ground despite the odds. Their connection to the spirits bolstered their stamina, their movements unwavering even as exhaustion began to set in. But then, as abruptly as it had begun, the melody of the flute stopped. The oppressive weight in the air lifted slightly, the vines retreating into the ground, and the trees fell still, their branches frozen in unnatural positions. The elves hesitated, their breaths ragged, their weapons still raised. All eyes turned to the center of the clearing where Tores had been seated. He was gone. A faint trail of blood marked the ground where he had sat, leading deeper into the forest. The runic circle still glowed faintly, its energy dissipating into the earth. Lily¡¯s hands tightened around her bow, her green eyes narrowing. ¡°He¡¯s retreating,¡± she said, her voice filled with quiet resolve. One of the elves exhaled sharply, collapsing to his knees. ¡°We survived,¡± he whispered, his voice filled with both relief and disbelief. But Lily didn¡¯t lower her bow. She stared into the darkness where Tores had disappeared, her heart heavy with unease. They were here to help humans in battle but they were stopped by a single being. This was no victory. She made the determination to defeat him next time. Chapter 27 At another corner of the forest, far from the elven skirmish with Tores, a band of dwarves trudged steadily through the greenery. Short in stature, with stout builds and long, braided beards, they moved with determination, their short legs carrying them at a steady pace. Each dwarf bore a heavy pack over their shoulders, filled with supplies and equipment crafted in their renowned forges. There were only ten of them¡ªfewer than they had hoped for¡ªbut just like elves, the limitations of the warp gates had forced their numbers to dwindle. Though others wished to join the battle, the dwarves understood the constraints of magic and logistics. Dwarves rarely ventured far from their mountain strongholds. Their lives were spent in the depths of mines, unearthing precious metals, or in their workshops, forging tools and weapons of unmatched craftsmanship. The outside world was distant to them, its affairs often deemed irrelevant to their proud, self-sufficient way of life. Yet, today was different. Today, they had come to assist the humans in their fight against the Demon King¡¯s forces. Their path was slow but purposeful, their endurance and strength born of years spent toiling in harsh conditions. Though they were few in number, they were far from weak. Their arms, thick with muscle, carried the weight of their hammers and axes with ease. The forest was quiet, save for the steady crunch of leaves and twigs beneath their boots. Then, without warning, a figure emerged from the shadows, stepping into their path with an unnerving grace. ¡°Ah, finally,¡± the figure said, his voice smooth yet laced with menace. ¡°I¡¯ve been looking for you.¡± The dwarves halted, their eyes narrowing as they studied the intruder. He was unlike anything they had encountered before. His body was covered in orange and black stripes, his feline features strikingly predatory. Sharp claws extended from his hands, and his teeth glinted as he spoke, sharp and pointed like a predator¡¯s. A long, swishing tail moved behind him, and his ears twitched ever so slightly. The dwarves tensed, their hands instinctively moving to the weapons at their belts. One of them, a grizzled elder with a beard streaked with silver, stepped forward. His voice was gruff, yet steady as he demanded, ¡°Who are you?¡± The figure tilted his head, his golden eyes gleaming in the dim light. ¡°My name is Korran,¡± he said calmly, his tone polite yet unsettling. ¡°I am one of the Demon King¡¯s generals.¡± Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. The dwarves exchanged wary glances. Korran¡¯s calm demeanor did little to mask the dangerous aura he exuded. The elder dwarf narrowed his eyes. ¡°What do you want, Korran?¡± Korran smiled faintly, his sharp teeth flashing. ¡°Our fight is with the humans,¡± he said, his tone almost conversational. ¡°I¡¯m here to request that you withdraw. You have no stake in this war. Return to your mountains, and we¡¯ll leave you in peace.¡± The elder dwarf¡¯s eyes burned with anger. ¡°Don¡¯t take us for fools,¡± he growled. ¡°After you¡¯re done with the humans, it¡¯ll be us next. That¡¯s always the way with your kind.¡± Korran shrugged, his striped tail flicking lazily behind him. ¡°Perhaps,¡± he said, his voice as smooth as silk. ¡°But who¡¯s to say? Today, I simply wish to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. So, I humbly ask you to retreat.¡± The words were polite, but the tone felt like mockery, dripping with disdain. The elder dwarf¡¯s fists clenched, his face red with fury. ¡°Enough of your games!¡± he bellowed. ¡°We dwarves don¡¯t cower from threats, no matter how politely they¡¯re delivered.¡± The other dwarves grunted in agreement, their weapons now in hand. The air grew tense, crackling with the unspoken promise of violence. Korran¡¯s golden eyes scanned the group, his expression unreadable. He sighed softly, almost disappointed. ¡°I see,¡± he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. ¡°I had hoped to avoid this. But if you insist on staying in my way¡­¡± Before Korran could finish his sentence, the dwarves acted. Without hesitation, they raised their crossbows, their bolts glinting as they took aim. ¡°Fire!¡± the elder dwarf barked, his voice cutting through the tense silence. Bolts whistled through the air, a storm of deadly precision. Korran sighed, feigning exasperation. ¡°Oh, come on! At least let me finish my sentence!¡± he said, though his tone carried no fear. With an effortless grace that belied his feline nature, Korran twisted and leaped, dodging the initial volley. His movements were a blur, his striped form darting between the trees. Each leap was calculated, his claws digging into bark as he climbed and bounded. A second volley followed, faster and more coordinated. This time, Korran dropped to the forest floor, his body crouched low, claws sinking into the earth as his tail swished in annoyance. But the dwarves were ready. The elder dwarf, his hammer raised high, charged forward with surprising speed for his stocky frame. His boots pounded the ground, leaves and dirt scattering with each step. ¡°Hold still, you damn beast!¡± he roared, bringing his hammer down in a crushing arc. Korran dodged backward, the hammer smashing into the ground where he had been moments ago. Dirt and debris exploded from the impact, but Korran barely flinched. ¡°Nice try, old man,¡± he taunted, his golden eyes gleaming with mischief. But his smugness was short-lived. A crossbow bolt, fired with deadly precision, struck his shoulder. Korran hissed, his claws flexing as his blood dripped onto the forest floor. ¡°You¡¯re testing my patience,¡± he growled, the playful tone in his voice replaced with a low, menacing edge. In a flash, Korran lunged forward, his speed blinding. Before the elder dwarf could react, Korran¡¯s clawed hand wrapped around his neck. ¡°Come on, old man,¡± Korran snarled, lifting the dwarf effortlessly. ¡°At least let me finish myself!¡± With a savage roar, Korran slammed the dwarf into the nearest tree. The trunk splintered under the force, leaves raining down from above. ¡°Now, let¡¯s talk again, shall we?¡± Korran said mockingly. But as he looked at the dwarf, his expression shifted to mild annoyance. Blood dripped from his claws, which had pierced the elder¡¯s neck. The dwarf¡¯s lifeless eyes stared back at him. ¡°Oh,¡± Korran said flatly, tilting his head. ¡°He¡¯s already dead. How disappointing.¡± The remaining dwarves charged, their voices a chorus of rage and grief. ¡°You monster!¡± one bellowed, swinging his axe with all his might. Another fired a bolt, aiming for Korran¡¯s chest, while a third hurled a small, glowing device¡ªa miniature bomb designed to catch even the swiftest foes. Korran¡¯s sharp reflexes saved him. With a swift leap, he vanished into the shadows of the forest, his laughter echoing hauntingly. ¡°Catch me if you can!¡± he called out, his voice teasing and cold. ¡°Find him!¡± one dwarf shouted, his voice trembling with both anger and fear. The dwarves regrouped and ventured deeper into the forest, their weapons drawn and eyes scanning every shadow. But they had made a fatal mistake. The forest was not their domain¡ªit was the territory of the beastmen. As the dwarves moved cautiously, the forest came alive with a deadly fury. The first attack was swift and brutal. From the underbrush, a massive bear-like beast lunged, its thick hide shimmering in the dappled sunlight. Its claws tore through two dwarves before they could react. Bolts fired at the creature bounced harmlessly off its dense fur, and the dwarves, desperate to repel the beast, hurled their bombs. The explosions echoed through the trees, scaring the bear away, but the damage was already done. ¡°Stay together!¡± one dwarf shouted, his voice laced with panic. But the forest had no mercy. A sleek panther-like beast, its movements silent and deadly, struck next. It darted through the shadows, slashing one dwarf¡¯s throat before disappearing again. ¡°They¡¯re picking us off one by one!¡± another dwarf cried, his hammer shaking in his hands. One by one, the dwarves fell to the relentless assault. The beasts struck from all directions, their attacks precise and coordinated. The dwarves fought valiantly, their weapons flashing as they tried to fend off their unseen foes. By the time the forest fell silent, only one dwarf remained. His armor was dented, his face bloodied, but his grip on his axe was firm. And then, Korran appeared once more, stepping out from the shadows as if he had been waiting for this moment. ¡°You should have retreated when I allowed it,¡± Korran said, his voice calm but dripping with malice. The dwarf charged with a final, desperate cry, his axe raised high. But Korran moved too quickly. In one swift motion, his claws slashed through the dwarf¡¯s neck. As the dwarf¡¯s body crumpled to the ground, Korran stood over him, blood dripping from his claws. The forest grew silent once more, save for the faint rustle of leaves as the beastmen melted back into the shadows, their job complete. Chapter 28 [Eslyn City: The Holy Sanctuary] Eslyn City stood as a beacon of hope and faith, the heart of the human kingdom¡¯s spiritual strength. It wasn¡¯t just a city; it was the sacred cradle of the gods, their presence etched into its towering temples and carved statues. Known as the Holy City, it was governed not by nobles but by the revered Pope, a man said to carry the voice of the divine. Its defenders weren¡¯t ordinary soldiers but paladins¡ªwarriors clad in shining armor, blessed by divine power. Their faith was their shield, and their swords gleamed with the radiance of the gods. Amid this sanctity, the city''s most important figure, the Saintess, lay in a secluded chamber within the grand temple. Her chamber was adorned with the soft glow of holy light, the air heavy with the scent of sacred incense. On a bed draped in pure white linens embroidered with golden threads, the Saintess lay motionless. Her face, serene even in unconsciousness, was framed by cascading golden hair. It had been days since she had fallen into this mysterious state, moments after receiving an oracle about the Demon King. The room was silent except for the soft, rhythmic sound of her breathing. A lone maid sat beside her, watching with worried eyes. The flicker of the holy flame from the corner altar reflected her unease. Then, faintly, the Saintess¡¯s delicate fingers twitched. Her breathing quickened, and her eyes fluttered open, revealing a pair of luminous emerald orbs. ¡°Saintess! You¡¯re awake!¡± the maid gasped, her voice breaking with relief as she rushed to her side. ¡°What¡­ happened?¡± the Saintess murmured, her voice weak but soft, like a gentle breeze. ¡°Please wait, my Lady. I¡¯ll fetch His Holiness at once!¡± Without waiting for an answer, the maid dashed out of the chamber, her footsteps echoing down the marble halls. Moments later, the heavy chamber doors swung open, and an old man stepped in. His presence was commanding, yet gentle¡ªa figure draped in flowing robes of gold and white, emanating an aura of divine light. This was the Pope, the spiritual guide of the kingdom and the keeper of the gods¡¯ will. ¡°Holy Father,¡± the Saintess whispered, attempting to rise from her bed despite her frailty. ¡°Do not strain yourself, my child,¡± the Pope said softly, raising a hand to halt her. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. His voice was filled with warmth and concern, his eyes kind yet burdened with the weight of the world. ¡°How are you feeling, my dear? Are you well?¡± he asked, stepping closer to her bedside. The Saintess nodded weakly, her brows furrowed. ¡°I am¡­ fine. But please, tell me¡ªwhat has happened?¡± The Pope¡¯s expression grew grim, the lines on his face deepening as he took a breath. ¡°The Demon King has begun his march of destruction. Villages and cities have fallen in his wake, their cries for mercy unanswered.¡± The Saintess¡¯s heart sank, her hands clutching the blanket tightly. ¡°No¡­ this cannot be,¡± she whispered, her voice trembling. The Pope hesitated, his voice heavy with sorrow as he continued. ¡°Now, the Demon King¡¯s forces are heading for Eslyn itself.¡± The Saintess¡¯s eyes widened in shock, her breath hitching. ¡°Eslyn? Here? How could this happen?¡± ¡°Fear not, my child,¡± the Pope said, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. ¡°Duke Driesell and his army stand guard at the temple¡¯s gates. The paladins are also ready, their faith unwavering. The gods are with us.¡± Despite his reassuring words, the Saintess could sense the gravity of the situation. Her chest tightened as a deep foreboding settled over her. Her trembling hands clasped together in prayer as she closed her eyes. ¡°Holy Father,¡± she began, her voice steady despite her fear, ¡°please allow me to assist. I cannot sit idly while our people suffer.¡± The Pope regarded her with a mixture of pride and sadness. ¡°You bear a heavy burden, my child. The light of the gods shines through you, but you must not exhaust yourself recklessly. Your strength may yet be needed when the darkest hour falls.¡± The Saintess nodded, though the worry in her heart did not fade. She looked toward the chamber¡¯s window, where the sky outside was a dull gray, heavy with the promise of an impending storm. ¡°What about the hero, Holy Father?¡± she asked, her voice tinged with worry and hope. The Pope smiled faintly, gesturing with his hand. ¡°Come with me, my child. I will show you.¡± The two walked in silence through the grand marble halls of the temple. Sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows, casting colorful patterns on the floor. Despite the beauty of the surroundings, an air of tension hung heavy. They soon arrived at an open field at the heart of the temple grounds. The area was serene, surrounded by towering statues of the gods, their faces carved with expressions of wisdom and power. In the center of the field, a young man sat cross-legged on the ground, his eyes closed in deep meditation. He was dressed in simple, unadorned garments, his golden hair catching the light and giving him an almost ethereal glow. Despite his calm demeanor, his presence radiated strength and potential. ¡°That is the hero,¡± the Pope said softly. ¡°He is still undergoing his trial.¡± The Saintess clasped her hands together, her eyes fixed on the young man. ¡°I pray he succeeds soon. We need him now more than ever.¡± The Pope nodded solemnly. The Hero¡¯s Trial is a sacred process.. It is the path through which hero prepares to face the Demon King. The gods themselves test him, measuring his resolve, courage, and purity of heart. Only by overcoming their challenges can he receive their blessings. There are two ways the trial can be conducted. The first is through an earthly journey¡ªan adventure fraught with perils, where the hero must prove himself by overcoming real-world obstacles. But this path risks his life. Thus, the second method was chosen. In an imaginary plane created by the gods, the hero faces their trials. While his body remains here, his mind and soul are tested. The only condition is that he must not be disturbed during the process. That is why the paladins guard him so vigilantly. The Saintess looked past the hero to the statues of the gods. Behind each statue was an orb of light. Some glowed brightly, indicating blessings already bestowed, while others remained dim, waiting for the hero to earn them. As they stood in quiet observation, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed behind them. A tall, broad-shouldered man clad in gleaming armor approached. His presence was commanding, his every movement exuding strength and confidence. It was Duke Driesell. His face was stern, his sharp blue eyes scanning the field as he approached the Pope and the Saintess. ¡°Your Holiness,¡± the Duke began, his voice deep and steady, ¡°is everything ready?¡± The Pope turned to him with a nod. ¡°Yes, Duke. All the paladins and priests are prepared, and the citizens have been evacuated to safety.¡± Driesell crossed his arms, his gaze lingering on the meditating hero. ¡°Good. The battle will begin soon. Rest assured, I will protect the temple and everyone within it.¡± The Pope placed a hand on the Duke¡¯s armored shoulder. ¡°We trust you, Duke Driesell. May the gods guide your sword.¡± At that moment, the haunting sound of a distant horn shattered the stillness. Its deep, resonant tone carried a foreboding message: the enemy had arrived. The Duke¡¯s expression hardened, and he turned toward the temple gates. ¡°They¡¯re here,¡± he said grimly. Without another word, he strode away, his cape billowing behind him. The Saintess watched him go, her heart heavy with both fear and hope. Turning back to the Pope, she whispered, ¡°Holy Father, will we truly be able to hold them back?¡± The Pope gave her a reassuring smile, though his eyes betrayed his concern. "Have faith, my child. The gods are watching over us. And soon, everything will be okay.¡± As the Duke¡¯s voice rang out beyond the temple, rallying the paladins to their positions, the Saintess knelt before the statue of the chief deity. Closing her eyes, she prayed fervently for strength, for protection, and for the hero¡¯s success. Outside, the sound of marching footsteps grew louder, the clash of weapons and distant war cries signaling the storm of battle. The fate of Eslyn hung in the balance, and the world awaited the hero¡¯s awakening. Chapter 29 Duke Driesell stood tall at the gates of Eslyn City, his imposing figure clad in shimmering armor that gleamed under the waning sunlight. Behind him, a disciplined army of soldiers and paladins awaited his command. Their faces were calm, their grips on their weapons steady. Years of training and countless battles had forged them into a resolute force. Ahead, the forest path connecting Norvik and Eslyn stretched ominously. The dense canopy cast long shadows, and from within the darkness emerged a horde of monsters, their grotesque forms illuminated by the dying light. Goblins scurried forward, their wicked grins revealing jagged teeth. Gnolls snarled, their hyena-like forms twitching with savage energy. Frogmen hopped forward, their slimy limbs glistening, while lizardmen hissed, their tails whipping the ground. Amidst them, beastmen prowled like hunters, their feral gazes locked onto the defenders. And at the center of this chaos stood a figure cloaked in an aura of malevolence¡ªa being whose masked visage radiated eerie calm. It was Tores. The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances. They had all heard the tales¡ªof the flute-wielding general who bent nature to his will, whose melodies brought death and despair. Yet, despite the terrifying sight of the monstrous horde, the defenders of Eslyn stood firm. The Demon King himself and his other generals were absent. Perhaps this was merely the first wave, a test of their strength. The tide of monsters seemed endless. As soon as one wave surged forward, another took its place. The soldiers braced themselves, their shields locking in unison as the paladins whispered prayers to fortify their resolve. But then, the ground trembled. From the shadows of the forest, towering figures emerged¡ªtrolls. Their hulking green bodies, as massive as the trees themselves, radiated raw power. Their regenerative abilities made them nearly unkillable, and their strength was said to rival that of giants. The trolls roared, their guttural cries shaking the air as they joined the ranks of the monstrous army. Even the most steadfast soldiers felt their resolve waver at the sight. The monsters halted, their chaotic movements stilled as Tores raised a hand. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. The masked general exuded an air of calm authority, his flute poised at his lips. The monsters waited, their eyes fixed on him, as if he were a conductor ready to unleash a symphony of destruction. Behind the defenders, Duke Driesell surveyed the scene. His piercing gaze swept over the battlefield, assessing every detail. He tightened his grip on his sword¡ªa weapon imbued with the power of a thunderstorm. Lightning crackled faintly along its edge, the sound a promise of the storm to come. ¡°Don¡¯t fear!¡± Driesell¡¯s voice boomed, carrying strength and reassurance. The two leaders stood at the precipice of battle, their forces poised to clash. The air was thick with tension. And then, it began. The melody of Tores¡¯s flute, a haunting tune that seemed to seep into the bones of every defender. The monsters roared in unison and surged forward like an unrelenting tide. ¡°Charge!¡± Driesell commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos like a thunderclap. The soldiers and paladins moved as one, their disciplined ranks clashing with the monstrous horde. As the two armies collided, the ground beneath them seemed to quake with the sheer force of their clash. The air was thick with the sounds of battle¡ªclanging steel, roaring monsters, and the cries of soldiers. On one side stood the humans: rows of disciplined soldiers with shields locked, archers firing volleys into the horde, mages chanting incantations, and paladins glowing with holy light. On the other side was a chaotic tide of monsters. Goblins charged forward, their crude weapons glinting menacingly. Gnolls snarled and howled, their muscular forms barreling into the human lines. Behind them came lizardmen, frogmen, and beastmen, each species more monstrous than the last. To any observer, the outcome seemed obvious. The humans, vastly outnumbered and surrounded, looked like they would crumble under the relentless waves of creatures. But amidst the chaos, one figure stood out¡ªa beacon of power and determination. At the forefront of the human army, Duke Driesell moved like a storm incarnate. His massive sword, crackling with thunder and lightning, was a blur of motion. Each swing cleaved through the ranks of monsters, cutting down three or four enemies in a single strike. The energy from his blade leapt from one target to another, electrocuting goblins and gnolls where they stood. The weaker ones fell instantly, their bodies charred, while the stronger creatures staggered, their regeneration unable to keep pace with the onslaught. Driesell¡¯s movements were precise and unrelenting. A goblin leapt at him, its dagger aimed for his throat, but he sidestepped effortlessly, bringing his blade down in a flash of lightning that split the creature in half. A gnoll lunged, its massive claws aiming to tear him apart, but Driesell ducked and swung upward, decapitating the beast in one fluid motion. ¡°Push forward!¡± he roared, his voice carrying over the battlefield like a clap of thunder. ¡°Hold the line!¡± The soldiers, inspired by their leader¡¯s might, fought with renewed vigor. Swords clashed against claws, and shields met clubs. The paladins radiated holy energy, their blessings strengthening their allies and burning away the weaker monsters. But then the trolls came. Massive creatures with green, sinewy bodies and skin as tough as stone, they towered over the battlefield. Each step they took sent tremors through the ground. Their eyes gleamed with savage hunger as they swung tree-sized clubs, smashing through the human lines. A single swing from a troll sent soldiers flying like ragdolls, their armor crumpling under the sheer force. Arrows bounced harmlessly off their thick hides, and even the mages¡¯ fireballs only left superficial burns. Worst of all was their regeneration¡ªwounds that would have felled any other creature began to heal almost immediately, the torn flesh knitting itself back together in seconds. ¡°Focus on the smaller ones!¡± Driesell shouted, seeing his men falter. ¡°I¡¯ll handle the trolls!¡± Without hesitation, he charged toward one of the towering beasts. The troll roared and swung its club downward, aiming to crush him. But Driesell was faster. With a burst of speed, he dodged to the side, his lightning-imbued sword slicing through the troll¡¯s arm in a single strike. The massive limb fell to the ground, but before the troll could scream in pain, Driesell was already on its back. He drove his blade into the creature¡¯s neck, the force of the blow sending electricity coursing through its body. The troll convulsed, its regeneration unable to keep up, and collapsed to the ground. ¡°Next!¡± Driesell growled, already moving to engage another. Despite the chaos, the human army held its ground. The soldiers fought valiantly, their training and discipline shining through. Archers aimed for vulnerable spots, striking at eyes and exposed joints. Mages conjured barriers of fire and ice to slow the advance of the horde. Paladins moved among the soldiers, their healing spells keeping the wounded in the fight. The battlefield was a cacophony of sound: the screams of dying monsters, the shouts of commands, and the hum of magic in the air. Yet, amidst it all, the humans stood united. But the trolls continued to wreak havoc, their sheer strength making them nearly unstoppable. Driesell cut down one after another, but their numbers seemed endless. Even as Driesell fought with unparalleled ferocity, a sense of unease began to creep into his mind. Something felt wrong. The monsters, for all their numbers, seemed disorganized. Where was the true threat? Where were the Demon King¡¯s other generals? Where was he? His instincts screamed at him that this was only the beginning. And then, as if to confirm his fears, a loud noise echoed from within the city. It was a sound unlike any other¡ªa deep, resonating boom that seemed to shake the very air. Driesell froze for a moment, his eyes darting toward the temple. His heart sank. ¡°The temple,¡± he muttered, his grip tightening on his sword. ¡°Sir, what was that?¡± a soldier near him asked, panic in his voice. Driesell didn¡¯t answer. His gaze turned back to the battlefield, his mind racing. ¡°Hold the line!¡± he commanded. ¡°No matter what, hold the line!¡± Without waiting for a response, he turned and began making his way toward the city. His every step was heavy with dread. He could only hope he wasn¡¯t too late. Chapter 30 While the battle raged fiercely outside Eslyn¡¯s gates, an insidious plan was unfolding beneath the city. Deep below the bustling streets and sacred temples, ancient tunnels stretched like a forgotten labyrinth. These passages, remnants of a bygone era, had been sealed long ago by the city¡¯s architects. The humans believed them to be inaccessible. But their secret had not eluded Korran, the cunning general of the Demon King¡¯s army. Using the intelligence gathered by his spies, Korran devised a way to infiltrate the city undetected. In the shadows of the tunnels, the Demon King himself, accompanied by Korran, Movok, and a handful of monsters, advanced with purpose. The group moved in eerie silence, their footsteps echoing faintly in the damp, stale air. The sealed tunnels posed no obstacle to the Demon King¡¯s forces. Horned moles, grotesque creatures with sharp, drill-like horns on their heads, scurried ahead of the group. With their powerful bodies and natural tunneling abilities, they began breaking through the barriers that had kept the tunnels closed for centuries. The sound of rock and dirt being torn apart reverberated through the passageway. Dust filled the air, but no one faltered. The Demon King stood at the center of the group, his massive form casting a foreboding shadow. His crimson eyes glowed faintly, illuminating the tunnel around him like smoldering embers. Finally, the moles broke through, and a faint glimmer of light seeped into the tunnel. The hole they had created revealed the surface of Eslyn City. The Demon King stepped forward, his towering presence filling the breach. He gazed upward at the bright sky above and the buildings around them. His dark armor seemed to absorb the light, a stark contrast to the holy city they had just infiltrated. ¡°Is this it?¡± he asked, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. ¡°Yes, my lord,¡± Korran replied, bowing slightly. His eyes gleamed with malice as he added, ¡°I can sense the presence of humans above. They¡¯re close.¡± The Demon King gave a single, curt nod. ¡°Good. Begin.¡± At his command, the horned moles resumed their work, widening the breach until it was large enough for the entire group to emerge. One by one, monsters crawled out of the tunnel: hulking lizardmen, shadowy creatures with sharp claws, and beastmen with bloodlust in their eyes. As the monsters climbed out of the ground, a small group of human guards patrolling nearby noticed the disturbance. Their faces paled as they turned to face the sudden appearance of an enemy force in the heart of the city. ¡°Sound the alarm¡ª¡± one of them started to shout, but the words never left his lips. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. Movok, the brutish lizardman general, was upon them in an instant. His claws slashed through the first guard¡¯s throat, silencing him. The others tried to draw their weapons, but Movok¡¯s soldiers overwhelmed them. In mere moments, their bodies lay lifeless on the ground, blood pooling beneath them. Korran smirked, his fangs glinting. ¡°Humans are so fragile,¡± he muttered, shaking his head. The Demon King surveyed the scene with cold detachment. His expression was unreadable, but the malice emanating from him was palpable. ¡°Your orders, my lord?¡± Movok asked, bowing before him. ¡°Spread out,¡± the Demon King commanded. His voice was calm but carried an edge of finality. ¡°Leave nothing standing.¡± ¡°As you command, my lord,¡± Korran and Movok said in unison, their voices brimming with zeal. The two generals turned to their respective forces and split up. Korran¡¯s group, consisting of beastmen moved swiftly toward the residential areas. Meanwhile, Movok led his lizardmen and other brutish monsters . As his generals departed to sow chaos, the Demon King remained still for a moment, his crimson gaze fixed on the towering temple in the distance. The holy aura emanating from it was a stark contrast to the darkness that surrounded him. With measured steps, he began to walk toward the temple alone. Each step felt deliberate, as if he were weighing the significance of every move. Under the Demon King¡¯s orders, Movok led his lizardmen through the streets of Eslyn City, their scaled bodies blending eerily with the shadows cast by the city¡¯s buildings. Their mission was simple: destroy everything in sight. Anyone who crossed their path¡ªbe it soldier, priest, or civilian¡ªmet a swift and brutal end. Movok¡¯s cold, reptilian eyes scanned the area ahead, his massive greatsword resting casually on his shoulder. His lizardmen followed closely behind, their claws stained with the blood of those who had been too slow to escape. As they turned a corner, Movok¡¯s nostrils flared. He could feel it¡ªthe divine energy radiating from nearby. A cruel grin spread across his face. ¡°This must be it,¡± he hissed. ¡°The hero¡¯s lair.¡± They entered the sacred training grounds. At the center of the open chamber sat the hero, his golden hair glowing faintly as he meditated, completely unaware of the chaos unfolding around him. He was surrounded by a ring of paladins, each one standing tall with their weapons drawn, their eyes unwavering. At the far end of the chamber stood the Pope, his presence exuding calm authority, and beside him, the Saintess, her hands trembling as she clutched the hem of her robes. ¡°You monsters! How did you get in here?¡± the Pope demanded, his voice booming across the chamber. Movok tilted his head, amused by the display of defiance. ¡°You must be the Pope,¡± he sneered, his voice like gravel. He turned his gaze to the Saintess, who flinched under his scrutiny. ¡°And you¡­ the Saintess. And that,¡± he said, pointing his greatsword at the meditating figure, ¡°must be the hero.¡± ¡°Leave this place!¡± the Pope commanded, raising his staff. Movok let out a guttural laugh. ¡°Leave? Oh, I intend to, old man¡­ but not before I finish all of you.¡± He raised his hand, signaling his lizardmen. ¡°Kill them all!¡± With a guttural roar, the lizardmen charged forward, their claws gleaming and fangs bared. Before the monsters could reach their targets, a golden barrier materialized around the hero and his guardians. The light from the barrier cast a divine glow across the room, forcing the lizardmen to halt in their tracks. ¡°My child, you must escape at once,¡± the Pope said urgently, turning to the Saintess. ¡°But I can¡¯t just leave you!¡± the Saintess cried, tears welling up in her eyes. ¡°Go now!¡± the Pope insisted, his voice firm. ¡°I can¡¯t hold them off for long. Warn Duke Driesell!¡± The Saintess hesitated for a moment before nodding, her face pale but determined. She turned and ran toward the exit, her heart pounding as the sounds of battle erupted behind her. Several lizardmen attempted to chase after her, but the Pope raised his staff, strengthening the barrier. The monsters snarled in frustration as they clawed uselessly at the glowing wall of light. The paladins stepped forward, their armor shining with the divine blessings of the gods. ¡°For the holy city!¡± one of them shouted, raising his sword. The clash began. The lizardmen charged with raw, primal fury, but the paladins met them head-on, their blades slicing through the air with precision. The chamber echoed with the clash of steel and the guttural cries of monsters. The Pope stood at the center, his staff raised high as he chanted prayers. Holy magic flowed through the room, empowering the paladins. Their strikes were sharper, their movements swifter, and their endurance seemed limitless. One of the lizardmen lunged at a paladin, its claws aiming for his throat. But before it could land the blow, the paladin¡¯s sword slashed upward, severing the creature¡¯s arm. A second strike cleaved its head from its body, and the lizardman fell lifeless to the ground. The paladins fought valiantly, their unity and training shining through. The death of one of his lizardmen made Movok¡¯s blood boil. He growled, his sharp teeth bared, and gripped his massive greatsword tightly. ¡°You humans are starting to annoy me,¡± he snarled. He moved with terrifying speed for someone of his size. The first paladin who tried to stop him was lifted off the ground by Movok¡¯s claws and thrown like a ragdoll into the stone wall. His lifeless body crumpled to the floor. Another paladin charged, aiming for Movok¡¯s neck, but the lizardman general caught the blade with his bare hand. With a flick of his wrist, he snapped the sword in two and swung his greatsword in a wide arc. The paladin¡¯s body was cleaved in half, blood spraying across the chamber. ¡°Protect the hero!¡± the Pope shouted, his voice ringing out over the chaos. The remaining paladins formed a defensive line in front of the meditating hero, their shields raised. But Movok was unstoppable. He plowed through their ranks, cutting down anyone who dared to stand in his way. Finally, Movok reached the Pope. The elderly man stood his ground, his staff glowing with holy energy. "You will not prevail, beast,¡± the Pope said, his voice calm despite the danger before him. ¡°The gods are watching. You will face their wrath.¡± Movok sneered. ¡°Let them watch,¡± he growled. ¡°It won¡¯t change a thing.¡± He raised his greatsword and swung with all his might. The Pope raised his staff to block the blow, but the sheer force of the strike shattered it. The blade sliced through the Pope¡¯s abdomen, and he fell to the ground in a pool of blood. As his lifeless body hit the floor, the room fell silent. The blood splattered from the blow landed on the meditating hero, painting streaks of crimson across his serene face. And then, suddenly, the hero¡¯s eyes snapped open. Golden light poured from his gaze, filling the chamber with an overwhelming radiance. The tide of battle was about to change. Chapter 31 The hero stirred, his golden hair shimmering as he opened his eyes. He hadn¡¯t finished his god trial; there were still divine blessings left to receive. Yet, something had shattered his focus, yanking him from the sacred plane of the gods. As his vision adjusted, the horrifying reality unfolded before him. ¡°Pope¡­?¡± he whispered, his voice trembling with disbelief. Before him lay the lifeless body of the Pope, blood pooling beneath him. The man who had guided him, the symbol of unwavering faith and hope, was now a cold, lifeless shell. The hero¡¯s heart sank, but it didn¡¯t stay there for long. As he raised his gaze, his sorrow turned to fury. He saw the paladins locked in battle with grotesque, scaled monsters¡ªlizardmen. And at the center of it all stood Movok, towering over everyone, his greatsword still dripping with fresh blood. The sight burned itself into the hero¡¯s soul. The shattered sanctity of the temple. The bodies of his comrades. The blood staining the sacred ground. ¡°How dare you defile this holy place, you monsters!¡± the hero roared, his voice reverberating through the chamber like a thunderclap. A blinding golden light erupted from his body, illuminating the room and stopping the battle momentarily. The paladins and lizardmen alike turned to him, awestruck. The air seemed to vibrate with divine power. Golden armor materialized over his body, each piece radiating an otherworldly glow. Intricate patterns adorned the armor, resembling the sigils of the gods who had blessed him so far. In his hand appeared a sword, its blade forged of pure light, humming with divine energy. The hero tightened his grip on the hilt, his anger fueling the radiant power coursing through him. With a burst of inhuman speed, the hero charged at Movok, his sword slicing through the air like a streak of light. Movok barely had time to raise his greatsword before the blade collided with his own, a deafening clang reverberating through the chamber. The force of the blow sent vibrations through Movok¡¯s arm, but the lizardman general merely smirked, his scaled muscles absorbing the shock. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. ¡°So, the hero finally wakes,¡± he hissed. ¡°Let¡¯s see if you¡¯re worth the trouble.¡± Without hesitation, the hero launched into a relentless assault. His movements were swift and precise, each strike of his glowing sword aimed at Movok¡¯s vitals. The blade burned with divine energy, leaving faint golden trails in its wake. Movok, however, was no ordinary foe. His greatsword met the hero¡¯s strikes with brutal efficiency, each swing countering with raw, overwhelming power. Sparks flew as metal clashed against divine light. The hero¡¯s sword darted toward Movok¡¯s chest, a strike intended to pierce his heart. But Movok twisted his body at the last second, the blade glancing off his thick, scaled hide. The lizardman retaliated immediately, swinging his greatsword in a wide arc. The hero ducked under the massive blade, the air above his head crackling from its sheer force. He countered with an upward slash, aiming for Movok¡¯s neck. The strike connected. But Movok merely chuckled. His scales, thick and resilient, were barely scratched. ¡°You¡¯ll have to do better than that, little human,¡± Movok sneered, swinging his greatsword with tremendous force. But the hero sidestepped it. Then he launched a flurry of attacks, his sword moving like a blur. Movok met each attack with skill and raw power, his greatsword moving with surprising speed for its size. The clamor of battle echoed across the chamber, the clash of metal against metal like a drumbeat of war. The hero and Movok stood at the heart of it, their blades locked in a deadly dance. Movok¡¯s greatsword roared through the air, each swing heavier than the last, carrying the brute strength of the lizardman general. The hero met each attack head-on, his radiant sword shining with divine energy. Their weapons collided in a spectacular burst of sparks, illuminating the battlefield as neither yielded an inch. ¡°You¡¯re persistent, I¡¯ll give you that,¡± Movok sneered, his reptilian eyes narrowing. ¡°But you¡¯re wasting your strength. My scales are impenetrable!¡± The hero gritted his teeth, his attacks relentless, each swing faster than the last. He moved like a blur of light, his sword raining down on Movok in a flurry of precise strikes. Yet, Movok¡¯s scales deflected the blows, absorbing the damage with ease. Despite the hero''s fury, Movok''s taunts rang true. Each of the hero¡¯s attacks left him increasingly frustrated. ¡°Is this all the ¡®chosen hero¡¯ can do?¡± Movok mocked, blocking another strike with his massive sword and countering with a powerful swing. The hero staggered back, the force of the blow sending tremors through his body. But he didn¡¯t falter. He charged forward again, determination blazing in his golden eyes. This time, the hero¡¯s stance shifted. His golden aura flared brighter, and his posture lowered, as if drawing energy from the very earth beneath him. His sword began to glow more intensely, golden light radiating from it like the dawn breaking through darkness. Movok¡¯s grin faltered. He sensed danger. ¡°You¡¯re wasting your time!¡± Movok snarled, his voice tinged with unease. He lunged forward, attempting to break the hero¡¯s focus. His greatsword came crashing down, aiming to end the fight with a single strike. But he was too late. The hero moved with blinding speed, his glowing sword cutting through the air like a comet. With a sharp, resonating hum, the blade struck Movok¡¯s chest, piercing his mighty scales as if they were paper. The golden light seared through him, spreading divine energy into his body like a molten tide. Blood erupted from Movok¡¯s wound, the crimson liquid staining the sacred ground beneath him. The lizardman roared in pain, his voice shaking the walls of the temple. ¡°No!¡± Movok bellowed, his body trembling as the divine energy began to weaken him. His regenerative abilities faltered, the holy power coursing through his veins like poison. The hero didn¡¯t hesitate. He twisted his blade within the wound, golden light flaring from the injury as Movok¡¯s roar turned into a guttural scream. Before the hero could finish him, Movok mustered his remaining strength and swung his greatsword wildly. The hero was forced back, his feet skidding across the blood-streaked floor. Movok clutched his chest, blood streaming from his wound, his breath labored. The divine power was spreading rapidly, sapping his strength and leaving him vulnerable. ¡°You¡­ wretched human!¡± Movok growled, his voice heavy with pain. But before the hero could charge again, a lizardman soldier stepped into his path, throwing itself at him in desperation. The hero¡¯s glowing blade cut through the creature effortlessly, its body crumpling to the ground in an instant. He moved to strike Movok once more, his golden eyes burning with determination. But then, he froze. A chill ran down his spine. The golden glow surrounding him flickered as he sensed it¡ªa presence unlike any he had felt before. It was dark and oppressive, a weight that seemed to suffocate the very air around him. ¡°This presence¡­¡± the hero muttered, his voice barely audible over the sounds of battle. He turned his head toward the source of the eerie aura, his gaze locking onto a single direction. The prayer hall. There, where the statue of Goddess Aria stood, the divine sanctity had been tainted. The hero could feel it, a vile energy radiating from within. ¡°No¡­¡± he whispered, dread washing over him. Without a second thought, he abandoned his pursuit of Movok, his heart pounding in his chest. He charged toward the prayer hall, his golden armor shimmering as he moved with purpose. ¡°Please, let me not be too late,¡± he prayed silently, the weight of his responsibility heavier than ever. Behind him, Movok collapsed to his knees, clutching his chest as the divine energy continued to spread through his body. The lizardman general¡¯s strength was fading, but his eyes burned with hatred as he watched the hero disappear into the distance. Chapter 32 The hero approached the large, ornate gate, his golden armor shimmering faintly as he steeled himself for what lay beyond. He could feel the malevolent energy emanating from the other side, thick and suffocating like a storm about to break. Pushing the gate open, he stepped into the room. The sight before him froze him in place. Shattered pieces of statues lay scattered across the floor, the remnants of divine figures defiled and destroyed. The room, once a sanctum of holy worship, now radiated a sinister aura, corrupted by the presence of a single being. At the center of it all stood a figure that seemed to devour the light around him. His tall, imposing frame exuded raw power, and his monstrous appearance¡ªpurple hair flowing like dark flames, crimson eyes glowing with malice, and a twisted, beast-like visage¡ªspoke of a primal, untamed force. The hero¡¯s heart clenched. His instincts were also telling him he was dangerous but his resolve held firm. He could easily guess who this was. There was no mistaking it. "The Demon King,¡± the hero whispered under his breath, a shiver running down his spine. The Demon King¡¯s crimson eyes shifted lazily to the hero, his expression one of bored amusement. He tilted his head slightly, as if observing an insect. ¡°Hmm... And who might you be?¡± the Demon King asked, his voice deep and dripping with disdain. The hero didn¡¯t answer. There was no time for words. Without hesitation, he surged forward, his sword blazing with divine energy. Golden light enveloped him, the aura of the gods themselves empowering his every step. The hero closed the distance in the blink of an eye, his blade swinging with the fury of the heavens. The golden arc of his sword tore through the air, aimed directly at the Demon King¡¯s heart. But before the blade could land, the Demon King moved. With a speed that defied comprehension, he stepped forward and caught the hero¡¯s wrist in an iron grip. The impact sent a shockwave rippling through the room, but the Demon King didn¡¯t flinch. Effortlessly, the Demon King spun the hero around like a ragdoll and hurled him across the room. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. The hero¡¯s body smashed into the stone wall with a thunderous crash, cracks spidering out from the point of impact. He fell to the ground, coughing as pain radiated through his body. The Demon King lowered his gaze to his palm¡ªthe hand that had touched the hero¡¯s wrist. A faint burn mark marred his skin, black smoke rising from the wound. His crimson eyes narrowed slightly as the mark healed, but much slower than he was accustomed to. The Demon King¡¯s gaze returned to the hero, now struggling to rise. He flexed his fingers, the faint burn still lingering. He understood now who the man in front of him was. The divine energy radiating from the hero was no ordinary power. It was the ultimate weapon against him. Monsters, no matter how powerful, all shared one common weakness: divine energy. The Demon King, as the amalgamation of all monsterkind, was no exception. In fact, this weakness was magnified within him, a crack in his otherwise impenetrable armor. And the hero was the embodiment of that divine energy. The hero staggered to his feet, golden light enveloping his battered frame. His armor, though dented and scratched, gleamed as divine energy surged through him. The golden aura flickered like a flame but didn¡¯t waver. Each wound on his body began to close as if the divine energy refused to let him fall. His eyes, glowing with determination, locked onto the Demon King. Without hesitation, he charged forward again, his golden sword blazing brighter with each step. But the Demon King wasn¡¯t idle. The Demon King¡¯s legs began to contort and shift, twisting grotesquely until they resembled the powerful limbs of a colossal grey wolf. The transformation was seamless, his new form exuding agility and raw power. With inhuman speed, he vanished from the hero¡¯s sight, reappearing in front of him in an instant. Before the hero could react, the Demon King¡¯s massive hand wrapped around his face, claws digging into his golden aura like jagged knives. With a monstrous roar, he slammed the hero¡¯s head into the wall with all his might. The impact shook the room, causing fractures to spiderweb across the stone. Dust and debris rained down, but the hero remained standing, his golden aura absorbing much of the damage. The glow of his aura burned the Demon King¡¯s hand, divine energy searing his flesh with a faint sizzle. But the Demon King didn¡¯t flinch. Instead, his fury deepened. ¡°You can¡¯t keep hiding behind that light!¡± he snarled. The Demon King¡¯s arms morphed again, growing grotesquely large as they transformed into the muscular, monstrous arms of an ogre. Veins pulsed across the bulging muscles as he reared back and unleashed a flurry of punches. Each blow was like a thunderclap, shattering the air and shaking the ground. The wall behind the hero couldn¡¯t withstand the onslaught, crumbling away to create a massive hole. The hero, though battered, refused to crumble. The golden aura shielded him, softening the brutal punches and healing his wounds just as quickly as they were inflicted. But the force of the blows drove him to his knees, and blood seeped from the corners of his mouth despite the divine protection. With a roar, the Demon King grabbed the hero by his legs, lifting him effortlessly like a rag doll. With terrifying strength, he swung the hero overhead and slammed him into the ground, creating a crater on impact. He repeated the motion, thrashing the hero into the ground, walls, and ceiling, before hurling him out of the room. The hero¡¯s body tumbled across the courtyard, crashing through rubble. Dust and blood stained his golden armor, but the aura around him flared, restoring his body and mending his injuries. As the Demon King advanced toward him, the hero staggered to his feet once more. His golden eyes burned with unrelenting determination. He raised his hand, and in a flash of light, a spear materialized from thin air. The weapon radiated divine energy, humming with celestial power. Without hesitation, the hero hurled the spear with all his might. It cut through the air like a comet, the golden trail it left behind lighting up the darkened sky. The Demon King¡¯s eyes narrowed as the weapon closed in on him. With reflexes honed from countless battles, he caught the spear in midair, the divine energy scorching his palm. Smoke rose from his hand as the golden energy burned into his flesh, but he didn¡¯t flinch. ¡°Is this all you¡¯ve got?¡± he sneered. But the spear had a will of its own. It began to tremble, its divine energy surging violently. The weapon twisted and pulled against the Demon King¡¯s grip, struggling to return to its master. The Demon King¡¯s muscles strained as he resisted the spear¡¯s pull, his feet digging into the ground. But even his monstrous strength couldn¡¯t suppress the weapon¡¯s divine will. With a growl of frustration, he released the spear. The instant he let go, the spear shot back to the hero, its force sending the Demon King stumbling a few steps backward. The hero didn¡¯t waste the opportunity. As the spear returned to him, he tossed it aside and surged forward, sword in hand. The golden blade shone brighter than ever, its light cutting through the Demon King¡¯s oppressive aura. The Demon King barely had time to recover when the hero was upon him. He swung his massive claw in retaliation, but the hero ducked beneath the blow and delivered a precise slash. The golden blade tore through the Demon King¡¯s defenses, grazing his face. The divine energy clung to the wound, burning like molten fire. The Demon King let out a low, guttural growl, his crimson eyes narrowing as pain shot through him. He instinctively touched the wound over his eye, feeling the searing burn of divine energy eating away at his flesh. A snarl of rage escaped his lips as he turned his furious gaze back to the hero. The Demon King¡¯s body began to tremble, his monstrous form pulsating with unrestrained fury. The air around him grew heavy, suffused with a malevolent energy that seemed to sap the light from the courtyard. ¡°You¡¯ve managed to wound me,¡± he said, his voice calm but laced with venom. ¡°But you¡¯ll wish you hadn¡¯t.¡± The ground beneath him began to crack as his power surged, his form growing even more monstrous. Chapter 33 The Demon King¡¯s body convulsed as his form underwent a grotesque transformation. Dark, shimmering scales erupted across his skin, glinting like obsidian under the moonlight. A long, sinuous tail whipped behind him, carving deep grooves into the stone ground. His crimson eyes multiplied, two becoming four, glowing with an intense, otherworldly malice. Black, bat-like wings unfurled from his back with a sound like tearing fabric, each massive wing exuding raw, oppressive energy. Across from him, the hero¡¯s body began to change as well. A soft golden light engulfed him, his battered form repairing itself with divine grace. Majestic, feathered wings, glowing with radiant energy, sprouted from his back, their sheer presence illuminating the darkness like a beacon of hope. His golden aura intensified, wrapping him in divine light, as if the gods themselves were shielding him. Both warriors now hovered in the sky, their transformations complete. The clash of their auras sent shockwaves through the air, rippling across the battlefield below. The city trembled under the pressure of their overwhelming powers. The hero struck first. With a wave of his hand, a golden bow materialized, intricate and shimmering with divine energy. He nocked an arrow, its tip glowing like a star, and unleashed it with unerring precision. The Demon King snarled and twisted through the air, his wings carrying him with speed and agility. He evaded most of the arrows, but a few found their mark, piercing his scales and lodging deep into his flesh. The divine energy seared his wounds, burning like molten fire. The Demon King let out a guttural growl, his voice echoing with rage. But he didn¡¯t slow down. Ignoring the pain, he surged toward the hero, his massive wings propelling him like a missile. The hero barely dodged the attack as the Demon King¡¯s punch crashed into a nearby building. The structure groaned under the impact before collapsing into rubble, sending clouds of dust into the air. The Demon King roared and tore a massive chunk of stone from the wreckage, hurling it toward the hero with terrifying force. The hero darted through the air, his wings carrying him with angelic grace, dodging each projectile with fluid movements. But the Demon King was relentless. Before the dust could settle, he was upon the hero again. The hero dismissed his bow, and in a flash of light, his golden sword reappeared in his hand. The two clashed in mid-air, sword meeting claw with a deafening crash. Sparks flew as their powers collided, light and darkness intertwining in a violent dance. The Demon King swiped with his massive claws, each strike aiming to tear the hero apart. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. The hero parried and countered with precision, his sword moving like a streak of golden light. Every strike of the blade left faint burns on the Demon King¡¯s scales, but his monstrous regeneration quickly repaired the damage. ¡°You¡¯re persistent for a mortal,¡± the Demon King growled, his voice dripping with disdain. ¡°And you¡¯re resilient for a monster,¡± the hero shot back, his golden eyes blazing with determination. Their battle raged across the sky, each attack shaking the heavens. The Demon King¡¯s tail lashed out, attempting to strike the hero from behind, but the hero spun mid-air, his sword slicing through it. Black ichor sprayed from the wound, but the Demon King merely snarled and regenerated the tail instantly. The hero suddenly drew back, his sword disappearing once more. In its place, a radiant spear materialized in his hands. The weapon gleamed with divine energy, its power so immense that even the Demon King paused for a moment. With a powerful throw, the hero launched the spear straight at the Demon King. It streaked through the air like a comet, leaving a trail of golden light in its wake. The Demon King raised an arm to block, and the spear pierced straight through it, embedding itself in his flesh. Divine energy surged into his body, spreading like venom. His arm trembled as the holy power burned away at his regeneration, slowing it down and causing excruciating pain. With a roar of fury, the Demon King made a horrifying decision. Using his claws, he tore the affected arm from his body, severing it completely. Black ichor poured from the wound, but within moments, a new arm began to grow, untouched by the divine energy. The hero watched, his resolve unshaken. He raised his hand, and another weapon appeared¡ªa sword. He hurled it at the Demon King with equal force. The Demon King caught the sword with his other arm, his scales sizzling as the divine energy burned him. But before he could act, another weapon appeared in the hero¡¯s hand¡ªan axe this time. It flew through the air, and another arm sprouted from the Demon King¡¯s side to catch it. The hero didn¡¯t stop. Weapon after weapon appeared¡ªmaces, lances, bows¡ªall glowing with divine energy. The Demon King caught each one, his body adapting and transforming to match the hero¡¯s relentless assault. From his sides, additional arms sprouted, each one gripping a weapon. His four crimson eyes multiplied, becoming six, glowing like embers in the darkness. His monstrous form now resembled a terrifying amalgamation of beasts and nightmares, a true representation of his title as the Demon King. The hero, though unwavering, could feel the weight of the battle pressing down on him. He gripped his final weapon tightly, his golden aura flaring like a blazing sun. The divine weapons burned against the Demon King¡¯s flesh, the holy energy writhing like serpents, trying to free themselves from his monstrous grip. Each weapon pulsed with light, scorching his scaled hands and forcing a low hiss of pain from his lips. But the Demon King remained unfazed, his crimson eyes gleaming with malice. His monstrous arms tightened their grip, the divine light dimming slightly as his unholy power pushed back against it. The hero, hovering above, was alwo struggling. His incomplete training made sustaining all six weapons a herculean task. Sweat poured down his face as he focused on keeping the connection alive. His golden aura flickered erratically, the strain on his divine power becoming more apparent with each passing second. The divine energy coursing through his veins was nearly spent, and yet he pushed forward, trying to summon the weapons back to his side. But the Demon King¡¯s resolve was unshakable. He gritted his teeth, his six crimson eyes glaring at the hero. Then, with a guttural roar, he mustered his immense strength and hurled the divine weapons away. They shot through the air like blazing comets, disappearing into the distance. Before the hero could react, the Demon King surged forward with blinding speed. His monstrous clawed hand clamped onto the hero¡¯s head, the sharp edges digging into the golden aura that protected him. The Demon King didn¡¯t hesitate. With the hero¡¯s head firmly in his grasp, he drove him downward, crashing through the ruins of the surrounding buildings. Stone and wood shattered like glass, the debris raining down in a storm of destruction. Each impact sent shockwaves rippling through the ground, the hero¡¯s golden aura dimming further with every collision. The Demon King rose back into the sky, dragging the battered hero with him like a broken doll. His wings unfurled with a powerful beat, dark and menacing against the moonlit sky. Reaching a dizzying height, he paused, holding the hero aloft. The hero¡¯s once-glorious wings were in tatters, feathers falling like golden snowflakes. His body was riddled with injuries, the golden light barely clinging to him. He struggled feebly, trying to summon enough power to free himself, but his strength was all but spent. The Demon King sneered, his monstrous face contorted in triumph. ¡°Look at you now,¡± he growled, his voice dripping with contempt. ¡°The so-called savior of this world. A broken, pitiful creature clinging to borrowed power.¡± With a thunderous roar, he hurled the hero toward the ground. The impact was catastrophic, creating a massive crater and sending up a plume of dust and debris. The hero lay motionless at the center, his body battered and broken. His golden aura, once radiant and impenetrable, was now a faint flicker, barely clinging to life. The Demon King descended slowly, his wings stirring the air around him. His crimson eyes locked onto the fallen hero, his predatory grin widening. The ground cracked under his monstrous form as he landed, his claws digging into the earth. He approached the hero, savoring the moment, his six arms flexing with cruel intent. The hero, gasping for air, tried to push himself up. His arms trembled under his own weight, and his wings hung limp and useless behind him. Pain shot through every fiber of his being, yet he refused to surrender. ¡°You¡¯ve lost,¡± the Demon King said, his deep, rumbling voice echoing across the battlefield. He reached down and grabbed the hero by the neck, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. ¡°Let¡¯s finish this.¡± As the Demon King¡¯s grip tightened, his claws piercing the golden aura and drawing blood, a sudden flash of lightning illuminated the battlefield. The crackle of thunder followed, sharp and deafening, as a blade of pure energy sliced cleanly through the Demon King¡¯s arm. The severed limb fell to the ground with a sickening thud, ichor spraying into the air. The Demon King roared in pain and rage, his six crimson eyes snapping toward the source of the attack. A blur of motion streaked across the battlefield, faster than the eye could follow. Before the Demon King could react, the hero was snatched from his grasp, disappearing into the shadows. The Demon King turned, his arm regenerated again, flexing as he prepared for another assault. His glowing eyes landed on a figure standing amidst the swirling dust and debris. It was Duke Driesell, a towering figure clad in gleaming silver armor. His cape billowed behind him, the insignia of his noble house shining proudly on his chestplate. His sword crackled with residual lightning, the blade still glowing faintly from the strike. ¡°Soldiers!¡± Duke Driesell commanded, his voice firm and authoritative. ¡°Take the hero to safety!¡± From the surrounding ruins, a squad of armored knights emerged, their expressions grim but resolute. They moved swiftly, carrying the unconscious hero away from the battlefield. Chapter 34 The soldiers of Duke Driesell were retreating swiftly, carrying the gravely injured hero toward safety. The Demon King, his crimson eyes burning with fury, flared his wings and prepared to pursue them. ¡°Out of my way!¡± he roared, his voice resonating with unbridled rage as he charged at Duke Driesell, who stood firm in his path. The duke, his face stoic but his eyes resolute, raised his sword as his body crackled with intense thunder. Each spark of lightning illuminated the battlefield, his very presence a defiant challenge to the monstrous foe. With a swift motion, he slashed through the Demon King¡¯s left arm, the blade infused with thunder cutting through flesh and scales. But the Demon King didn¡¯t flinch. He bellowed in defiance, his remaining arm moving with terrifying speed, grabbing the duke and hurling him across the crumbling battlefield like a ragdoll. Driesell smashed into the ground, the impact creating a crater. Yet he refused to stay down. As the Demon King turned to take flight, his massive wings unfurling to chase the fleeing hero, Driesell clenched his bloodied fists around his sword and leaped into the air with a thunderous crack. Lightning surged around him, and with pinpoint precision, he landed on the Demon King¡¯s back. His blade pierced through the unyielding scales, slicing into ribs and releasing a torrent of crimson. The electricity crackling from the sword surged into the Demon King¡¯s body, eliciting a guttural roar of pain. The Demon King thrashed violently, his claws reaching for the duke. ¡°You insolent worm!¡± he growled, his voice trembling with pain and fury. He managed to grab Driesell by the neck and yanked him off his back, slamming him into the ground with a force that shook the earth. Dazed but undeterred, Driesell rolled away just in time to avoid a follow-up blow. He struggled to his feet, his breaths labored and his body battered. Blood streamed down his face, yet the thunder in his veins only intensified. Sparks danced along his armor as if the very heavens were answering his call. ¡°Fine,¡± the Demon King snarled, his patience gone. His wings beat once, kicking up a gust that toppled debris and sent dust into the air. ¡°I¡¯ll kill you first.¡± Driesell wiped blood from his mouth, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. ¡°You¡¯ll try.¡±This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. With that, he charged. The Demon King lunged forward, his claws aiming to crush the duke. But Driesell was ready. With a roar that rivaled the storm above, he leaped into the air. His blade, glowing with thunder, plunged directly into the Demon King¡¯s chest, piercing his heart. A deafening clap of thunder followed, and a bolt of lightning struck the point of contact, illuminating the battlefield in blinding light. The Demon King howled in agony, his monstrous form writhing as the divine thunder coursed through him, burning him from within. Yet Driesell did not stop. Even as blood poured from his own wounds, he wrenched the blade free and began slashing relentlessly. With each swing of his sword, more of the Demon King¡¯s limbs were severed. First an arm, then a leg¡ªeach strike was deliberate, fueled by unwavering determination. The Demon King¡¯s roars turned into guttural growls as his once-mighty body was reduced to pieces. He collapsed to the ground, his wings shredded, his limbs gone. But even as he lay in ruin, his crimson eyes glared at Driesell with hatred and defiance. Driesell, his body trembling from exhaustion, stood over the Demon King¡¯s mutilated form. Lightning flickered weakly around him, his strength nearly depleted. He raised his sword for one final strike, his voice low but resolute. ¡°For Conrad¡­ and for the king.¡± With a final burst of thunder, he brought his blade down, aiming to finish the Demon King once and for all. ---- Duke Driesell stood amidst the ruins, his sword lowered at his side, his chest rising and falling heavily. The body of the Demon King lay in pieces before him, but there was no relief in his eyes¡ªno victory to celebrate. Deep down, he knew this wasn¡¯t over. The air was thick with a sinister energy, and his instincts screamed at him to stay on guard. And then it began. The severed pieces of the Demon King¡¯s body started to shimmer unnaturally, their crimson hue darkening until they turned into a viscous, black liquid. The grotesque substance slithered across the battlefield, converging into a single mass. It grew and twisted, pulsating as if alive. A sound¡ªa deep, guttural rumble that seemed to come from the depths of hell¡ªresonated across the field, freezing all who heard it. From the writhing black mass, a colossal creature began to rise. It towered over the city buildings, a formless, nightmarish being that seemed to defy nature itself. The soldiers and monsters who had been locked in combat outside the gates stopped in their tracks, their gazes locked in horror at the monstrosity emerging inside the city. This was Demon King¡¯s true form.. The creature had no discernible shape. It lacked eyes, limbs, or any identifiable features save for one: an enormous, gaping maw filled with jagged, blackened teeth. It radiated an overwhelming sense of dread, its very presence crushing the spirits of all who beheld it. The air grew colder, heavier, as if the world itself recoiled in fear. There are two ways of finishing Demon King. Either use divine power at him or defeat his true form. But latter is difficult even with divine power. Driesell¡¯s grip tightened around his sword as he stared up at the monstrosity. The creature let out a blood-curdling screech that shook the earth, the sound vibrating in Driesell¡¯s bones. It began to move¡ªif such a thing could be called movement. Its massive, undulating form slithered forward, leaving a trail of corruption in its wake. Houses withered and crumbled, stone structures dissolved into dust, and the ground itself seemed to rot beneath its presence. Then it began to consume. Its gaping maw opened impossibly wide, and anything in its path was sucked into its endless void. There was no strategy, no thought. This was a creature of pure, unrelenting hunger. Driesell didn¡¯t wait for it to come to him. He charged forward, lightning crackling around his body, his sword blazing with thunderous energy. With a mighty roar, he swung his blade, releasing a wave of electricity that surged toward the creature. The attack struck its inky mass, but it barely flinched. The thunder dissipated into the darkness, swallowed as if it had never existed. The duke gritted his teeth, his heart pounding. ¡°I won¡¯t let you take another step!¡± he shouted, launching himself into the air. He brought his sword down with all his strength, slashing deep into the creature¡¯s amorphous body. Black liquid splattered across the ground, hissing and smoking as it landed, but the wound closed almost instantly. The creature¡¯s massive maw turned toward him, and in an instant, a tendril of darkness shot out, striking Driesell and sending him crashing to the ground. He coughed violently, blood spilling from his mouth, but he pushed himself back up. His armor was cracked, his body battered, but his determination remained unbroken. ¡°Is this all you¡¯ve got?¡± he muttered, his voice strained. His sword crackled with renewed energy as he prepared to strike again. The battle raged on, but no matter how many times Driesell attacked, the creature regenerated, its form unyielding and its hunger insatiable. He dodged its tendrils, narrowly avoiding being consumed, but his strength was waning. The ground beneath him was littered with scorch marks from his thunderous strikes, but the creature continued its advance. As he fought, memories began to flood his mind¡ªmemories of his wife¡¯s laughter, the way she used to scold him for spending too less time with his family. Memories of his children¡¯s smiles, their training and journey. He had barely spent much time with them and told them later there would be time. Later. But now, there would be no later. A sharp pain lanced through his chest¡ªnot from the battle, but from the regret that now consumed him. He had failed them. He had failed to protect his family, his people, his kingdom. The creature¡¯s maw opened wide, a vortex of darkness swirling within it. Driesell tried to move, to strike again, but his body refused to obey. His strength was gone. The last thing he saw was the gaping void rushing toward him, a cold, unrelenting darkness that consumed everything in its path. As the creature devoured him, the duke¡¯s final thoughts were not of the battle, or the kingdom, or even the Demon King. They were of his family¡ªtheir faces, their voices, their love. A single tear slipped down his cheek as the darkness engulfed him. And then, he was gone. Chapter 35 The monstrous form of the Demon King surged forward, an unstoppable tide of darkness that consumed everything in its path. Buildings crumbled, reduced to rubble in the void of his endless hunger. Streets once bustling with life were swallowed into silence as people, screaming and running for their lives, were pulled into the abyss of his gaping maw. The city, vibrant and full of history, became a desolate ruin in mere moments. The sound of his presence was deafening: the crunch of stone, the screams of the dying, and the unearthly groan of the massive creature. Every step it took left the ground corrupted, blackened, and lifeless. The air grew thick with despair, suffocating those who remained. Both human soldiers and monsters froze in terror as the Demon King''s true form approached the battle at the city gate. Then, through the chaos, a sound pierced the air¡ªa flute, its notes soft and melodic. The tune was unlike anything heard before, soothing and tranquil, like a lullaby carried on a gentle breeze. The music flowed with an almost magical quality, its melody weaving through the screams and destruction, reaching even the monstrous entity that was the Demon King. The creature hesitated. Its massive form writhed and twisted as if in pain. The unholy screeches from its mouth turned into low growls, and its movements slowed. The melody continued, persistent and calming, as if speaking directly to the beast. Slowly, the darkness that had overtaken the Demon King began to recede. The writhing mass of his true form collapsed inward, shrinking, reshaping until, at last, the Demon King himself stood there once more. His purple hair was disheveled, and his crimson eyes flickered with confusion and exhaustion. He placed a clawed hand to his temple, rubbing it as a faint headache lingered. His breath came in heavy, uneven gasps as he steadied himself. "My lord! Are you alright?" Korran, who had come outside due to all this chaos, asked, his face a mix of concern and relief. He had never seen anything like that before. The Demon King glanced at him, his expression unreadable. "Yes... I¡¯m fine," he muttered, though his tone betrayed a hint of unease. Tores approached from the battlefield. He stopped a few paces away and bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment. "Where is Movok?" the Demon King asked, his voice firm, commanding. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it Korran straightened, his claws clenching at his sides. "He was injured fighting the hero. He¡¯s recovering as we speak," he replied. The Demon King¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°I see.¡± His tone was sharp, his mind already moving to the next steps. He turned to Korran, his crimson gaze burning with resolve. ¡°Korran, gather your forces and find the hero immediately. I will not allow him to recover.¡± Korran bowed deeply, his voice steady. "As you command, my lord." The Demon King shifted his attention to Tores. ¡°Tores, you and I will lead the monsters. We need to finish this now. Eslyn City has fallen, but there¡¯s no time to waste. We will march for Orvel.¡± Tores nodded. The Demon King¡¯s orders were swift and absolute. Korran wasted no time, rallying his forces and disappearing into the ruins to hunt the fleeing hero. Meanwhile, the Demon King and Tores took command of the remaining monsters. Their united force swept through the shattered remnants of Eslyn City like a storm. Without Duke Driesell to lead them or the hero to inspire them, the human soldiers fell one by one, their resistance crumbling under the relentless assault. The Demon King watched impassively as his forces razed the city to the ground. The screams of the humans and the roars of his monsters filled the air, but his expression remained cold. This was necessary¡ªnothing more, nothing less. The city of Eslyn was reduced to ash, and its people were no more than a memory. When the last human soldier fell and silence blanketed the ruins, the Demon King turned his gaze to the horizon. Beyond the smoldering remains of Eslyn, Orvel awaited¡ªa city that stood as a gateway to Conrad, the capital of the human kingdom. ¡°We will move now,¡± the Demon King said, his voice cutting through the quiet. The monsters roared in unison, their voices echoing across the wasteland as they began their march. The Demon King and Tores led the charge, their eyes set on Orvel. The path of destruction continued, and nothing would stand in their way. ----- The Demon King¡¯s army marched forward with an unstoppable force, a monstrous tide of destruction that swept through the desolate ruins of Eslyn and advanced toward Orvel. Their ranks were a chaotic blend of trolls with their towering frames and crude weapons, gnolls whose savage snarls echoed through the air, lizardmen wielding serrated blades, goblins with twisted grins, and beastmen driven by primal fury. Among them were countless other creatures born from darkness, their bloodlust driving them to annihilate all in their path. At their head marched the Demon King himself, his crimson eyes glowing with an unyielding resolve, and Tores whose voodoo magic twisted the battlefield into chaos. Orvel, standing as the final barrier before Conrad, was a city fortified with high walls and manned by thousands of soldiers and knights. At their helm was Marquis Ebran, a man not known for his strength but for his sharp, strategic mind. Under his leadership, the defenders of Orvel formed an ironclad wall of resistance. Ballistae and trebuchets were mounted atop the walls, and archers lined every parapet, their bows drawn and ready. Despite their fear, they stood firm, determined to protect their home. The first wave of monsters collided with Orvel¡¯s defenses like a battering ram. Trolls roared as they slammed their massive fists against the gates, their brute strength shaking the very foundations of the city. Arrows rained down upon them, but their thick hides shrugged off most of the attacks. Gnolls scrambled up the walls, their clawed hands finding purchase on the stone, while goblins used crude ladders to scale the fortifications. The defenders fought valiantly, spears piercing through flesh and swords cutting down the invaders, but for every monster they felled, two more took its place. Marquis Ebran stood atop the central tower, his piercing gaze analyzing the battlefield. "Focus the ballistae on the trolls! We cannot let them breach the gates! Archers, aim for the gnolls climbing the walls! Do not falter!" His orders rang out, steady and commanding, instilling a fleeting sense of hope in his soldiers. But hope began to waver as Tores entered the fray. With a flick of his wrist, the general unleashed dark voodoo magic that caused the very ground beneath the defenders to erupt in chaos. Thorned vines surged from the earth, ensnaring soldiers and dragging them down into the darkness. Those caught in his spell screamed in agony as their life force was drained, fueling Tores''s power. His crimson eyes gleamed with malice as he summoned spectral figures that struck fear into the hearts of even the bravest knights. The Demon King himself joined the battle, his presence alone enough to shatter morale. He strode through the battlefield with an unrelenting fury, his monstrous wings casting a shadow of despair over Orvel. When arrows and spells were hurled at him, he deflected them with ease. With a single swing of his clawed hand, he shattered barricades and sent soldiers flying, their armor crumpling like paper under his strength. The defenders fought with all their might, their weapons clashing against claws and fangs. But no matter how fiercely they resisted, the tide of monsters was unrelenting. Marquis Ebran, though a brilliant strategist, could not overcome the sheer brutality of the Demon King¡¯s army. His carefully laid plans crumbled as the walls of Orvel were breached. As the city fell into chaos, Marquis Ebran stood at the forefront of his men, his sword drawn and his eyes filled with defiance. "We will not yield! For the kingdom, for humanity itself!" he shouted, rallying his troops for one final stand. They charged forward, their cries echoing with desperate determination. But the Demon King descended upon them like a storm, his claws tearing through their ranks with ease. Marquis Ebran met him head-on, his blade clashing against the Demon King¡¯s claws. Sparks flew as their battle raged, but it was clear the Marquis was no match for the Demon King¡¯s overwhelming power. With a single, devastating strike, the Demon King sent Marquis Ebran crashing to the ground, his sword falling from his grasp. As the Marquis lay there, bloodied and defeated, he looked up at the towering figure of the Demon King, his vision blurring. His final thoughts were of his family, of the kingdom he had sworn to protect, and of the bitter reality that he had failed. The Demon King¡¯s army roared in triumph as Orvel burned. The once-proud city was reduced to ashes, its defenders slain, its people left to flee or perish. The Demon King stood amidst the ruins, his crimson eyes turning toward the horizon. ¡°Conrad is next,¡± he declared, his voice cold and absolute. With Orvel''s destruction complete, the Demon King¡¯s army resumed its march, their monstrous footsteps echoing through the desolate lands as they advanced toward Conrad. Fear gripped the hearts of all who awaited their arrival, for they knew the storm that was coming could not be stopped. Chapter 36 The Demon King¡¯s army reached the gates of Conrad, their monstrous forms spreading terror through the capital city. Despite the thick walls and desperate resistance of the remaining knights and soldiers, their efforts were like a pebble thrown against an unstoppable wave. Trolls shattered gates with their immense strength, goblins swarmed through cracks in the defenses, and gnolls howled as they tore through the remaining resistance. The streets of the once-prosperous city became a battlefield drenched in blood and littered with the cries of despair. Yet the Demon King paid no heed to the carnage around him. He left the chaos in the hands of his generals and began his deliberate march toward the palace. His crimson eyes glowed with malice as he ascended the steps leading to the grand gates. No guards remained to bar his entry. Their bodies lay broken along the path, their blood staining the stone as a silent testimony to his wrath. The grand doors to the palace court creaked open under his claws, the sound reverberating through the silent halls. The room was eerily still, devoid of the bustling ministers and noblemen who once filled it. Only one figure remained. At the end of the hall, upon the gilded throne, sat King Serom. His face was pale, worn with age and burdened by the weight of what was about to transpire. His crown sat crooked atop his head, and his robes hung loose, a shadow of the majesty they once represented.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. ¡°You¡¯re finally here,¡± the king spoke, his voice low and weary, carrying the weight of countless lives lost. He straightened in his seat, his frail hands gripping the armrests as if the throne itself were the last remnant of his authority. The Demon King paused, his gaze cold and unyielding as it swept over the empty seats of the court. ¡°It seems the rest of your ministers have fled,¡± he remarked, his voice dripping with disdain. King Serom gave a weak nod. ¡°I ordered them to leave,¡± he admitted. ¡°There was no point in them staying. Their lives would have been wasted.¡± The Demon King tilted his head slightly, an unsettling grin forming on his face. ¡°And yet, here you are. Why didn¡¯t you flee with them? Did you think staying here would change your fate?¡± The king met his gaze, his eyes resolute despite the tremor in his voice. ¡°Even if I fled, you would have found me eventually. This city, my kingdom, would still fall to your hands.¡± ¡°True,¡± the Demon King said, taking slow, deliberate steps toward the throne. His claws gleamed under the flickering light of the chandeliers. ¡°Any last words, old man? Speak them now before I silence you forever.¡± The king took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling with visible effort. ¡°Why?¡± he asked, his voice cracking slightly. ¡°Why have you done this? Why did you kill so many innocent people? Destroy so many lives? Was it necessary?¡± The Demon King stopped a few paces away, his expression darkening. ¡°Hadn¡¯t I told you before? That¡¯s a foolish question,¡± he growled. His voice echoed through the hall, sending a shiver down the spine of the frail king. ¡°You humans and I¡ªno, my kind¡ªcan never share the same skies." As his words hung in the air, the Demon King raised his claws, their sharp edges gleaming with a dark energy. He moved closer, his steps slow and deliberate, each one reverberating through the hollow chamber. The king remained seated, his trembling hands clutching the armrests as he watched his doom approach. ¡°Your time is over.¡± With those words, the Demon King slashed his claws in one swift, brutal motion. The king¡¯s neck split open, and a spray of blood erupted from the wound, staining the golden throne a deep crimson. King Serom¡¯s lifeless body slumped to the side, his crown falling to the floor with a dull clang. His eyes, once filled with hope and responsibility, now stared blankly into the void. The Demon King watched the lifeless body for a moment before grabbing it by the arm and tossing it aside like discarded trash. The sound of the body hitting the cold marble floor echoed through the silent chamber. With slow, deliberate steps, the Demon King ascended the blood-stained dais and lowered himself onto the throne. The once-pristine seat of the kingdom¡¯s power was now drenched in blood, a gruesome symbol of his conquest. He leaned back, his crimson eyes surveying the empty hall as a sinister grin spread across his face. Outside, the city burned, its once-thriving streets filled with screams and the sound of crumbling stone. The kingdom¡¯s banners were torn down, replaced by the ominous sigil of the Demon King. As he sat on the throne, the embodiment of destruction and power, the world beyond trembled, for they knew that the age of humanity was coming to a close¡ªand the age of darkness had begun. ------ Hello, readers! The prologue has come to an end, and starting tomorrow, the main story begins! Stay tuned, and I hope you¡¯ll to enjoy the adventure ahead! From tomorrow, there will be one chapter daily. The beginning (1) The dense forest stretched endlessly before them, its towering trees swaying gently as a cool breeze rustled their leaves. Two figures dashed through the undergrowth, their breaths ragged and hurried. A young man led the way, his sword strapped tightly to his back, while a young woman trailed behind, her golden hair catching faint glimmers of sunlight that broke through the canopy. ¡°Run faster, Saintess!¡± the young man urged, glancing over his shoulder with worry etched on his face. Sweat clung to his brow, but his focus never wavered. ¡°I-I think¡­ they¡¯re not following us anymore¡­¡± the woman panted, clutching at her chest as she leaned against a tree for support. Her voice trembled, a mixture of exhaustion and fear. Her companion hesitated, his sharp eyes scanning the surroundings. The forest was eerily silent now, save for the rustling leaves and the distant call of a bird. He gripped the hilt of his sword and moved a few paces back, his instincts heightened. ¡°Let me check,¡± he said softly, disappearing into the shadows. Minutes passed, each one stretching endlessly. The Saintess, still trying to catch her breath, clutched a small pendant hanging from her neck, her only source of comfort in these dark times. Finally, the young man returned, his expression lighter. ¡°I don¡¯t sense anyone nearby. Looks like we managed to lose them,¡± he said, his tense shoulders relaxing slightly. He sank onto the mossy ground, patting the spot beside him. ¡°Come. Rest, Saintess. You look exhausted.¡± She hesitated before lowering herself onto the ground. The forest floor was damp and cool, offering a brief respite. For a while, they sat in silence, the weight of their reality pressing down on them like a storm cloud. ¡°For how long¡­ for how long do we have to keep hiding like this?¡± the Saintess finally whispered, her voice barely audible. Her golden eyes, once bright with hope, now brimmed with despair. She looked at him, searching for an answer that might ease her turmoil. The young man lowered his gaze, his jaw tightening. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he admitted quietly, his voice tinged with helplessness. This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. The Saintess clutched her knees to her chest, her face hidden behind her trembling hands. ¡°It¡¯s been five months¡­ five months since everything changed,¡± she murmured, her voice breaking. Her words carried the weight of countless memories¡ªof laughter, of peace, of a world now reduced to ashes. Five months. That was all it had taken for the Demon King to plunge the world into chaos. The human kingdom had fallen first, its cities razed, its people slaughtered or enslaved. The kingdoms of the orcs, dwarves, and elves soon followed, their proud nations brought to their knees. The orcs, once fierce warriors, were now used as mere pawns, the first to charge into battles they could not win. The dwarves, known for their craftsmanship, were forced to forge weapons for their oppressors, their proud hands bound by chains. And the elves¡­ the elves, with their unyielding pride, had chosen death over servitude. Many had ended their own lives rather than bow to the Demon King¡¯s rule. But the cruelty did not end there. Humanity had been spared annihilation¡ªnot out of mercy, but out of malice. Humans were nothing more than cattle now, kept alive only to fuel the Demon King¡¯s dark rituals. Entire villages were herded like livestock, their inhabitants sacrificed one by one to strengthen his unholy power. The Saintess shuddered at the thought, her nails digging into her palms. ¡°The elves, the dwarves, the orcs¡­ everyone¡¯s gone,¡± she whispered, her voice cracking. ¡°And now we¡¯re just¡­ we¡¯re just running, hiding, while he grows stronger every day. How are we supposed to fight against *that*?¡± The hero clenched his fists, his knuckles white. He had no answers, no words of comfort to offer her. All he had was the faint hope that somewhere, somehow, they would find a way to resist. ¡°I don¡¯t know how we¡¯ll win,¡± he admitted, his voice low but firm. ¡°But as long as we¡¯re alive, Saintess, there¡¯s still a chance. We have to believe in that, no matter how small it is.¡± The Saintess turned her tear-streaked face toward him, her eyes filled with both doubt and the tiniest flicker of hope. For a moment, neither spoke. The forest around them seemed to hold its breath, as if mourning alongside them. ¡°We¡¯ll find a way,¡± the hero said, his voice steadier now. ¡°We have to. For everyone who couldn¡¯t escape. For everyone who believed in us.¡± The Saintess nodded faintly, though her heart still ached. The road ahead was dark, and the shadows of their past loomed large. But for now, they had each other¡ªand the faint glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, they could make things right. ¡°Anyway,¡± the Saintess began, breaking the silence as she turned her gaze to the hero. ¡°How¡¯s your training going? Are you¡­ still not able to communicate with the gods?¡± The question hung in the air, heavy with concern. The hero¡¯s expression darkened, and he shook his head slowly, the frustration evident in his tightened jaw. "No,¡± he admitted, his voice low. ¡°I still can¡¯t.¡± The Saintess frowned, her golden eyes clouded with worry. Every hero was chosen by the gods, blessed with their favor and the ability to communicate with them. Through this connection, they received guidance and strength to fight against evil. But ever since the battle with the Demon King five months ago, that sacred bond had been severed. ¡°I don¡¯t know why,¡± the hero continued, his hands clenching into fists. ¡°Maybe it¡¯s because I didn¡¯t complete the trial. Maybe it¡¯s because I used my powers recklessly when we escaped. Or maybe¡­¡± His voice faltered, his words catching in his throat. "Maybe it¡¯s because the Demon King won. Maybe¡­ they¡¯ve abandoned me.¡± The Saintess lowered her gaze, her heart aching at the bitterness in his tone. She wanted to say something, anything, to ease his burden, but the truth was, she didn¡¯t have the answers either. ¡°I see,¡± she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. For a moment, silence enveloped them again, broken only by the distant chirping of birds. Then, a faint rumbling sound filled the air. The Saintess froze, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment as she wrapped her arms around her stomach. The hero turned to her, his lips twitching into the faintest smile. ¡°Umm¡­ I think you¡¯re hungry,¡± he said, trying to lighten the mood. The Saintess looked away, her face growing redder. ¡°Um¡­ yes,¡± she admitted sheepishly. ¡°Well, wait here. I¡¯ll find something for us to eat,¡± the hero said, standing and brushing the dirt off his clothes. ¡°Let¡¯s go together,¡± she offered, though her body betrayed her exhaustion. ¡°No.¡± The hero shook his head, his tone firm but gentle. ¡°You¡¯re already tired. Stay here and rest. I¡¯ll be back soon.¡± The Saintess hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. ¡°Okay. Be careful.¡± The hero nodded and moved into the dense forest, his steps light and cautious. The earthy scent of moss and damp soil filled the air as he scanned the surroundings. His sharp eyes searched for any signs of fruit-bearing trees or edible plants. After a while, he spotted a tree with clusters of bright, round fruits hanging from its branches. He approached and inspected the fruit carefully, his fingers running over its smooth surface. ¡°Doesn¡¯t seem poisonous,¡± he muttered, taking a cautious bite to test it. Satisfied, he began climbing higher to pluck more, his movements agile and practiced. As he reached a higher branch, his gaze wandered beyond the tree¡¯s canopy. That¡¯s when he saw it¡ªa small figure lying motionless on the forest floor. His breath hitched as he squinted, realizing it was a little boy. Without hesitation, he climbed down swiftly, the fruits forgotten. He sprinted toward the figure, his heart pounding in his chest. Kneeling beside the boy, he carefully turned him over. The little boy was no older than thirteen, his face pale and gaunt, his body unnaturally cold to the touch. ¡°Hey, are you okay?¡± the hero asked urgently, shaking the boy gently. The little boy stirred weakly, his lips trembling as he tried to speak. ¡°P-please¡­¡± he whispered, his voice barely audible. ¡°Save Mama¡­ Save Mama¡­¡± The boy¡¯s words were desperate, filled with a pain far too heavy for someone so young. Before the hero could respond, the child¡¯s eyes fluttered shut, his body slowly going limp in the hero¡¯s arms. The beginning (2) The little boy lay limp in the hero''s trembling arms, his pale face like that of a ghost, his closed eyes shadowed by exhaustion and hunger. Each shallow breath the little boy took seemed weaker than the last, his small body growing colder against the hero''s warmth. ¡°Hey! Wake up! Wake up!¡± the hero shouted desperately, shaking the boy gently. His voice cracked, the panic rising in his chest. But the boy didn¡¯t stir, his breathing slowing with every passing moment. The hero¡¯s mind raced, his thoughts a chaotic whirl. He couldn¡¯t lose him¡ªnot like this. Without a second¡¯s hesitation, he turned and bolted through the forest, the little boy clutched tightly in his arms. ¡°Saintess! Saintess!¡± he yelled as he neared their resting spot, his voice loud and urgent. The Saintess, startled by his cries, jumped to her feet. ¡°What happened?¡± she asked, her golden eyes widening as the hero emerged from the trees, carrying the boy. ¡°Please!¡± the hero pleaded, lowering the boy gently onto the soft grass. ¡°Take a look at him. What¡¯s wrong with him? Can you help him?¡± The Saintess knelt beside the boy, her heart sinking at the sight of his frail form. His cheeks were sunken, his skin pale and clammy. ¡°It looks like he¡¯s been starving for a long time,¡± she murmured, her voice heavy with sorrow. She placed a hand gently on his forehead. ¡°Let me try to heal him.¡± Closing her eyes, the Saintess took a deep breath and extended her hands over the child. A radiant golden light began to emanate from her palms, soft and warm, bathing the boy in its gentle glow. The light shimmered like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, bringing with it a sense of peace. The hero watched in silence, his heart pounding as he clutched his sword hilt nervously. Slowly, the boy¡¯s breathing steadied, his color returning as the light worked its miracle. His eyelids fluttered before opening halfway, revealing tired but alive eyes. ¡°Who¡­?¡± the boy whispered weakly, his voice a fragile thread. The hero crouched beside him, a relieved smile breaking across his face. This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. ¡°Hey, are you okay?¡± he asked softly. The boy blinked, his small body trembling as tears welled in his eyes. ¡°Mama¡­ Please¡­ save Mama!¡± he cried, his voice breaking with fear and urgency. ¡°Calm down,¡± the hero said, his tone soothing but firm. He placed a hand on the boy¡¯s shoulder, trying to steady him. ¡°Take a deep breath and tell me what happened to your mama.¡± The boy sniffled, his small fists clenching as he tried to speak through his sobs. ¡°Small green monsters¡­ they attacked our village! They hurt everyone!¡± His voice wavered, the trauma in his words striking both the hero and the Saintess deeply. ¡°Goblins,¡± the Saintess said quietly, her expression darkening as she realized the nature of the threat. ¡°Please¡­ help my village,¡± the boy begged, his tear-streaked face looking up at them with desperate hope. ¡°What¡¯s your name, little one?¡± the hero asked gently. ¡°Kenta,¡± the boy replied, his voice trembling. The hero gave him a reassuring nod. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Kenta. We¡¯ll help you.¡± The Saintess frowned, concern etched on her face. ¡°But what if the goblins report back to the Demon King? If he learns about us, it could be disastrous.¡± The hero stood, his expression resolute. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter. I can¡¯t use all my powers right now anyway, and¡­ I¡¯m tired of running. Tired of hiding. If helping this boy and his village means risking everything, then so be it.¡± The Saintess hesitated for a moment, then nodded. She could see the fire in his eyes, the determination that had always defined him. ¡°Okay. Let¡¯s go,¡± she said, her voice steady. Before they could move, a loud rumbling interrupted them. Both the Saintess and Kenta froze, their faces flushing with embarrassment as their stomachs betrayed their hunger. The hero chuckled softly, the first light moment amidst the heavy air. ¡°Alright,¡± he said with a smirk, shouldering his sword. ¡°Let¡¯s find something to eat on the way. I¡¯ll pluck some fruits as we go.¡± The Saintess smiled faintly, and Kenta managed a small nod, though his eyes still carried the weight of his plea. With purpose renewed, the three of them rose, setting out toward the village that awaited salvation. As the hero, Saintess, and Kenta walked through the dense forest, the earthy scent of moss and damp soil filled the air, mingling with the occasional rustle of leaves above. The sunlight filtered through the canopy, casting dappled patterns of light and shadow on the forest floor. The faint chirping of birds and the gentle hum of insects added a rhythm to their steps. They stopped by a sturdy tree with branches heavy with ripe fruit. The hero glanced up, then leaped gracefully, his boots crunching against the bark as he climbed. He plucked several fruits, their vibrant colors standing out against the greens and browns of the forest, and dropped them carefully into his arms. ¡°Here,¡± he said, handing one to Kenta and another to the Saintess. ¡°Eat up.¡± Kenta eagerly bit into the fruit, its juices running down his chin. The Saintess smiled softly, watching him, before taking a bite herself. ¡°By the way, Kenta,¡± the Saintess said, wiping her hands on her robe. ¡°Do you remember where your village is?¡± Kenta nodded, his small hands clutching the half-eaten fruit. ¡°Yes, my village is at the southern end of this forest.¡± The Saintess frowned slightly, concern flickering in her eyes. ¡°That¡¯s quite far. How did you end up all the way here?¡± Kenta¡¯s expression darkened, his hands trembling slightly. ¡°The goblins¡­ they kidnapped me. But on the way, they ran into another monster. There was fighting, and¡­ I ran away.¡± The Saintess placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, her golden eyes soft. ¡°You did well, Kenta. That was very brave of you.¡± A small, shy smile tugged at Kenta¡¯s lips, though fear still lingered in his gaze. After finishing their fruits, the three continued southward. The sound of their footsteps brushing through the tall grass was accompanied by the occasional crunch of twigs beneath their boots. The forest felt alive around them¡ªbranches creaked softly in the wind, and the distant rustle of unseen creatures reminded them they weren¡¯t alone. Suddenly, the hero halted mid-step, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword. The air shifted, and the subtle sounds of the forest seemed to fade, replaced by an eerie silence. ¡°Stop,¡± he said firmly, his voice low but commanding. The Saintess paused, her brow furrowing. ¡°What is it?¡± ¡°They¡¯re here,¡± the hero murmured, his eyes scanning the shadows ahead. Before she could ask further, the sound of guttural snickers and the crunching of leaves broke through the quiet. From the undergrowth ahead, five goblins emerged, their green skin glinting in the scattered sunlight. Their yellow eyes gleamed with malice, and their jagged teeth were bared in cruel grins. Each carried crude weapons¡ªrusty daggers, splintered clubs, and makeshift spears. ¡°Humans¡­ kree¡­¡± one of them hissed, its voice raspy and sharp, sending a chill through the air. ¡°Little human¡­ and female human¡­ kree!¡± another cackled, its gaze flickering hungrily between Kenta and the Saintess. ¡°The chief will be happy¡­ very happy¡­ kree!¡± They snickered and advanced, their movements jerky but purposeful. Kenta froze, his small body trembling as he clung to the Saintess¡¯s robes. The faint scent of fear lingered in the air, and his breaths came in shallow gasps. The Saintess placed a protective arm around him, her gaze hardening as she looked at the goblins. ¡°Saintess,¡± the hero said, his voice calm but filled with an undercurrent of steel. ¡°Take Kenta and stay back. I¡¯ll handle this.¡± The Saintess hesitated for a moment, glancing between the hero and the advancing goblins. She then nodded, her grip tightening on Kenta¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Come, Kenta. Stay close to me.¡± She guided the boy a few steps back, the crunching grass beneath their feet seeming deafening in the tense silence. The hero stepped forward, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. The goblins cackled louder, their jagged weapons glinting as they shifted into offensive stances. ¡°Just five of you?¡± the hero muttered under his breath, his lips curling into a grim smile. ¡°This won¡¯t take long.¡± As the goblins charged, the sound of their guttural cries mixed with the rustling of leaves and the faint rustle of the wind. The hero unsheathed his sword with a sharp metallic ring, its blade catching the sunlight as the battle began. The beginning (3) The five goblins snarled, their jagged teeth bared and their yellow eyes gleaming with malicious intent. They gripped their crude weapons tightly¡ªrusty daggers, splintered clubs, and crude spears¡ªbefore letting out a guttural war cry. The hero stood firm in front of them, his sword gleaming in the dim sunlight filtering through the trees. The wind rustled the leaves overhead, but he didn¡¯t flinch. His grip on his weapon tightened, and his sharp gaze remained fixed on the goblins. With a shrill scream, the goblins charged at him. Their heavy steps crushed the grass underfoot as they surged forward. The first goblin lunged with its rusty dagger aimed for the hero¡¯s chest. The hero sidestepped with a swift and fluid motion, the goblin¡¯s blade slicing through empty air. Before the creature could react, the hero brought the pommel of his sword down on its head, sending it sprawling to the ground. Another goblin swung its club in a wild arc, aiming to crush the hero¡¯s ribs. The hero ducked just in time, the wind of the strike ruffling his hair. Without hesitation, he countered with a powerful kick to the goblin¡¯s stomach, sending it tumbling backward into the dirt with a grunt. Suddenly, the hero caught movement from the corner of his eye¡ªa goblin breaking away from the fight and charging toward the Saintess and Kenta. His heart pounded as he shouted, ¡°Stay back!¡± Acting quickly, he grabbed the nearest goblin by the arm, spun it around with startling strength, and hurled it toward the fleeing one. Both goblins collided with a sickening thud, tumbling into a heap. The hero didn¡¯t waste a second. He turned to face the goblins again, his blade gleaming as he brought it down in a clean arc. The first goblin didn¡¯t even have time to scream before the sharp steel bit into its neck. Blood sprayed into the air as its head rolled to the ground, and its lifeless body collapsed with a dull thud. The remaining goblins howled in rage at the death of their comrade. Their movements grew frenzied as they all lunged at the hero at once. The hero exhaled sharply, his muscles tensing as he prepared to meet their assault. He swung his sword in a wide, precise arc, the blade slicing cleanly through one goblin¡¯s chest. Blood splattered across the ground as the goblin fell with a gurgled cry.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. Another goblin lunged at him from the side, its crude spear aimed for his shoulder. The hero twisted, avoiding the tip by mere inches. He delivered a powerful kick to its chest, sending it hurtling into the goblin beside it. Both creatures crashed into a tree, their blood staining the trunk. The final goblin hesitated for a moment, its yellow eyes flickering with fear. But it was too late. The hero surged forward with astonishing speed, his blade thrusting into its chest with deadly precision. The goblin let out a choking gasp before crumpling to the ground, motionless. The forest fell silent once more, save for the distant rustle of leaves and the faint chirping of birds. The hero stood amidst the carnage, his breathing steady as he wiped the blood from his blade with a leaf. He turned back toward the Saintess and Kenta, his eyes softening. ¡°Are you two okay?¡± he asked, his voice calm despite the recent battle. ¡°Yes,¡± the Saintess said, her hands still protectively on Kenta¡¯s shoulders. She offered a small, relieved smile. ¡°Thank you.¡± ¡°You¡¯re really strong!¡± Kenta said, his eyes wide with admiration. ¡°Will you teach me how to use a sword?¡± The hero crouched down to Kenta¡¯s level, resting the blade of his sword against the ground. ¡°Why do you want to learn that?¡± he asked gently. Kenta¡¯s small fists clenched at his sides, determination shining in his eyes. ¡°If I get stronger, I can protect everyone myself. I won¡¯t have to run away anymore.¡± The hero studied the boy for a moment before a faint smile crossed his lips. ¡°Okay,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ll teach you.¡± Kenta¡¯s face lit up, a smile breaking through his earlier fear. ¡°Thank you!¡± he said, his voice filled with hope. The hero rose to his feet, sheathing his sword. ¡°Let¡¯s keep moving,¡± he said, nodding toward the forest path ahead. As the three of them resumed their journey, the tension of the battle slowly ebbed away. The sound of their footsteps brushing through the grass mixed with the rustling leaves, and despite the dangers that lay ahead, there was a renewed sense of purpose in their stride. ---- The three of them continued their journey, weaving through the dense forest. The faint sounds of chirping birds and the soft rustling of leaves accompanied their steady footsteps. Kenta clutched the Saintess''s hand tightly, his earlier fear giving way to a glimmer of hope. Surprisingly, no monsters crossed their path. The hero¡¯s sharp senses picked up nothing but the gentle hum of nature as they moved through the towering trees and the soft grass beneath their feet. As they pressed onward, the forest began to thin, and sunlight spilled through the gaps in the canopy, casting golden patches on the ground. Eventually, they reached an open area. Before them stretched a vast clearing, and in the distance, a small village came into view. Kenta''s eyes lit up, and he tugged at the Saintess''s sleeve excitedly. ¡°That¡¯s my village!¡± he exclaimed, pointing toward the cluster of wooden houses nestled at the southern edge of the forest. The Saintess smiled warmly, her hand resting gently on Kenta¡¯s head. ¡°We¡¯ve finally arrived,¡± she said, her voice filled with relief. ¡°Let¡¯s go quickly,¡± the hero urged, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword, still wary of any lurking dangers. The three of them hurried toward the village. As they approached the outskirts, the villagers emerged cautiously from their homes, their faces tense and wary. Their hands clutched farming tools and crude weapons, ready to defend their home. But then, their eyes fell on Kenta. ¡°Kenta!¡± a woman¡¯s voice broke through the tension, trembling with emotion. A woman with disheveled hair and tear-streaked cheeks pushed through the small crowd. Her eyes widened as she saw the boy. ¡°My baby!¡± she cried, rushing forward. ¡°Mom!¡± Kenta shouted, breaking free from the Saintess and running into his mother¡¯s open arms. She knelt down and pulled him close, tears streaming down her face as she clutched him tightly. ¡°I thought I lost you forever,¡± she whispered, her voice breaking. The villagers lowered their weapons, their guarded expressions softening into relief and gratitude. ¡°Thank you so much for bringing my son back to me,¡± Kenta¡¯s mother said, her voice trembling as she turned to the hero and the Saintess. The hero stepped forward, his expression kind but firm. ¡°It was the least we could do,¡± he said. ¡°But... where is Kenta¡¯s father?¡± A heavy silence fell over the group. An older man stepped forward, his weathered face marked with sorrow. His back was slightly hunched, but his presence commanded quiet respect. ¡°He died protecting this village from monsters,¡± the old man said solemnly, his voice steady despite the weight of his words. ¡°Grandpa!¡± Kenta¡¯s voice broke the moment as he spotted the old man. He ran toward him and was immediately scooped up into a tight embrace. ¡°My boy,¡± the old man said, his voice thick with emotion. ¡°You¡¯ve been so brave. I¡¯m so proud of you.¡± Kenta buried his face in his grandfather¡¯s shoulder, tears of relief spilling down his cheeks. The hero and the Saintess stepped back, giving the family space to reunite. The old man turned to them after a moment, his arms still around Kenta. ¡°Thank you for saving my grandson. My daughter was beside herself with worry. I owe you more than words can express.¡± The Saintess smiled gently, and the hero nodded, humility in his stance. Later, after Kenta had gone with his mother, the hero and Saintess sat with the villagers to discuss their stay. The villagers surrounded them, their faces a mixture of curiosity and gratitude. ¡°Is there anything we can do to repay you?¡± Kenta¡¯s grandfather asked, his tone earnest. The hero hesitated for a moment. "If it¡¯s not too much trouble... could we stay here for a few days? We¡¯ve been traveling for a long time and need some rest.¡± The old man waved his hand dismissively. ¡°Why only a few days? You¡¯re welcome to stay as long as you like. This village will always have room for those who saved one of our own.¡± The hero¡¯s shoulders relaxed, and a small smile touched his lips. ¡°Thank you. That means a lot to us.¡± The old man smiled warmly. ¡°It¡¯s the least we can do for my grandson¡¯s saviors.¡± The villagers slowly returned to their tasks, the tension that had gripped the village earlier replaced by a sense of calm. The hero and Saintess exchanged a glance, their unspoken relief mirrored in their eyes. For the first time in what felt like ages, they had found a place where they could rest, even if just for a little while. Goblin’s attack (1) The hero and Saintess settled into the village, quickly becoming part of the community. Each day, the hero would wake up early to train, practicing his sword swings beneath the golden morning light. His strikes were sharp, precise, a reflection of his unwavering determination. Yet, between his own training, he also took the time to teach Kenta, guiding the boy on how to hold a weapon properly, how to defend himself, and more importantly, how to protect others. Kenta listened with bright eyes, absorbing every lesson with fierce dedication. His small hands, though weak, gripped the wooden sword with determination. Meanwhile, the Saintess spent her time helping in the village fields. The villagers relied on farming to survive, and she eagerly joined them in tending to the crops, her hands covered in dirt as she worked beside them. Despite the hard labor, she smiled warmly, her presence bringing comfort to those around her. The villagers had quickly grown fond of them, treating them like family. Meals were shared, stories were exchanged, and laughter filled the air as they sat around the fire at night. Strangely, despite the usual threats of monsters, the village remained untouched. It was an odd relief, but an unsettling one. One evening, as the hero sat with the village chief by the warm glow of a lantern, he finally voiced his thoughts. ¡°May I ask you something?¡± the hero asked, his voice careful. The village chief, an older man with kind yet tired eyes, nodded. ¡°Of course, lad. What¡¯s on your mind?¡± The hero hesitated for a moment, then spoke. ¡°Why aren¡¯t monsters attacking this village? I mean... don¡¯t get me wrong, it¡¯s a good thing. But it just feels strange.¡± The chief chuckled, his deep voice carrying a hint of amusement. ¡°I understand your concern. No need to feel awkward.¡± The smile on his face faded slightly as he leaned back, his gaze drifting toward the distant mountain that loomed beyond the village. ¡°To be honest, even I don¡¯t have a clear answer,¡± he admitted. ¡°But according to some of our villagers, we¡¯re safe because of a monster.¡± The hero¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°A monster? What do you mean?¡± The chief let out a long sigh before continuing. ¡°Just across the village, beyond the forest path where monsters usually roam, there¡¯s a mountain. A few months ago, some villagers went there in search of herbs.¡± His voice grew lower, more serious. ¡°They heard something. Shouts, roars, the screams of monsters. The sounds of a battle unlike anything they had ever witnessed.¡± The hero listened intently, his grip on his sword tightening unconsciously. ¡°They cautiously moved closer and saw a horrifying sight.¡± The chief¡¯s expression darkened. If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. ¡°The bodies of countless monsters, lying scattered across the ground. Every single one of them had been killed in the same brutal way¡ªburnt, slashed apart as if by a single force.¡± The flickering glow of the lantern cast shifting shadows on the wooden walls, filling the small hut with a quiet, almost eerie atmosphere. The hero sat across from the village chief, his golden eyes reflecting the dim light as he listened intently. ¡°And no one saw what did it?¡± Asael asked, his voice low. The chief shook his head. ¡°No one. But everyone believes that no monsters dare come near this village because they fear that creature.¡± Silence stretched between them, the distant sounds of crickets and rustling leaves the only things filling the night air. Hero exhaled slowly, his mind racing. A single entity strong enough to wipe out hordes of monsters¡­ without anyone even catching a glimpse of it? That wasn¡¯t normal. It was terrifying. And if such a being truly existed¡­ was it friend or foe? ¡°Do you have any idea what kind of monster it could be?¡± Hero finally asked, his voice steady, though his grip on his sword had unconsciously tightened. The village chief furrowed his brows, his fingers tracing the rim of the clay cup in his hands. ¡°Well¡­ I¡¯ve seen those bodies with my own eyes.¡± He paused as if recalling the gruesome sight. ¡°Judging by the burnt marks and the deep slashes, I¡¯d say it could be hellhounds.¡± Hero frowned. Hellhounds. Vicious creatures born from darkness, wreathed in flames, known for their relentless brutality. If it had been them, then this village should have been burned to the ground long ago. ¡°But there wasn¡¯t any sound of howling,¡± the chief continued, shaking his head. ¡°And if it were truly hellhounds, they wouldn¡¯t have stopped there. They aren¡¯t the kind to protect anything. If anything, they would have slaughtered us all without hesitation.¡± The old man sighed, leaning back. ¡°Whatever it is, we¡¯re safe because of it. That¡¯s all that matters.¡± Hero remained silent. A monster helping humans? That went against everything he knew. He muttered under his breath, almost to himself, ¡°A monster¡­ protecting a village?¡± The chief smiled slightly. ¡°Unbelievable, isn¡¯t it, Hero?¡± Hero¡¯s breath hitched. His golden eyes widened slightly as he turned toward the chief. His expression remained composed, but inside, his heart pounded. ¡°Hero?¡± He forced a chuckle, shaking his head. ¡°What do you mean? I¡¯m just a simple soldier. Nothing more.¡± The chief merely gave him an amused look. ¡°What was the name you told me?¡± ¡°¡­Asael.¡± Hero said. The old man nodded. ¡°Asael¡­ If you truly want to hide yourself, you should hide your golden eyes.¡± His tone was gentle, not accusing, but firm. ¡°Hardly anyone has them anymore.¡± Hero''s, no, Asael¡¯s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. ¡°And that girl, Anne¡­¡± The chief¡¯s eyes glimmered with knowing. ¡°She must be the Saintess, correct?¡± Asael clenched his jaw. The warm, rustic atmosphere of the village suddenly felt heavy. His secret¡ªone he had tried to keep buried¡ªwas no secret at all. The village chief watched him carefully, his expression kind yet firm. "Don''t worry," the old man finally spoke, his voice gentle. "I won¡¯t tell anyone. I just want you to be more careful." Before he could finish, Asael interrupted, his voice strained. "Don¡¯t you hate me?" The chief blinked. "Why would I?" Asael¡¯s fingers curled into his palms, his jaw tightening. "Because I failed," he said bitterly. "I couldn''t defeat the Demon King. Because of that, all these monsters are running loose, destroying homes, taking lives¡­ And all I¡¯ve been doing is hiding like a coward." The words hung heavy in the air. The weight of regret pressed on Asael¡¯s shoulders. The chief sighed, shaking his head. "It wasn¡¯t your fault," he said, his voice steady. "At the end of the day, you''re also human. You don¡¯t need to carry the weight of the world alone." "But¡ª!" Asael tried to protest, but the old man cut him off. "It¡¯s okay," the chief said firmly. "Don¡¯t waste your life regretting what has already happened. Think about what you can still do. You¡¯re alive, aren¡¯t you? As long as you live, you can still fight. You can still stop the Demon King." Asael¡¯s hands trembled slightly, but he said nothing. The village chief exhaled deeply before continuing. "You know, when my son-in-law went to fight against the monsters, I was there with him. I saw everything." His voice wavered for the first time, old pain surfacing. Asael looked up, his gaze meeting the old man¡¯s for the first time since the conversation started. "When the monsters killed him, I was there," the chief whispered. "I couldn¡¯t do anything. I still regret that. Every single day, I wonder if I could¡¯ve saved him." He paused, the sadness in his eyes deepening. "But I also know he wouldn¡¯t want me to waste my life drowning in guilt." He looked at Asael intently. "I moved forward because that¡¯s what he would¡¯ve wanted. And you¡­ you must have someone like that too. Someone who would want you to keep living." Asael swallowed hard. His throat felt dry, as if the words he wanted to say were trapped inside him. After a long silence, the chief gently asked, "Do you have family, Asael?" Asael took a slow breath, then exhaled. "I did," he murmured. "My family¡­ they died when our village was attacked by monsters. I was just a child." The chief said nothing, waiting for him to continue. "The Holy Temple took me in after that. They trained me, raised me, told me I was chosen to be the hero." His voice grew heavy. "They told me I was meant to save the world. But from that day until now¡­ I haven¡¯t saved anyone. Not my family. Not the villagers. No one." He lowered his head again, his hands clenching into fists. "What kind of hero am I?" The chief let out a quiet sigh. "I already told you¡ªit¡¯s not your fault," he said. "And you did save someone. You saved my grandson, didn''t you?" Asael remained silent. The chief studied him for a moment before deciding to change the subject. He reached into a small wooden chest and pulled out a tiny glass vial filled with dark liquid. "Here," he said, holding it out. Asael blinked, his brows furrowing. "What is it?" The chief smirked slightly. "An old trick from my younger days. I was an alchemist, you know." He chuckled before explaining, "Put two drops of this in your eyes, and the color will change to brown for twenty-four hours." Asael¡¯s eyes widened slightly. "Really?" The old man nodded. "I¡¯ll also give you the recipe. Keep making it, and you won¡¯t have to worry about being recognized." Asael stared at the vial for a moment before hesitantly reaching for it. His fingers closed around the glass, its cool surface grounding him. "...Thank you," he finally said, his voice softer this time. The chief smiled. "It¡¯s nothing. Consider it a small gift for saving my grandson¡¯s life." Asael looked down at the vial in his hand. Maybe he wasn¡¯t the hero the world needed. Maybe he had failed countless times. But maybe¡­ just maybe¡­ it wasn¡¯t too late to start over. Goblin’s attack (2) The hero, Asael, and the Saintess, Anne, continued to stay in the village for more days. Asael had followed village chief words and continued to use the potion to keep his eye color hidden. He was also curious about the mountain and that monster. But before he could decide to go there, a sound of bell crossed his ears. And the village air grew thick with tension. The rhythmic clang of the warning bell echoed through the air, its sharp sound cutting through the peaceful evening like a blade. Villagers rushed about in a panic, grabbing whatever they could to defend themselves. The once serene village was now alive with urgency. Asael''s grip on his sword tightened. He turned to a nearby villager. "What¡¯s happening?" "It seems like monsters are about to invade," the man said, his voice laced with anxiety. Asael exhaled sharply. It wasn¡¯t unexpected. Monsters attacking humans was a simple, cruel reality. Even if that mysterious mountain monster had kept them at bay until now, it was only a matter of time before they found another path. Just then, the village chief arrived, his voice steady despite the chaos. "Okay, everyone, no need to panic. Goblins are coming, so we must prepare!" A murmur of concern spread through the crowd, but the chief¡¯s calm demeanor kept them grounded. "A group will stay behind to protect the women, elderly, and children," he continued. "The rest of us will form a defense at the village gate. We must hold them off!" Asael stepped forward without hesitation. "Can I participate?" The chief met his gaze and nodded. "Of course. More warriors will increase our chances." With that, the village moved swiftly into action. Most of the villagers had no proper weapons or armor. Some held rusty swords passed down from ancestors, while others gripped farming tools¡ªhoes, pitchforks, and sickles. Their faces were hardened with determination, but fear lingered in their eyes. They weren¡¯t soldiers. They were farmers, fathers, and sons, forced to fight for their lives. Asael took his place among the dozen or so men standing at the village gate. The chief remained behind them, giving instructions, his voice steady despite the weight of the situation. Then, the goblins arrived. Twenty of them, their green, twisted forms emerging from the tree line. Their guttural growls and cruel, jagged weapons gleamed in the fading sunlight. But one among them stood out. A goblin shaman. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. It wore ragged robes, its skeletal frame adorned with crude jewelry made from bones. In its hands was a wooden staff, crackling with ominous energy. Asael¡¯s expression darkened. A shaman was trouble. It could cast spells to strengthen its allies and weaken its enemies. If left unchecked, this fight would become much harder. He turned to the villagers. "Everyone, focus on the goblins! I¡¯ll quickly take down the shaman!" A murmur of agreement passed through the group, though their hands trembled on their makeshift weapons. Asael exhaled, gripping his sword. The weight in his hands was familiar¡ªreassuring. Without hesitation, Asael charged forward, his sword gleaming under the dim light of the battlefield. His boots pounded against the dirt, kicking up dust as he rushed toward the goblin shaman. "Kree¡­ attack!" the shaman screeched, raising his gnarled staff high. The goblins snarled and rushed at Asael, their crude weapons glinting wickedly. The first goblin lunged at him, its jagged dagger aiming for his throat. But Asael twisted his body with practiced ease, dodging the strike. Without losing momentum, he surged forward. The second goblin, stationed in front of him, barely had time to react before Asael¡¯s blade sliced cleanly through its chest. A spray of dark green blood splattered across the battlefield as the creature let out a guttural gasp before collapsing. The third goblin came at him from the side, a rusted axe swinging wildly toward Asael¡¯s ribs. With lightning-fast reflexes, he caught the goblin by the head. The creature flailed, clawing at his wrist, but Asael slammed its skull into the ground with a sickening crunch. The goblin let out a shrill cry of pain, but Asael didn¡¯t stop. He raised its head again and smashed it down a second time¡ªthis time, green blood splattered across the dirt as the creature¡¯s body twitched violently before going limp. A shadow loomed behind him. Without looking, Asael swung his sword backward, the blade whistling through the air before cutting through flesh and bone. The first goblin, the one that had missed its initial attack, barely had time to react before its head was sent rolling across the battlefield. In mere moments, three goblins lay dead at his feet. The battlefield froze. Both goblins and humans alike halted their fights, their eyes locked onto Asael in stunned silence. The sheer brutality and efficiency of his movements sent a shiver of fear through the goblin ranks. Even the goblin shaman¡¯s beady eyes widened in shock. "Human¡­ strong," the creature rasped. But Asael had no time for hesitation. His golden eyes locked onto the shaman, his grip on his sword tightening. He moved forward without a moment''s pause, determined to cut the creature down before it could cast whatever foul magic it was preparing. The goblin shaman snapped back to attention, realizing the threat closing in. "Everyone! Charge at him! Kreeee!" the creature screeched. At the same time, it raised its staff and began chanting in a guttural, ancient tongue. Asael knew he had to stop it before the spell was complete. Two more goblins jumped in his path, blocking his advance. The first swung a jagged club at his head, but Asael ducked, his sword flashing as he severed the goblin¡¯s arm. The creature howled in agony, but Asael didn¡¯t give it the chance to recover¡ªhe drove his blade deep into its gut before yanking it free, sending its body crumpling to the dirt. The second goblin snarled and thrust a spear toward his chest. Asael sidestepped at the last second, grabbing the spear shaft and twisting it from the goblin¡¯s grip before driving his knee into its face. The impact sent the creature sprawling, and before it could scramble to its feet, Asael stomped down on its throat with a sickening crunch. He turned back toward the shaman¡ª "Too late¡­ kree.." The goblin shaman grinned, its incantation complete. A pulse of dark energy erupted from its staff, washing over the battlefield like a crimson tide. The remaining goblins shuddered violently, their bodies convulsing as the red aura engulfed them. Their muscles bulged, veins darkening, and their eyes glowed with eerie malice. Their snarls turned into deafening roars as their bodies pulsed with unnatural strength. The goblin shaman cackled. "Now¡­ attack!" The crazed goblins let out an ear-piercing war cry and rushed at Asael like rabid beasts, their movements erratic and frenzied. Asael exhaled sharply, gripping his sword tighter. His golden eyes flickered in the dim torchlight, scanning the battlefield. Fifteen goblins remained, but now, under the shaman¡¯s spell, they were different¡ªfaster, stronger, and far more aggressive. The humans, only twelve in number, were struggling. Their swords clashed desperately against the frenzied goblins, but for each enemy they cut down, another took its place. Five of the enhanced goblins surrounded Asael, their bodies twitching unnaturally as they circled him like predators waiting for an opening. Their bloodshot eyes gleamed with malice, their sharp claws twitching in anticipation. One goblin lunged, its dagger slicing through the air. Asael twisted his body, narrowly avoiding the strike. He countered immediately, swinging his sword in a deadly arc¡ªbut the goblin, moving with unnatural speed, barely dodged the attack. Another goblin rushed in from his blind spot. Asael turned to strike, but before his blade could land, a third goblin slammed into his side with full force, knocking him off balance. He stumbled, his boots scraping against the bloodstained dirt. They weren¡¯t trying to kill him. They were keeping him occupied. A fourth goblin slashed at his thigh. Asael barely blocked the attack, his sword locking against the goblin¡¯s rusted blade. But then the fifth goblin seized the opening, leaping onto his back, clawed hands grabbing at his shoulders. Pain flared as its nails dug into his flesh. Asael gritted his teeth. With a fierce growl, he spun violently, slamming his back against a nearby tree. The impact sent the goblin on his back howling in pain, its grip loosening just enough for Asael to grab it by the arm and hurl it over his shoulder. It crashed into the ground with a sickening crack. He wasted no time. The first goblin that had dodged his sword earlier lunged again. Asael met it halfway, his blade flashing downward. The goblin tried to dodge¡ªtoo slow. Steel sliced through its collarbone, cutting deep into its chest. Green blood sprayed across Asael¡¯s face, but he didn¡¯t flinch. The second goblin, the one that had pushed him earlier, let out a shriek and charged. Asael grabbed the dying goblin and shoved it forward, using its body as a shield. The charging goblin hesitated for a split second¡ªjust long enough for Asael to stab his sword through both of them. A wet, gurgling sound escaped their lips as they collapsed together. Three down. The fourth goblin rushed in from behind, trying to take advantage of Asael¡¯s momentary distraction. He sensed it. Without turning, he kicked backward with full force. His boot connected with the goblin¡¯s chest, sending it flying into the air. It tumbled across the battlefield, crashing into another goblin. Asael turned back just in time to see the fifth goblin scrambling to its feet, snarling. It tried to retreat, but Asael was faster. He dashed forward and brought his sword down in a clean, merciless strike. Its head rolled onto the ground before the body even fell. He exhaled heavily, his chest rising and falling as he looked at the bodies around him. Five goblins, gone. But as he turned his gaze back to the battlefield, his expression darkened. While he had been occupied, the remaining goblins had turned their attention to the other humans. And the shaman¡­ The goblin shaman stood further back, its hands raised as it finished another dark incantation. A sickly, red mist spread across the battlefield, and the remaining goblins roared in frenzy. The humans were overwhelmed by the change. And the fight was far from over. Goblin’s attack (3) The goblins, their eyes glowing red with unnatural fury, charged at the remaining humans. Their movements were erratic, faster than before, their sharpened claws gleaming under the moonlight. The humans, armed with whatever tools they had, braced themselves. A man wielding a pickaxe gritted his teeth, raising his weapon high as a goblin lunged at him. He swung with all his strength. The goblin, unnaturally quick, dodged at the last moment. The pickaxe struck the dirt with a heavy thud, burying itself deep into the ground. The man yanked at it desperately, but it wouldn¡¯t budge. Before he could react, the goblin pounced, snarling. He barely managed to throw himself backward, abandoning his weapon. His heartbeat pounded in his ears as he scrambled away. But the goblin didn¡¯t stop. It chased after him relentlessly, its dagger glinting under the torchlight. The man turned to flee, but his foot caught on a loose stone. He stumbled¡ªthen fell, his back slamming against the hard earth. His breath hitched. The goblin stood over him, dagger raised. This was it. But before the dagger could strike¡ª Clang! A sharp metallic sound echoed through the night. A blade had intercepted the goblin¡¯s attack. The man¡¯s wide eyes darted to his savior. It was Kenta. The boy stood before him, gripping a short sword¡ªno, a large dagger¡ªhis small frame trembling, but his eyes filled with resolve. ¡°Kenta?!¡± the man gasped. Kenta had slipped away from the villagers, running straight into the battlefield. The goblin snarled, momentarily surprised, but then it shoved Kenta back with a growl. The boy stumbled, barely keeping his footing. The goblin¡¯s dagger gleamed as it prepared to strike again. But before it could¡ª Slash! A blade cut through the night. The goblin¡¯s head rolled before its body even hit the ground. Asael stood behind it, his sword dripping with green blood. His golden eyes locked onto Kenta. "Good job." His voice was steady, but there was no praise in his tone. Only urgency. "But leave now." Before Kenta could protest, the village chief¡¯s voice rang out. This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. ¡°Kenta! Come back this instant!¡± Kenta hesitated, his fists clenched. But as he glanced at the man he had saved, then at Asael¡¯s serious gaze, he finally nodded and ran back, helping the injured man retreat. Asael turned his attention back to the battlefield. The villagers were fighting bravely, but they were struggling. The goblins¡¯ enhanced speed and strength were overwhelming them. And the goblin shaman was also attacking them. More men were injured, their makeshift weapons unable to match the monsters¡¯ relentless assault. He couldn¡¯t let this drag on any longer. He took a deep breath. Then he raised his sword high. ¡°Everyone, let¡¯s finish this!¡± Asael roared. His voice was like a battle cry. The villagers, though exhausted and wounded, found renewed strength. With a collective shout, they charged. The goblins shrieked, but they weren¡¯t as organized as before. The villagers, working together, managed to overwhelm them. Some villagers used torches to keep the goblins at bay, while others wielded farming tools to strike whenever an opening appeared. Asael moved like a whirlwind among them, his sword cutting through goblins with precision. One goblin tried to jump on him from behind. Without turning, Asael drove his sword backward, impaling the creature mid-air. Another swung its club at him, but he ducked, slashing its legs before finishing it with a stab through the heart. One by one, the goblins fell. Soon, only one remained. The goblin shaman. The hunched creature, seeing its forces annihilated, screeched in desperation. Its hands moved quickly, forming strange symbols in the air as it muttered an incantation. Asael dashed toward it, sword raised¡ª But just before he could reach it, a thick, dark mist erupted around the goblin. Asael slashed through the air, but his blade met nothing. By the time the mist faded, the goblin shaman was gone. A heavy silence settled over the battlefield. The villagers, battered and exhausted, looked around in disbelief. They had won. Asael wiped the green blood from his blade, his expression unreadable. The goblin shaman had escaped. And that meant trouble would come again. But for tonight¡­ The village was safe. The scent of blood still lingered in the air as the villagers worked together to clear the battlefield. The bodies of fallen goblins were dragged into a pile outside the village, their twisted forms illuminated by the flickering torchlight. Some villagers muttered prayers, others spat at the corpses, cursing the creatures for the havoc they had wrought. The wounded were carefully carried back to their homes, where their wounds were tended to with whatever herbs and bandages the village had. Some winced and groaned in pain, while others sat in silence, exhausted but relieved to have survived. Inside the village, the mood was completely different. Laughter and cheers filled the air. The villagers, though weary, had gathered to celebrate their survival. Makeshift tables were set up, and food was prepared in honor of their victory. A fire crackled at the center of the village square, casting warm light over the people as they clapped each other on the back and shared stories of the battle. But amidst the celebration, one person wasn¡¯t smiling. Kenta. The boy sat quietly on a wooden stool, his hands clenched into fists on his lap. His head was lowered, and his face was red¡ªnot from exhaustion, but from the scolding he was receiving. His grandfather, the village chief, stood in front of him, arms crossed, his usual kind expression replaced with disappointment. ¡°Why did you run into battle, Kenta?¡± The chief¡¯s voice was firm, but not angry. "It was dangerous. You could¡¯ve been killed!¡± His mother knelt beside him, placing her hands on his shoulders. Her voice was softer, but filled with worry. ¡°What if something had happened to you?¡± she asked. ¡°I¡ª¡± Her voice wavered, and she took a deep breath to steady herself. ¡°You¡¯re my only child. I can¡¯t lose you too.¡± Kenta¡¯s lips trembled, but he clenched his fists tighter. ¡°I just¡­ I just wanted to protect everyone,¡± he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. Asael, who had been silently watching, finally spoke. ¡°You¡¯re still young, Kenta,¡± he said, kneeling to the boy¡¯s level. His brown eyes, usually soft and warm, was a little cold. ¡°There will come a time when you¡¯ll have to fight. But not yet. You don¡¯t need to pick up a weapon now.¡± Kenta hesitated, his small hands still clenched. Then, after a long pause, he exhaled. ¡°¡­Okay. I¡¯m sorry.¡± His mother sighed in relief and pulled him into a hug. ¡°Fine,¡± she said, gently stroking his hair. ¡°I¡¯ll forgive you this time. But don¡¯t ever do it again, okay?¡± ¡°Yes, Mama,¡± Kenta whispered, his voice small. The village chief nodded, his expression relaxing. ¡°Good. Now, let¡¯s get back to the feast. Everyone has already started celebrating.¡± With that, they all rose and returned to the village square, where the laughter and music continued, filling the night with warmth. --- Deep within the forest, where moonlight barely reached, a lone figure limped forward. The goblin shaman¡¯s breath was ragged, his legs weak. His hands trembled as he pushed through the thick undergrowth, his body aching from exhaustion. His robes were torn, stained with dirt and blood. He had barely escaped with his life. The village was supposed to be easy prey. Instead, he had barely survived. After what felt like hours, he stumbled across a cave entrance hidden within the thick trees. A cold, eerie presence seeped from within, sending shivers down his spine. He hesitated. Then, swallowing his fear, he stepped inside. The cavern was dimly lit by small, flickering torches. Shadows danced across the jagged walls as he walked deeper, his footsteps echoing. And then, as he reached the center of the cave, he dropped to his knees and bowed. A deep, rumbling voice filled the air. ¡°What happened?¡± A figure stepped out from the darkness, his towering form illuminated by the torchlight. It was a goblin¡ªbut unlike any normal goblin. He was massive, nearly twice the size of a regular goblin. His muscles were thick and powerful, his greyish skin covered in scars. His sharp teeth gleamed as he scowled down at the shaman. It was the Goblin Chief. The shaman trembled. ¡°C-Chief! Please forgive me! The others¡­ they¡¯re all dead.¡± His voice shook with fear. ¡°Only I managed to escape.¡± The Goblin Chief¡¯s yellow eyes narrowed. ¡°So you failed,¡± he growled. The shaman flinched. ¡°Chief, I¡ª¡± A heavy footstep echoed through the cave. The Goblin Chief stepped closer, towering over the smaller goblin. His presence alone was suffocating. ¡°How many were there?¡± he asked. ¡°A-Around twelve humans,¡± the shaman stammered. ¡°B-But there was one¡­ one really strong human. He killed them all.¡± The Goblin Chief¡¯s eyes darkened. ¡°One human?¡± His voice was low and dangerous. ¡°You¡¯re telling me you lost to just one human? And yet¡­ you have the audacity to crawl back here?¡± The shaman¡¯s breath hitched. ¡°N-No, Chief, please¡ª¡± Before he could finish, a massive hand clamped around his head. The grip was like iron. Cold. Unyielding. "You should¡¯ve just died there!" The shaman¡¯s eyes widened in terror. ¡°C-Chief¡ª!!¡± A sickening crack echoed through the cave. Blood splattered onto the stone floor as the Goblin Chief crushed the shaman¡¯s head in his palm. His lifeless body dropped to the ground with a dull thud. Silence filled the cavern. The Goblin Chief wiped his bloodied hand on his furred cloak and stepped outside. A cold wind howled through the trees. In front of him stood his horde¡ªhundreds of goblins, waiting in the darkness. Their beady eyes gleamed under the moonlight, their twisted smiles growing wider. The chief took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the night. Then, raising his clawed hand, he roared. ¡°Everyone¡­ it¡¯s time for the hunt!¡± A chorus of shrieks and howls erupted from the goblin horde. The ground trembled beneath them as they surged forward, their hunger insatiable. The village thought they had won. But this¡­ This was only the beginning. Failure (1) The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, casting a soft golden hue across the peaceful village. The gentle chirping of birds harmonized with the faint rustle of leaves as a cool breeze whispered through the narrow dirt paths winding between humble wooden cottages. Farmers tended to their crops, their hands coated in fresh soil, while others carried baskets of vegetables, chatting softly under the warm embrace of the morning sun. In a quiet corner of the village, Asael sat cross-legged beneath a withered old tree, his eyes closed in deep meditation. The faint shimmer of morning light danced on his face, highlighting the creases formed from countless battles and sleepless nights. He was trying¡ªdesperately¡ªto connect with the gods, seeking their guidance, their strength. But nothing came. His brow furrowed, his fingers clenched into fists. ¡°Tch! Failed again¡­¡± he muttered under his breath, frustration flickering in his eyes. Shaking off the disappointment, he rose, gripping his weapon tightly. The cool metal felt familiar, grounding him. Without wasting a second, he resumed his training, his body moving with precision¡ªeach swing sharp, each stance disciplined. The sound of his blade cutting through the air echoed faintly, blending with the morning calm. But then¡­ His movements froze mid-strike. A sudden, sharp sensation prickled at the edges of his senses¡ªan unsettling disturbance, like a shadow creeping where light should be. His instincts screamed. Without hesitation, Asael sheathed his weapon and sprinted toward the village gate, his heart pounding. But before he could reach it¡ª DONG! DONG! DONG! The village bell rang out, its loud, urgent chimes shattering the peaceful morning like glass underfoot. The villagers dropped everything, fear etched into their faces as they rushed to the village square. Mothers clutched their children, farmers gripped tools with trembling hands, their eyes filled with questions and dread. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. The village chief appeared, his face grim, the lines of age carved deeper by worry. His gaze swept over the gathered crowd, lingering for a heartbeat on each familiar face. Then, with a heavy sigh, he spoke: ¡°Everyone¡­ we need to leave this place. Now.¡± A stunned silence followed, as if the words hadn¡¯t fully settled into their hearts. Then a shaky voice broke through: ¡°What do you mean, Chief? What happened?¡± The chief¡¯s expression darkened, his jaw clenched tightly. ¡°A horde¡­ around a hundred goblins are marching toward us. We can¡¯t stop them.¡± Panic rippled through the crowd like wildfire. Gasps, cries, desperate murmurs. Faces drained of color, hope flickering like a fragile candle in a storm. ¡°But¡­ where will we go? This is our home!¡± another villager cried, their voice trembling. The chief¡¯s lips pressed into a thin line. ¡°I don¡¯t know¡­ anywhere but here. If we stay, we die. We must move¡ªquickly!¡± Fear hung heavy in the air, suffocating. People looked around, seeking answers, seeking comfort¡ªbut finding none. Until Asael stepped forward. His presence cut through the chaos like a blade, steady and unyielding. ¡°Do we have bows and arrows?¡± His voice was firm, commanding. A few villagers nodded hesitantly. ¡°Y-Yes, but why¡ª¡± ¡°Then take them. Climb the watchtowers and support me. I¡¯ll face them at the gate.¡± A heavy silence followed, disbelief etched into every face. The village chief¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°No. You can¡¯t defeat them alone.¡± Asael met his gaze without flinching. ¡°I¡¯m much more stronger than you think. And if¡­ if things go wrong, you¡¯ll have enough time to escape while I hold them off.¡± His words were simple, but they carried the weight of sacrifice¡ªof a man willing to stand alone against death itself. The chief looked down, his heart warring with his duty. After a long pause, he exhaled shakily. ¡°¡­Everyone, do as Asael says.¡± The villagers hesitated, but then, one by one, they moved, gathering weapons with trembling hands. Before Asael turned to leave, he glanced back. ¡°One more thing¡­ can I get more weapons?¡± The chief managed a faint, grim smile despite the fear shadowing his face. ¡°Of course.¡± With a quick nod, he signaled a villager to fetch them. As Asael stood there, watching his people scramble to prepare, the rising sun bathed the village in gold¡ªperhaps for the last time. ---- The morning sun had barely risen, casting long, golden rays across the peaceful village. The chirping of birds was now replaced by the tense rustle of hurried footsteps, the soft thrum of bowstrings being tested, and the anxious whispers of villagers clinging to fragile hope. Twelve villagers scrambled into position, three on each of the four wooden watchtowers that flanked the sturdy village gate. Eight of them clutched bows tightly, knuckles white, while the other four carried quivers brimming with arrows, ready to supply their friends in the heat of battle. Some were seasoned hunters, their hands steady despite the looming threat. Others had never drawn a bow against anything more dangerous than a deer, and fear clouded their eyes. On the ground below, Asael stood like an unyielding pillar amidst the rising tide of fear. His leather armor, crudely stitched by the villagers, bore the scent of tanned hide and sweat. A sword gleamed in his right hand, its edge honed to a razor¡¯s gleam. In his left, he gripped a spear, its wooden shaft worn smooth from training. An axe, a spear and a shield were strapped to his back, along with a belt weighted by additional swords, their hilts jutting out like silent promises of violence yet to come. He turned to the villagers one last time. ¡°Close the gate from inside,¡± Asael commanded, his voice steady, like a rock against the crashing waves of fear. ¡°But then you¡ª¡± a villager began, his voice trembling. ¡°Don¡¯t worry. I¡¯ll be fine,¡± Asael interrupted with a faint, reassuring smile. The heavy wooden gate creaked shut behind him, sealing him off from the village. Alone. The world outside was starkly different. The calm morning breeze carried with it the faint, metallic tang of blood yet to be spilled. In the distance, a thick cloud of dust billowed, rising like a storm on the horizon. From within it, dark, twisted shapes emerged¡ªgoblins. Dozens upon dozens of them, their grotesque forms bathed in the amber glow of the morning light. Their ragged weapons glinted as they charged, snarling, shrieking, a chaotic symphony of bloodlust and rage. Asael stood still, his breath slow and controlled. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, listening¡ªnot to the enemy, but to himself. Inhale. The pounding of his heart was steady, unwavering. Exhale. The fear that gripped the villagers never found a place within him. He had faced worse. Much worse. Goblins were nothing. When his eyes snapped open, they burned with determination. Without hesitation, he surged forward like a released arrow. His first throw was precise¡ªa blur of motion as he hurled the spear with devastating force. It pierced through the first goblin¡¯s chest, impaling two more behind it. The momentum sent the creatures sprawling, tripping others in their chaotic advance. Arrows rained down from the watchtowers. Some missed, thudding harmlessly into the ground, but others found their mark. One arrow struck a fallen goblin square in the skull, ending its struggles instantly. But the horde didn¡¯t falter. They surged over the bodies of their fallen, driven by mindless fury. Neither did Asael slowed down, he continued to charge ahead. Failure (2) The clash between man and monster had reached its breaking point. The battlefield was a grotesque canvas of blood and broken bodies, the air thick with the metallic stench of death and the faint cries of the dying. Goblin corpses littered the ground, their dark green blood soaking into the earth, mingling with the crimson trails left by Asael''s own wounds. Asael stood at the center of it all, battered, broken, but unbowed. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, his vision blurred from blood trickling down his forehead, mixing with sweat and grime. His grip on his axe was weak, his fingers trembling, slick with gore. His body screamed for rest, for relief¡ªbut his spirit refused to yield. Across from him, the Goblin Chief loomed like a shadow made flesh¡ªa hulking mass of muscle and fury, his grotesque face twisted into a wicked grin. His yellow eyes glinted with sadistic delight, and his massive wooden club, stained with both human and goblin blood, rested casually on his shoulder. Then, without warning, the Chief charged. A blur of brute strength and speed, the ground trembling beneath each monstrous step. Asael barely had time to react before a massive fist collided with his stomach. CRACK! The force was like being hit by a battering ram. Asael¡¯s body lurched backward, the air ripped from his lungs. A strangled gasp escaped him, his knees buckling as he struggled to stay upright. His vision swam, black spots dancing at the edges. But before he could regain his balance, the club came from right. THWACK! The blow landed with bone-shattering force against his right arm, a sickening crack echoing through the battlefield. Pain exploded through his body like wildfire, and a raw, guttural scream tore from his throat¡ªa sound filled with agony, rage, and defiance. His body was thrown like a ragdoll, skidding across the blood-soaked ground. Dirt and gore caked his face as he groaned, struggling to push himself up with his good arm. "Is that it?" the Goblin Chief mocked, his voice a cruel growl. Asael tried to stand. His broken arm hung uselessly at his side, and blood poured from fresh wounds. His legs trembled beneath him, his strength ebbing away with every heartbeat. But he refused to stay down. He gritted his teeth, his face contorted with pain, and forced himself to rise¡ªonly for the Chief to appear in front of him in an instant. "Let¡¯s finish this, little human!" Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. A massive hand seized Asael¡¯s blood-matted hair, yanking his head back. A strangled cry escaped his lips as he clawed weakly at the Chief¡¯s arm, but his strength was fading fast. The Chief began dragging him¡ªhis battered body scraping against the jagged ground, leaving a trail of blood behind. Asael¡¯s boots dug into the dirt, trying to resist, but it was useless. As they passed a goblin, the creature sneered and plunged a rusted dagger into Asael¡¯s leg. "AAAHHHHH!" Asael¡¯s scream echoed across the battlefield, raw and filled with agony. His fingers clenched into fists, nails digging into his own palms until they bled. But he couldn¡¯t stop the tears of pain and fury that burned in his eyes. The Goblin Chief dragged him to the village gate, a towering barrier that had once symbolized safety and security. Now, it was just another witness to his failure. Without hesitation, the Chief slammed Asael¡¯s head against the gate. BAM! The sound of skull meeting wood was deafening. Blood splattered across the gate, staining it a dark, vivid red. The villagers on the other side could hear the sickening thuds, could hear the screams¡ªbut fear rooted them in place. BAM! Another slam. Asael¡¯s scream grew weaker, his voice hoarse and choked with blood. BAM! BAM! BAM! The Goblin Chief didn¡¯t stop. His grin grew wider with each brutal impact, his arm fueled by sadistic pleasure. The gate was soon painted with Asael¡¯s blood¡ªhis face battered beyond recognition, a grotesque smear of crimson. "I guess they won¡¯t even open the gate for their savior," the Chief sneered, gripping Asael¡¯s blood-soaked hair, lifting his broken face to mock him. Asael¡¯s eyes were barely open, one swollen shut, the other clouded with blood. But within that eye, there was still a flicker¡ªa dying ember of defiance. The Goblin Chief growled and tossed him aside like a discarded rag doll. Asael¡¯s body hit the ground with a dull thud, limp and motionless. Then, with a roar of triumph, the Chief raised his massive club and slammed it against the village gate. CRACK! The wood splintered, the gate groaning under the force. BAM! Another strike, and the hinges began to give way. BOOM! With one final, devastating blow, the gate shattered, crashing inward. The village lay exposed, its people staring in horror at the monstrous figure¡ªand the broken body of the man who had fought to protect them. ---- The shattered gate hung in splinters, a gaping wound in the village''s defenses. Through it poured the goblin horde¡ªferal, bloodthirsty, and relentless. Their guttural shrieks echoed through the air, mingling with the terrified cries of the villagers. The once-peaceful village, bathed in the warm glow of morning light, was now drenched in blood and despair. The goblin chief led the charge, his massive form towering above the lesser creatures. His club, slick with Asael¡¯s blood, swung with reckless abandon, crushing anyone who dared stand in his way. The villagers¡ªarmed with nothing but farming tools and trembling courage¡ªwere no match. They fell like wheat before the scythe, their screams fading quickly under the onslaught. Children cried out for parents who could no longer answer. Flames flickered as goblins set homes ablaze, the smoke mingling with the metallic scent of spilled blood. Bodies littered the ground¡ªold, young, men, women¡ªall victims of merciless slaughter. It was hopeless. And then¡ª A goblin suddenly shrieked, its body jolting as a spear pierced clean through its chest, lifting it off its feet before it crumpled to the ground. The goblins froze. The villagers¡¯ tear-streaked faces turned toward the gate. And there he stood. Asael. Broken. Bloodied. But standing. His body was a canvas of wounds¡ªdeep gashes carved into his flesh, bruises blossoming like dark flowers, and blood, both his own and that of his enemies, painted across him. His right arm hung limp, useless at his side, the bone clearly shattered. His leather armor was torn to shreds, barely clinging to him, exposing raw, battered skin beneath. His legs trembled beneath the weight of his injuries, his breath ragged and uneven. One eye was swollen shut, the other clouded with blood, blurring his vision. But in his left hand, he still held his sword. His knuckles white, gripping it as if it were the last thread tethering him to life. The villagers'' hearts sank even further. This was their savior? This broken man? How could he stand against them now? A goblin, emboldened by Asael¡¯s fragile state, sneered and stepped forward, its jagged dagger glinting in the morning light. It sauntered toward him, mocking, its cruel laughter echoing in the silent village square. It leapt. A flash of steel. Before it even reached him, Asael¡¯s sword sliced through the goblin¡¯s neck with terrifying precision. The head flew, spinning in the air before landing with a sickening thud. The body collapsed at Asael¡¯s feet. Silence fell again. Another goblin, more cautious, crept forward, circling Asael like a vulture around a dying animal. It lunged. But Asael was faster. His sword arced through the air like a streak of silver lightning, cleaving the goblin¡¯s head clean from its shoulders. The villagers gasped¡ªnot with hope, but disbelief. How? How was he still standing? Asael¡¯s body screamed with every movement. His broken ribs ground against each other with every breath. His vision swam, black spots dancing at the edges, threatening to pull him under. But he clenched his teeth, the taste of blood on his tongue, and forced himself to stand straighter. He gripped the sword with both hands¡ªdespite the unbearable agony shooting through his broken arm. His muscles trembled. His face twisted with pain. But he did it anyway. The goblins hesitated now. Fear crept into their beady eyes. This man should be dead. But he wasn¡¯t. He refused to be. "Tch. Useless things!" the Goblin Chief snarled, disgusted by his cowardly kin. His yellow eyes burned with fury as he stepped forward, his massive form casting a shadow over Asael once more. The ground seemed to tremble with each step the Chief took, his club dragging behind him, leaving a trail in the blood-soaked earth. His grotesque grin stretched wide, confident in his inevitable victory. Asael didn¡¯t flinch. They stood face to face¡ªthe beast and the broken man. The villagers watched with bated breath, hope flickering like a dying ember in their hearts. Could he really do it? Asael¡¯s grip tightened around his sword, his blood dripping onto the ground, mingling with the crimson pool beneath his feet. His lips moved, a whisper lost in the chaos. "Not yet¡­ I¡¯m not done yet." And then they clashed. The final battle had begun. Failure (3) The clash between man and monster had reached its breaking point. The battlefield was a grotesque canvas of blood and broken bodies, the air thick with the metallic stench of death and the faint cries of the dying. Goblin corpses littered the ground, their dark green blood soaking into the earth, mingling with the crimson trails left by Asael''s own wounds. Asael stood at the center of it all, battered, broken, but unbowed. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, his vision blurred from blood trickling down his forehead, mixing with sweat and grime. His grip on his axe was weak, his fingers trembling, slick with gore. His body screamed for rest, for relief¡ªbut his spirit refused to yield. Across from him, the Goblin Chief loomed like a shadow made flesh¡ªa hulking mass of muscle and fury, his grotesque face twisted into a wicked grin. His yellow eyes glinted with sadistic delight, and his massive wooden club, stained with both human and goblin blood, rested casually on his shoulder. Then, without warning, the Chief charged. A blur of brute strength and speed, the ground trembling beneath each monstrous step. Asael barely had time to react before a massive fist collided with his stomach. CRACK! The force was like being hit by a battering ram. Asael¡¯s body lurched backward, the air ripped from his lungs. A strangled gasp escaped him, his knees buckling as he struggled to stay upright. His vision swam, black spots dancing at the edges. But before he could regain his balance, the club came from right. THWACK! The blow landed with bone-shattering force against his right arm, a sickening crack echoing through the battlefield. Pain exploded through his body like wildfire, and a raw, guttural scream tore from his throat¡ªa sound filled with agony, rage, and defiance. His body was thrown like a ragdoll, skidding across the blood-soaked ground. Dirt and gore caked his face as he groaned, struggling to push himself up with his good arm. "Is that it?" the Goblin Chief mocked, his voice a cruel growl. Asael tried to stand. His broken arm hung uselessly at his side, and blood poured from fresh wounds. His legs trembled beneath him, his strength ebbing away with every heartbeat. But he refused to stay down. He gritted his teeth, his face contorted with pain, and forced himself to rise¡ªonly for the Chief to appear in front of him in an instant. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it "Let¡¯s finish this, little human!" A massive hand seized Asael¡¯s blood-matted hair, yanking his head back. A strangled cry escaped his lips as he clawed weakly at the Chief¡¯s arm, but his strength was fading fast. The Chief began dragging him¡ªhis battered body scraping against the jagged ground, leaving a trail of blood behind. Asael¡¯s boots dug into the dirt, trying to resist, but it was useless. As they passed a goblin, the creature sneered and plunged a rusted dagger into Asael¡¯s leg. "AAAHHHHH!" Asael¡¯s scream echoed across the battlefield, raw and filled with agony. His fingers clenched into fists, nails digging into his own palms until they bled. But he couldn¡¯t stop the tears of pain and fury that burned in his eyes. The Goblin Chief dragged him to the village gate, a towering barrier that had once symbolized safety and security. Now, it was just another witness to his failure. Without hesitation, the Chief slammed Asael¡¯s head against the gate. BAM! The sound of skull meeting wood was deafening. Blood splattered across the gate, staining it a dark, vivid red. The villagers on the other side could hear the sickening thuds, could hear the screams¡ªbut fear rooted them in place. BAM! Another slam. Asael¡¯s scream grew weaker, his voice hoarse and choked with blood. BAM! BAM! BAM! The Goblin Chief didn¡¯t stop. His grin grew wider with each brutal impact, his arm fueled by sadistic pleasure. The gate was soon painted with Asael¡¯s blood¡ªhis face battered beyond recognition, a grotesque smear of crimson. "I guess they won¡¯t even open the gate for their savior," the Chief sneered, gripping Asael¡¯s blood-soaked hair, lifting his broken face to mock him. Asael¡¯s eyes were barely open, one swollen shut, the other clouded with blood. But within that eye, there was still a flicker¡ªa dying ember of defiance. The Goblin Chief growled and tossed him aside like a discarded rag doll. Asael¡¯s body hit the ground with a dull thud, limp and motionless. Then, with a roar of triumph, the Chief raised his massive club and slammed it against the village gate. CRACK! The wood splintered, the gate groaning under the force. BAM! Another strike, and the hinges began to give way. BOOM! With one final, devastating blow, the gate shattered, crashing inward. The village lay exposed, its people staring in horror at the monstrous figure¡ªand the broken body of the man who had fought to protect them. ---- The shattered gate hung in splinters, a gaping wound in the village''s defenses. Through it poured the goblin horde¡ªferal, bloodthirsty, and relentless. Their guttural shrieks echoed through the air, mingling with the terrified cries of the villagers. The once-peaceful village, bathed in the warm glow of morning light, was now drenched in blood and despair. The goblin chief led the charge, his massive form towering above the lesser creatures. His club, slick with Asael¡¯s blood, swung with reckless abandon, crushing anyone who dared stand in his way. The villagers¡ªarmed with nothing but farming tools and trembling courage¡ªwere no match. They fell like wheat before the scythe, their screams fading quickly under the onslaught. Children cried out for parents who could no longer answer. Flames flickered as goblins set homes ablaze, the smoke mingling with the metallic scent of spilled blood. Bodies littered the ground¡ªold, young, men, women¡ªall victims of merciless slaughter. It was hopeless. And then¡ª A goblin suddenly shrieked, its body jolting as a spear pierced clean through its chest, lifting it off its feet before it crumpled to the ground. The goblins froze. The villagers¡¯ tear-streaked faces turned toward the gate. And there he stood. Asael. Broken. Bloodied. But standing. His body was a canvas of wounds¡ªdeep gashes carved into his flesh, bruises blossoming like dark flowers, and blood, both his own and that of his enemies, painted across him. His right arm hung limp, useless at his side, the bone clearly shattered. His leather armor was torn to shreds, barely clinging to him, exposing raw, battered skin beneath. His legs trembled beneath the weight of his injuries, his breath ragged and uneven. One eye was swollen shut, the other clouded with blood, blurring his vision. But in his left hand, he still held his sword. His knuckles white, gripping it as if it were the last thread tethering him to life. The villagers'' hearts sank even further. This was their savior? This broken man? How could he stand against them now? A goblin, emboldened by Asael¡¯s fragile state, sneered and stepped forward, its jagged dagger glinting in the morning light. It sauntered toward him, mocking, its cruel laughter echoing in the silent village square. It leapt. A flash of steel. Before it even reached him, Asael¡¯s sword sliced through the goblin¡¯s neck with terrifying precision. The head flew, spinning in the air before landing with a sickening thud. The body collapsed at Asael¡¯s feet. Silence fell again. Another goblin, more cautious, crept forward, circling Asael like a vulture around a dying animal. It lunged. But Asael was faster. His sword arced through the air like a streak of silver lightning, cleaving the goblin¡¯s head clean from its shoulders. The villagers gasped¡ªnot with hope, but disbelief. How? How was he still standing? Asael¡¯s body screamed with every movement. His broken ribs ground against each other with every breath. His vision swam, black spots dancing at the edges, threatening to pull him under. But he clenched his teeth, the taste of blood on his tongue, and forced himself to stand straighter. He gripped the sword with both hands¡ªdespite the unbearable agony shooting through his broken arm. His muscles trembled. His face twisted with pain. But he did it anyway. The goblins hesitated now. Fear crept into their beady eyes. This man should be dead. But he wasn¡¯t. He refused to be. "Tch. Useless things!" the Goblin Chief snarled, disgusted by his cowardly kin. His yellow eyes burned with fury as he stepped forward, his massive form casting a shadow over Asael once more. The ground seemed to tremble with each step the Chief took, his club dragging behind him, leaving a trail in the blood-soaked earth. His grotesque grin stretched wide, confident in his inevitable victory. Asael didn¡¯t flinch. They stood face to face¡ªthe beast and the broken man. The villagers watched with bated breath, hope flickering like a dying ember in their hearts. Could he really do it? Asael¡¯s grip tightened around his sword, his blood dripping onto the ground, mingling with the crimson pool beneath his feet. His lips moved, a whisper lost in the chaos. "Not yet¡­ I¡¯m not done yet." Failure (4) The ground trembled beneath the weight of the Goblin Chief¡¯s massive form. His grotesque grin stretched wide, his yellowed tusks gleaming in the firelight. The scent of blood, sweat, and death clung to the air, thick and suffocating. The village burned behind them, homes reduced to smoldering ruins. And yet, amidst the devastation, Asael still stood. Barely. His body screamed in protest, his injuries piling atop one another like the bodies of the fallen. His muscles trembled, his vision swam, but his will¡ªhis will was unyielding. A hero¡¯s greatest weapon was neither their blade nor their strength, but their willpower. Their unbreakable spirit. But where other heroes had been blessed¡ªtheir wounds mended by divine power, their exhaustion erased by celestial grace¡ªAsael had none of that. No gods watched over him. No miracles would come. He was alone. Yet he fought. And he would keep fighting. The Goblin Chief sneered, gripping his massive club, its surface slick with Asael¡¯s blood. "It¡¯s useless to resist, little human!" With a roar, he lifted the club high above his head. The air itself seemed to tremble under the sheer force behind the impending strike. The villagers gasped, their eyes wide with horror. And then¡ª The club came down. A blur of motion¡ªAsael moved. Just barely dodged. He sidestepped at the last moment, the club crashing into the ground beside him. The impact sent shockwaves through the earth, splintering the dirt and throwing up a cloud of dust and debris. Through sheer instinct, Asael swung his sword¡ªa desperate counterattack. But his strength¡­ his strength had left him. The blade, once swift and deadly, now felt like dead weight in his grip. The edge of the sword met flesh¡ª but stopped. The Goblin Chief didn¡¯t let the chance slip and caught it. With his bare hand. The massive goblin chuckled, his jagged teeth gleaming in amusement. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. His grip tightened around the blade, the metal groaning under the pressure. Then¡ªhe swung his arm, hitting Asael. Asael flew away. His body was ragdolled through the air, like a discarded toy, before crashing onto the dirt. The impact knocked the wind out of him. Pain exploded across his body as he rolled over the ground, coming to a halt on his stomach. His limbs felt like lead, every breath was a struggle. He tried to push himself up¡ªhis hands digging into the dirt. But his arms trembled. His body screamed. And before he could even get to his knees, he collapsed. His vision blurred. The world spun around him, the flames in the distance twisting into unrecognizable shapes. The Goblin Chief¡¯s footsteps thundered toward him. Slow. Deliberate. Unstoppable. Each step a countdown to his end. But then¡ª A vial cut through the air. Shatter! The glass shattered against the Goblin Chief¡¯s thick hide, and almost instantly, smoke hissed from the wound. The goblin chief roared in pain, his skin burning and blistering. His furious gaze snapped toward the source of the attack. Standing at the entrance of a burning home was the village chief. An old man, frail in body but unyielding in spirit. His hands trembled, another vial clutched tightly between his fingers, his eyes burning with defiance. "You monster! Go back!" he shouted, his voice raw, filled with both rage and desperation. He had no illusions. He knew this would not kill the Goblin Chief. But he did not care. He just needed to buy Asael time. The Goblin Chief¡¯s fury ignited. "You dare?!" With a snarl, the massive goblin lifted his club with both hands. Then¡ªhe threw it. Like a boulder launched from a catapult. The air rippled with the force of the throw. The village chief barely had time to react. The club struck. The impact was sickening. The old man was hurled backward, his body crashing into the dirt. Blood exploded from his mouth. The moment his body hit the ground¡ªit didn¡¯t move again. The light faded from his eyes. The village chief was dead. Silence. A deep, heavy silence fell over the battlefield. --- The lifeless body of the village chief lay crumpled in the dirt, his blood seeping into the earth as if the land itself mourned his passing. His frail frame, once filled with the wisdom and courage of years, now seemed small, fragile, meaningless against the vast cruelty of the world. Asael could do nothing but watch. His battered body refused to move. His muscles screamed with pain, his vision blurred from blood and exhaustion. He prayed to Gods, he prayed¡ªbut no one answered his desperate pleas. The villagers, too, stood frozen. Their faces etched with horror and despair, their hearts shattered beyond repair. The faint glimmer of hope that had flickered in their eyes was now extinguished, swallowed whole by the darkness of the moment. And then¡ª "GRANDPA!!" The desperate scream cut through the heavy silence like a blade. Kenta. The boy¡¯s small figure raced forward, his feet pounding against the blood-soaked ground as he sprinted towards his fallen grandfather. His face was twisted in terror, his voice cracked with grief. But fate was not yet done being cruel. A goblin, its jagged dagger gleaming under the moonlight, lunged from the side, its wicked grin anticipating the next victim. "NO!" In an instant, a figure rushed in¡ªa woman¡¯s body colliding with Kenta¡¯s, shoving him out of harm¡¯s way. His mother. The dagger that was meant for Kenta plunged into her side, the blade burying deep into her flesh. "MAMA!" Kenta¡¯s scream was raw, filled with pure, unfiltered agony. His mother¡¯s knees buckled, but before she could collapse, the goblin showed no mercy. With a savage snarl, it ripped the dagger from her side and slashed it across her neck. Her blood sprayed out in an arc of crimson, painting the goblin¡¯s face as her body crumpled beside the village chief¡¯s. Her eyes¡ªthose gentle, loving eyes¡ªstared lifelessly at her son. Kenta¡¯s world shattered. The boy didn¡¯t cry. Not yet. Instead, something inside him broke. Rage¡ªpure, blinding rage¡ªtook hold. With trembling hands, he snatched up a dagger from a fallen goblin. His small fingers barely wrapped around the hilt, but it didn¡¯t matter. The goblin sneered, baring its fanged teeth, clearly amused by the child¡¯s futile defiance. Kenta charged. The goblin easily sidestepped, its dagger flashing as it sliced across Kenta¡¯s stomach, leaving a shallow, but painful wound. But Kenta didn¡¯t stop. He didn¡¯t even flinch. Through sheer will, he spun around, fueled by grief and fury, and threw himself at the goblin. His small body collided with the creature, knocking it off balance. Before the goblin could recover, Kenta drove the dagger deep into its chest. Once. The goblin shrieked. Twice. Its cries turned into gargles. Three times. Four. Five. Green blood splattered across Kenta¡¯s face, mixing with his tears. His sobs grew louder with each thrust, his tiny frame shaking violently. But he didn¡¯t stop. He couldn¡¯t stop. When the goblin finally went limp, collapsing under his weight, Kenta stumbled back. His dagger slipped from his blood-soaked fingers. And that¡¯s when the tears truly came. He crawled to his mother¡¯s side, his small hands desperately shaking her, his cries echoing through the devastated village. "MAMA!!" His screams pierced the heart of everyone left alive. But no one moved. Because they couldn¡¯t. They were all broken. More goblins began to approach the boy, their cruel grins wide with anticipation. Predators closing in on wounded prey. But Asael¡ª Asael¡¯s gaze wasn¡¯t on them. His eyes shifted, lingering on the village chief¡¯s lifeless body, the man who had sacrificed himself to buy Asael one more moment to fight. He turned his head, staring at Kenta¡¯s mother, her blood mingling with the dirt she had died protecting. And then¡ªKenta. The boy¡¯s face was stained with tears and blood, his expression twisted by rage, grief, and despair. The light of innocence in his eyes had been snuffed out, replaced by something darker. Something Asael knew all too well. His gaze swept across the burning village, over the bodies of men, women, and children¡ªall of them gone. All of them had fought. All of them had died. But him? He was still alive. And what had he done? Nothing. He didn¡¯t protect the village. He didn¡¯t save the chief. He didn¡¯t stop the goblins. He had failed. Again. A heavy weight settled over his chest, crushing him harder than any wound. What was the point of being a hero¡­ if he couldn¡¯t save anyone? Failure (5) The Goblin Chief advanced slowly, each step a drumbeat of doom echoing through the broken village. His jagged teeth glinted under the crimson sky, and his monstrous grin stretched wide, savoring the defeat carved into the face of his enemy. Asael knelt in the dirt, his body a shattered vessel of blood, bruises, and broken bones. His trembling hands sank into the soil, fingers curling weakly as crimson mixed with the dust. His chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged gasps. His lips moved¡ªbarely a whisper. "I failed¡­ again." The words escaped like fragile ghosts, lost in the wind, unnoticed by all but himself. The Goblin Chief didn¡¯t care. He was just a step away now, his monstrous shadow swallowing Asael¡¯s fragile form. A tear rolled down Asael¡¯s dirt-streaked cheek, tracing the outline of his defeat, mingling with the blood dripping from a gash above his brow. Another tear followed. And another. Each drop a silent testament to the countless lives he couldn¡¯t save. His vision blurred, not just from the blood and exhaustion, but from the weight of failure pressing down on his soul. The world around him began to dissolve into colors¡ªswirling, meaningless blurs. A sickening green hue loomed closest, pulsing with malice¡ªthe Goblin Chief. Other colors¡ªred, gray, brown¡ªfaded into the background, like distant echoes of a world he no longer belonged to. His heart was drowning in a storm of emotions. Rage. Hatred. Loathing. Not just for the goblins. Not just for fate. But for himself. For being too weak. For failing when it mattered most. For surviving when others didn¡¯t. "Again¡­ and again¡­" His voice cracked under the weight of his grief. His mind spiraled, falling deeper into a darkness that felt bottomless. And then¡ª A flicker. A faint, golden hue bloomed deep within his eyes, like the faintest ember refusing to die in the ashes of his soul. The Goblin Chief halted mid-step, his instincts prickling with unease. Asael¡¯s trembling body grew still. The golden flicker grew. Faint at first, like the first light of dawn bleeding over a dark horizon. But then¡ªbrighter. A thin veil of golden light wrapped around Asael, delicate yet defiant, like threads of hope stitching his broken form back together. A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. His bleeding slowed. His breath grew steadier. The Goblin Chief¡¯s grin faded, replaced by a snarl. "What¡­?" With a guttural roar, the goblin charged, his club raised high, ready to crush Asael¡¯s skull before whatever was happening could finish. But as he closed the distance¡ª The golden light exploded outward. A shockwave rippled through the village square, a radiant pulse of raw power. The Goblin Chief was hurled backward, his massive frame crashing into a crumbling wall, leaving cracks spider-webbing through the stone. The goblins froze, their sneers wiped away, replaced by wide-eyed fear. The villagers, battered and broken, lifted their heads from where they cowered. Their eyes reflected the growing radiance at the center of it all. Asael. No longer kneeling. Slowly¡­ deliberately¡­ He rose. His battered body straightened, the golden light knitting his torn flesh, mending broken bones, sealing gaping wounds. His right arm, once limp and useless, flexed with newfound strength. His brown eyes were gone. In their place¡ªpools of molten gold, burning with fury, sorrow, and something else¡ªunyielding determination. Pieces of golden armor began to materialize, as if forged from the very light that enveloped him. They shaped around his form, elegant yet fierce, gleaming with divine brilliance. Across his back, a golden glow twisted and solidified, taking form. A sword¡ªlong, radiant, and humming with an ancient power, its blade etched with symbols of light. It hovered beside him, weightless, as if waiting. Asael reached out. His fingers wrapped around the hilt, fitting perfectly¡ªas though it had been made for him alone. When he gripped it, the golden light flared once more, brighter than before, casting long shadows across the village. The villagers¡¯ despair flickered, replaced by something fragile yet powerful¡ª Hope. Meanwhile, the goblins trembled, their instincts screaming that they were no longer facing a broken human. They were staring at something else. A force they couldn¡¯t comprehend. A will they couldn¡¯t break. The Goblin Chief staggered to his feet, snarling through broken teeth. Asael took a step forward, his golden gaze locked on the creature. His aura blazed like the sun, blinding and beautiful. And for the first time¡ªit was the goblins who felt fear. ---- The Goblin Chief stared at Asael, unease flickering in his beady, yellow eyes. The oppressive golden light wrapped around the battered human felt¡­ wrong¡ªunnatural. Something primal in the creature¡¯s mind screamed at him to be cautious. He gritted his teeth and growled. "Are you the hero?" Asael didn¡¯t answer. His eyes¡ªonce brown and filled with warmth¡ªwere now cold, molten gold, devoid of empathy. There were no words left for creatures like this. Only fury. With a burst of speed that blurred the ground beneath him, Asael charged forward, his golden sword slicing through the air with a radiant arc. The Goblin Chief barely managed to raise his crude, iron-studded club in time. CLANG! The collision sent out a shockwave, dust spiraling outward. Asael was knocked back, skidding across the dirt¡ªbut he didn¡¯t fall. His feet dug in, his stance unshaken. Without hesitation, he lunged again. The Goblin Chief roared, swinging his massive fist this time. Asael ducked, his movements fluid like water, and slashed upward. A sharp cry of pain. A gash tore across the goblin¡¯s shoulder, dark green blood spurting out, sizzling slightly as it hit the radiant glow surrounding Asael¡¯s blade. The Goblin Chief snarled, swinging wildly, brute force behind every blow. But Asael was relentless. He darted in and out like a phantom, his golden aura flickering with every heartbeat. Each time the goblin attacked, Asael was already gone¡ªslashing, stabbing, cutting. Over and over. The golden light wasn¡¯t just healing him¡ªit was fueling him, reducing his exhaustion, mending torn flesh, knitting broken bones. Meanwhile, the Goblin Chief was slowing down. His massive body bore countless wounds now¡ªdeep cuts oozing dark blood, muscles trembling from strain. Frustration twisted the goblin¡¯s face into a mask of rage. "What the hell are you?!" With a furious roar, the Goblin Chief charged, raising his club high to deliver a devastating blow meant to shatter Asael¡¯s skull. But Asael didn¡¯t flinch. He met the charge head-on. Steel met iron. But this time, the club didn¡¯t hold. The goblin¡¯s crude weapon splintered, shards of metal and wood exploding like shrapnel. The shock registered in the Goblin Chief¡¯s eyes¡ªbut before he could react, Asael twisted his body and with a vicious, precise stroke¡ª SPLASH! The goblin¡¯s arm was severed at the shoulder, green blood gushing out in thick spurts. The Goblin Chief¡¯s scream was inhuman, a bone-chilling howl that echoed through the village, sending shivers down the spines of both goblins and villagers alike. "AAAAAHHHHH!!" But Asael wasn¡¯t done. There was no hesitation. No mercy. The coldness in his golden eyes was like winter''s frost¡ªunfeeling and absolute. The Goblin Chief stumbled back, clutching his bleeding stump, pure terror etched across his monstrous face. "You¡­!" he spat, but the words died on his lips. With one swift motion, Asael swung again¡ªclean, merciless. The goblin¡¯s leg was gone. The chieftain collapsed, howling in agony, clawing at the dirt, trying to crawl away. But there was nowhere to go. Asael stalked forward, his golden sword gleaming ominously under the moonlight. The goblin raised his remaining hand in a futile attempt to shield himself. Asael didn¡¯t hesitate¡ª SHUNK! He thrust his sword straight through the goblin¡¯s hand, pinning it to the ground. The Goblin Chief¡¯s screams grew louder, ragged and desperate, but Asael¡¯s face remained emotionless¡ªa mask of cold fury. Then, without warning, Asael grabbed the goblin¡¯s remaining leg¡ªtwisting it. SNAP! The sickening sound of bone breaking filled the air. The Goblin Chief¡¯s screams were now just gurgled gasps of agony. But Asael wasn¡¯t done. With a final, ruthless motion, Asael plunged his sword deep into the goblin¡¯s chest, piercing through ribs, flesh, and heart. Silence. The Goblin Chief¡¯s body went limp, his lifeless eyes wide with terror and disbelief. For a moment, the entire village was frozen. Even the surviving villagers¡ªthose Asael had fought to protect¡ªstared at him not with admiration, but with a mixture of awe and fear. The man before them wasn¡¯t the hero they remembered. He was something else. The goblins who remained were paralyzed with fear, trembling as their leader¡¯s body bled into the dirt. Some tried to flee, their instincts screaming for survival. But Asael moved like a shadow, faster than their fear. Slash. A goblin¡¯s head rolled. Stab. Another fell, clutching its chest. He hunted them with precision and fury, cutting through them like they were nothing¡ªmere obstacles to the raging storm inside him. Green blood painted the village streets, mixing with the red of the fallen villagers. When it was done, the ground was littered with goblin corpses, their twisted faces frozen in fear. Asael stood in the center, drenched in sweat, blood¡ªboth green and red¡ªand golden light. His chest heaved, not from exhaustion, but from the unbearable weight in his heart. Then, from the depths of his soul¡ª He screamed. A raw, guttural cry that ripped through the night sky. "AAAAAAHHHHH!!" Not a scream of victory. Not of triumph. But of pain. Of failure. Of knowing that despite all his strength, despite this newfound power, he had still failed to save them all. The village chief¡ªgone. Kenta¡¯s mother¡ªgone. Kenta¡¯s innocence¡ªshattered. He¡¯d won the battle. But inside¡ªhe lost again. The new companion (1) The village was drenched in silence, broken only by the occasional sobs carried on the cold breeze. The aftermath of the battle had left not just scars on the ground, but deeper wounds etched into the hearts of the survivors. Blood-streaked paths and shattered homes bore witness to the tragedy, yet life had to move on. The dead deserved more than to be left among the ruins¡ªthey deserved to be honored. The villagers, their faces pale with grief, gathered the lifeless bodies of their friends, family, and neighbors. Each body was treated with care, as if handling something fragile, sacred. Some corpses were still warm, their expressions frozen in pain or fear, while others bore the peaceful look of eternal sleep. Even the smallest of tasks felt monumental¡ªlifting a child¡¯s limp body, closing the eyes of a loved one, wiping away dried blood from familiar faces. Kenta stood quietly, his small fists clenched as he stared at his mother¡¯s and grandfather''s body being lifted with gentle hands. His face was blank, but his red, swollen eyes betrayed the storm raging inside. Once all the bodies were gathered, the villagers began the funeral preparations. A large, open area was cleared at the heart of the village, where the ground was dry and the wind whispered softly. Wooden pyres were meticulously stacked, layer upon layer of timber, dried grass, and flowers¡ªwhatever could burn, but with a touch of respect and care. Each pyre was dedicated to several villagers, their bodies laid upon the wood, arms crossed over their chests, their faces cleaned of blood and dirt. Personal items¡ªsmall trinkets, necklaces, wooden carvings, or simple cloth pieces¡ªwere placed beside them, tokens of the lives they¡¯d lived. The sun dipped low, casting an orange hue over the village as if mourning with them. Everyone gathered. Men, women, children¡ªall stood in somber silence around the pyres. Tears were silent rivers down many faces, while others stared hollow-eyed, too numb to weep anymore. Kenta stood near the front, clutching a small wooden pendant that once hung around his mother¡¯s neck. His knuckles turned white from gripping it too hard, his lips trembling but voiceless. At the center stood Anne, the Saintess, her voice steady despite the tears lining her cheeks. She began the funeral prayer, her words a soft murmur that seemed to wrap around them like a fragile blanket: Oh spirits, who walk the path beyond, Let not sorrow bind you to this world. May the flames guide you, May the winds carry you, May the earth embrace what remains, And may your souls find peace in the great beyond. Her voice broke on the final words, but she held strong, for the sake of the others. With heavy hearts, the villagers lit the pyres. Flames erupted, climbing hungrily, consuming the wood and slowly reaching the bodies. The crackle of fire grew louder, merging with the quiet sobs around. The smell of burning wood mixed with something more raw, more human, lingering in the air¡ªa scent that would haunt many for days to come. Asael stood apart, his golden eyes now dulled to a faint amber, watching the flames with a distant expression. The warmth of the fire couldn¡¯t reach him. His mind drifted back to the lessons from the Holy Temple, words spoken by the priests echoing like a distant chant. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. "Why do we burn or bury the dead?" he had once asked in his youth. The practical answer was simple: to prevent rot, to keep wild beasts and monsters from desecrating the remains. But the priests had given him something deeper. "Souls," they¡¯d said, "cling to their vessels¡ªthe bodies they¡¯ve lived in for years. They struggle to let go, to accept the end. If we leave the body untouched, the soul may linger, lost, unable to move on. So, we burn them. The flames are not for destruction but for release¡ªto free the soul from its earthly shell." Others believed that burying the dead hastened their rebirth, allowing the soul to find a new life quicker, unburdened by the weight of their former existence. As Asael watched the flames dance and flicker, he wondered if the souls were truly free¡ªor if they, like him, were still trapped, lingering in a world that had failed them. Eventually, the fire began to die down, reduced to glowing embers and ash. The villagers didn¡¯t leave¡ªnot until the last flicker of flame vanished, leaving nothing but gray dust and fragments of charred bone. With reverence, the ashes were collected. Each handful was treated like treasure, scooped gently into clay urns or wrapped in cloth. The villagers carried the remains to a small sacred grove on the edge of the village¡ªa place where the ashes of ancestors rested, buried beneath the soil, their spirits believed to watch over the living. A shallow pit was dug, and the ashes were laid to rest, mingling with those who had passed long before. Anne whispered another prayer, her voice soft like the rustling leaves: May your essence return to the earth, May your spirit find its place among the stars. But the ritual didn¡¯t end there. After the ashes were buried, the villagers walked to the edge of the forest, where the soil was fertile and the sunlight gentle. Each person carried a small sapling or seedling, corresponding to the number of lives lost. Kenta carried a fragile sprout, its leaves trembling in the breeze, much like his heart. He planted it carefully, pressing the soil around it with his small hands, his tears watering the earth alongside it. It was more than just planting trees. It was a promise. Life would grow where death had been. Each tree would stand as a testament to the lives that were lost, their roots entwined with the memory of those who had once walked, laughed, and lived in this village. As the villagers stood in silence, staring at the fresh mounds of earth and the fragile saplings, Asael finally let his knees buckle. He fell to the ground, his face hidden in his hands. Not as a hero. Not as a warrior. But as a man who had witnessed too much loss. And all he could do now was grieve. ---- Asael sat alone, his figure slouched beside the fragile saplings planted in memory of the fallen. The cool night breeze whispered softly, rustling the tiny leaves as if the souls of the departed were speaking through them. The sky was awash with black and purple, the moon covered in clouds, leaving behind streaks of melancholy darkness. Everyone had gone back. The laughter of children, the comforting words of survivors¡ªit was all gone, replaced by a silence that weighed heavily on Asael¡¯s chest. His golden eyes, now dim and distant, stared blankly at the fresh mounds of earth, where life and death coexisted, separated only by fragile roots. His heart felt like those saplings¡ªbarely holding on, fragile, vulnerable. A quiet sigh slipped from his lips, barely louder than the whisper of the wind. What am I even doing? he thought, his fingers digging into the dirt absentmindedly, as if trying to ground himself. Then came a soft, familiar voice that broke the suffocating silence. "Are you alright?" Asael turned slightly, his tired eyes meeting the gentle gaze of Anne. She approached slowly, her white robes faintly illuminated by the twilight, her face soft with concern. She always had that calming aura, like a fragile candle flickering against the darkness. Asael forced a weak smile but couldn¡¯t hide the heaviness in his heart. "Yes, I''m fine. I just¡­ feel like I''m not meant to be a hero." The words slipped out, raw and vulnerable. It wasn¡¯t an admission of weakness¡ªit was the simple truth, heavy with guilt and self-doubt. Anne sat beside him, her gaze lingering on the saplings before speaking, "What are you talking about? You''re chosen by the gods." Asael laughed softly, but there was no humor in it¡ªjust bitterness. "But so many people died, and I couldn¡¯t do anything." His voice was hollow, haunted by the memories of blood-streaked faces and screams that echoed in his mind. "Neither was I able to do anything to the Demon King." His fingers clenched the soil beneath him, trembling slightly. "Sometimes I wonder, even if I get my powers completely back¡­ would there even be anyone left to save?" His words were a whisper, carried away by the wind as if he was too ashamed to speak them aloud. Anne looked at him, her heart aching for the boy who carried the weight of the world on his fragile shoulders. She reached out, her hand resting gently on his. "You know what?" she began softly, her voice steady despite the emotions swelling within her. "There are times when even I feel like I¡¯m not suited to be the Saintess. Like I¡¯m just wearing a title I don¡¯t deserve. But¡­ I can¡¯t give up, you know?" She tightened her grip slightly, her warmth grounding him. "We¡¯ve failed, yes. But people still need us. They¡¯re still here, Asael. Only you can defeat the Demon King. So please¡­ don¡¯t give up." Her words weren¡¯t grand or filled with divine wisdom¡ªthey were simple, honest, and they pierced through the fog in Asael¡¯s mind. He chuckled softly, shaking his head, though his eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "Don¡¯t worry," he muttered, his voice slightly steadier, "I won¡¯t give up. I¡¯m just¡­ complaining, that¡¯s all." But deep inside, he wasn¡¯t entirely sure. They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their grief shared between them like an invisible thread connecting two fragile hearts. Then Anne broke the quiet. "By the way¡­ I felt the presence of Goddess Aria when you transformed." Asael¡¯s eyes flickered slightly, recalling the golden light that had surged through him during the battle. "Yes¡­ I think I can communicate with the gods now. But¡­ I don¡¯t know when or how it happens." Anne smiled softly. "That¡¯s still better than before." Asael gave a faint nod, his fingers brushing the tiny saplings as if drawing strength from their fragile resilience. "Hmm¡­" The wind grew colder as the night crept in, the stars beginning to peek through the dark canvas above. "By the way," Anne asked gently, "what are we going to do next?" Asael¡¯s gaze turned towards the distant mountains, their jagged peaks silhouetted against the darkening sky. "Since I¡¯ve started to regain my powers, I think we should set out on a journey¡ªto defeat the monsters and seek the gods¡¯ blessings." Anne nodded, her heart heavy but filled with a faint spark of purpose. "Okay." But before either of them could say more, a small voice broke the quiet. "Can I¡­ come with you?" They both turned, startled. Kenta stood there, his small frame outlined by the dim glow of the setting sun. His face was different¡ªthe innocence of childhood replaced by something harder, something forged in grief. His eyes, once bright and curious, were now dark pools of determination. Asael and Anne exchanged a glance, and Anne quickly shook her head. "No, Kenta. It will be really dangerous." Her voice was gentle but firm. But Kenta didn¡¯t flinch. "Don¡¯t worry. I can take care of myself." His voice was steady, his gaze unwavering. Asael studied him for a long moment, seeing not just a boy, but someone who had lost everything¡ªand had nothing left to fear. "Okay, you can come." Anne¡¯s head snapped towards Asael. "But¡ª!" she began, her voice filled with concern. Asael raised his hand to stop her, his expression calm. "But you won¡¯t do anything dangerous," he added, his golden eyes meeting Kenta¡¯s with quiet authority. Anne frowned, clearly unhappy. "But he¡¯s just a child¡ª" "Don¡¯t worry," Asael interrupted gently. "We¡¯ll protect him." Anne sighed, her heart heavy with worry, but she eventually nodded. "Okay¡­ fine." A small, bittersweet smile crept onto Kenta¡¯s face, though it didn¡¯t reach his eyes. Asael stood up, brushing the dirt from his hands, his gaze fixed once more on the distant mountains. "Good. For tonight, rest up." He looked at both of them, his voice steady with newfound determination. "Tomorrow morning, our first destination will be that mountain on the path." Kenta¡¯s eyes lit up slightly with curiosity. "You mean the mountain where that mysterious monster lives?" Asael smirked faintly. "Yes. If you¡¯re scared, you can stay here. We¡¯ll come back and pick you up later." Kenta¡¯s face hardened. "NO. I will come." His voice was fierce, filled with the kind of determination that no child should have to carry. Asael nodded softly, placing a gentle hand on Kenta¡¯s shoulder. And so, beneath the dark sky and beside the fragile saplings of the fallen, the three of them made an unspoken promise¡ª To keep moving forward. To fight, even when broken. To carry the weight of the past, and still seek hope in the future. Tomorrow, their new journey would begin. The new companion (2) Morning came, casting a pale golden hue across the village, but its warmth did little to dispel the lingering shadows of grief. The faint chirping of birds was the only melody in an otherwise somber silence, as if nature itself mourned with them. Asael, Anne, and Kenta stood quietly, the soft morning breeze tugging at their cloaks as they prepared for their journey. Their faces were marked with determination, but the weight of recent losses was etched into every glance, every movement. Anne carefully packed their supplies¡ªwater, dried meat, herbs, and some healing potions¡ªinto a small, worn satchel. It wasn¡¯t an ordinary bag. Crafted by the Mage Tower, it contained a small subspace enchantment, capable of holding far more than its size suggested while remaining light as a feather. "I¡¯ll carry it," Kenta offered, his voice steady despite his youth. Anne hesitated, her protective instincts flaring, but Asael gave a slight nod. "Let him." Kenta slung the bag over his shoulder, the lightness betraying the many burdens¡ªboth physical and emotional¡ªit carried. As they stepped outside, the villagers gathered in small clusters, watching with solemn expressions. One of the older men, his face weathered like cracked bark, approached them. "Have you all decided to go?" he asked, his tone tinged with both concern and reluctant acceptance. "Yes," Asael replied simply, his golden eyes reflecting the morning light with quiet resolve. The villager sighed softly, then straightened. "Okay. Let me guide you." Without another word, the man turned, leading them through narrow forest paths where the trees stood tall and silent, their branches whispering secrets of battles past. The ground beneath their feet grew uneven, roots snaking out like ancient veins pulsing with forgotten stories. After some time, they emerged from the forest, standing at the base of a small mountain. The jagged cliffs loomed above them, casting long shadows that crept across the rocky terrain like dark fingers. The villager stopped, pointing upward. "This is the mountain. If you climb, you¡¯ll find him. But¡­ are you sure? It can be really dangerous." Asael glanced at the mountain, then back at the villager, his gaze unwavering. "Don¡¯t worry. We¡¯ll be careful." The man gave a reluctant nod, then turned back, his footsteps fading into the distance, leaving the trio alone with the mountain¡ªand whatever awaited them above. With a deep breath, they began their ascent. At first, the climb was uneventful, the sound of their footsteps mingling with the occasional rustle of leaves. But as they rounded a bend, the sight that greeted them stole the breath from their lungs. Bodies. The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Lifeless, twisted, broken bodies. Monsters of every kind¡ªgoblins, orcs, and creatures Asael didn¡¯t even recognize¡ªwere strewn across the rocky path. Their corpses were grotesque remnants of a battle long since ended. Many had been cleaved in half with a single, clean strike, their flesh split as easily as parchment. Others were torn apart, their wounds jagged and raw, as if some beast with razor-sharp claws had ripped through them like fragile cloth. The stench of death hung heavy in the air, thick and suffocating, mingling with the faint metallic tang of dried blood. Kenta gagged slightly, his face pale, but he pressed on, his jaw clenched tight. Anne¡¯s expression was grave, her hand instinctively resting on the small pendant around her neck¡ªa silent prayer on her lips. "What¡­ happened here?" Kenta whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. Asael said nothing, his golden eyes scanning the carnage. The bodies weren¡¯t just killed¡ªthey were slaughtered. They continued upward, and the further they climbed, the worse it became. The path grew narrower, winding through jagged rocks and shattered boulders. Some stones were split cleanly in half, as if sliced by an impossibly sharp blade. Others were reduced to rubble, scorched black by what appeared to be intense heat. Burn marks marred the ground, forming dark patches where flesh had melted into stone. In some places, the very earth had been torn apart, claw marks embedded deep into the soil. It wasn¡¯t just a battle. It was a massacre. The evidence of raw, overwhelming power was everywhere. It was as if something¡ªor someone¡ªhad torn through these monsters with the ease of wind through leaves. The air grew thinner as they neared the mountain¡¯s summit, the jagged rocks beneath their feet sharp like the very edge of a blade. The sky above was a pale gray, clouds swirling ominously as if mirroring the unease settling in Asael¡¯s chest. Then, without warning, Asael stopped. His hand shot out instinctively, halting Anne and Kenta behind him. "Stop here," he whispered, his brown eyes narrowing. Something was here. Something powerful. The atmosphere grew heavier, pressing down on them like an invisible weight. The faint rustle of wind seemed to vanish, replaced by an eerie, oppressive silence. Then¡ª A voice echoed through the stillness. Cold. Calm. Devoid of emotion. "Who are you all?" From the shadows of jagged rocks, a young man emerged. His presence was unassuming, yet it carried the weight of a thousand storms. His hair was an icy blue, strands tousled by the mountain breeze, matching the piercing chill in his sharp, sapphire eyes. A sword rested at his hip, its sheath as simple as the clothes he wore¡ªtattered, worn, yet dignified in a way that hinted at nobility long abandoned. But Asael didn¡¯t need to see the sword to know. This was the one. The one who had turned the mountainside into a graveyard. The one who had massacred those monsters without breaking a sweat. Power radiated from him, invisible yet undeniable, like the faint crackle of lightning before a storm. Asael¡¯s instincts screamed, not with fear¡ªbut with respect for the overwhelming force standing before them. Anne took a hesitant step forward, her eyes narrowing slightly as recognition flickered in her mind. "Are you¡­ Duke Driesell¡¯s son?" she asked softly, her voice carrying a mix of awe and disbelief. The name hung in the air like an ancient echo. Duke Driesell, the strongest swordsman of his era, known for wielding thunder itself with a blade forged from storms. His bloodline was legendary¡ªmarked by their blue hair, piercing eyes, and the unmistakable azure blade they carried. But they were all supposed to be dead. Killed during the Demon King¡¯s invasion. Except for the rumors¡ªwhispers of a lone survivor. The youngest son. Steven Driesell. The young man tilted his head slightly, as if trying to recall something distant and irrelevant. "Hmm¡­ wait. Have I seen you somewhere?" His voice remained indifferent, as if even curiosity was too much effort. His eyes flicked to Anne. "You¡¯re the Saintess, right?" Then his gaze shifted to Asael. Unimpressed. Unbothered. "Then that makes you the Hero." Asael and Anne nodded, though neither felt like titles mattered here. Steven¡¯s fingers brushed lazily against the hilt of his sword, his expression unreadable. "So, tell me¡ªwhy have both of you come here?" Asael took a step forward, steadying his voice. "We came to investigate the rumors. About the mysterious monster on this mountain." Steven¡¯s lips curled slightly¡ªnot a smile, more of an afterthought. A mockery of amusement with no warmth behind it. "Is that so? I was just bored, so I killed them," he said casually, gesturing vaguely toward the mountain littered with corpses. "Didn¡¯t realize boredom would earn me a nickname." His words were light, but his eyes¡ªempty, cold, distant¡ªtold a different story. A man untouched by the weight of life. Or perhaps a man who had already lost everything worth caring about. Anne clenched her fists, her lips parting to speak, but Asael stepped forward. "Can you help us?" Asael asked, his voice firm despite the chill that crawled up his spine. Steven¡¯s response was immediate. "No. I can¡¯t and I won''t." Blunt. Sharp. Like a door slammed shut. "What? But we need your help!" Asael¡¯s voice rose, frustration seeping in. "With your power, we could save countless lives. We could fight back, defeat the monsters, the Demon King¡ª" Steven¡¯s eyes flashed for the briefest moment¡ªnot with anger, but with something colder. Indifference sharpened into disdain. "Why should I help you?" he interrupted, his tone like ice cracking under pressure. Asael faltered, the words caught in his throat. "Because our goals are the same," he finally managed. "To defeat the Demon King. To save humanity." Steven¡¯s chuckle was soft, almost amused, but it held no joy¡ªjust a hollow echo. "You¡¯re wrong," he said, stepping closer, the faint clink of his sword against its sheath the only sound. "It¡¯s your goal to save humanity. My goal is simple¡ªkill the Demon King. Nothing more. Nothing less." Asael frowned. "Aren¡¯t they the same?" Steven stopped, his eyes locking onto Asael¡¯s with a gaze so cold it felt like staring into the void. "No. They aren¡¯t." His next words cut deeper than any blade. "I am willing to sacrifice humanity to defeat the Demon King. Are you?" Silence. Asael opened his mouth but found no answer. His heart raced, not with fear¡ªbut with the weight of doubt. The words lingered in the air, heavy and suffocating. Steven¡¯s gaze softened¡ªnot with kindness, but with pity. "Thought so." Without another word, he turned, walking away as if the conversation¡ªand their existence¡ªmeant nothing. "Now get lost," he added, his voice carried by the mountain wind, as cold and sharp as the blade at his side. Asael stood frozen, the question echoing in his mind long after Steven¡¯s figure disappeared into the trees. The new companion (3) Steven walked away without looking back, his expression unreadable. The conversation was already forgotten. He had no interest in their ideals, their hope, or their plans. He had only one purpose. Kill the Demon King. And to do that¡ªhe had to become stronger. The cold mountain air barely stirred as he moved. One moment, he stood at the summit. The next¡ªhe was gone. With a single step, he launched himself downward, the force of his movement causing the ground beneath him to crack. Sparks of blue lightning erupted from his boots as he streaked through the air like a bolt cast from the heavens. One step. He passed the jagged cliffs. Two steps. The trees blurred past. Three steps. He reached the bottom. The moment his boots met the forest floor, a shockwave burst outward. The ground beneath him sizzled and blackened, arcs of crackling thunder dancing along the earth like restless spirits. The air smelled of ozone and burning bark. Steven straightened, rolling his shoulders before looking around. Training began. He strode toward a cluster of massive stones¡ªsome as tall as houses, their surfaces jagged and unbreakable to normal men. But he was not normal. Lightning flickered around his arms as he clenched his fists. Power surged. Then he punched. BOOM! The impact sent a shockwave ripping through the air, shaking the ground beneath him. The stone exploded outward, shards flying in every direction. Sparks danced across its shattered remains, the scent of scorched rock filling the air. But he didn¡¯t stop. His feet moved fluidly, perfectly measured. He twisted his body and struck again, his fist colliding with another stone. BOOM! The second boulder crumbled just as easily. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Blow after blow, his movements became a storm¡ªeach strike a thunderclap, each impact a bolt of destruction. But he wasn¡¯t merely breaking the stones. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. He was testing himself. Testing how much power his body could endure. Testing how quickly he could recover. Testing how far he could push before his body gave in. Because if he couldn¡¯t withstand his own power¡ªhow could he defeat the Demon King? Once the last boulder was reduced to nothing but rubble, Steven moved deeper into the forest. The air grew still. The trees stood tall and unbroken. That wouldn¡¯t last. Steven unsheathed his sword. The moment the blade left its scabbard, the atmosphere shifted¡ªas if the very air knew what was coming. Electricity crackled along the steel, forming bright blue arcs that slithered across its surface. Then¡ªhe swung. In a single fluid motion, his sword carved through the air, releasing an arc of lightning that ripped through the forest like a vengeful storm. Trees were severed instantly. Their trunks split apart, wood burning and smoldering from the sheer force of the attack. The ground trembled, scorched black by the residual energy. Still, he wasn¡¯t satisfied. Steven took one step forward. Sparks erupted from beneath his boots. He swung again. A second arc tore through the landscape. More trees fell, their remains smoking, filling the air with the sharp scent of burnt wood. And then¡ªwithout pause¡ªhe swung a third time. The sky flashed. The storm answered his call. A streak of lightning split the clouds, descending to merge with his blade. His sword glowed, humming with raw power. Steven exhaled, his grip tightening. Then¡ªhe vanished. In less than a heartbeat, he reappeared at the center of the clearing. His sword was already sheathed. The result? Silence. Then¡ªeverything fell at once. The trees he had targeted collapsed simultaneously, as if time had only now realized they had already been cut. Smoke and dust billowed into the sky, the ground beneath the fallen trees charred and broken. Steven stared at the destruction before him. Not enough. His fingers twitched at his sides, his muscles thrumming with energy. No matter how much he trained, how many monsters he killed¡ª It was never enough. Because in the end¡­ Power alone wouldn¡¯t be enough to defeat the Demon King. And if he wanted to kill that monster, he had to become something more. Something unstoppable. Steven let out a slow breath. His body ached, sweat dripped from his brow, but his eyes¡­ His eyes remained cold. "Not enough," he muttered again. And then¡ªhe resumed training. --- Steven continued, his training. The forest was alive with the sounds of snarls and growls, but he barely paid them any mind. A dozen goblins had spotted him, their yellow eyes glowing with malice. They brandished crude weapons¡ªrusty blades, wooden clubs, jagged bone knives. They thought they could kill him. Steven was just irritated. With a single fluid motion, he drew his sword. A flash of blue. A streak of lightning. Before the goblins could even react¡ªthree of them were gone. Their bodies collapsed in separate directions, blood spraying across the dirt as the remaining goblins froze in horror. Then¡ªpanic. The surviving nine goblins turned and ran, their guttural cries of fear echoing through the trees. But they never got the chance. BOOM. Steven¡¯s feet sparked with electricity as he moved¡ªone second, he was standing still, the next, he was already upon them. Before the goblins could even register what had happened¡ªthey were dead. His sword sliced through the air with cold precision, cutting them down one by one, their bodies dropping like withered leaves in a storm. When the last one fell, Steven stood motionless amidst the carnage, blood dripping from his blade, his face expressionless. He sheathed his sword. And then¡ªhe kept walking. Day after day, the pattern remained the same. Morning. He would descend the mountain. Afternoon. He would train. His fists shattered stone, his sword cleaved through trees, his body honed itself into a weapon of war. Evening. He would return, only to repeat it all over again the next day. If he grew hungry, he would simply pluck wild fruit from the trees. Sleep was a luxury he rarely allowed himself¡ªhis mind was too restless, his goal too far away. This was his life. A life of training. A life of endless, merciless repetition. But then¡ªsomething changed. He was being followed. Steven¡¯s sharp eyes flickered toward the trees. Three people. They weren¡¯t monsters. He would¡¯ve killed them already if they were. For the past few days, they had been following him everywhere¡ªwatching him train, watching him hunt, watching him kill. At first, he ignored them. But now¡ªhe was getting annoyed. Finally, he stopped in the middle of the forest, exhaling sharply. Sparks flickered at his feet as he turned. "Stop following me, would you?" His voice was cold. A warning. For a moment, there was silence. Then¡ªrustling. From behind the trees, Asael, Anne, and Kenta stepped forward. Steven¡¯s expression darkened. They weren¡¯t giving up. Despite his clear rejection, they had kept following him, trying to persuade him to join them. And the more they followed, the more they realized¡ªhe was even stronger than they thought. They needed him. "If you join us, then we¡¯ll stop following you." Asael said, crossing his arms. Steven stared at him. Then scoffed. "Are you joking with me?" he asked, irritated. But before Asael could reply, Kenta stepped forward. For the first time, Steven actually looked at him. A young boy. Small, frail¡ªbut his eyes were different. Eyes that had seen suffering. Eyes that had lost everything. Steven¡¯s voice was sharp. "Now, who the hell are you?" Kenta took a deep breath. His voice shook, but he didn¡¯t back down. "My name is Kenta." He clenched his fists. "My father died fighting monsters. Goblins killed my mother and grandfather." His voice wavered, but his gaze stayed firm. "But I couldn''t do anything." Silence. The air around them felt heavy. Even Asael and Anne stayed quiet. Then¡ªKenta stepped closer. His voice was no longer shaking. "You are strong." "Please help us in defeating those monsters." A direct plea. No hesitation. For the first time, Steven hesitated. His cold gaze lingered on the boy. Something flickered in his eyes¡ªsomething almost human. Then¡ªhe looked away. "Fine." Asael and Anne''s eyes widened. But before they could say anything, Steven turned to Asael. "But you need to prove yourself first." Asael straightened. "Prove? How?" Steven¡¯s lips curled into something between a smirk and a challenge. "Tomorrow morning. Fight me." A brief silence. Then¡ªAsael nodded. "Okay." Steven¡¯s eyes narrowed slightly, evaluating him. Then, he simply turned and walked away. "Good." With that, he disappeared into the forest, lightning crackling faintly in his wake. The new companion (4) The morning broke over the scarred clearing, where the felled trees¡ªSteven¡¯s own handiwork during training¡ªstood as silent sentinels beneath a sky streaked with soft pink and amber. In that open space, where the remnants of past battles mingled with the gentle light of dawn, the four of them gathered. "Are you ready?" Steven asked, his cool voice echoing slightly among the barren trunks. His eyes, a clear, unyielding blue, were calm yet carried an undercurrent of challenge. "Yes," Asael replied, stepping forward with measured resolve despite the weight of his recent failures. They unsheathed their swords, the metallic whispers slicing through the still air. Asael assumed his stance¡ªa posture honed by countless battles, muscles tense with anticipation and scars etched into his skin telling silent stories of past struggles. In contrast, Steven¡¯s demeanor was relaxed, almost effortless, as if he had already accepted the inevitable dance of steel. "I''ll give you the first chance to attack," Steven declared, his tone carrying both invitation and provocation. "I won¡¯t refuse then," Asael answered, his voice a mixture of determination and lingering doubt, and with that, he lunged forward. Before Asael¡¯s sword could find its mark, Steven intercepted the blow with a swift, deliberate movement¡ªblocking the strike with his sword. A resounding impact reverberated as Steven pushed him back, his gesture measured yet commanding. "Now my chance," Steven said, stepping forward with an almost casual grace as a small spark of blue energy danced along his limbs. In a burst of speed that blurred the world around him, he dashed forward. Asael¡¯s eyes widened in surprise; he scrambled to defend himself against the flurry of attacks that came like a sudden tempest. Steven¡¯s strikes, rapid and relentless, forced Asael to retreat¡ªeach swing of the blue sword landing with precision that Asael could scarcely block. A barrage of blows followed in rapid succession, each one hammering into Asael¡¯s already battered defenses. At one moment, a sharp punch collided with his face, and then a brutal strike from the hilt of Steven¡¯s sword sent him sprawling onto the ground. "Is that all? Then that''s disappointing," Steven taunted, his voice carrying a mocking edge as he surveyed his fallen opponent with detached superiority. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. "I''m still not done yet!" Asael gasped, rising unsteadily to his feet, his body aching with pain and pride mingled in every labored breath. Their duel was about to resume when a voice rang out¡ªurgent and pleading. "Stop! Stop!" Anne¡¯s words sliced through the clamor, drawing their attention. "What happened?" Steven demanded, his eyes flickering with irritation at the interruption. "I want to talk to Asael about something," Anne said firmly, stepping between the two fighters with a calm authority that belied the storm of emotions roiling within her. "Fine, go ahead," Steven replied curtly, though the edge in his tone softened ever so slightly. Asael approached Anne, his features etched with exhaustion and a hint of sorrow as he listened. "What happened? Why aren¡¯t you using divine power?" she asked quietly, her concern palpable in the tender tremor of her voice. For a long moment, Asael¡¯s gaze dropped to the earth, as if searching for answers among the broken twigs. "For some reason, I''m not able to exert any divine power," he admitted in a low, pained murmur. Anne¡¯s eyes widened in disbelief. "What? But you had done that just a few days ago," she whispered, as if questioning a truth too terrible to accept. "Yeah. But now it¡¯s like I can feel it locked inside me¡ªI can sense its presence, but I can¡¯t control it," Asael said, the frustration and vulnerability in his voice mingling with the steady beat of his weary heart. "Hmm... damn it. Be more careful!" Anne chided gently, placing a comforting hand on his arm. "Yes. I''ll be," he promised, though uncertainty still flickered behind his eyes. Steven, standing a short distance away, broke the brief silence with a pointed tone. "Are you both done now?" he asked, stepping forward as if to resume the contest. "Yes," they answered in unison, though the sincerity in their voices was tinged with melancholy. Asael then stepped back into the center of the clearing, his gaze steadying as he squared his shoulders. He stood in front of Steven once again, the tension of the impending duel crackling in the crisp morning air. The wind whispered through the broken remains of the trees, carrying the echoes of past failures and the promise of redemption. They charged at each other once more, their swords colliding with a resounding clang that echoed through the ancient forest. The sound of metal on metal reverberated between the towering, broken trees, as if the very woods were mourning the clash of their wills. For a time, the duel seemed unbalanced¡ªa brutal contest where every blow Steven delivered landed with clinical precision, while Asael struggled to muster the strength he once had. His movements were heavy, as though burdened by invisible chains of grief and regret. Every swing of his sword was slower, more labored, and it was painfully evident that he was having a hard time matching Steven¡¯s speed. "I had expected more from the so-called hero," Steven taunted, his voice cool and laced with disappointment. He circled Asael like a predator, his blue eyes glinting with condescension. "You wish to save the world with such skills?" he sneered. But Asael, though wounded and faltering, refused to let the words break him. "Shut up! You don''t know anything," he spat back, gritting his teeth as he swung his blade again and again. His sword clashed against Steven¡¯s with desperate force, sparks flying from each impact. "Pathetic. With this level, you won¡¯t be able to save anyone," Steven declared, his tone venomous as he parried Asael¡¯s desperate attacks with ease. His every movement was fluid and sure, each strike precise enough to chip away at Asael¡¯s dwindling hope. For a brief moment, as the rhythm of their battle continued in this grim dance, Asael¡¯s mind flashed with images of destruction¡ªthe screams of dying people, the chaos wrought by monsters upon a helpless world. The weight of those memories pressed down on him, stoking a deep, smoldering anger. Rage, loathing, and hatred surged in his veins until his vision blurred with raw, unfiltered emotion. Then, as if answering his silent plea, a familiar golden aura began to shimmer in Asael¡¯s eyes. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the aura spread over his battered body. His torn armor knit itself together like a miracle of old, and his sword reappeared in his grasp¡ªreborn, gleaming with divine light. The golden radiance enveloped him, dispelling the darkness that had clung to his every movement. "I guess this is your true power," Steven said calmly, his own body beginning to transform in response. Blue thunder crackled along his skin as sparks danced over his sword, his aura deepening to a hue that mirrored the storm inside him. Now, both warriors stood face to face, each a living embodiment of elemental fury¡ªAsael, cloaked in a luminous golden light, and Steven, surrounded by an electric blue tempest. The air between them vibrated with the promise of renewed combat, the silence before their next exchange as heavy as the burdens they carried. In that charged moment, every cut, every bruise, every drop of blood told a story of loss and determination. The forest seemed to hold its breath as they resumed their duel¡ªa battle not only for survival but for the very hope of a shattered world. Each swing of their blades was a question and a challenge, each parry a desperate plea for redemption. Their swords rang out again¡ªa duet of thunder and lightning¡ªwhile their souls, scarred by past failures, fought to reclaim the honor and strength they once believed they had lost. The new companion (5) The duel raged on beneath a sky that seemed to shudder with every clang of sword on sword. Golden and blue blades met with blinding sparks that danced through the air like fireflies caught in a storm. Each collision reverberated deep into the earth, sending tremors through the ancient forest. Anne and Kenta stepped back, their faces etched with a mixture of awe and dread, desperate not to be caught in the fury of their duel. Steven¡¯s attacks were a blur of lethal precision, his blue sword slicing through the air as if guided by the very tempest of his blood. Every strike from him left a trail of incandescent sparks that scorched the nearby trees and sent embers scattering like fleeting memories of light. Asael, though battered and pushed back time and again, fought with a tenacity borne of divine sorrow and relentless resolve. Every time he faltered, the golden aura of his power flared around him, mending cuts and bruises almost as quickly as they were inflicted, though not before each blow carved deeper lines of pain into his soul. The forest around them paid tribute to their struggle: branches splintered and trees, once proud and towering, crashed to the ground in a symphony of shattered wood and falling leaves. The very air hummed with raw energy and the bitter scent of burning foliage mixed with the copper tang of spilled blood. At one point, as Steven unleashed a particularly furious barrage, a glancing blow found its mark on his side. A deep gash, streaked with blue blood, marred his otherwise flawless assault. A momentary pause rippled through his relentless rhythm as he cursed under his breath¡ªa sound almost lost amidst the metallic cacophony. "Hmm¡­ fine. I think you''ve proven yourself," he taunted, his voice a mix of cold disappointment and grudging respect, and for an instant, he eased his assault. But Asael, fueled by a storm of unspoken memories¡ªof lives lost, of screams echoing in the darkness, of a world he had failed to protect¡ªdid not relent. With his vision blurring at the edges from a cocktail of pain and raw emotion, he charged once more, his golden sword raised high in a defiant arc. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. "Shut up!" he had once shouted; now, his words were replaced by the thunder of his heart pounding in his ears. Steven, sensing the overwhelming surge of rage in Asael, moved to block his incoming attack. "Hey, I told you¡ªyou passed. You can stop now," he said, attempting to temper the torrent of Asael¡¯s assault with a steadying hand. For a fleeting heartbeat, their blades locked, the brilliant blue of Steven¡¯s aura clashing with the fierce, burning gold of Asael¡¯s. But Asael was no longer the man he had been mere moments before. His mind was awash with memories of destruction¡ªthe screams of the fallen villagers, the lifeless eyes of those he could not save¡ªand those images fused with a burning desire for retribution. His movements became erratic, fueled by a primal, uncontrollable fury. Every parry and thrust was no longer measured, but a desperate, savage act¡ªa plea to undo the grief that had festered within him. The clash of their swords grew even more violent. Each strike from Asael, despite the weakness in his injured body, carried the weight of countless sorrows. His golden aura blazed around him as if trying to burn away the torment, even as his vision swam in a haze of blurred colors and flickering memories. Steven¡¯s cool, measured assault began to falter beneath the force of Asael¡¯s raw emotion. The sparks from their blades mingled with the bitter scent of sweat and blood, each collision a silent testament to the pain and hope that warred within both warriors. In that suspended moment, as the forest seemed to hold its breath and time slowed to a crawl, Asael and Steven stood locked in combat¡ªa dance of light and storm, of divine power and relentless will. ---- The duel roared on with a fierce intensity as Asael, fueled by the burning torrent of his emotions, pressed his attack relentlessly. His sword whirled in a desperate arc, every swing echoing the tumult of his heart. Amid the clamor of clashing blades, Steven¡¯s calm yet cutting voice rang out, addressing Anne and Kenta, who watched with troubled eyes from a short distance. "Hey, tell your friend to stop. What happened to him?" Steven demanded, his tone tinged with both concern and a quiet resignation. Anne exchanged a worried glance with Kenta. "I think his strong emotions have gotten the better of him," she murmured softly. Steven frowned. "What? Does that happen often?" "Yes," Anne replied, her voice gentle yet sorrowful. "Heroes sometimes let their emotions overwhelm their reason." A heavy sigh escaped Steven. "Then there''s no other way," he muttered, as if the inevitability of this conflict weighed upon him. "I didn''t want to do this." In that moment, a surge of blue current intensified around Steven¡¯s body. The air around him seemed to crackle with raw energy, his movements sharpening into a blur of lethal precision. With that sudden burst, he moved much faster than before¡ªa speed that startled not only Anne and Kenta but even Asael himself. Asael, still battling the tumult of his own emotions, managed to raise his sword in a final effort to block the incoming assault. But in the blink of an eye, Steven turned his blade with an effortless twist and hurled Asael¡¯s own sword from his grasp. The weapon clattered against the stones, discarded like a broken promise. Without missing a beat, Steven closed the gap. His fist, charged with the blue energy of his aura, struck Asael in the stomach¡ªa crushing blow that reverberated deep within. Before Asael could gather his bearings, another brutal punch hammered into his abdomen. One blow cascaded into the next: a rapid succession of punches and kicks, each delivered with ruthless precision. The sound of flesh meeting flesh, the hiss of impact, and the grunts of exertion filled the clearing. Despite his battered form, Asael¡¯s divine power worked silently in the background¡ªhis golden aura flaring in moments to heal his wounds, knitting torn flesh and dulling the edge of pain. But Steven¡¯s assault was unrelenting, each strike punctuating his frustration and cold resolve. The blue currents around Steven seemed to surge with every blow, each punch and kick a testament to his commitment to end the duel. For every injury Asael sustained, the divine power fought to mend him, yet his body, overwhelmed by the unyielding barrage, began to falter. His vision swam with flashes of gold and blue, and his arms grew heavy as his resolve wavered under the weight of each punishing strike. Finally, amid the relentless tempest of blows, Asael¡¯s strength ebbed away. His knees buckled down, and his eyes clouded over as consciousness slipped away like sand through his fingers. The duel ended as abruptly as it had escalated. Steven stood over the fallen hero, blue energy crackling softly in the quiet aftermath, while Anne and Kenta watched in agonized silence. A new journey (1) The mountain top was quiet again, the echoes of battle replaced by a sorrowful stillness. In the aftermath, when Asael had fallen unconscious, Steven had carefully lifted him onto his broad shoulders. Anne and Kenta had trailed close behind, their faces etched with worry and loss as they retraced the arduous path back to the summit. The wind whispered softly through the sparse trees, carrying with it the lingering tang of blood. After what felt like endless hours in the dim twilight of recovery, Asael¡¯s eyelids fluttered open. Slowly, he became aware of the gentle murmurs of his companions and the soft glow of early morning light beginning to break over the peaks. His vision cleared to reveal Anne¡¯s concerned eyes and Kenta¡¯s anxious expression hovering over him. "Are you alright?" Anne asked in a hushed, tremulous tone, her voice thick with worry as she reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from his brow. "Yes," Asael replied quietly, his voice raspy from pain and disuse, yet carrying a note of relief that he was still here. "I''m awake." Steven stepped forward then, a piece of fruit held casually in his hand as if the morning offered small comforts amid the turmoil. "Here," he said, extending the fruit toward Asael. The offering was simple, yet it carried an unspoken apology¡ªa gesture to mend what had been broken in the heat of battle. "I''m sorry for losing control," Asael murmured, his gaze falling away for a moment as he tried to reconcile the overwhelming surge of emotion that had nearly overwhelmed him. "I¡ªlost myself for a moment there." Steven¡¯s eyes softened just a fraction, though the cool blue intensity of his aura remained. "It''s okay. But you need to learn to control that power," he said firmly, as though reminding him that even in failure there was hope to be reclaimed. "Yeah, I''ve figured some things out," Asael replied, wincing as he slowly flexed a bandaged hand. "I¡¯ll try to do better." The conversation lingered in the gentle silence that followed, a brief respite from the relentless memories of the day''s brutal combat. Then, with a measured breath, Steven broke the pause. "Hmm... either way, I will join your group," he declared. His tone was quiet but unwavering¡ªa promise of unity forged through hardship. "Thanks a lot," Asael said, offering a tentative smile as he extended his hand in a gesture of reconciliation. "By the way, my name is Asael." His hand trembled slightly, still not fully recovered from the blows of the previous day. Steven glanced at the offered hand and then continued to eat his fruit, his lips curving into a slight, reserved smile.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. "I''m Steven," he finally replied, his voice carrying both familiarity and a remnant of challenge. Anne stepped forward, her presence gentle yet determined. "I am Anne," she introduced herself softly, her eyes reflecting both sorrow and hope. "And this is Kenta," she added, nodding toward the young boy who stood with an earnest gaze. A moment of silence passed as the four of them absorbed the quiet around them¡ªa silence that held both the grief of loss and the fragile promise of a new beginning. Then, breaking the quiet, Steven asked, "So, where are you all planning to go next?" No one had really considered their next destination, the weight of their recent trials still fresh in their minds. Asael hesitated, then spoke slowly, "Umm... what about you? Where were you planning to go next?" Steven¡¯s eyes flickered with the memory of his solitary ambition. "The snowy mountains of the west," he replied, his tone edged with determination and a hint of loneliness. Anne interjected, concern heavy in her voice. "What? But those mountains are fraught with peril¡ªdangerous, unidentified monsters could be lurking around every corner." Steven¡¯s gaze hardened. "That''s exactly why I''m going. It would be the perfect place to train, to hone my strength further." His words were resolute, even as they hinted at a personal crusade that went far deeper than simple ambition. Then Asael offered a thought that carried the weight of bitter memories. "What about going to where everything started?" he suggested softly. "To the place from which the Demon King emerged¡ªthe forest of monsters." Steven¡¯s eyes narrowed as he regarded Asael thoughtfully. "Hmm... fine then." His agreement was quiet, yet it resonated with an undercurrent of inevitability¡ªa destiny he could no longer deny. Soon, the four of them began to prepare for the journey anew. The mountain top, scarred by the echoes of past battles and the heavy memories of loss, now bore witness to their shared resolve. They packed their few belongings into the enchanted bag from the Mage Tower¡ªlight as a whisper on the outside but containing everything they needed. Kenta, with a seriousness that belied his youth, took charge of carrying the bag, his small hands steady as he shouldered the burden of both supplies and hope. In that moment, as the sun light bathed them in soft, golden hues, they made a silent vow to press onward. Their hearts were heavy with grief and guilt, but even more so with a burning determination to confront the darkness that had stolen so much from them. ---- Before setting off on their long journey, the four of them made one last stop in the village¡ªa small, humble settlement nestled amid the forest and mountain foothills. The villagers, their eyes heavy with both sorrow and hope, gathered to bid farewell. They pressed warm parcels of supplies into the travelers¡¯ hands: bundles of medicine, carefully rationed food, and a worn but meticulously drawn map. The map, its parchment softened by years of use, was the village¡¯s final gift¡ªa guide through a world that had grown perilously unfamiliar. "We all are here right now¡ªa small village in a forest and near the mountains, deep within the ruins of what once was the Qeino territory," Steven began, his voice resonant with the weight of his past. Once royalty, he now bore the knowledge of kingdoms and secret routes like a hidden scar. He spread out the map before them, his blue eyes tracing the faded ink lines. "To reach the Forest of Monsters, the shortest route is to cross into Qeino, then through Cria and Feria, until we finally arrive at our destination." He paused, his tone darkening as he continued, "The only problem is, these three territories are completely destroyed by monsters. It won''t be easy to pass through them unnoticed." The gravity of his words sank into the hearts of Asael, Anne, and Kenta, who listened in rapt silence. "So be prepared," he finished, his voice low and resolute. Asael nodded silently, his mind already burdened with the memories of lost battles. With little more than a quiet farewell, they began to depart from the village. Yet before their steps carried them away, Anne pressed a folded letter into Steven¡¯s hand. The paper was delicate and worn, its edges softened by time. "What''s this?" Steven asked, a note of curiosity mixed with something unspoken in his voice. Anne¡¯s eyes glistened with a trace of sadness as she replied, "I don''t know, but Duke Driesell told me to give this letter to his son." Her voice trembled as she spoke those words, as if recalling a memory too painful to bear. Steven¡¯s gaze narrowed as he regarded the letter. "You met my father?" he asked, his tone a mixture of disbelief and melancholy. Anne exchanged a look with Asael before Asael added quietly, "I also met him. When the Demon King attacked the Holy Temple, he was there to protect it. I tried to stop the Demon King... but I failed." He continued. "That''s when Duke Driesell arrived and saved me. He lost his life that day, sacrificing himself to protect us. I''m truly sorry for my weakness." His words fell heavy in the quiet air, laden with regret and sorrow. Without another word, Steven carefully unfolded the letter. The scrawl on the paper was elegant yet hurried¡ªa final message from a father who had long since passed. The letter read: My son, I''m sorry that by the time you read this letter, I won''t be in this world. I just want to tell you that I love you. I was always strict, but now I wish I had spent more time with you. Please take care of your sister and mother. I have also written a unique technique of our family¡ªa technique that even my father could not complete. It is incomplete, but I believe you have the strength to finish it. Once again, take care of yourself, my son. For a long, agonizing moment, Steven¡¯s eyes darkened with memories and regret. He knew the names mentioned in the letter all too well¡ªhis younger sister and his mother, both lost to the ravages of war and monstrous cruelty. Only he remained now, carrying their memory like a silent burden. Kenta glanced at Steven. "What''s written there?" he asked, his small voice echoing softly in the quiet morning air. Steven hesitated, his gaze fixed on the letter for a heartbeat too long before he dismissed the question. "It¡¯s nothing important," he said curtly, though his tone betrayed the hidden pain behind his words. With the map carefully stowed and the letter a silent testament to a past that would never be reclaimed, they prepared to leave. A new journey (2) The four of them pressed forward, their journey taking them deeper into the ruined expanse of Qeino territory. The path was a quiet graveyard of the past¡ªancient trees stood solemnly amid the crumbled remains of villages that had long since fallen to ruin. Shattered homes, broken fences, and the charred remnants of once-thriving communities lined their way, silent testaments to the devastation that had swept through. As they moved, their travels were not just about covering ground; they used the time to train and sharpen their skills. In the open spaces between ruins, Steven sparred with Asael, helping him control the overwhelming surge of divine energy that sometimes threatened to consume him. Each session was a battle between discipline and instinct, as Steven forced Asael to focus, to hone his abilities into something precise rather than reckless. At the same time, Asael trained Kenta, patiently guiding the boy in swordsmanship. Kenta¡¯s hands were small, his stance unsteady, but there was determination in his eyes. He swung his blade with all the strength he could muster, and though his strikes were weak, Asael corrected his form with quiet encouragement. Each day, Kenta¡¯s movements grew sharper, his resolve firmer. During a moment of rest, Steven turned to Asael, watching the boy practice with mild curiosity. ¡°Why did you bring someone so small with you?¡± he asked, his voice edged with both amusement and doubt. Asael glanced at Kenta, who was clumsily but diligently practicing his swings. ¡°If I didn¡¯t bring him, he would have come on his own,¡± he said simply. Steven raised an eyebrow. ¡°How can you be so sure?¡± A brief silence followed before Asael answered, his tone carrying a quiet weight. ¡°Because I was once like that.¡± Steven didn¡¯t press further, but he understood. He recognized the same stubbornness, the same fire that burned in young warriors who had suffered too much too soon. Their journey continued until they finally reached the outskirts of Qeino territory. The moment their boots met the unfamiliar soil, they halted. Asael knelt down, his eyes narrowing as he studied the disturbed earth. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± he murmured, pointing at a series of footprints imprinted in the dirt. The group gathered around, their gazes tracing the patterns. There were two distinct sets¡ªone large, heavy, pressing deep into the soil, while the other was lighter, uneven, as if something had been dragged across the ground. Steven¡¯s expression darkened. ¡°Orcs.¡± Kenta¡¯s head snapped up. ¡°Huh? What?¡± Steven exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck as he examined the tracks further. ¡°It looks like orcs have taken humans captive.¡± His voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of restrained anger in his words. A flicker of fury sparked in Asael¡¯s eyes. His grip on his sword tightened. ¡°Then we should go quickly and save them.¡± His voice held no hesitation¡ªonly urgency. Steven studied him for a moment before nodding. ¡°Hmm¡­ okay.¡± No more words were needed. The four of them moved swiftly, following the path of the footprints. The wind whispered through the broken land as they advanced, carrying the distant cries of an uncertain fate. Every step they took was filled with silent resolve, their hearts bracing for whatever lay ahead. They followed the footprints and reached a ruined village. The ruined village lay before them, a graveyard of shattered homes and forgotten lives. Smoke from smoldering fires curled into the sky, filling the air with the acrid scent of burnt wood and blood. The oppressive silence was broken only by the muffled cries of villagers, bound and gagged, their terrified eyes pleading for salvation. From the cover of a collapsed wall, the four companions observed the scene. A dozen orcs loomed over the captives, their hulking forms casting long, menacing shadows under the dim light. Their rough, green skin was smeared with dirt and dried blood, and their crude weapons¡ªrusted axes and massive clubs¡ªgleamed ominously. They snarled and barked orders in their guttural tongue, their cruel laughter echoing through the ruins. Anne clenched her fists. "We need to save them," she whispered, her voice trembling with urgency. Steven didn¡¯t hesitate. "Let¡¯s go." He stepped forward, his expression cold and resolute. Asael followed without a word, determination burning in his gaze. The orcs noticed them almost instantly. One of them, larger than the rest, sneered. "Chiiik! Humans!" It pointed a thick, clawed finger at them. "Attack! Capture them!" Five orcs rushed forward with wild roars, their heavy footsteps shaking the ground. They targeted Steven first. The first lunged with its massive club, aiming to crush him in a single blow. But before the weapon could descend, a brilliant flash of blue split the air. Steven¡¯s blade moved faster than the eye could follow¡ªone clean slash, and the orc¡¯s arm was severed at the elbow. A strangled cry escaped its throat, but before it could even register the pain, Steven twisted his wrist and drove his sword deep into its chest. A sudden surge of electricity crackled through the blade, lightning dancing along the orc¡¯s body. It convulsed violently, its muscles locking in place as the electric current consumed it. Then, with a final spasm, it collapsed to the ground, lifeless. The second orc hesitated, momentarily shocked by the brutal efficiency of Steven¡¯s attack. But hesitation was fatal. Steven stepped forward in a blur, closing the distance before the orc could react. His sword arced through the air, a streak of silver in the dim light. In one fluid motion, he slashed through the orc¡¯s stomach. Blood sprayed across the dirt, the creature¡¯s face twisting in agony. Before it could even collapse, Steven¡¯s sword twisted in his grip, and with a swift thrust, he drove the blade into its heart. The orc gurgled, eyes wide with disbelief, before falling limp at his feet. Asael, meanwhile, also faced an orc. The orc lunged, swinging a jagged axe in a diagonal strike aimed for his head. Asael ducked at the last second, feeling the air ripple as the weapon narrowly missed. Before the orc could recover, Asael retaliated¡ªhis blade flickered downward, slicing clean through the orc¡¯s calf. A guttural scream ripped from its throat as it stumbled forward, its balance shattered. Wasting no time, Asael spun behind it and drove his sword through its spine, ending its suffering instantly. The last two of the five orcs roared in fury and charged at the same time as their fallen comrade collapsed. They swung their axe wildly, their rage overriding all sense of strategy. But stwven had already seen through its reckless attack. He sidestepped just enough to avoid the blade, then slashed upward in a deadly counter. One orc¡¯s throat split open, and with a final, choking gasp, it crumpled to the ground. While as his sword reached to other orc, he twisted his wrist and thrust it in his heart. It was fast. Silence fell over the battlefield. The remaining seven orcs stared at their fallen comrades in shock. Even the captured villagers, who had been paralyzed by fear moments ago, now watched in astonishment. Anne and Kenta stood frozen, eyes wide, as if they could hardly believe what they had just witnessed. Even Asael, who had fought beside Steven, couldn¡¯t help but feel the weight of what had just happened. Steven, however, stood unfazed, his sword still crackling faintly with residual electricity. His cold gaze locked onto the remaining orcs, and for the first time, uncertainty flickered across their brutish faces. "Five down," Steven murmured, his voice calm, yet carrying the weight of a storm brewing beneath. "Seven remaining." The battle was far from over. A new journey (3) The remaining seven orcs hesitated for a brief moment, their beady eyes flickering between the corpses of their fallen kin and the two humans who had cut them down with terrifying efficiency. Five of their kind, slain in mere moments. But the thought of retreating never crossed their primitive minds. Their blood boiled with rage, and with a chorus of guttural roars, they charged. Their massive feet pounded against the dirt, the force of their approach shaking the ground like a tremor. Their clubs and axes gleamed under the dim sunlight, swinging wildly as they stormed forward like a pack of rabid beasts. But Steven and Asael didn¡¯t waver. Their grips tightened around their swords. Muscles coiled, anticipation sharpening their senses. Steven¡¯s stance shifted, his energy surging like an uncoiling storm. Sparks crackled beneath his feet, tiny arcs of lightning dancing up his legs as he propelled himself forward. The first three orcs reached him at once, towering figures of brute strength and fury. Steven met them head-on. He jumped. With a single precise thrust, his sword pierced through the chest of the nearest orc, sinking into flesh with a sickening crunch. The moment the blade embedded itself, a violent surge of electricity burst from the wound. The orc convulsed, its eyes rolling back as crackling tendrils of lightning spread through its veins, frying its insides in an instant. Smoke curled from its mouth as its lifeless body crumpled. But Steven didn¡¯t stop. His instincts screamed. Another orc¡¯s club was already descending toward him in a devastating arc. Without hesitation, he wrenched his sword free and let go of it, dropping low in a rapid duck. The club swung past, missing him by inches¡ªbut it didn¡¯t stop. The sheer momentum of the orc¡¯s attack carried it straight into the face of its own ally. A sickening crunch echoed as the victimized orc¡¯s face caved in under the force of the blow. Its skull shattered, eyes rolling up before it collapsed lifelessly to the ground. The attacker barely had time to realize its mistake before it felt something unnatural¡ªSteven¡¯s hand, pressed against its chest. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Electricity erupted. Blue lightning surged from Steven¡¯s palm, tearing through the orc¡¯s body like living tendrils of destruction. The creature let out a garbled cry, its muscles locking as it convulsed violently. Its skin blackened, veins bursting from the sheer intensity of the surge. Within seconds, the orc was nothing more than a smoldering corpse, twitching even in death. Three orcs¡ªgone in the blink of an eye. But Steven wasn¡¯t finished. Even before the last orc¡¯s body hit the ground, he reached out, grabbing the hilt of his sword and pulling it from the fallen enemy¡¯s chest in one smooth motion. The blade gleamed with residual sparks, faint wisps of smoke rising from its surface. He stood straight, his breathing steady, not a single drop of sweat on his face. His cold, piercing gaze shifted toward the remaining orcs. The battlefield had gone silent, the tension thick enough to suffocate. While Steven tore through his enemies with terrifying speed, Asael fought with a different rhythm¡ªmeasured, methodical. He wasn¡¯t as fast as Steven, but he made up for it with precision. As the first orc swung its massive club, Asael sidestepped just in time, feeling the rush of wind as the weapon smashed into the ground beside him, sending dust flying. Seizing the opening, he swung his sword in a swift arc, slicing deep into the orc¡¯s stomach. The beast let out a guttural growl, its eyes burning with pain and rage¡ªbut it wasn¡¯t dead. Asael didn¡¯t give it time to recover. With a quick pivot, he dashed behind the creature and drove his sword straight into its back, the blade piercing through muscle and bone. The orc let out a gurgled breath, collapsing onto its knees before falling lifelessly to the ground. But Asael barely had a moment to breathe before another orc lunged at him. The beast¡¯s club came crashing down, and Asael barely managed to raise his sword in time to block it. The impact sent a violent tremor through his arms, his muscles straining against the sheer force of the blow. His legs buckled slightly, but he gritted his teeth and held his ground. Then, he caught movement in the corner of his eye¡ªanother orc, charging toward him, weapon raised for a deadly strike. He knew he wouldn''t be able to block both. Just as the second orc was about to bring its axe down upon him, a sudden blur of motion flashed behind it. A bone-chilling slash. A faint glimmer of steel. The orc¡¯s eyes widened in shock as its vision tilted¡ªbefore it even realized what had happened, its head had been severed clean from its body. A wet thud echoed as its decapitated head rolled across the dirt, its body collapsing soon after. And standing over the corpse, blade dripping with blood, was Steven. Cold. Unwavering. The remaining orc, the one pressing Asael down, faltered for just a moment. It was a mistake. Asael saw his chance. With a sudden burst of strength, he shoved the club away with his sword and lunged forward. The orc barely had time to react before Asael¡¯s blade plunged into its chest. A choked grunt escaped its lips, its eyes filled with disbelief before all life drained from them. Now, only one orc remained. The last one stood frozen for a moment, its grip tightening around its weapon. Fear flickered in its beady eyes, but its primal instincts refused to let it surrender. With a desperate roar, it charged straight at Steven. A mistake. Steven didn''t move. He didn¡¯t even brace himself. Then¡ªflash! A sharp arc of lightning burst through the air. Before the orc could even register what had happened, its head was already falling, severed cleanly from its body. A faint spark crackled along the wound as the corpse slumped to the ground, twitching before going still. Silence fell over the battlefield. Only the scent of burnt flesh and blood lingered in the air. For a long moment, no one spoke. The captured villagers stared in stunned disbelief, their terror slowly giving way to hope. Anne and Kenta stood still, their breath caught in their throats. Even Asael found himself momentarily speechless. He turned to Steven, his gaze filled with awe. "You¡¯re strong," he finally said, exhaling. He had fought Steven before. He knew that the man had held back against him. But this¡­ Even now, Asael could tell¡ªSteven hadn¡¯t even used half of his true power. --- Afterwards, without hesitation, the group rushed toward the captured humans, who were still bound in rough, crude ropes. Anne knelt beside an elderly woman, her hands swiftly working to untie the knots that bound her wrists. ¡°Are you all alright?¡± she asked, her voice gentle but urgent. The old woman rubbed her sore wrists, wincing slightly before nodding. ¡°Yes¡­ we are fine, thanks to you.¡± Around them, others were being freed. Some of the villagers murmured words of gratitude, while others simply wept¡ªtears of relief after having faced what could have been a horrific fate. Anne glanced at their exhausted faces, noticing how malnourished and battered they looked. These people had clearly been suffering under the orcs for some time. But something was bothering her. "How did you all get caught?" she asked, her brow furrowed. The old woman sighed heavily. "We were on our way north¡­ but then those beasts found us. There were too many to fight back. We tried to run, but they chased us down like animals." "North?" Anne repeated, her curiosity piqued. "Why north?" The woman¡¯s expression softened with hope. "There¡¯s a resistance gathering there," she said, her voice steady despite the hardship she had endured. "Led by powerful people." Anne¡¯s eyes widened slightly as something clicked in her mind. "A resistance¡­ in the north¡­ could it be¡ª" Before she could even finish her thought, Steven spoke, his voice quiet but firm. "Marquis Hector." A heavy silence fell between them. Anne turned to him sharply. ¡°So¡­ he¡¯s alive.¡± Steven didn¡¯t answer right away. His gaze was distant, lost in thought. Marquis Hector was a name from the past¡ªa man who had once commanded great respect, a warrior and leader who had vanished when everything fell apart. Towards the North (1) Marquis Hector. A name that carried weight like an unshakable fortress. A name that once struck fear into enemies and inspired unwavering loyalty among his soldiers. He was the Wall of the North, the unyielding shield that had protected the kingdom from endless waves of barbarian invasions. If one were to ask who the strongest person in the kingdom was, the answer would always be Duke Driesell¡ªa man whose sheer might made him a legend. But if one were to ask who the greatest commander was, there would be no hesitation. Marquis Hector. Individually, he was second only to Driesell. But in the art of war, in leading armies, in turning battles that should have been lost into overwhelming victories¡ªhe stood unmatched. He was the reason the North held strong for decades. Until the Demon King came. Everything changed. The barbarians, who had once been kept at bay, joined forces with the Demon King¡¯s army. The very enemies Hector had fought for so long turned into an even greater threat, attacking from within and without. And Hector? Lost. Assumed dead. For months, there had been no word of him. The North was overrun. No one believed he had survived. But now¡ª If he was alive, that meant he had endured. He had held his ground in the face of impossible odds. Yet there was one problem. Anne¡¯s eyes burned with determination. "We should go north immediately." But Steven¡¯s voice cut through her resolve, cold and sharp. "No. We continue our journey." Anne¡¯s head snapped toward him, confusion flashing across her face. "What? But why? Marquis Hector is alive! If we can reach him, we could¡ª" "And what if it''s a trap?" Steven¡¯s words carried an edge of steel, making Anne flinch. That was the problem. In this world, now, believing in someone so strong surviving was nothing but wishful thinking. Silence fell over them. Anne clenched her fists. She wanted to argue, to push forward no matter what, but deep down, she knew Steven had a point. A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. Then¡ª "That¡¯s exactly why we need to go." Asael¡¯s voice rang out. Steven turned to him, eyes narrowing. "Are you crazy?" But Asael didn¡¯t back down. "If it''s a trap, then that means there¡¯s something important waiting for us. Something they don¡¯t want us to see. And if it¡¯s not a trap, then we¡¯re running away from the one man who could change everything." Steven remained silent, his gaze unreadable. Instead, he turned to the freed captives. "Tell me everything you saw. Everything you know." One of the men stepped forward hesitantly. "There are¡­ rumors. Rumors of knights in the North." "Knights?" Steven muttered. Another spoke up. "And orcs. Many of them." A third added, "And barbarians too." Then¡ª "Yeah, and lizardmen as well." The moment that word left the man''s mouth, Steven froze. His entire body went rigid. He slowly turned his head, his expression no longer cold¡ªbut deadly serious. "What did you just say?" The man swallowed nervously. "...Lizardmen. I saw them with my own eyes." A storm brewed in Steven¡¯s gaze. His breath came slow and deep, his mind racing. Then, in a voice filled with certainty, he said, "We¡¯re going to the North." Asael raised a brow. "What? What happened all of a sudden?" Steven¡¯s grip on his sword tightened. His knuckles turned white. "If lizardmen are there¡­" His voice was lower now, more dangerous. "Then that means he¡¯s there too." Asael frowned. "Who?" Steven closed his eyes for a brief moment. When he opened them again, his next words shook the air itself. "Movok." The name silenced everyone. Movok. The name alone was enough to send chills down the spine of anyone who heard it. A large Lizardman¡ªa monster in both strength and brutality. Wherever he set foot, only ruin remained. Villages burned. Men slaughtered. Women and children taken as prisoners, never to be seen again. His presence meant devastation. Everyone fell into a moment of hesitation upon hearing his name¡ªthe freed captives, Anne, Asael. Even the wind seemed to still, as if the world itself feared him. But not Steven. His gaze remained steady, unshaken. "Let''s go." His voice carried no doubt, no fear¡ªonly cold resolve. "...Umm, okay. Everyone, let''s move!" Asael finally spoke, though his voice carried the faintest hesitation. Then Steven stopped, glancing over the group of former captives. "Wait. Are they all coming with us?" Asael nodded. "Yes. We can¡¯t just leave them here." Steven exhaled sharply through his nose. "But why? They all would be just burden." He said. But then a little muscular man came forward. "Please give us chance we won''t be a burden." He said. "Who are you?" Steven asked. "My name is Bob." Bob introduced himself. "Can you use any weapon or fight?" Steven asked. "Yes, I can try." Bob said and picked up an axe from fallen orc. He tried to swing it but was not properly able to. "No, you will be burden." Steven said. "No, please give them a chance. We can train them a bit on the way." Asael said. Kenta and Anne also requested. "Fine." Steven said. He crossed his arms. "But I¡¯m not letting them slow us down. Everyone else will also have a role." He moved among them, assigning tasks. - The strongest men were given weapons¡ªmakeshift clubs, axe, knives, anything available¡ªand ordered to protect the group. They would also hunt for food. - The women were assigned to cook whatever they gathered. - The children were tasked with plucking fruits from trees, gathering whatever was edible. This was no journey of the weak. If they wanted to survive, they had to work together. And so, with orders given, the group set off toward the North. --- In the middle of an open plain, dozens of tents stretched across the landscape, forming a makeshift war camp. The largest of them all stood at the center¡ªa massive black tent marked with crude red symbols, the language of orcs. Inside, a massive, battle-scarred Orc Chief, Fran sat on a throne of bones and iron. His posture was stiff, his thick fingers twitching nervously. Because he was not the one in charge. Standing before him was a hooded figure¡ªnot an orc, but something far more sinister. A Lizardman. His emerald scales glistened under the dim torchlight, and though his face was mostly hidden beneath the hood, his piercing yellow eyes gleamed with authority. This was Magnum¡ªthe right hand of Movok. "I hope everything will be delivered on time." Magnum¡¯s voice was low, but each word dripped with menace. Fran swallowed hard. "Y-yes! Don¡¯t worry, everything will be ready!" "Good." Magnum¡¯s eyes narrowed. "Because if you fail, you know exactly what will happen, don¡¯t you?" Fran nodded frantically, sweat beading down his forehead. "Y-Yes, of course! I swear, everything will be prepared on time." "Better be." Magnum turned, stepping toward the tent¡¯s exit. His tail flicked once¡ªa small but deadly gesture. "I am leaving now. No need to see me off." And with that, he was gone. Only when the tent flap closed behind him did Fran finally exhale. His body slumped into his throne, hands shaking. "Damn lizards..." he muttered under his breath, rubbing his temples. He had fought in countless battles, had seen thousands die¡ªyet nothing terrified him more than displeasing Movok. But then¡ª "Chief!" An urgent voice shattered his moment of relief. Another orc burst into the tent, breathing heavily. Fran''s expression darkened. "What happened?" The orc hesitated, then finally spoke. "One of our hunting groups¡­ hasn¡¯t returned." "What?!" Fran sprang to his feet, his massive frame shaking the ground beneath him. His eyes darted toward the tent entrance, as if making sure Magnum hadn¡¯t heard. Then he stepped closer, his voice dropping into a dangerous whisper. "What the hell are you talking about?" The orc shifted nervously. "I¡ªI already sent some men to find them!" Fran''s jaw clenched. His mind raced. He knew what Movok demanded. Humans. Slaves. Sacrifices. And if he failed to deliver them on time... He shook his head violently, slamming his fist onto a nearby table. "Damn it! Find them now! And raid more villages immediately!" His eyes glowed with desperation. "You know what will happen if we fail." The orc shivered. He knew. Movok would not just kill them. He would make an example out of them. "Y-Yes, Chief! Right away!" The orc rushed out, leaving Fran alone in the dimly lit tent. He sat back down, rubbing his face. "Please¡­ just let everything go smoothly," he muttered, staring at the ceiling. Towards the North (2) The territory of Marquis Hector began from Modvil, a land once rich with trade and life. But to reach it, they had to take the long, treacherous route from Qeino¡ªpassing through Lyshar, Norvik, and finally across the forest path that led to Modvil. Now, under the dim, overcast sky, Steven, Asael, and Anne led their weary group into Lyshar. What was once a proud fortress territory¡ªa symbol of resilience and power¡ªwas now nothing but ruins. Crumbling walls. Shattered homes. Blackened buildings, burnt to their skeletons. The air was thick with the stench of death. It clung to their clothes, sank into their skin. Some of the corpses were fresh, still torn and mutilated from recent battles. Others were nothing but bones, half-buried in the debris, whispering tales of forgotten lives. The humans moved in silence, their footsteps barely making a sound against the rubble-littered ground. Fear weighed on them like a shroud. Even the children, who should have been too young to understand, knew better than to make a sound. Because they weren¡¯t alone. Goblins. Wolves. Twisted creatures of the dark. The monsters roamed the broken streets like scavengers, feasting on whatever corpses they could find. Their glowing eyes flickered in the shadows. The group tried to avoid them, slipping through alleys, hiding behind collapsed buildings. But there were too many people. Too many exhausted, hungry bodies unable to move fast enough. More than once, a goblin caught their scent, its shrill cry summoning a swarm of its kin. Fights broke out. Blood was spilled. Even the strongest men among them staggered under the constant tension. And then, another problem arose¡ªfood. At first, they rationed what little they had. Then the rations ran out. People grew weak, their steps sluggish. Mothers held their crying children close, their sunken eyes filled with silent despair. The oldest among them barely had the strength to walk anymore. And that was when Steven made the decision. ¡°We will eat the monsters.¡± If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. His words echoed in the ruins, sending a shudder through the group. Silence followed. Then¡ª ¡°No!¡± "That''s... that''s insane!" "We can¡¯t eat those things!" Their protests came fast and panicked, their voices laced with disgust and horror. But Steven didn¡¯t waver. He crouched beside the freshly killed goblin, his blade still slick with its dark blood. ¡°If you have another way to survive, tell me now,¡± he said, his voice calm but firm. No one spoke. Because there was no other way. And so, they cooked the monster meat. The flames crackled. The scent was foreign, sickening¡ªnothing like the comforting aroma of roasted game. The first bite was the hardest. The children cried as their mothers forced the food into their mouths, their tiny hands trembling. Some of the men, including Bob, vomited after the first swallow but forced themselves to eat again. Anne, pale and shaking, clutched her bowl tightly, forcing herself to chew. Asael stared at his portion for a long time before whispering, ¡°This is what we¡¯ve become now¡­¡± He didn''t need food now as his divine power allowed him to stay without food for a very long time. No one felt good about it. But survival no longer had room for morality. And so, with hollow eyes and heavy hearts, they continued their journey. ----- The night was eerily silent. The distant rustling of leaves, the occasional hoot of an owl¡ªthe sounds of the night felt normal. Too normal. Then¡ª A faint crunch. Steven¡¯s eyes snapped open. His instincts screamed. They weren¡¯t alone. ¡°Everyone, wake up!¡± His voice cut through the silence like a blade. There was a moment of confusion¡ªtired groans, murmurs of protest. Kenta rubbed his eyes. ¡°Hngh¡­ what happened?¡± Steven didn¡¯t turn to him. His hand was already gripping his sword. ¡°We¡¯re surrounded.¡± And then¡ª A thunderous growl echoed through the trees. Figures emerged from the darkness. Orcs. Dozens of them. Their bulging muscles rippled, their yellow eyes glowed in the moonlight. Their jagged teeth gleamed with saliva, some still smeared with old blood. One of them sniffed the air, his lips curling into a sick grin. ¡°Found them! Chiiik!¡± he hissed. Another orc, larger than the rest, raised a rusted axe still wet with fresh blood and roared. ¡°Humans! Deliver!¡± Laughter erupted. Some dragged their weapons across the dirt, letting the metal screech against the stones, sending shivers down spines. A child whimpered. A mother clutched her baby tightly, tears welling in her eyes. ¡°Everyone, form a circle!¡± Asael commanded. The survivors scrambled, fear in their every step. Women, children, and the elderly were huddled inside. The strongest men stood outside, gripping their weapons so tightly their knuckles turned white. At the frontlines, at opposite ends¡ª Steven and Asael. The orcs¡¯ jeers turned to growls. Then¡ª ¡°Charge!¡± The ground shook. They rushed forward, clubs, axes, and rusted blades raised high, ready to strike. A golden explosion of light erupted from Asael¡¯s body. His vision blurred. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. A sword and armor materialized out of thin air, glowing with a brilliant radiance. He could feel it. His pulse synced with the hum of his blade. An orc lunged with a jagged axe. Asael moved¡ªtoo fast for the orc to react. His golden sword flashed. A spray of crimson shot into the air¡ª Four orcs fell at once, their bodies split open like butchered animals. One of them let out a wet gurgle, trying to speak as his intestines spilled onto the dirt. Asael didn¡¯t stop. Another swung at him. He pivoted, parried, and drove his blade forward. It pierced the orc¡¯s chest cavity, skewering his beating heart. A second later, the orc''s body twitched violently, then collapsed in a lifeless heap. Another came from behind. Asael spun¡ªhis sword cleaved straight through the orc¡¯s skull. Blood and brain matter splattered onto the ground. He didn¡¯t hesitate. He couldn¡¯t. On the other side of the battlefield, Steven charged. His sword crackled with energy, arcs of blue lightning dancing along its blade. An orc swung his axe. Steven sidestepped and brought his sword down. A burst of lightning exploded¡ª The orc¡¯s head burst open, flesh melting, eyeballs bursting like overripe fruit. Three more came at him. He leapt into the air, sword raised. He swung¡ª A blue arc of lightning streaked across the battlefield¡ª Three bodies split apart mid-run. Their torsos slid off their legs, and their limbs twitched for a moment before falling still. The orcs hesitated. Their laughter stopped. For a moment¡ªjust a moment¡ªthey hesitated. Then rage overpowered their fear. ¡°Kill them!¡± They charged again. Steven gritted his teeth. A club swung at him. He ducked, spun, and drove his blade into an orc¡¯s gut. Lightning surged through the body¡ª The orc screamed, his flesh cooking from the inside out, his eyes popping from their sockets. Steven ripped his sword free, sending bits of scorched flesh flying. Another lunged at him. Steven slashed across its chest¡ª A deep gash tore through muscle and ribs, exposing the still-pulsing heart beneath. The orc staggered, staring at its own insides. Then Steven rammed his sword straight into the exposed heart. The orc let out a final, sickening wheeze before falling limp. Another tried to reach the circle of humans. Steven¡¯s eyes flashed. He raised his sword¡ª A bolt of lightning shot out. It struck the orc¡¯s head¡ª The skull burst like an overripe melon, splattering bone, brain, and gore across the grass. ¡°Hold the line!¡± Asael shouted from across the battlefield, his golden light still flickering. Steven exhaled sharply, wiping blood and flesh from his face. But he couldn¡¯t stop. Because this wasn¡¯t over yet. More were coming. And they had to survive. Towards the North (3) The moon hung high, casting an eerie glow over the battlefield. The orc horde kept coming. Their heavy footfalls shook the ground, their guttural roars blending into a symphony of war. They charged relentlessly, their bloodshot eyes burning with hatred and hunger. But in their path stood two men¡ª Steven and Asael. The field was soaked in crimson. Orc bodies lay scattered, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles, their guts spilling onto the dirt. The stench of death thickened in the air, the metallic tang of blood mingling with the putrid scent of split entrails and burning flesh. Yet the orcs did not falter. They pushed forward, their rusted blades slick with gore, their clawed hands reaching out for human flesh. A hulking orc wielding a massive cleaver broke through, his thick veins bulging with bloodlust. He swung at Steven. Steven dodged, the blade missing his face by inches. He countered¡ªhis sword crackled with lightning as he slashed upward. The orc¡¯s stomach split open, a mess of intestines and half-digested flesh spilled onto the battlefield. The beast let out a garbled screech, stumbling as his own guts dragged behind him like rotting chains. Steven didn¡¯t let him suffer. With a single step forward, he plunged his sword through the orc¡¯s throat¡ª The blade burst out the back of his neck, taking chunks of spine and muscle with it. The orc¡¯s eyes rolled back, his massive body crashing to the ground, twitching before finally going still. Another orc slipped past him, heading for the humans. ¡°No!¡± Steven spun¡ª A bolt of lightning erupted from his sword, striking the orc¡¯s face. The creature''s head exploded, skull fragments and seared brain matter splattering across the dirt. On the other side, Asael was a golden blur. His armor shimmered, his sword a streak of light. An orc raised a massive club, swinging downward. Asael parried, the force cracking the ground beneath them. He stepped forward, twisted his sword¡ªand drove it straight through the orc¡¯s chest. The blade burst through his back, ripping his heart in half. The orc gurgled, blood bubbling out of his mouth, eyes wide with shock before he collapsed like a felled tree. Another orc, wielding dual axes, charged at him. Asael ducked beneath the first swing, sidestepped the second, and then¡ª With one powerful stroke¡ª He cleaved through the orc¡¯s waist. The upper half separated from the legs, sliding to the ground with a wet thud, organs spilling out like a slaughtered pig. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. But even in two pieces, the orc¡¯s severed torso twitched, his mouth opening and closing in a silent scream. Asael didn¡¯t spare him another glance. Not all the orcs were stopped. Some breached through the defenses, swinging wildly. The humans held their shields up, trying desperately to block. Bob was also at front, wielding the axe with both hands. An orc was about swing his club. But Bob tried to attack him first. However his balance got a little unstable and he accidentally hit orc¡¯s leg. The orc to fell on ground in agony. Without wasting time, Bob quickly slammed the axe in orc stomach. It was lucky, but he killed one orc. However, not all succeeded. A massive axe came down, splitting a man¡¯s skull in half. Blood sprayed onto those beside him, his body crumpling to the ground, his brain matter leaking onto the dirt. A woman screamed as an orc grabbed her, his jagged nails digging into her arm, drawing blood. She thrashed, biting and clawing¡ª But the orc lifted his club. Before he could bring it down¡ª A lightning bolt struck him, sending him convulsing, his skin blackening and peeling as he burned from the inside out. His body collapsed into a smoking husk. Steven rushed past, not even looking back. Amidst the chaos, Kenta moved like a shadow. His small frame allowed him to dart between the towering orcs, his daggers flashing. An orc lunged at him, his massive axe swinging downward. Kenta dropped low, rolling just in time as the axe crashed into the earth, digging deep into the soil. The orc snarled and tried to yank it free¡ª Too late. Kenta moved like a viper, his dagger slicing across the orc¡¯s leg, cutting deep into muscle. The orc staggered, roaring in fury. But Kenta didn¡¯t stop. He slashed again. Then again. More cuts, more blood. The orc swayed, his legs buckling under his weight as blood poured onto the ground. Finally¡ª Kenta leapt, his dagger flashing. He slit the orc¡¯s throat in one swift motion. A gush of dark blood sprayed out, coating Kenta¡¯s hands and face. The orc gurgled, clutching at his torn throat, stumbling for a moment¡ª Then he collapsed, face-first into the dirt. Dead. The orcs¡¯ numbers were dwindling. Their bodies littered the battlefield, forming piles of corpses, mangled and torn. The stench of death was unbearable. Yet the orcs refused to retreat. They fought with madness in their eyes, knowing there was no escape. They would die here. But so would the humans¡ªif they faltered. Steven wiped blood and sweat from his face, his breath ragged. He looked at Asael, whose golden light reduced a lot from before, his blade dripping with gore. The battle wasn¡¯t over yet. Not until the last orc fell. ----- The orc encampment stretched across the darkened forest, a mess of crude tents, spiked barricades, and smoldering bonfires. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and half-rotten flesh, the remnants of past raids left to fester beneath the twisted canopy. Inside the largest tent, a hulking figure paced back and forth¡ª Frab, the Orc Chief. His massive form was tense, his green skin glistening with sweat under the dim torchlight. His tusks twitched as he gritted his teeth, his yellowed eyes burning with frustration. His clawed fingers drummed against the hilt of his massive axe, the worn leather grip creaking under his tightening grasp. He was waiting. Waiting for news. "Chief! Chief!" A panting orc pushed through the tent¡¯s entrance, his broad chest rising and falling with each gasping breath. The Fran¡¯s head snapped toward him. "Chiik! Speak! Did the delivery go well?!" The messenger nodded quickly, his voice still trembling from exhaustion. "Yes, my lord! We raided more villages and secured the last batch of captives. The delivery was completed successfully." A heavy exhale left the Fran¡¯s lips, half relief, half frustration. "Good¡­ at least Movok won¡¯t tear my head off this time." Movok was not a being to be trifled with. Fran had already suffered one near-execution at his hands. Another failure, and his head would be mounted on a pike. But that wasn¡¯t the only problem. Fran''s expression darkened. "What about the other task? Did you find the missing patrols?" The messenger¡¯s posture stiffened, his lips parting hesitantly. A moment of silence. Then¡ª "We found them, my lord¡­ but they were already dead." The tent fell silent. Fran''s breath hitched. His massive hands clenched into fists, his knuckles cracking like dry bones. "And?" His voice came out low, dangerous. "Who did it?" The messenger gulped before speaking. "Humans, my lord. We tracked their movements and sent more warbands after them, but¡­ but¡­" "But what?" Fran¡¯s patience snapped. The messenger flinched, his knees nearly buckling. "We found them dead too." Fran''s nostrils flared. A rumbling growl escaped his throat, so deep it made the tent¡¯s leather walls shudder. This was bad. They had barely managed to complete their last task without incurring Movok¡¯s wrath. Now, another problem had crawled into his lap like a festering wound. His warriors¡ªhis hunters¡ªwere being slaughtered. By humans. He spun toward the messenger. "Where are these humans now?" The orc hesitated. "By now¡­ they should be inside Lyshar." Fran¡¯s jaw tightened. That wasn''t good. Lyshar was ruins now, a place of broken stone and the lingering ghosts of war. But Lyshar wasn¡¯t empty. His voice turned cold. "Which part of Lyshar?" A flicker of fear crossed the messenger¡¯s face. His fingers twitched, his lips parted as if unsure whether to speak. And then¡ª He muttered the words Fran did not want to hear. "My guess is¡­ they have entered his territory." Silence. Fran¡¯s blood ran cold. Then¡ª "Damn it! Nothing is going right!" His roar shook the tent, his fist slamming into the wooden table, splintering it into pieces. The messenger took a step back, his legs trembling. But then, he gathered what little courage he had left. "Chief¡­ we may need to ask for his help." The tent went deathly quiet. Fran¡¯s face twisted in disgust. His tusks bared. His fury boiling over. "What? You expect me to crawl to that dog-like bastard for help?!" His voice was thunder, his eyes burning with rage. The messenger swallowed hard. "There¡¯s no other way, my lord." Fran¡¯s hands trembled, his rage barely contained. But deep down, he knew the truth. He needed his help. A creature he loathed. A creature that disgusted him. A creature he despised with every fiber of his being. Leimer. A gnoll. A hyena-faced schemer. Unlike orcs, who believed in strength and domination, gnolls were cunning, deceptive, and thrived on trickery. And Leimer was their worst. A master manipulator, a snake in the skin of a beast. His territory stretched beyond Lyshar, reaching Norvik and the Forest Path¡ªplaces Fran would need to pass through if he wanted to crush these humans himself. But they hated each other. Fran saw Leimer as a cowardly schemer, unworthy of true power. Leimer, in turn, mocked Fran as a muscle-brained fool, easy to control if the right bait was set. To ask for his help would be to owe him a favor. And Leimer never let debts go unpaid. Fran¡¯s fists trembled. He hated this. He hated it. But he had no choice. His gaze darkened, his teeth grinding together. Finally¡ª He spoke through clenched teeth. "Send a messenger to Leimer. Tell him we need to talk." The messenger bowed and rushed out of the tent, leaving the Fran alone in the dark. His fury burned like wildfire. But this was only the beginning. Leimer’s game (1) The Demon King was a being of overwhelming power, his mere presence enough to shatter hope and drown nations in fear. But even he did not conquer the world alone. To enforce his will upon the land, he had three Generals¡ªeach one a monster in their own right, each one capable of toppling kingdoms with their strength alone. These three pillars of darkness held his empire together, ruling over vast territories, commanding legions of demons, beasts, and corrupted beings. And among them, none were to be taken lightly. The Lizardman Tyrant. Movok was a beast of pure carnage, a towering colossus of muscle and scales, his emerald-green body carved with battle scars from countless wars. He stood for one thing alone¡ªstrength. To him, the weak deserved only death, and the strong earned the right to rule. He did not deal in deception or trickery, nor did he waste time with schemes or diplomacy. When Movok marched upon a kingdom, it was like a storm of fire and steel, his warbands leaving only ruins and bones in their wake. His soldiers, mostly orcs, lizardmen, and ogres, thrived on brutality. Movok commanded the East and half of the North, his domain a land of war and endless conquest. A kingdom of monsters and warriors, where only the strongest survived. The Tigerkin Schemer. Where Movok relied on brute force, Korran was his polar opposite. A beastmen of the Tiger Clan, Korran was both brilliant and ruthless, a creature who thrived on deception, assassination, and the careful placement of pawns. He had no interest in honor or fairness. His philosophy was simple: "The ends justify the means." Korran had no hesitation in betrayal, extortion, or murder. He would gut a child if it meant securing his victory. Where Movok led his armies to crush the enemy head-on, Korran¡¯s forces broke their enemies from within. A kingdom would fall before they even realized they had lost. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. His domain stretched across the West and the other half of the North, a land of whispered conspiracies and unseen blades. Together, they ruled through lies, assassinations, and manipulation, shaping the world to fit their ambitions. The Voodooist of the Abyss. If Movok was the might of the army, and Korran was its intelligence, then Tores was its nightmare. A shadow wrapped in dread, he was neither beast nor man, but a walking plague of curses, spirits, and unspeakable horrors. Tores did not conquer through swords or politics. He broke minds. He twisted nature itself. Wherever Tores walked, the air grew cold, the ground withered, and the whispers of the damned followed. His magic could corrupt the flesh, shatter the will, and bend reality to his will. It was said that those who gazed into his soulless eyes could feel their very sanity unraveling. He did not plot, nor did he crave power. Tores had only one purpose¡ª To obey the Demon King. No matter what the order was. His territory stretched across the South and the Center, his lands a realm of endless night and unholy rituals. No one entered his domain and returned sane. The three generals held together the Demon King''s empire, but they did not see eye to eye. - Movok looked down on Korran, despising his trickery and lack of honor. - Korran saw Movok as a muscle-brained fool, easily manipulated and too simple-minded to rule. - Tores¡­ simply did not care. Yet despite their hatred and rivalries, they served under one master. Because they all knew one thing. The Demon King was absolute. And in his name¡ª The world would burn. ----- The moon hung low in the sky, casting its pale glow over the rugged, cleaved hills where shadows danced between jagged rocks. The air was thick with tension, a mixture of sweat, blood, and the faint scent of decay. At the heart of this desolate place, two monstrous figures stood face to face. On one side was Fran, the Orc Chief. His grayish-green skin was smeared with dried blood, his thick tusks protruding from his snarling mouth. Behind him stood a band of brutish orcs, each one gripping crude weapons, their red eyes gleaming under the moonlight. On the other side stood Leimer, the Gnoll Chief¡ªa hyena-like being wrapped in tattered armor. His fur was a sickly yellowish-brown, his long claws twitching with anticipation. His lips curled back, revealing jagged fangs, and his piercing red eyes glimmered with amusement. He was not as large as Fran, but what he lacked in brute force, he made up for in cunning and cruelty. The two locked gazes, their minions waiting in tense silence. Then, Leimer tilted his head, his ears flicking. "So¡­ tell me," he rasped, his voice like a blade scraping over bone, "why have you come here, Fran?" Fran¡¯s thick fingers curled into fists, his breathing deep and heavy. "Humans," he grunted. "They have entered your territory. I need your help." Leimer¡¯s ears perked, his sharp claws tapping against his armored chest. "And why, exactly, should I help?" His laughter was low and guttural, a mocking growl that sent shivers down the spines of the weaker orcs behind Fran. Fran¡¯s eyes burned with anger, but he held it back. He knew better than to be provoked by this deceptive, slithering mongrel. Instead, he grinned, revealing his large, yellowed tusks. "Because if you don¡¯t help, the humans won¡¯t be delivered on time," he said. "And if that happens¡­ Lord Movok will be furious." Leimer¡¯s smirk faltered for just a second. Even he, as cunning as he was, knew the cost of angering Movok. Fran pressed on, his deep voice like rolling thunder. "You wouldn¡¯t want that, would you?" Leimer¡¯s ears twitched, his eyes narrowing slightly. Then, just as quickly as his smirk had vanished, it returned, wider than before. "Hmm¡­ fine." His clawed fingers flexed, his tail swaying behind him. "I¡¯ll help you." Fran nodded and turned to his warriors. "Good. Then let¡¯s move. We need to find them quickly." Leimer chuckled, shaking his head. "No need." Fran paused, narrowing his eyes. "What do you mean?" Leimer¡¯s black eyes gleamed, his fangs flashing in the moonlight. "I already know where they are." Fran took a step forward, his massive form looming over the gnoll. "Where?" he demanded. Leimer licked his lips, his tail flicking behind him. "They will reach the Forest Path in a few days." Fran¡¯s eyes widened for a moment before he grinned savagely. "Then we should attack immediately!" But Leimer simply shook his head, chuckling darkly. "No, no, no¡­ We will attack them in the Forest Path." Fran scowled, baring his tusks. "Why wait?" Leimer¡¯s smile widened, stretching unnaturally, his black gums pulling back to reveal every jagged tooth in his mouth. "Because," he said, his voice dripping with amusement, "that would be more fun." Fran stiffened. For a brief moment, his warriors shifted uneasily, sensing something far more sinister behind Leimer¡¯s words. Fran had fought many battles, had spilled countless gallons of blood, but even he felt an unsettling chill crawl up his spine when he saw the gnoll chief¡¯s expression. Leimer wasn¡¯t planning just a battle. He was planning a hunt. A cruel, merciless slaughter, the kind that would make the trees themselves tremble in fear. Fran grunted but said nothing more. During the time when he was in orc kingdom, Leimer was the one who had attacked his territory. So, he knew what Leimer was capable of. And for once, he was glad that this vicious, treacherous beast was on his side. At least for now. Leimer’s game (2) The group of humans pressed forward, their bodies weary but their resolve unwavering. The once-thriving city of Norvik stretched before them, or at least what remained of it. Once, this place had been alive¡ªa jewel of the kingdom, filled with bustling streets, merchants calling out their wares, and the laughter of children. But now, Norvik was nothing more than a graveyard. Shattered buildings loomed like broken bones, their skeletal remains jutting into the sky. Fires had long since died out, leaving behind only charred wood and blackened stone. And through the ruins, monsters prowled. Twisted creatures, warped beyond recognition, slithered and lurked among the debris, their glowing eyes flickering like embers in the dark. But there was no time to mourn. No time to linger. They moved quickly, resting only when absolutely necessary. Every step was a battle¡ªmonsters lunging from the shadows, gnashing fangs and slashing claws. Yet, with each fight, the group grew stronger. Kenta, his small frame darting like a shadow, became faster, his daggers striking with precision. Bob, one of the captured humans, had once been weak, his body still bearing the scars of his captivity. But now? Now, he swung his axe with power, cleaving through enemies with each brutal strike. With every battle, their movements became sharper, their instincts honed by the constant struggle for survival. Asael, once burdened by his uncontrollable power, had learned to wield it with greater mastery. And Anne, whose strength had once faded, was slowly regaining the divine light of the Saintess. The journey was not just a test of endurance¡ªit was transforming them. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of blood, exhaustion, and marching, they reached the edge of a dense forest. A wall of towering trees stretched before them, their dark green canopies shrouding the path ahead in shadows. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. The air here was thick with the scent of damp earth, and the distant sounds of birds and unseen creatures whispered through the branches. "This is it." Asael¡¯s voice was calm but firm as he turned to face the group. "Once we cross this forest, we will reach Marquis Hector¡¯s territory." A ripple of relief spread through the survivors. Anne let out a small breath, her voice soft but hopeful. "Just a little more." Nearby, Bob clapped Kenta on the shoulder, his massive hand nearly knocking the smaller man forward. "I hope you''re not tired, little friend." He grinned, the roughness of his voice betraying his exhaustion. Kenta smirked, rolling his shoulders. "I''m fine. I''m stronger than I look." Bob let out a deep chuckle. "That, I believe." Their journey had been brutal, but even in the midst of suffering, bonds had formed. "Enough talking," Steven said, adjusting his grip on his sword. "Let¡¯s go." And with that, the group stepped forward, disappearing into the depths of the forest. ---- The forest was thick with towering trees, their branches weaving a suffocating canopy overhead. Shadows slithered between the trunks, and the scent of damp earth mixed with something else¡ªsomething rotten. The group moved cautiously, their senses sharp. The silence was unnatural. Then, it came. A piercing scream ripped through the air. "HELP ME! PLEASE, SOMEONE! SAVE ME!" The desperate cry of a woman, her voice thick with terror, echoed between the trees. Asael''s body moved before his mind could think¡ªa hero''s instinct. But just as he was about to dash forward, a strong hand blocked his path. Steven. "What are you doing?" Steven''s voice was sharp, firm. "Someone is in danger!" Asael argued. Steven¡¯s eyes hardened. "And what if it''s a trap?" Asael clenched his fists. "It doesn¡¯t matter. I have to help them!" Steven¡¯s face twisted in frustration. "Why don¡¯t you understand?!" "It¡¯s my duty to protect people!" Asael shot back, his voice rising. Steven¡¯s eyes turned cold. "You¡¯re too weak to fulfill your duties, ''hero.''" The words cut deeper than any blade. Asael''s teeth clenched. "Then what about you?! Are YOU strong? If so, why don''t you help?!" "STOP IT!" Anne''s voice shattered the tension. Kenta and Bob stepped between them, their expressions grim. "Now¡¯s not the time to fight," Bob said. "Let¡¯s check it out first," Anne suggested, her voice steady but urgent. "If it''s a trap, we''ll deal with it." Steven didn¡¯t answer at first, his jaw tight. But when Kenta and Bob also spoke in agreement, he finally let out a sigh of irritation. "Fine." Reluctantly, they all advanced toward the source of the scream. --- After going a little bit more, they found her in a small clearing, a wooden cage barely holding together, its rusted iron bars bent in places. Inside, a woman lay hunched over, her body covered in bruises and deep gashes. Blood stained her ragged clothing, and her tear-streaked face twisted in agony. "Please... please help me!" she sobbed, her voice raw. "I-I don¡¯t want to die!" Asael¡¯s heart tightened. He couldn''t stand it. He moved before anyone could stop him. But just as he stepped forward¡ª BANG! A brutal force slammed into him, knocking him off his feet! Dirt scraped his skin as he crashed onto the ground, stunned. Steven had shoved him aside. The moment Asael hit the ground¡ªarrows rained from above. Steven grunted as three arrows pierced his flesh. One struck his shoulder. Another embedded itself deep in his thigh. The third sank straight into his side, dangerously close to his ribs. A split second later, a sharpened wooden spike shot up from the ground¡ªright where Asael had been standing. A trap. Asael''s breath caught. "Steven!" He scrambled to his feet, rushing to Steven¡¯s side. Blood was already seeping through his armor, staining the ground beneath him. His fingers shook as he pulled the arrows free¡ªthe tips were coated in something thick and dark. His stomach dropped. "Saintess¡ªit''s poison!" Anne was already moving. "I¡¯m coming!" Bob and Kenta raised their weapons, their eyes darting around the trees. The enemy was near. But before anyone could react¡ª SCHLK! A single arrow pierced the woman¡¯s throat. Her scream died in a wet gurgle. Her eyes widened in shock, her fingers clawing at the wooden bars. Blood poured from her mouth, dribbling down her chin as she collapsed inside the cage. Her lifeless eyes stared straight at Asael. A pit formed in his stomach. He had rushed to save her. And now she was dead. "Tch." A voice sneered from the shadows. Figures emerged from the trees, their bodies blending into the darkness. Gnolls. Their hyena-like grins gleamed in the dim light, their fur matted and dirty. Leimer''s pack. "Heh. Right on time." The gnoll chief, Leimer, stepped forward, his sharp teeth gleaming in amusement. His cruel yellow eyes locked onto Asael. "I was hoping you''d take the bait, human." More gnolls appeared, their clawed hands gripping jagged blades, spears, and bows. They surrounded the group, cutting off every escape route. The air grew thick with the scent of blood. Asael clenched his fists, rage and grief boiling in his chest. The game had just begun. Leimer’s game (3) The forest was thick with tension, suffocating like a heavy fog. The air, damp with the scent of blood and damp earth, felt stagnant¡ªas if the world itself was holding its breath. Steven lay on the ground, his breathing shallow and uneven. His skin had turned a sickly shade of gray, cold sweat dripping down his temple as Anne worked frantically to heal him. But her magic was failing. The poison resisted, writhing within his veins like a living thing, clawing deeper, sinking its fangs into his very core. Anne¡¯s hands trembled, her lips moving in a constant chant, but the golden glow of her magic flickered, struggling against the dark venom that pulsed beneath his skin. Nearby, Bob and Kenta stood rigid, their fingers clenched so tightly around their weapons that their knuckles turned white. Their breaths came out short and ragged, their muscles locked in anticipation. The other captured humans weren¡¯t warriors, but they weren¡¯t cowering. They stood firm despite their trembling limbs, eyes darting between their fallen comrade and the monsters standing across from them. The gnolls. They watched in silence¡ªeerie, unnatural silence. Their twisted, hyena-like grins stretched across their filthy faces, yellowed fangs bared, saliva dripping from their maws. Their hunched bodies twitched with excitement, claws flexing, itching for bloodshed. And then, a larger figure stepped forward. Leimer. The gnoll chief was grotesque¡ªa towering beast of corded muscle and matted fur, his posture hunched yet radiating terrifying power. His blood-red eyes gleamed with cruel amusement, like a predator savoring the moment before the kill. He held a massive crossbow lazily in his claws, its thick bolt glistening with something black and sickly, a venomous promise of death. ¡°Let¡¯s play a game,¡± Leimer drawled, his voice a guttural rasp laced with mockery. Asael didn¡¯t hear him. The world blurred in crimson haze. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out everything else. Rage¡ªblinding, suffocating rage¡ªtore through his chest like a wildfire. With a roar that shook the trees, he lunged. His sword gleamed as he sliced through the air, aiming straight for Leimer¡¯s throat. But the gnoll didn¡¯t flinch. Didn¡¯t even move. Instead, he merely smirked, his voice calm, taunting. ¡°That poison¡­ it¡¯s quite nasty. Your friend there?¡± He gestured lazily toward Steven, barely sparing him a glance. ¡°Might not last more than a few hours.¡± The words ignited something feral in Asael. He moved faster, pushing off the ground with all his strength, closing the distance in an instant¡ª Snap. The world dropped beneath him. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. The ground vanished, replaced by nothing but open air. A pit. Asael barely had time to react before he was falling, the sharp iron spikes at the bottom gleaming hungrily, waiting to impale him. Instinct roared to life. He twisted midair, his sword flashing out¡ª Clang! The blade caught the pit¡¯s rocky wall. The jarring impact sent pain shooting through his arm, but it stopped his fall. His heart slammed against his ribs. He could hear the gnolls laughing above. Before he could pull himself up¡ª Thwump! A heavy net crashed over him. Thick, coarse fibers wrapped around his limbs, biting into his flesh, pinning him down. Above, Leimer peered over the edge, his expression twisted in amusement. ¡°Oops,¡± he chuckled. ¡°Looks like you fell.¡± Asael gritted his teeth, struggling against the net, but it was too tight. Leimer pulled something from his belt. A small glass vial filled with sickly green liquid. ¡°This is the antidote,¡± he mused. And then¡ª He tossed it. The vial clinked against a rock and rolled toward Asael. He lunged for it¡ª Pain. A sharp spike grazed his side, tearing through flesh, sending fresh blood spilling down his torso. He bit down on a cry, his fingers closing around the vial. Above him, Leimer snickered. ¡°Remember, you only have a few hours.¡± And then¡ª He walked away. The gnolls followed, melting into the darkness. Leaving Asael trapped. --- Pain burned through his body, but he forced himself to move. Every breath was agony. Every pull of his muscles sent fire coursing through his veins. But he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to untangle from the net, clawing his way up the jagged wall, his hands raw, blood smearing the rock. Finally¡ªhe climbed out. His chest heaved, sweat and blood mixing on his skin. But something was wrong. The battlefield was silent. Too silent. The gnolls were gone. The fight¡ªgone. The clearing, once teeming with violence, was empty. Except¡ª There were three figures. Hanging from the trees. Asael¡¯s breath caught in his throat. No. Their bodies swayed gently in the cold night air, ropes digging cruelly into their necks. Their feet dangled inches above the ground. Their mouths were frozen open in silent, eternal screams. Their eyes¡ªlifeless. The world tilted. Bile rose in his throat. The earth beneath them was disturbed. Drag marks. They had taken the others. Anne. Kenta. Bob. The rest. The gnolls hadn¡¯t just left. They had stolen them away into the darkness. And if he didn¡¯t move soon¡ª They wouldn¡¯t be coming back. Asael didn¡¯t hesitate. His feet slammed against the forest floor, golden light erupting around his body, engulfing him in a radiant aura. The very air crackled with energy, his presence a beacon in the suffocating darkness. Power surged through his veins, his muscles coiled like a drawn bowstring, and his senses sharpened to a lethal edge. The scent of blood, thick and pungent, filled his nostrils. The coppery tang clung to the back of his throat, mixing with the damp earth and sweat. Every gasping breath carried the distant wails of the dying, the raw, visceral terror in their voices carving into his soul like jagged glass. ¡°Help me!!¡± ¡°Save me!!¡± ¡°Aghh!! Help!!¡± Desperation. Fear. Agony. Their cries wrapped around his heart, squeezing with merciless fingers. Left. He pivoted sharply, dirt spraying behind him as he barreled through the underbrush. Every muscle in his body burned, but he pushed forward, faster, harder. A single second¡ªone breath too slow¡ªcould mean another life lost. Then he saw it. A man, his fingers clawing uselessly at the soil, being dragged by a hulking orc. His wide, terror-stricken eyes locked onto Asael¡¯s, silently pleading for salvation. Asael¡¯s body tensed, instincts screaming at him to move. Then¡ª A shadow. Axe. Falling. His world shrank to a single moment, a single strike. CLANG! Steel met steel in a vicious clash, the impact jarring his arms, sending a violent tremor down his spine. The force drove him back, feet skidding against the dirt, but he gritted his teeth and held firm. His fingers tightened around his hilt until his knuckles ached. The orc dragging the man was getting farther. No. I won¡¯t let this happen. He twisted his grip, ducking low as another swing carved through the air. WHOOSH! The axe buried itself into a tree trunk with a deafening thud, bark splintering from the force. A breath. A heartbeat. He moved. In a flash, he spun low, his blade slicing through the air¡ª SLASH! His sword cleaved through the orc¡¯s legs, carving deep into muscle and tendon. The beast howled, its agonized screech ripping through the forest. It collapsed, knees slamming into the ground, its massive form trembling. Asael wasted no time. With a roar, he drove his blade deep into the orc¡¯s chest, the steel sinking into flesh, muscle, bone. A violent shudder coursed through the creature¡¯s body as its lifeblood poured onto the earth in thick, steaming rivulets. He ripped the sword free, his own breath ragged, his heart hammering. But there was no time to revel in victory. He whirled back toward the man¡ª And the world stopped. The orc gripping the man had already raised his club. The man¡¯s face was streaked with tears, his lips trembling as silent words formed¡ª No. ¡°NO!¡± Asael bellowed, legs burning as he surged forward. Too late. The club came down. CRACK! The sound was deafening. Sickening. Bone shattered. The man¡¯s skull collapsed inward, crushed like overripe fruit. Blood exploded outward in a gruesome spray, warm and thick, speckling Asael¡¯s face. A chunk of skull flew past his cheek, landing in the dirt with a wet plop. His feet faltered, his breath caught in his throat. The body twitched once. Then fell limp. What remained of the head was nothing more than a ruined pulp, indistinguishable from the gore pooling around it. The smell of ruptured flesh and brain matter clogged his lungs, threatening to choke him. Asael¡¯s stomach twisted violently, bile rising up his throat. The orc, still grinning, turned to him. ¡°Weak human.¡± The words slithered from its lips, laced with contempt, its tusks glistening with spit. A flash of red filled Asael¡¯s vision. Rage. Pure, seething, all-consuming rage. His fingers clenched around his sword so tightly that his nails dug into his palm. Blood dripped from his grip, his body trembling under the weight of his fury. ¡°Aaaahh!!¡± With a guttural roar, he lunged, his entire being surging toward the orc. The creature¡¯s eyes widened in the split second before steel pierced its flesh. The blade rammed through its ribs, tearing through sinew, bone, and organs. The orc gasped, its massive frame convulsing, blood bubbling from its mouth. Asael twisted the blade deeper, the grinding of metal against bone sending a visceral shiver up his arms. The orc¡¯s legs buckled. Its body crashed to the earth with a dull thud. Asael panted, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. The golden glow around him flickered wildly, mirroring the storm raging within. But his rage did not subside. His vision blurred, his body shaking, his heart pounding like a war drum against his ribs. Then¡ª More screams. More slaughter. More humans. More orcs. Asael lifted his bloodstained blade. And ran forward. Leimer’s game (4) Asael ran. The screams never stopped. They came from everywhere¡ªleft, right, ahead, behind¡ªmelding into a chorus of agony that clawed at his mind like rusted nails. Each cry dug deep, twisting, demanding he move faster. But then¡ª A sharp snap. Something coiled around his leg. Before he could react, the rope yanked tight, wrenching his feet from beneath him. His body slammed into the ground, the impact blasting the air from his lungs in a ragged gasp. Then came the pull. Dirt filled his mouth. Small stones tore into his skin, carving jagged lines of pain across his body. His ribs screamed with each brutal jolt as he was dragged through the unforgiving terrain, crashing against twisted roots and jagged rocks. Every scrape and gash sent fresh fire through his nerves¡ªonly to be swallowed by the divine energy coursing through his veins, sealing the wounds before the pain could settle. It didn¡¯t matter. Pain never mattered. Asael gritted his teeth and slashed at the rope with his sword. The moment the blade met its mark, the tension snapped. His momentum sent him skidding across the ground, rolling to a stop in a gasping, trembling heap. His chest heaved, his muscles ached, his vision spun. Then he smelled it. Not blood. Burning flesh. A sickening, acrid stench curled into his nostrils, coating his throat like oil. His stomach twisted. He lifted his gaze¡ªand his breath died in his chest. Ahead, bodies writhed in an inferno of orange and gold. Men, women¡ªhuman forms convulsing in agony as flames devoured them. Their arms flailed, reaching for salvation that would never come. Their legs jerked in frantic, useless attempts to escape. The fire slithered up their limbs, consuming, peeling away skin to expose raw, bubbling muscle. Screams filled the air, shrill and inhuman, voices shredded by unbearable torment. The flames climbed higher, licking at faces, stripping flesh down to bone. Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. Eyes boiled, then burst with soft, wet pops. Lips curled back from melted gums, teeth grinning through charred remains. A rush of bile surged up Asael¡¯s throat. He forced it down and lurched forward¡ª But his legs buckled beneath him. He collapsed to his knees, fingers clawing at the dirt. His breaths came fast, too fast, rattling inside his lungs. The bodies stopped moving. The screams fell silent. The fire guttered out, leaving behind only blackened husks twisted in unnatural poses¡ªarms reaching, mouths frozen in silent wails. The world around him blurred, a crushing weight pressing against his chest, suffocating, unrelenting. This¡­ This is hell. A deep, guttural growl shattered the silence. Asael¡¯s head snapped up. Five figures loomed before him. Orcs. They stepped forward with slow, deliberate strides, their hulking frames casting long shadows across the carnage. Their tusked mouths curled into sneers, their yellowed eyes glinting with hunger. Something in Asael cracked. The world bled into red. His body moved before thought could take hold, his sword a flash of steel in the dim firelight. The first orc swung its axe. Too slow. Asael twisted to the side, the air hissing as the heavy weapon cleaved through empty space. His sword lashed out in response, slicing through flesh like wet parchment. A severed limb spiraled through the air. A howl of agony split the night. The orc staggered back, its severed arm twitching in the dirt. Asael didn¡¯t stop. One clean stroke¡ªhead gone. Blood fountained in a thick, crimson spray, speckling his face, drenching his hands. The body crumpled to the ground in a lifeless heap. The other orcs roared, fury igniting in their veins. They charged. Asael surged forward. His sword plunged deep into the next orc¡¯s chest, the blade sinking into muscle and bone. The creature¡¯s eyes bulged, blood bubbling from its tusked mouth in thick, wet gurgles. Asael didn¡¯t hesitate. With a savage thrust, he drove the impaled corpse into another orc, pinning them together. Then, he twisted the blade. The sound of tearing flesh and snapping ribs filled the air. A wet, slopping noise followed as the second orc¡¯s innards spilled in steaming ropes onto the dirt. A blur of movement¡ªtoo late. A heavy club crashed into Asael¡¯s back. His breath exploded from his lungs in a ragged cough, blood flecking the ground at his feet. Pain tore up his spine in white-hot waves, his vision flickering. But he didn¡¯t stop. He whirled, ducking beneath another swing. His sword lashed out, slicing through an orc¡¯s stomach. The creature shrieked, its clawed hands grasping at the gaping wound, trying desperately to shove its spilling intestines back inside. One final stroke silenced it. The last two came at him together. Asael danced between them, his blade a blur of motion. A sharp thrust¡ªstraight through the throat. The orc gurgled, dark blood spraying in a violent arc. Its body crumpled, lifeless. The final enemy barely had time to register what had happened before Asael¡¯s sword carved a merciless line across its torso. Flesh parted, ribs cracked, and the orc¡¯s insides poured out in a steaming heap. Then, silence. Asael stood in the midst of the carnage, his body drenched in crimson. Blood dripped from his fingers, ran down his arms, soaked into his clothes. His breath came in ragged gasps, his muscles trembling. The scent of burnt flesh still clung to the air. The screams still echoed in his mind, twisting, gnawing, refusing to let go. His sword hung at his side, dripping red. And him¡ª He felt nothing. But the screams didn¡¯t stop. Even in silence, they rang in his ears¡ªphantoms of suffering, clawing at his mind, whispering their agony into his bones. He had no choice but to keep moving. Yet, no matter where his feet carried him, he found only death. Lifeless bodies sprawled across the ground, twisted in unnatural angles. Men and women lay in pools of blood, their faces frozen in expressions of terror. Some had burned beyond recognition, their charred remains brittle and crumbling. Others had been torn apart, limbs scattered like discarded meat. A graveyard of the living turned to the dead. His thoughts blurred into chaos, a storm of rage and sorrow that twisted through his chest like a dagger. His fingers clenched the hilt of his sword, his knuckles pale beneath the smeared blood. Then¡ªamidst the carnage¡ªsomething different. Not death. Not yet. A cluster of figures, bound together by thick, coarse ropes. Anne. Kenta. Bob. Steven. A few others. Their wrists were lashed tightly behind their backs, their bodies slumped in exhaustion. Some had bruises blooming across their skin, others bore cuts that oozed fresh blood. Yet one among them stood out¡ªSteven. His skin was pale, sickly. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. Sweat clung to his brow, his lips barely parted as if struggling for air. Still alive. Barely. A voice cut through the air, sharp and mocking. "Oh! You¡¯re finally here!" Asael¡¯s head snapped toward the source. Leimer with Fran beside him, a smirk twisting his lips. Behind them, orcs and gnolls loomed in the dim firelight, their hulking figures shifting, weapons glinting with fresh blood. Asael''s hands curled into fists. His body burned, not from battle wounds, but from the effort of restraining himself. His rage coiled deep in his chest, snarling like a beast clawing to be free. His gaze flickered back to Steven. His friend¡¯s breaths came weaker now, slower. The poison was tearing through his body, dragging him toward death with each passing second. Leimer let out a laugh, tilting his head with an air of amusement. "Your friend is really tenacious. Still clinging to life, even now." Asael said nothing. Leimer shrugged. "Either way, if you want him to live, you¡¯d better act fast." He held up a small vial¡ªthe antidote. Asael''s heart pounded against his ribs. "Come and give him the antidote," Leimer continued, his tone almost playful. The moment those words left his lips, the orcs and gnolls moved. Their heavy footsteps thudded against the blood-soaked earth as they stepped forward, forming a barrier between Asael and his friends. Their claws flexed, their weapons gleamed, their eyes burned with savage anticipation. Leimer smirked. "Be quick about it. Looks like he won¡¯t last much longer." A growl rumbled in Asael¡¯s throat. His grip tightened around his sword. Every muscle in his body coiled, ready to strike. He had no time. No choice. Steven¡¯s breaths were fading. And the monsters before him were already preparing to kill. Leimer’s game (5) The horde of orcs and gnolls loomed before Asael, a wall of twisted flesh and snarling maws. Their yellowed fangs gleamed under the sickly moonlight, weapons slick with the blood of those who had already fallen. The stench of iron, sweat, and death choked the air, thick and suffocating. Asael¡¯s fingers clenched tighter around his sword hilt, his knuckles drained of color. His breath remained steady, but his heart pounded like war drums, each beat a reminder of the chaos before him. A massive orc at the front let out a guttural roar, its muscles rippling as it raised a brutal, rusted axe. The air whistled as the blade tore downward, aiming to cleave Asael in two. Dodge. He dropped low in an instant, feeling the wind from the axe kiss the top of his head. Dirt and embers kicked up around him, stinging his eyes as the weapon crashed into the ground, splitting the earth beneath it. Without hesitation, Asael surged forward. His sword found flesh, plunging deep into an orc¡¯s thick, meaty thigh. The beast howled, its blood spurting in hot waves. Using the embedded sword as leverage, Asael twisted midair, his body a blur of motion. His heel connected with the snarling face of a gnoll, a sickening crack ringing out as its jaw shattered. The creature reeled backward, howling in agony. His feet barely touched the ground before he ripped his sword free from the orc¡¯s leg, the blade already streaking toward his next target. Steel met flesh. His sword pierced the chest of another orc, sliding between ribs and sinking deep. Warm blood sprayed across his face, its coppery tang filling his nostrils. The orc¡¯s eyes bulged, its lips curling in a silent gasp before its body went limp. No time to breathe. Rough, calloused hands clamped around his torso, the crushing force of the orc¡¯s grip threatening to crack his ribs. Pain flared, sharp and suffocating, but Asael refused to let it root him in place. With a grunt, he drove his sword backward, its tip carving into the orc¡¯s thick wrist. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. The creature howled in agony, its fingers loosening just enough¡ª He wrenched free, barely dodging as another axe came hurtling toward his skull. Too fast. Asael twisted, feeling the cold steel graze his cheek. He had no time to react before the axe buried itself deep into the head of the wounded orc behind him. The body shuddered once before collapsing, lifeless. A snarl tore through the air. A gnoll lunged, its sword slashing toward him in a blur of silver and moonlight. His arms moved on instinct, his blade rising just in time. Steel met steel. Sparks erupted between them, bright against the darkness. Then¡ª A club, massive and brutal, slammed into his ribs. The force sent him hurtling through the air, his body twisting before he hit the ground with a bone-jarring impact. The taste of blood flooded his mouth, thick and metallic. His vision blurred for half a second, stars exploding in his periphery. Laughter. The orcs and gnolls cackled, their beady eyes alight with mockery and bloodlust. They did not rush him this time. No. They wanted to watch him struggle. Asael pressed his hands into the dirt, pushing himself up. His body screamed in protest, but a golden light flickered across his skin, warmth spreading through his limbs. The pain dulled as his divine power surged, wounds knitting closed with each breath. He exhaled. The monsters did not charge. They had learned. This time, they moved in slow, calculated steps, their circle tightening around him like a noose. Their claws twitched, their weapons gleamed, but they did not strike. They were toying with him. Predators closing in on their prey. Asael lifted his gaze, his bloodied lips curling into a snarl. Prey? No. He was the hunter. --- The thunderous steps of orcs shook the earth as they charged from all sides, their axes raised high, eyes gleaming with the thrill of the kill. Asael met them head-on, his sword flashing like a streak of golden fire. The first orc¡¯s blade came crashing down, its weight enough to split a man in two. He twisted, catching the strike on the flat of his sword, the force rattling through his bones. With a sharp pivot, he drove his blade deep into the beast¡¯s chest. Hot blood erupted, spraying across his face, its warmth stark against the cool night air. The orc¡¯s roar turned into a gurgle as it slumped forward, but before he could pull his sword free¡ª A burning sting. Pain lanced through his shoulder as a gnoll¡¯s blade tore through flesh. The scent of his own blood mixed with the iron-laced air. The divine light within him flared, sealing the wound just enough to keep him standing. It wasn¡¯t enough. Gritting his teeth, he turned, grabbing the gnoll by the throat before it could retreat. The creature¡¯s eyes bulged, clawed hands grasping at his arm in a desperate bid for freedom. It was too late. With a swift motion, Asael¡¯s sword slid across its neck. Blood spilled in a hot, pulsing spray. The gnoll choked, gurgling on its own breath before collapsing lifelessly at his feet. No time to recover. A roar, a blur of motion¡ªan orc¡¯s massive club swung wildly, smashing into his wrist. His sword flew from his grasp, spinning through the air before clattering against the blood-soaked dirt. He lunged for it, fingers stretching¡ª Axes crashed down. He rolled, feeling the whoosh of steel just inches from his skull. One of the orc¡¯s axes lodged deep into the ground, its owner snarling as it struggled to yank it free. Asael didn¡¯t hesitate. With a sharp kick, he sent the weapon¡¯s handle upward, ripping it from the orc¡¯s grip. The axe spun into his own hands, the cold metal familiar, heavy. The orcs sneered, circling him like starving beasts. He charged. The axe swung wide, the edge biting through armor, through flesh¡ª An orc¡¯s torso split open, intestines spilling onto the ground in steaming coils. A gnoll lunged at him from the side, blade flashing. He pivoted, burying the axe deep into its ribs. Bones cracked, the creature let out a choked yelp before crumpling to the ground, twitching. Then¡ª A sword ran him through. White-hot pain exploded in his chest. He gasped, the taste of blood flooding his mouth, warm and coppery. The gnoll that impaled him grinned, watching with savage delight as Asael staggered. The blade remained buried in his flesh, sending fiery agony through his every breath. His divine power flickered, struggling to mend the wound, but the damage was too great. His vision swam. But he refused to fall. With a raw, guttural growl, he grabbed the gnoll¡¯s sword¡ªripped it free from his own chest¡ªand in the same breath, drove it straight into the gnoll¡¯s throat. The creature gurgled, clawing uselessly at its ruined neck before its body went limp. More pain. A club smashed into his ribs. He barely had time to flinch before another sword carved a deep gash across his leg. His knee buckled, but he forced himself to stay upright. Then a blade tore into his back. Agony flared like wildfire. His golden aura flickered, dimming like a dying ember. The orcs and gnolls laughed, their snarls filled with cruelty, their steps slow and deliberate as they circled closer. Blood dripped endlessly, pooling beneath him. His breaths were ragged, each one more difficult than the last. His muscles trembled from exhaustion, from blood loss. His friends stood frozen in horror, their faces pale as they watched him¡ª Drenched in crimson. Breath shuddering. Barely standing. And yet¡ª His fingers tightened around the axe. His body screamed for rest. His wounds burned, tearing him apart. But surrender was never an option. Not now. Not ever. Hero’s awakening (1) Asael¡¯s body swayed, barely able to hold itself up. His legs trembled beneath him, threatening to give way at any moment. Blood trickled from countless wounds, staining his tattered clothes, pooling beneath him like a crimson halo. His chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven breaths, the pain of each inhale a reminder that he was still alive¡ªthough only just. Yet, despite it all, he still stood. The orcs and gnolls had formed a circle around him, their monstrous faces twisted in cruel amusement. They had opened a path leading directly to his captured friends, forcing them to watch. Their bindings had been tightened, their limbs numb from captivity, but the true weight pressing down on them was the horror unfolding before their eyes. It was a mockery, a humiliation¡ª A slow, agonizing spectacle meant to break not only Asael but also the spirits of those who cared for him. Anne, Kenta, Bob, and Steven could do nothing but stare, their eyes wide with helpless terror as they watched their friend endure an unrelenting onslaught. They struggled against their restraints, but the bonds held firm. Every pained breath Asael took, every drop of blood that hit the dirt, was a dagger to their hearts. A massive orc stepped forward, towering over the battered warrior. Its tusks jutted from its lower jaw, yellowed and cracked, its beady eyes gleaming with satisfaction. It grinned, savoring the moment. Asael clenched his teeth, lifting his axe with what little strength remained. He swung¡ªbut the orc sidestepped with ease. A powerful boot slammed into his chest. A sickening crack filled the air. Asael''s body was sent sprawling through the dirt. His axe tumbled from his grip, landing several feet away. The impact sent another wave of agony through his battered frame, but the jeers and laughter of his tormentors hurt far worse. The orc stalked toward him, heavy footfalls shaking the earth with each deliberate step. Asael groaned, his fingers digging into the cold, damp soil, forcing himself upright. Every movement was agony, but he refused to stay down. Then¡ª A sharp pain exploded in his thigh. He gasped, his leg giving way beneath him. He looked down to see the wooden shaft of an arrow protruding from his flesh, the gnolls who fired it grinning in delight. They weren¡¯t trying to kill him. They were playing with him. Each strike, each wound was calculated¡ªnot meant to end his life but to prolong his suffering. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. To make him crawl. To make him beg. But still, Asael rose. His knees trembled. His vision swam. Blood dripped in steady rivulets, staining the ground beneath him. His body had reached its limits. And yet¡ªhe stood. A silence fell over the crowd, an unspoken acknowledgment of his defiance. Even his enemies, creatures of cruelty and malice, could not deny the sheer force of his will. Fran who had watched from a distance, finally stepped forward. He studied Asael with narrowed eyes, nodding slightly, as if granting some silent respect. ¡°This much is enough,¡± he muttered. ¡°Let¡¯s finish this.¡± The orcs, despite their savage nature, honored strength. Asael had proven himself, and Fran was willing to grant him a warrior¡¯s death. Leimer, however, was not. ¡°Yeah, you¡¯re correct,¡± he said, smirking. ¡°But just one more thing.¡± With slow, deliberate steps, Leimer turned toward Asael¡¯s captured friends. The click of his boots against the blood-soaked ground echoed in the tense silence. He stopped in front of them, reaching out to the ropes binding them. With a casual flick of his wrist, his blade sliced through their restraints. Anne, Bob, and Kenta staggered, their bodies weakened by exhaustion and fear. Their eyes darted between Leimer and Asael, confusion and dread warring within them. Leimer grinned, tilting his head. ¡°What are you waiting for?¡± His voice was light, almost amused. ¡°Go. Save your friend.¡± The three froze. They weren¡¯t fools. They knew this was a trap. But there was no time to think. Anne immediately turned to help Steven up, while Kenta, small but determined, hesitated for only a moment before sprinting forward. But the fastest one¡ªwas Bob. His legs pumped furiously against the dirt, his breath ragged, his heart hammering in his chest. His eyes locked onto Asael¡¯s battered form, desperation driving him forward. He had to save him. The distance between them shrank. A few more steps, and Bob would reach him. Asael¡¯s blurred vision barely registered his friend rushing toward him. Panic gripped his chest. He wanted to warn him. To tell him to stop. But his lips wouldn¡¯t move. He staggered forward¡ªreaching out¡ª And then¡ª A sickening sound split the air. The wet, brutal sound of an axe cleaving through flesh. For a single, horrifying moment¡ªeverything froze. Bob¡¯s momentum stopped instantly. His eyes widened, lips parting in a silent gasp. Then¡ª His head rolled from his shoulders. His lifeless body collapsed, blood gushing from the stump of his neck, pooling beneath him. The world went silent. Anne, Kenta, and Steven stood motionless, their breath stolen, their minds unable to process the horror before them. Asael fell to his knees. His body trembled, his muscles useless, his wounds forgotten in the face of something far more painful. His vision, already blurred, locked onto Bob¡¯s severed head¡ª Lying in the dirt. Lifeless. Empty. Tears spilled down Asael¡¯s face, cutting through the grime and blood. His hands, slick with his own blood, clenched into fists so tightly his nails dug into his palms. His chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged sobs, his heart screaming in anguish. Leimer¡¯s voice cut through the silence like a blade through flesh. ¡°Now¡ª¡± he said, his smirk widening. ¡°End this.¡± The orcs and gnolls moved in, their weapons glinting under the dim moonlight, their expressions alight with cruel delight. Asael didn¡¯t look up. He didn¡¯t fight back. He just stared at his friend¡¯s lifeless body, tears falling endlessly as the darkness closed in. ----- A storm of memories crashed through Asael¡¯s mind¡ª Fleeting images of the past. Laughter. Battles. Friendships. Bloodshed. They blurred together, twisting into a chaotic mess, each one overlapping the next, a kaleidoscope of agony and warmth that no longer belonged to him. His vision flickered¡ªshadows and light blending into a nightmare, a haze of torment that refused to clear. His body swayed. His breath came ragged and uneven, each inhale sharp, each exhale laced with pain. His hearing dulled¡ªthe mocking laughs of the orcs and gnolls faded into nothingness, swallowed by the storm raging inside him. Only one voice remained. A whisper. Cold. Unrelenting. Divine. "Do you wish to hunt evil?" Asael¡¯s lips barely moved. "...Yes." The voice rumbled again, deep and absolute, like the weight of judgment itself. "Can you give up anything to do so?" His chest tightened. His mind, already on the brink of madness, latched onto one singular thought. "...Yes." "Then sacrifice me your eyes, and I will grant you strength." Asael¡¯s breath hitched. His fingers, trembling and slick with his own blood, slowly began to rise. One by one, they crawled toward his wounded, half-blinded eyes. Leimer, watching from a distance, frowned. "What¡­ is he doing?" Anne, Steven, and Kenta stared in horror, their bodies frozen, unable to speak. Asael¡¯s fingers dug into his eye sockets. Then¡ª "AAAAAAHHHHHH!!" A sickening squelch echoed through the battlefield. Blood gushed from his eyes, spilling down his face in thick, crimson rivers. It painted his skin, soaked his chest, pooled in the dirt beneath him. His body shook violently, but he didn¡¯t stop. He kept digging. His nails scraped against soft flesh¡ª Ripping deeper. Tearing apart his own sight. His screams tore through the air, raw and primal, the sound of a man offering himself to something beyond mortality. His hands threatened to collapse, his body begging him to stop¡ª But he held on. Blood dripped from his chin, mixing with the filth below. His body revolted against him¡ªhis muscles spasmed, his stomach twisted, bile rose in his throat¡ª But he endured. Then, the voice spoke again. "Very well. I accept your determination, hero." A golden light erupted. It poured from Asael¡¯s ruined eyes, spilling from the dark voids like liquid fire. It crawled across his skin, searing through his veins, igniting his very soul. His dying aura flared¡ªstronger than before, brighter, hotter, divine. His wounds began to mend at an unnatural speed. His broken bones set themselves, shifting with sickening cracks. His torn flesh knitted back together, the agony giving way to an overwhelming surge of power. The monsters watching staggered back, their sneers twisting into fear. Even Leimer, always composed, took a cautious step away. "Thou shall be victorious." A golden inferno exploded around Asael. His scream¡ªonce filled with pain¡ªbecame a roar of fury. His body, once slumped and weak, now stood tall and unshaken. His head lifted. His eyes¡ª Once gouged out, now gleamed with divine radiance. Brilliant golden streaks ran across his face, like cracks in reality itself. Tears of blood and light dripped from his sockets, merging into something both beautiful and horrific. A fallen warrior reborn. A man turned into a hunter. His mind, once filled with chaos and confusion, now held only one thought. Hunt. Down. The. Evil. Hero’s awakening (2) The horde of orcs and gnolls slowed, their charge faltering. The golden light radiating from Asael wasn¡¯t just bright¡ª It was suffocating. An overwhelming pressure crushed the air around them, heavy and oppressive, sinking into their bones. A chill crawled down their spines, primal and unforgiving. They weren¡¯t staring at a dying man anymore. They were staring at something else entirely. ¡°¡­It can¡¯t be.¡± Leimer¡¯s voice barely escaped his lips, strangled by the weight of the moment. His hands trembled, fingers clenching the hilt of his sword, though he barely noticed the ache in his grip. A cold dread filled his chest. ¡°Why is he here?¡± Fran turned to him, confusion flashing in his eyes. ¡°What? What¡¯s wrong?¡± Leimer¡¯s throat tightened. The answer clawed its way out, a whisper filled with disbelief. ¡°Hero.¡± Silence. Fran¡¯s breath caught. He had heard the legends. Everyone had. A being chosen by the gods. A warrior forged to slay the Demon King. A force of nature. A walking calamity. But this man¡­ The warrior standing before them was drenched in blood, his body a patchwork of wounds and torn flesh. He should have been on the verge of death, barely clinging to life. Yet his presence alone sent a wave of unease rippling through their ranks. Fran clenched his fists, trying to steady himself. ¡°¡­We need to retreat. We have to inform the others.¡± His voice lacked its usual bravado. But Fran¡­ Fran was different. ¡°No.¡± Leimer snapped his head toward him, eyes blazing. ¡°What? Are you insane?¡± Fran¡¯s lips curled into a sharp grin, his orcish pride burning like a fire that refused to be extinguished. ¡°He¡¯s badly injured.¡± His voice held a dangerous excitement. ¡°If we take him down here, our names will rise above the rest.¡± This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. Leimer¡¯s stomach twisted with fury. ¡°You stupid orc. Injuries mean nothing to a Hero.¡± His voice was sharp, cutting through the tense air. "His divine power can heal severed limbs as if they were mere scratches.¡± Fran¡¯s confidence flickered, if only for a moment. But before he could argue¡ª Before either of them could react¡ª The air shifted. The monsters watching Asael hesitated. But Asael¡ª He did not. His hand lifted, slow and deliberate. And then¡ª The sword that had fallen away during the battle trembled. A metallic screech rang through the air, sharp enough to send shivers down their spines. And then¡ª It moved. The blade shot across the battlefield like a silver phantom. Anything¡ªanyone¡ªunfortunate enough to be in its path was torn apart. A gnoll, too slow to react, barely had time to let out a choked gasp before his torso was cleaved in two, his upper half crashing to the ground with a wet, lifeless thud. An orc, standing in the wrong place at the wrong time, didn¡¯t even realize he was dead until his head tumbled from his shoulders, his body crumpling a second later. Blood sprayed. Limbs scattered like discarded rags. The battlefield, once filled with snarling beasts and eager killers, was now painted in crimson. And then, as if drawn by an unseen force¡ª The sword landed perfectly in Asael¡¯s grasp. The moment his fingers curled around the hilt, something changed. The weapon pulsed, as if coming alive. The metal groaned, twisting, expanding, warping beyond its original form. The blade widened, thickened, the weight of it impossible for any normal man to wield. But Asael held it with ease, as though it had been forged for him and him alone. It was no longer just a sword. It was an executioner¡¯s tool. A weapon meant for demigods. A weapon meant for slaughter. The orcs and gnolls shuddered, some taking instinctive steps back as they recognized it. Not the sword¡ªno, the sword was new. But the presence it carried¡­ They had felt it before. The one who carried such greatsword. Movok. The great warlord. The monster of monsters. The one who cleaved through armies like they were nothing more than blades of grass. The fear they had once felt toward him, the sheer, suffocating terror of facing something beyond mortal comprehension, now crawled back into their souls, gnawing at their resolve. But that wasn¡¯t the worst part. It was his eyes. Or what should have been his eyes. Empty sockets, once gouged out by his own hands, now pulsed with golden radiance. The divine light seared through the darkness, illuminating the battlefield like a vengeful star. The way they stared at them¡ª Cold. Unfeeling. Devoid of mercy. Very much like how Movok looked at his opponents. Asael did not see them as warriors. He did not see them as enemies. He saw them as prey. And this time¡ª There was no escape. --- The orcs and gnolls finally understood. If they stayed, they would die. But realization came too late. A blinding golden flash erupted from Asael¡ª A single, devastating arc of his greatsword carved through the horde like a divine scythe through wheat. The air split with the sound of flesh rending, bones snapping, and steel cleaving through sinew. Blood sprayed in violent arcs, drenching the earth in warm crimson. Screams were filled in the surrounding. Brief and agonizing. Only cut short by the sword. Orcs and gnolls collapsed in pieces, their severed limbs and torsos strewn across the battlefield like grotesque remnants of a butcher¡¯s workshop. The ground, once firm, became slick with entrails and pulped flesh. Some tried to fight. Desperation glinted in their eyes as they swung their weapons in defiance. But¡ª It didn¡¯t matter. Every axe. Every spear. Every clawed hand¡ª Shattered. Broken. Crushed. Their efforts were dust against the inevitable. Their fate was sealed. Leimer¡¯s breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving with terror. His instincts screamed at him¡ªrun. ¡°I¡¯m retreating!¡± he gasped, turning on his heel. But before he could move much distance. A shrill whistle. Metal slicing air. And then¡ª A sickening crack heard. Leimer¡¯s body jerked violently. His vision swam, his breath catching in his throat as a gleaming steel tip burst through his chest. His eyes widened. Horror froze his features. The heat of his own blood gushed down his stomach, soaking his armor. He tried to inhale, but his lungs failed him. A wet, choking gasp. His limbs twitched, trembling as life ebbed from his veins. Then the blade was gone. Torn from his flesh like a cruel afterthought. His lifeless body crumpled to the earth, discarded like a butchered carcass. The greatsword spun through the air¡ª Then, as if bound by fate¡ª It soared back into Asael¡¯s grasp. Fran¡¯s hands trembled. His grip on his weapon turned slick with sweat. This was not a battle. This was not a fight. This was slaughter. ¡°You¡­!¡± Fran¡¯s voice wavered, barely more than a whisper. His pride warred with the raw terror clawing at his throat. Then, desperation overtook fear. ¡°Everyone attack! If you don¡¯t want to die, fight!¡± There was no choice. The orcs and gnolls charged. And that was the moment it began. A massacre. A brutal, unrelenting, blood-soaked massacre. An orc lunged, his axe raised high¡ª A silver blur. The orc¡¯s momentum carried him forward a step before his torso separated, a diagonal wound splitting him from shoulder to waist. A moment later, his intestines spilled onto the ground, steaming against the cold air. A gnoll pounced towards Asael. Asael turned, slamming the flat of his blade into its ribs. The impact alone was enough to rupture its organs, its chest cavity bursting open like an overripe fruit. An orc tried to flee. A single, effortless swing, it was all needed to finish him. Three heads left their shoulders in another fluid motion. Their bodies staggered forward a few paces¡ª Then collapsed. The battlefield transformed into a slaughterhouse. The grass drowned in crimson. The metallic stench of blood and charred flesh saturated the air, thick and suffocating. Even his allies felt a cold unease settle deep in their bones. This wasn¡¯t Asael. Not the friend they knew. This was something else. Anne swallowed hard. Her heart pounded against her ribs as she took an unsteady step forward. ¡°¡­Are you alright?¡± she whispered, barely able to keep her voice from breaking. No response. Asael stood motionless, his blade dripping, his golden eyes vacant. Then¡ª He moved. Slow. Deliberate. Towards them. ¡°Asael?¡± Anne called again, her breath hitching. Something was wrong. He wasn''t Asael at that moment. His grip on the greatsword tightened. It was Hero. His gaze locked onto them. And in those golden eyes¡ª His friends were no longer human. They were monsters. And the sole purpose of a Hero¡ª Was to hunt monsters. Hero awakening (3) Asael moved slowly toward his friends, his golden eyes hollow, his grip on his blood-drenched greatsword tightening with every step. His breaths were deep, controlled¡ªtoo controlled. The battlefield around him was eerily silent, save for the soft squelch of his boots sinking into blood-soaked earth. The air reeked of iron, death, and something else¡ªsomething dark, something wrong. "Stop, Asael! Get a hold of yourself!" Anne¡¯s voice rang through the empty field, desperate, pleading. But Asael did not stop. His pace remained calm, yet terrifying¡ªthe slow, deliberate movement of a predator stalking its prey. His friends watched, paralyzed, bound not just by the ropes cutting into their skin but by the unshakable terror creeping into their hearts. He was right in front of them now. He raised his sword. The blade gleamed under the blood-red sunset, its jagged edges glistening with fresh gore. It was poised to cleave through flesh, to end the lives of those he once called companions¡ª "Stop! You shouldn¡¯t do this." A deep, gravelly voice cut through the tension like a blade through silk. Asael¡¯s body twitched. Slowly, mechanically, he turned his head. And saw him. A massive orc stood at the edge of the battlefield. He was larger than any orc they had ever seen, his presence commanding, undeniable. His dark, battle-worn skin bore the marks of countless wars, and a jagged scar ran down his chest like a wound that refused to fade. His left tusk was broken, a warrior¡¯s mark of pain and survival. He gripped a colossal battle-axe, its edges chipped and dented from years of bloodshed. His yellowed eyes swept across the carnage. The lifeless bodies of his kin, the severed limbs, the rivers of crimson pooling at his feet¡ª And for a fleeting moment, his expression wavered. Not with rage. But with grief. "You shouldn¡¯t hurt your friends." His voice was deep, steady, but not unkind. Asael did not respond. His muscles tensed. Then¡ª He vanished. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. A gust of wind exploded from where he stood, scattering dust and blood into the air. The orc¡¯s eyes barely had time to widen before Asael reappeared, his blade already descending in a single, merciless stroke¡ª A slash meant to kill. CLANG! The earth beneath them trembled. The orc had raised his axe, catching the greatsword mid-swing. Sparks burst from the impact, the sheer force cracking the ground beneath his feet. Asael¡¯s body was thrown back slightly, his boots skidding against the dirt, but his grip on the sword never faltered. The orc narrowed his eyes. Then, with a powerful shove, he sent Asael staggering backward. The golden-eyed warrior dug his heels into the bloodied soil, barely managing to keep his balance. Anne and others looked at them. From behind, a booming voice shattered the standoff. "Are you all alright?" An older man rode in on horseback, his grizzled features hardened by experience, his muscular frame betraying the years that should have weighed him down. Behind him, several riders followed¡ªamong them, a hooded girl, her presence quiet yet commanding. Anne¡¯s breath hitched as recognition dawned upon her. "Marquis Hector?" she whispered, eyes wide. The old knight dismounted, his sharp gaze scanning the battlefield. "Yes. And you must be the Saintess¡­ and Duke Driesell¡¯s son, Steven, correct?" Anne nodded, the tension in her chest loosening ever so slightly. "You''re alive, Marquis Hector!" Relief flooded her voice. Hector chuckled, though his expression remained grim. "Alive, yes. But I see Steven has been poisoned." He turned to a man at his side. "Sam, check on him." "Yes, sir." Sam dismounted and hurried toward Steven, who lay barely conscious, his breathing shallow. Anne, however, could not tear her eyes away from Asael. Her voice trembled. "Marquis¡­ that man¡­he is¡ª" "I know. The Hero, right?" Hector sighed. "Don¡¯t worry. Giren will handle it." Anne blinked. "Giren?" "Oh! That orc name is Giren. Finish this quickly, Giren." Hector said. Giren exhaled deeply, rolling his shoulders. "Hard to defeat him without killing him, old man." Hector¡¯s smirk widened. "I know you can do it." The orc cracked his neck, adjusting his grip on the axe. His muscles tensed, his stance shifted. Then, without another word¡ª He took his first step toward the raging Hero. The air crackled with tension as Asael and Giren locked eyes. No words were exchanged. Just the silent, primal understanding between two warriors. Then¡ª They charged. The ground split beneath their feet as they collided, steel against steel. Sparks erupted, blinding in the blood-soaked twilight, as Asael¡¯s golden greatsword clashed against Giren¡¯s colossal battle-axe. The force of their impact sent a shockwave rippling across the battlefield, kicking up dust, blood, and the broken remnants of fallen soldiers. Giren, a towering mass of scars and muscle, wielded sheer power like a force of nature. Every swing of his axe came down like an avalanche, forcing Asael back with each crushing blow. Yet¡ª Asael never faltered. No matter how much his body bled, no matter how many bones cracked beneath Giren¡¯s might, he kept moving forward. His body¡ªbattered, broken¡ªwould not stop. Because the Hero had no hesitation, no fear, no doubt. And that made him more terrifying than anything Giren had ever faced. The orc gritted his teeth. This was bad. He had fought monsters, warlords, and men who wielded magic beyond reckoning. But this man¡ª This thing¡ª Fought like a beast that refused to die. Giren made his decision. With an unexpected move, he suddenly let go of his battle-axe. The massive weapon fell, embedding itself deep into the earth with a resounding thud. "Come!" Giren roared, his voice shaking the battlefield. Challenge accepted. Asael lunged, his greatsword a blur of death, descending with enough force to cleave a mountain. But¡ª A boulder-sized fist slammed into Asael¡¯s stomach. A sickening crunch echoed as ribs shattered, and blood burst from Asael¡¯s lips like a crimson fountain. Before he could even react¡ª Giren seized him by the legs. "You¡¯re not going anywhere!" With a savage snarl, Giren lifted Asael like a ragdoll and slammed him into the ground. Once. Twice. Three times. The earth cracked beneath each impact, tremors rippling through the battlefield as Asael¡¯s broken body bounced lifelessly, leaving streaks of blood in his wake. Then¡ª With one final roar, Giren hurled him like a meteor. Asael¡¯s mangled form crashed into the dirt, skidding across the blood-soaked ground, carving a deep scar into the battlefield. Yet¡ª He still moved. His fingers twitched. His head lifted, golden eyes glowing like molten fire, unbroken. He forced himself to stand. Giren¡¯s breath hitched. The man should not be standing. But he was. Bleeding. Dying. Yet standing. The orc narrowed his eyes. If that was how it was going to be¡ª With a snarl, Giren leaped into the air, both fists clenched together, ready to drive them down like a hammer upon Asael¡¯s skull. At the last moment, Asael rolled aside. Giren struck the ground with a deafening boom, the force of his landing sending debris flying like shrapnel. Asael didn¡¯t waste a second. With a flick of his bloodied fingers¡ª His greatsword soared back into his hand. And without hesitation, he swung. The golden blade gleamed under the blood-red sky, slicing toward Giren¡¯s neck. But¡ª A thunderous kick smashed into Asael¡¯s ribs, sending him flying before his sword could connect. Giren rolled his shoulders, exhaling sharply. Asael staggered, coughing blood, yet still standing. His body had long surpassed its limit. Yet he lifted his sword once more. Ready to charge. So was Giren. But then¡ª Before Asael could take a step¡ª A sharp whistling cut through the air. A single arrow. It embedded itself right at Asael¡¯s feet. And then¡ª The ground trembled. Thick, black vines erupted like serpents, twisting, coiling, wrapping around Asael¡¯s legs, his arms, his torso. In an instant, he was bound. No matter how he struggled, the vines tightened, locking his movements in place. Asael let out a guttural growl, his golden eyes burning with fury as he tried to break free. But it was useless. "Why did you interfere?!" Giren¡¯s voice boomed with frustration as he turned toward the source. The hooded girl on the horse didn''t care. She lowered her bow, her voice calm, steady, unfazed. "Because you were taking too long." She reached up, fingers grasping the edge of her hood. With a single motion¡ª She pulled it back. The battlefield fell silent. Her golden hair cascaded in soft waves, framing her delicate features. Her green eyes, bright and piercing like polished emeralds, cold and uncaring. And her pointed ears peeked out from beneath her golden locks. "An elf...?" Anne whispered, her voice barely audible. "Good shot, Lily." Marquis Hector grinned. New companions (1) 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¡ª 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 A battlefield soaked in blood. A towering orc with scars carved across his flesh. A golden-haired archer standing amidst the chaos. And then¡ªnothing. 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¡ªinstinctively, almost¡ªthis man was powerful. Far stronger than himself. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. "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¡ªquickly!" 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¡ª 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¡ªa 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¡ª 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¡ªfriend or foe¡ªripping 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¡ª 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¡ª 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¡ªonly 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¡ª He was among the enemy. His sword crackled with electricity, and with a single swing¡ª 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¡ª 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. New companions (2) 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¡ªonly 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 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. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. 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¡ª 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 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¡ª 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¡ª 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¡ªonly 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¡ª 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¡ª 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 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¡ª The horde hesitated. Their numbers had been slashed in half. Their strongest had fallen. And the man at the center of it all¡ªMarquis Hector¡ªhad 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¡ªsome 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. Movok’s past (1) The air inside the fortress was thick with exhaustion, relief, and the lingering stench of blood that clung to their armor like a second skin. Every breath carried the iron tang of war, a reminder that even though the battle had ended, its echoes still remained. The defenders gathered in the war room, their bodies battered but their spirits unbroken. The walls flickered with the glow of torches, their flames casting long shadows over the weary warriors. The room was filled with the scent of sweat, damp leather, and faint traces of healing salves. Asael found himself standing among his friends, each of them alive but marked by battle. Dirt and dried blood streaked their faces, their eyes still sharp despite the weight of fatigue. "Are you alright?" Anne asked, her golden hair damp with sweat, worry clear in her emerald eyes. Asael forced a small smile, though his body ached with every movement. "Yes, I''m fine now," he said, though even as he spoke, he felt the raw pain in his limbs. "Well, you''re lucky," Sam muttered, arms crossed over his chest. His tone was sharp, but beneath it lay relief. "If not for your divine power, you¡¯d be nothing more than another corpse in the forest." Asael exhaled softly, looking away. "But I¡¯m here, aren¡¯t I?" His voice carried no arrogance, only quiet certainty. Then, his expression hardened. "Anyways, you said this is a regular thing here. Why? What makes this fortress so important?" Sam let out a slow breath, as if steadying himself for words he had spoken too many times before. "This place¡­ is perhaps the last resistance left," he said at last. "We are the only thing standing between them and complete domination. So they throw everything they have at us¡ªagain and again¡ªuntil we finally break." A heavy silence followed, the weight of his words settling deep in their chests. The silence was broken by Steven, his voice cutting through like a blade. "Do you know where Movok can be found?" Sam¡¯s brows furrowed as he regarded him cautiously. "Yes, I do. But why are you asking?" Steven¡¯s blue eyes burned with cold determination. "We should go and end him. If we kill him, this war ends." His words landed like a thunderclap. The room seemed to shrink, the tension rising like a tide. Then, a deep voice rumbled from the corner of the room. "Do you think it¡¯s that easy?" Giren, the towering orc warrior, stepped forward, his broad chest rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths. His muscles, still tense from battle, flexed beneath his scarred armor. The torchlight glowed against his dark skin, highlighting the hardened lines of his face. "Do you have any idea how strong he is?" Giren asked, his voice low and firm. "I do," Steven replied. "It will be hard¡ªmaybe even impossible. But we won¡¯t know unless we try." Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. Giren''s expression darkened. "And what if you die in the process?" "Then at least I would have tried," Steven said without hesitation. His gaze was unwavering as he added, "What about you? Are you afraid of him?" A sharp silence fell between them. Then, a low growl. Giren¡¯s fists clenched at his sides, his tusks bared slightly. "Me? Scared?" His voice was dangerously low, laced with something raw and unyielding. His gaze locked onto Steven¡¯s, filled with the kind of rage that time had not dulled¡ªonly sharpened. "Do you have any idea," he said slowly, "how much I wish to kill him?" "I do," Steven replied, his voice turning cold. "You were the only one left alive¡ªwhile he butchered your father and your brother." Giren¡¯s eyes flared with something dangerous, something primal. "And you?" The orc stepped closer, looming over Steven like a storm cloud ready to break. His voice dipped into a growl. "Your family is dead too¡ªand yet you¡¯re still breathing." The room grew deathly still. The air itself seemed to tighten, thick with unspoken grief and fury. Steven¡¯s jaw clenched, his fingers twitching toward the hilt of his blade. "You¡ª" A single step forward, and they would have clashed. "Enough." The voice was sharp, cutting through the air like steel. Marquis Hector stepped forward, his piercing gaze sweeping over them. Though he did not raise his voice, the weight of his authority demanded immediate obedience. "This is not the time for fighting amongst ourselves," he said, his tone edged with warning. Giren and Steven did not break eye contact, their fury still simmering beneath the surface, but neither made a move. "For now," Hector continued, his voice calm but unyielding, "we have to focus on defense. Even if we wanted to strike at Movok, we''d have to wade through an ocean of monsters just to reach him." His words were final, like the closing of a door. The tension in the room lingered, but no one spoke. Steven exhaled sharply and turned away, his shoulders tight with frustration. Giren let out a deep grunt, stepping back, though his glare did not soften. The fire between them had not been extinguished¡ªonly buried beneath duty. And so, the meeting ended. But the war was far from over. ----- The training ground lay silent beneath the fading light of dusk, the air thick with the scent of sweat and steel. Alone in the clearing, a lone warrior moved like a force of nature, his massive frame shifting with the practiced precision of a seasoned fighter. Giren''s axe carved through the air in sweeping arcs, each swing carrying the weight of battles long past. The rhythmic whoosh of metal slicing through space filled the empty training yard, but his mind was elsewhere¡ªlost in a storm of memories, echoes of voices he would never hear again. Then¡ªfootsteps. They were light, deliberate. Not the heavy, clanking steps of an armored knight, nor the careless shuffling of a weary soldier. A voice followed, steady and calm. "You are Giren, right?" The orc paused mid-swing, his grip tightening on the haft of his axe before lowering it to his side. He turned, his golden eyes flickering with curiosity as they settled on the young man standing before him. Asael met his gaze, his expression unreadable¡ªsomething caught between youth and the weariness of a warrior who had already seen too much. "Yes," Giren rumbled, his voice carrying the weight of exhaustion. "And you must be the hero." "Asael," the young man corrected with a slight nod. "Just call me Asael." A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Giren¡¯s lips. "Well then, Asael," he said, rolling his shoulders, the tension in his muscles shifting like a beast shaking off fatigue. "How about a practice fight?" For the first time since arriving, Asael''s face brightened with something close to amusement. "Sounds like a good way to kill some time." The first strike came fast¡ªtoo fast. Asael barely had time to twist out of the way as Giren¡¯s axe cleaved downward, the sheer force of it splitting the dirt where he had stood moments before. He countered, his blade flashing in a swift arc toward the orc¡¯s side, but Giren was faster than he looked. A massive forearm deflected the blow, sending Asael skidding backward. They moved in a deadly dance, neither yielding. Asael¡¯s attacks were quick, calculated, his divine power subtly guiding him¡ªbut against Giren, it wasn¡¯t enough. The orc¡¯s movements were like an unstoppable tide, raw strength meeting honed skill, forcing Asael onto the defensive. Each time he lunged, his blade met the unshakable resistance of an axe that deflected every strike. Each time Giren attacked, Asael had to summon every ounce of speed he possessed just to avoid being crushed under the sheer force of those monstrous swings. The duel stretched on, sweat soaking their clothes, breath coming in sharp gasps. They had long since lost track of time¡ªlost in the rhythm of combat, in the unspoken respect exchanged through steel and sweat. Then, at last, exhaustion caught up. With a final clash, both warriors stepped back, muscles burning, lungs heaving. Asael dropped onto the cool, hard ground, wiping the sweat from his brow. He let out a short, breathless chuckle. "You¡¯re strong," he admitted, tilting his head to look at Giren. The orc sat beside him, exhaling slowly. His tusks glinted in the dimming light as he stretched out his legs. "You should learn to control your power quickly," he said. "Then you¡¯ll be stronger than me." Asael gave a small, thoughtful nod before glancing up at the evening sky. "Hmm¡­ by the way, can I ask you something?" Giren turned his head slightly, his golden eyes unreadable. "Go ahead." "Can you tell me what happened?" Asael hesitated for only a moment before finishing. "About your family¡­ and Movok?" A heavy silence fell between them. It stretched long enough that Asael wondered if Giren would even answer. Then, finally, the orc spoke¡ªhis voice lower now, roughened by something deeper than exhaustion. "What Movok is today¡­" Giren started, his gaze fixed on a distant point beyond the horizon. "Perhaps we, the orcs and humans, are both to blame." Asael frowned, shifting slightly. "What do you mean?" Giren exhaled, his fingers curling into the dirt as though trying to anchor himself against the pull of old memories. "Orcs have always been a large race¡ªmore numbers mean more mouths to feed. When our population reached a certain point, our resources began to dwindle." His jaw tightened, a shadow passing over his face. "My father, the chief of all orc tribes, made a choice. A desperate one. He united the scattered clans and led them to war¡ªnot against humans, not against elves¡­ but against the monsters that surrounded us." He fell silent for a moment, as if weighing the weight of his own words. "It was never about power," he said, his voice quieter now. "It was about survival. We fought because we had to." The battles had been brutal. Monsters of every kind¡ªtrolls, ogres, goblins, gnolls, spiders, etc¡ªfought desperately to keep their land. "But they were no match for my father¡­ nor my elder brother." Giren¡¯s fingers tightened around the haft of his axe, his knuckles white. "And soon, we became the strongest in the region." Victory should have meant peace. They had won. They had taken what they needed¡ªenough resources, enough land to sustain the orcs for generations. But it didn¡¯t stop there. "Then, soon the fight for survival," Giren murmured bitterly, "became a fight for power." He closed his eyes briefly, his expression darkening. "We had enough. More than enough. But my father¡­ he didn¡¯t stop. Maybe he couldn''t." His voice was hollow now, filled with something Asael could not quite place. "We should have stopped." He inhaled slowly, steadying himself. "But we didn¡¯t." Giren¡¯s green eyes flickered, haunted by the ghosts of the past. Movok’s past (2) The sun hung low, bleeding into the horizon, its dying light casting long shadows across the training ground. The sky burned in hues of orange and crimson, a silent witness to the weight of the tale unfolding between two warriors. The air carried the scent of earth and steel, thick with unspoken sorrow. Giren sat with his legs sprawled, fingers digging into the dirt as if searching for something lost in the soil. Asael remained beside him, silent, listening, waiting. The atmosphere between them was heavy¡ªthick with regret, a tale begging to be spoken yet carrying the burden of memory too painful to relive. "After we had expanded our lands, after we had claimed the resources of other species, my father and the other chieftains made a decision," Giren began, his voice rough, edged with something deeper than just age¡ªsomething worn and scarred by time. He exhaled slowly, his green eyes fixed on the blood-red sky as though it held the ghosts of his past. "They wanted to be more than tribes¡ªto form a true kingdom of orcs." His lips curled into a bitter smirk, but there was no amusement in it. "And so, we became conquerors." At first, they fought those who opposed them, those who had clashed with them before. But then¡­ "We turned our weapons against those who had done nothing to us." Orcs, once a race of warriors who fought for survival, became something else¡ªa force of unrelenting conquest. The neutral species, the ones who had kept to themselves, who sought neither war nor dominion¡ª they crushed them too. Asael¡¯s expression darkened. He already knew what was coming, but he asked anyway. "Was Movok one of them?" Giren nodded, his tusks glinting in the fading light. "Yes. The lizardmen of Marshall Swamp were one of those species." He closed his eyes for a moment, as if the memory alone had weight enough to drag him under. "They were a peaceful people," he murmured. "They kept to themselves, lived deep within the swamps, and rarely¡ªif ever¡ªstruck first." His fists clenched. "But we still decided to take what was theirs." The orcs struck swiftly. At first, it was easy. A few lizardmen tribes fell before the might of the orc horde, their villages burned, their homes razed to the ground. Victory seemed inevitable. But then, one day, they came. A group of lizardmen appeared in the orc war camp, moving through the sea of warriors like ghosts. But there was one among them who stood apart. Giren¡¯s voice took on a different edge, tinged with something unreadable. "Among them was a lizardman unlike any other." He inhaled sharply, as if the image of that warrior still haunted him. "He was massive. Larger than any orc, his body built like a living fortress¡ªmuscle upon muscle, scales harder than steel." Even standing amidst an army, he had been unshaken. "He introduced himself as Movok, chief of the strongest lizardmen tribe. His voice was deep, calm¡ªbut filled with warning." Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. One word. One final plea. "Leave." Giren¡¯s eyes flickered, reflecting the weight of a mistake that could never be undone. "He told us to stop. To turn back while we could." Asael¡¯s grip tightened. "And you didn¡¯t?" Giren let out a slow breath. "No. We didn¡¯t listen. Perhaps we should have." Movok left. For a while, nothing happened. The orcs continued celebrating, drinking, feasting, reveling in their victories. They had no reason to fear. Then¡ª The fires began. "At first, we thought it was an accident," Giren murmured. "A stray ember, a mistake by our own men." But the flames spread too quickly. The entire camp was in chaos, warriors scrambling to put out the fire, their supplies and shelters devoured by the hungry blaze. And then¡ª He returned. Through the choking smoke, Movok emerged, his golden eyes burning like embers in the dark. "He didn¡¯t come alone." Shadows moved behind him. Lizardmen warriors, silent and swift, emerged from the swamp, their blades glinting in the fire¡¯s glow. "But he led the charge himself." Giren¡¯s golden eyes were distant now, his voice a ghost of itself. "He wielded a greatsword¡ªnot like the crude weapons of other lizardmen. It was massive, longer than a man, forged of black metal that gleamed like obsidian." He clenched his jaw. "And he butchered us." Movok was unstoppable. One moment, an orc raised his axe¡ªthe next, his body was bisected, cut clean in half like a log split by a lumberjack. Another tried to run¡ªbut Movok¡¯s sword pierced through his back, the blade erupting from his chest in a spray of crimson. The fire¡¯s glow painted his scaly body in hellish red, his golden eyes gleaming with cold fury. Orc warriors who had once laughed at the idea of lizardmen being weak¡ª died screaming at his feet. "He cut through dozens," Giren whispered, his hands shaking. "One by one. It didn¡¯t matter how strong we were¡ªhe was faster, deadlier." He swallowed hard. "And worst of all?" His voice dropped to a hushed, haunted whisper. "He was calm the entire time." The fire raged around us, devouring everything in its path. But Movok didn¡¯t burn. His blackened scales shimmered like obsidian armor, reflecting the flames, untouched by the searing heat, untouched by the destruction consuming our world. We fought. We bled. We died. And through it all, he remained unshaken. "My father was the strongest warrior of our people," Giren whispered, his voice hollow, stripped of all life. His hands trembled as they curled into fists, his knuckles white against the dim firelight. "He conquered countless enemies, crushed entire armies beneath his axe." His breath hitched, the weight of memory pressing against his chest. "But against Movok?" He exhaled slowly, a sharp, uneven breath. "He was nothing." The memory burned behind his eyes¡ªhis father¡¯s massive axe cleaving through the air, the sheer force of his blows colliding against the unyielding steel of Movok¡¯s greatsword. For a fleeting moment, it seemed as if they were equals, their weapons clashing with thunderous force, sending shockwaves through the battlefield. But Movok never faltered. His strikes remained precise, relentless, like the rhythm of a war drum echoing through the night. With every clash, with every exchange, Giren¡¯s father slowed. And then¡ª The moment came. A single, perfect strike. Movok¡¯s blade tore through his chest, splitting flesh, bone, and sinew as if cutting through water. There was no cry of pain, no final roar of defiance. He simply¡­ fell. Giren saw the light fade from his father¡¯s eyes, saw the blood spill across the burning ground. And in that moment, something inside him snapped. "I charged at him," Giren admitted, his voice laced with bitter rage. "As fast as I could. As strong as I could." He let out a hollow chuckle, humorless and cold. "It didn¡¯t matter." Movok¡¯s green eyes met his¡ªcalm, indifferent. And in a single motion, he struck. Giren barely registered the movement before his body hit the dirt, pain exploding through his ribs like lightning cracking through a dying tree. He gasped, the world spinning as he struggled to rise, but Movok was already standing over him. A strong hand clamped around his jaw, forcing his head up. The green gaze bore into him, stripping him bare. Then came the sound. A sharp, sickening crack. Pain ripped through his skull as his tusk shattered, fragments of bone falling to the bloodstained ground. It wasn¡¯t just an injury. It was humiliation. It was a message. Live with what you¡¯ve done. Movok turned away, his blade still slick with the blood of Giren¡¯s father. He had won. And he didn¡¯t even care. The orc chieftains lay dead. Their warriors broken. The survivors ran. Movok let them. "He let us go," Giren whispered, his voice raw, his throat tightening. "But that was only the beginning." "As orcs, we should have learned from that defeat," Giren muttered, staring down at his calloused hands, as if they held the weight of his people¡¯s downfall. "But my brother¡­ he was like my father." His gaze darkened, shadowed by old wounds that had never truly healed. "Instead of rebuilding, instead of stopping the bloodshed¡ªhe made a deal." Asael remained silent, waiting. "The humans offered us something," Giren continued, his voice steady but distant. "They promised us a kingdom. A future. Power beyond what we had ever known." The price? "We had to stop the forest monsters from attacking them." A long silence stretched between them. "So you accepted," Asael finally murmured. Giren nodded. "We had no choice." With human steel, human magic, human tactics, the orcs became stronger than ever before. And then, inevitably¡ª They returned to war with the lizardmen. The battles were bloodier than ever. This time, the orcs were not alone. They fought alongside armored knights, fire-wielding mages, archers who rained death from above. Together, they tore through the lizardmen tribes, leaving only ruin in their wake. "It was a massacre," Giren admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "And yet¡­ Movok never stopped fighting." Even when they outnumbered him. Even when their blades found his flesh. Even when his entire race was collapsing around him¡ª He never stopped. "He killed hundreds," Giren whispered, staring into the fire, as if he could see the ghosts of that battlefield within the flames. "Orcs, humans¡ªit didn¡¯t matter." Every time they thought he had fallen, he rose again. His green eyes burned with something far beyond rage, beyond vengeance. His greatsword dripped with the blood of his enemies. They thought he was a beast, an unstoppable force of nature. But looking back¡ª "He was just a man watching his people die," Giren murmured. It took everything to bring him down. "He fought for days," Giren said, his voice quiet, as if he feared the walls themselves were listening. "But even he¡­ even he grew tired." Even he bled. Even he collapsed. "His body was riddled with spears, arrows¡ªso many that he looked like a dying beast impaled on a hunter¡¯s trap." His blood soaked the battlefield. His warriors lay motionless, their bodies piled like discarded dolls. His family¡­ His entire tribe¡­ Gone. And yet, when the moment came, when it was finally his turn to die¡ª "He vanished into the swamp," Giren murmured. No one followed him. "We were too tired, too injured," Giren admitted. "And after seeing him take so much punishment¡ªafter watching him fight with his body full of blades¡ª" They made a choice. They thought he was finished. No one could survive that. No one. "Perhaps," Giren muttered, his voice haunted, "We should have checked." Movok’s past (3) "After the war," Giren continued, his fingers tightening around a loose thread in his tunic, "we finally became a kingdom." For the first time in our history, orcs were no longer just warriors, no longer raiders or conquerors. We had built something greater¡ªhomes with sturdy walls, markets filled with laughter, roads that stretched beyond the horizon. We learned from the humans. Trade flourished. Education spread. The days of endless bloodshed faded into distant memories. And for ten years, we believed we had left the past behind. For ten years, we thought we had won. But victory was an illusion. "Then," Giren whispered, his fists trembling, "the Demon King emerged." At first, we ignored the rumors. His war was not ours¡ªit was the humans'' burden to bear. But when my brother stood before us, his expression grim, his voice like steel, I knew the choice had been made. He ordered me to fight. And there, in the depths of a shadowed forest, I met him again. Movok. "I thought he was dead," Giren admitted, his voice barely above a breath. I thought we had finished him. But as he stood before me, taller, stronger, his green eyes burning like a cursed flame, I realized how wrong we had been. "I fought him again." "And again, I lost." Even after years of battle, after war had carved scars into my skin and fire had forged me into steel, I still wasn¡¯t enough. But once more, he let me live. He loomed over me, his blade coated in the blood of my allies, and spoke the words that still haunt me. "Go back. Tell your brother. Tell him I¡¯m coming." And then, just like before, he vanished into the forest. I should have warned them. I should have prepared. But nothing could have stopped what came next. Months later, ashe had said he came. He and his army of monsters descended upon our kingdom like a storm rolling across the mountains¡ªunstoppable, merciless, all-consuming. The air burned with the stench of blood and fire. The screams¡­ I still hear them in the quiet hours of the night. We fought. We fought with everything we had. And still, it wasn¡¯t enough. Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. He tore through our armies like a beast unleashed, his greatsword carving through warriors as if they were nothing more than paper. The earth trembled beneath his rage. But the worst wound of all? The betrayal. Orcs turned on orcs. Desperation and fear twisted the hearts of my people, breaking what even war could not. Many had already forsaken their loyalty, kneeling before the Demon King¡¯s power like beaten dogs. And among them was¡­ My closest friend. "I had to kill him with my own hands," Giren whispered, his voice frayed at the edges, cracking like old leather. His eyes were distant, staring at something only he could see¡ªa past he could never change. "And still, it wasn¡¯t enough." At the very end, my brother stood alone. The kingdom lay in ruins. Our people¡ªscattered, enslaved, or slaughtered. I tried to fight, tried to stand beside him, but¡ª He shoved me away. He knew. He knew someone had to survive. And so, he stayed behind. Buying me time. Buying me a future I never wanted. "I escaped," Giren murmured, the word barely making it past his lips. Coward. The word had followed me like a shadow for years. I ran while my brother died. I ran while everything we had built turned to dust. I hid in the forests, moving from one place to another, until¡­ "One day, Marquis Hector and Lily found me." They took me in. They gave me shelter. They gave me a reason to live again. And in them, I found something I thought I had lost¡ª Hope. Giren exhaled sharply, turning to Asael. The firelight reflected in Asael¡¯s eyes, but there was something stronger there¡ªdetermination, unwavering and unbreakable. "If anyone can stop him," Giren said, his voice steady, "it¡¯s marquis Hector." Asael met his gaze, unflinching. "Don¡¯t worry," he said, placing a firm hand on Giren¡¯s shoulder. "We¡¯ll stop him before he causes more destruction." Giren let out a slow breath, something easing in his chest for the first time in years. "Yeah." The night had fully settled, the stars glimmering above like silent witnesses. "It¡¯s getting late," he muttered. "Let¡¯s go back." And together, they rose, walking toward the flickering lights of the resistance camp¡ªtoward the battle that awaited them. ----- The deepest part of the forest lay cloaked in an eerie silence, broken only by the heavy breaths and restless shifting of the gathered monsters. Goblins, trolls, gnolls, ogres¡ªbattle-hardened and scarred¡ªstood waiting, their usual savage confidence replaced by uncertainty. The air was thick with tension, the scent of damp earth and dried blood clinging to the cold night breeze. Before them loomed a cavern, its entrance jagged like the gaping maw of a beast. Shadows danced along the rough stone walls as torchlight flickered, casting the inside in a dim, hellish glow. At the heart of the cavern, upon a throne of carved stone and bones, sat Movok. His yellow reptilian eyes burned coldly, distant yet piercing, like twin stars in an abyss. The faint light reflected off the scales lining his massive arms, each one etched with the marks of countless battles. His grip tightened on the throne¡¯s armrests, claws scratching against the stone with a slow, deliberate screech. Beside him stood Magnum, his most trusted warrior. His body covered in his robe. He stood with his arms crossed, silent and watchful. At the foot of the throne, the leaders of the monster horde knelt in uneasy silence. Among them, Greg¡ªa towering barbarian with a scarred chest and fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white¡ªtook a slow, steady breath before daring to step forward. Movok¡¯s gaze settled on Greg like a blade pressing against flesh. His expression remained unreadable, but the weight of his presence was suffocating. ¡°What happened? Did you all succeeded?¡± His voice was deep, steady, yet laced with an undercurrent of quiet menace. The cave walls seemed to close in, the flickering torches casting twisted shadows that swayed like specters. Greg swallowed hard. The words felt heavy on his tongue, as if speaking them would shatter what little dignity remained. ¡°No. We failed.¡± The cavern darkened, as though the very air recoiled from the admission. Movok¡¯s fingers dug into the stone of his throne, his claws carving fresh grooves into its ancient surface. ¡°How¡­ stupid of you all.¡± His voice was quiet, but each word dripped with venom. The weight of his disappointment settled over the gathered warriors like an unbearable force. ¡°You had an army at your disposal,¡± he said, his voice rising, ¡°yet you return in disgrace?¡± The cavern trembled. The gathered monsters lowered their heads, their shoulders tense, their shame hanging over them like a noose. Greg forced himself to keep his gaze level, though his breath came shallow. ¡°But there were strong ones.¡± Movok leaned forward, his emerald eyes flashing dangerously. ¡°Stronger than you?¡± Silence. The answer was clear, but no one dared to voice it aloud. Greg exhaled, his pride crumbling like dust in his chest, and nodded. ¡°Yes¡­ some of them were.¡± A stillness settled over the cave, deeper than before. The flickering torchlight cast long, distorted shadows, stretching the space between Movok and his kneeling warriors. Movok¡¯s expression remained unreadable, but his presence became heavier, his aura pressing down on them like a crushing weight. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer¡ªcalm, emotionless, yet razor-sharp. ¡°Have you already forgotten what happened to your father?¡± Greg flinched. The memory struck like a hammer. His father¡¯s severed head rolling across the dirt, eyes frozen in shock, lifeless and empty. Movok standing over the broken body, his greatsword slick with blood. The lesson he had carved into Greg¡¯s soul that day¡ª If you are not strong, you are not needed. The words echoed in his skull. His body, massive and battle-worn, suddenly felt small beneath the weight of them. Greg dropped to his knees, his heart hammering in his chest. ¡°Please!¡± His voice cracked with desperation. ¡°Give us one more chance!¡± The other monster leaders followed suit, their voices overlapping in frantic pleas. The cavern filled with the sound of warriors begging for redemption. Movok let out a low, guttural growl. ¡°Useless.¡± He rose from his throne, his towering frame casting a suffocating shadow over them. His hand moved to the greatsword resting beside him, its massive edge catching the firelight. The dried blood that caked its blade told countless stories of slaughter. Greg¡¯s breath hitched. His body tensed, every muscle bracing for the inevitable. ¡°There¡¯s no need for that, my lord!¡± A voice rang out, sharp and unwavering. Movok¡¯s piercing gaze snapped toward Magnum. The green-skinned warrior stepped forward, his movements unhurried, his expression calm, almost amused. There was no fear in his eyes, only calculated confidence. Movok¡¯s fingers loosened slightly against the hilt of his greatsword. ¡°You have a plan?¡± Magnum nodded, the smirk never leaving his face. ¡°Yes.¡± His voice was smooth, carrying an air of certainty that settled over the cavern like a steady drumbeat. ¡°I will take command of the battlefield next time. If you allow me to lead, this war will end in our favor¡ªswiftly and efficiently.¡± Movok studied him for a long, silent moment. The torches crackled. The air remained heavy, thick with the unspoken threat of what would happen should Magnum fail. Then, Movok exhaled. Slowly, his fingers uncurled from the grip of his sword, releasing the tension that had held the room captive. ¡°Fine.¡± His voice carried the weight of final judgment, a decree that could mean salvation or execution. ¡°But finish this quickly.¡± Magnum bowed deeply, the flickering torchlight casting sharp shadows across his face. ¡°As you command, my lord.¡± Movok turned away, his massive frame vanishing into the darkness beyond the throne. Outside, the gathered monsters stood in uneasy silence. They knew the truth written in their master¡¯s eyes. Should Magnum fail, there would be no second chances. Wall of north (1) The fortress training ground stirred with the crisp morning air, the golden light of dawn stretching across the worn stone floor. The scent of damp earth lingered, a remnant of the night¡¯s passing rain. Birds chirped softly in the distance, their melodies blending with the occasional clang of weapons from soldiers training nearby. A group stood in silent anticipation, their breaths visible in the cool air. Asael, Anne, Steven, Giren, Lily, and Kenta¡ªeach of them waiting, their gazes fixed on the man before them. Marquis Hector stood tall, his piercing eyes scanning the gathered warriors with quiet scrutiny. There was no impatience in his demeanor, only a measured calculation as if weighing their potential before speaking. Anne folded her arms, shifting her weight onto one leg. "Why did you call us out here, Marquis?" A small, knowing smile ghosted across Hector¡¯s lips. "I thought it was time to give you all some training¡ªsome guidance on improving yourselves." Asael¡¯s heart quickened at the thought, his fingers instinctively brushing against the hilt of his sword. "That would be great," he said, unable to hide the eagerness in his voice. "Good," Hector replied, his voice carrying a quiet authority. "Then line up." A brief exchange of glances passed between them before they stepped into formation, standing shoulder to shoulder. The air around them grew still, thick with expectation. Hector stepped forward, his boots echoing against the stone. His presence was heavy, commanding the attention of everyone in an instant. He stopped in front of Asael, locking eyes with him, his sharp gaze probing deep. "Before we begin, may I ask you something?" Asael straightened, caught off guard by the sudden intensity. "Of course," he said, though his voice was quieter now. Hector¡¯s gaze darkened, the hint of a shadow flickering across his features. "Why did you lose control back then?" Silence fell like a shroud. The others stiffened, their expressions shifting as tension crackled through the air. Asael¡¯s breath hitched. His mind recoiled from the memory, but it surged forward nonetheless¡ªthe battle, the blood, the raw, unrelenting rage that had swallowed him whole. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. His fingers curled slightly, nails pressing into his palm. "I¡­ I don¡¯t fully remember," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. Hector said nothing, waiting. Asael closed his eyes, forcing himself to relive that moment. "When I saw Bob¡¯s severed head¡­ everything around me started to fade. My vision blurred, my hearing dulled. It was like the world was slipping away." A sharp pang twisted in his chest. "And then, I heard a voice." His words hung in the air, heavy with something unspoken. The group exchanged uneasy glances, their faces shadowed with concern. Hector¡¯s brows knit together. "A voice? Do you remember whose voice it was?" Asael hesitated, sifting through the fragmented pieces of that moment¡ªthe rage, the grief, and that whisper, deep and resonant, weaving through the storm of his mind. Finally, he exhaled. "Perhaps it was one of the gods." Hector¡¯s expression shifted, his eyes narrowing. "A god¡¯s voice?" Asael nodded slowly. "Yes." His throat felt dry as he continued. "It is part of the hero''s trial. When a hero endures a god¡¯s test, proving themselves worthy, the god grants them a blessing." Hector¡¯s gaze remained unreadable, his mind clearly turning over Asael¡¯s words. "So each god sets their own trial?" "Yes. Each one is different. And they only bless a hero when they believe that hero has earned it." Hector crossed his arms, his fingers tapping lightly against his forearm. "And what did you obtain?" He asked. "My sword¡­ I can move it however I want and change its size at will. My divine power has grown, and my healing abilities have strengthened." Asael explained. "Alright. Can you show me?" Marquis asked. Asael hesitated only briefly before exhaling, his breath steady. A soft golden glow pulsed from his fingertips, spreading like ripples across the air as his sword materialized before him. The divine blade gleamed in the morning light, its radiance casting elongated shadows on the ground. For a moment, Asael simply held it, feeling the energy hum beneath his fingertips. Then, in a swift motion, he dragged the edge across his palm. A thin line of red surfaced, only to vanish instantly as his divine power surged through his body, sealing the wound without a trace. Silence settled over the group as Hector observed with narrowed eyes, his arms crossed. "Good. Your divine power is strong, and your healing ability is remarkable. But¡­" He paused, his voice carrying a weight heavier than disapproval. "You rely on it too much." Asael blinked, caught off guard. "What do you mean?" Hector exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "You don''t truly know how to fight." His voice remained calm, yet it cut through Asael like a blade. "You charge into battle, trusting that your divine power will carry you through. That might work for a hero, but not for a warrior." A flicker of protest sparked in Asael¡¯s chest, but it quickly died down. Deep inside, he knew Hector was right. How many times had he thrown himself into danger, assuming his power would protect him? Before he could respond, Hector signaled to Sam. The young scholar hurried forward, carrying a small stack of aged books. Their leather covers were worn, their spines cracked from years of use. "These contain martial arts and weapon techniques," Hector said, his tone lighter but firm. "Study them. If you need more, ask Sam." Asael took the books carefully, the weight of them grounding him. He looked up, a quiet determination settling in his eyes. "I will. Thank you." Hector¡¯s gaze shifted to Anne. His expression softened, though there was still a trace of uncertainty. "I¡¯ll be honest¡ªI don¡¯t fully understand how a Saintess fights." Anne¡¯s face fell slightly, her golden eyes flickering with something close to disappointment. But Hector wasn¡¯t finished. "I have seen the last Saintess in battle," he continued, his voice thoughtful. "She did not focus on healing. Her real strength lay in something else¡ªbuffs and debuffs." Anne¡¯s posture straightened, her hands clenching at her sides. "You mean¡­" "Instead of just patching wounds, strengthen your allies. Weaken your enemies. Make them slow. Make them fragile. If you master this, you won¡¯t just be a support¡ªyou¡¯ll be a force to be reckoned with." The wind tugged at Anne¡¯s dark cloak as she took in his words. Then, with a deep breath, she nodded. "Understood." When Hector turned to Giren and Lily, his demeanor shifted slightly, his tone more subdued. "You both¡­ continue doing what I told you." No further explanation was needed. Giren and Lily exchanged a brief glance before nodding silently, their expressions firm. Steven stood still as Hector''s gaze landed on him. A long pause. Then, Hector sighed. "I don¡¯t have any advice for you." Steven frowned. "What?" A faint smirk tugged at Hector¡¯s lips. "You¡¯re already on the right path. You¡¯ve been growing stronger, steadily improving. There¡¯s nothing I can teach you that you haven¡¯t already begun to understand on your own." Steven held his ground, but his fingers curled slightly. Something about those words stirred emotions he wasn¡¯t ready to name. Hector¡¯s voice softened. "But¡­ you should go easier on yourself. Even the strongest warriors need rest." Steven didn¡¯t respond back. Finally, Hector turned to Kenta, the youngest among them. The boy stood with his fists clenched, his small frame trembling slightly¡ªnot from fear, but from sheer determination. Hector let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "You should leave the fighting to the adults, little one." Kenta¡¯s ears turned red, but his voice was steady. "No. I want to fight. I have to fight." Something flickered in Hector¡¯s eyes, an emotion he didn¡¯t let surface. He studied the boy for a long moment before exhaling. Without another word, he pulled a thin book from his coat and handed it to Kenta. The pages were carefully written, filled with diagrams and instructions. "Fine. But you will not fight until you have mastered the techniques in this book." Kenta¡¯s eyes widened as he took the book, holding it as though it were the most valuable thing in the world. "I will learn. I promise." Hector gave him a final nod before stepping back, his gaze sweeping over the entire group. "Then let¡¯s begin." The sun had fully risen now, casting a warm glow over the fortress. The training ground stirred with movement¡ªswords clashing, spells flickering, bodies shifting with newfound purpose. Each of them, in their own way, was growing stronger. Wall of north (2) 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¡ªa 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¡ªa 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¡ªa troll, its jagged teeth bared in a snarl. It lunged, clawed hands reaching¡ª 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¡ªprecise movements, strategic footwork¡ªbut 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¡ªmoving 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¡ªa rusted axe, a splintered spear, even a crude club¡ªand 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 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¡ª 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¡ªmore 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. Wall of north (3) The battlefield was a twisted hellscape, chaos consuming every inch of bloodstained ground. Fireballs rained from the sky, merciless and unrelenting, crashing into soldiers like the wrath of a vengeful god. The air reeked of charred flesh and molten steel as the unlucky ones were caught in the inferno, their armor fusing with their skin. Some dropped to their knees, clawing at the earth as if they could burrow away from the flames, their screams raw, desperate¡ªpleas for salvation that would never come. Anne moved through the carnage, hands glowing with divine light, healing as fast as she could, but it was never enough. The fire came too quickly, too frequently. Soldiers she had just saved were torn apart by the next explosion, their agonized cries swallowed by the howling storm of battle. A man staggered past her, his eyes wide with terror, his entire left side scorched black. He reached out, his lips forming silent words¡ªbefore another fireball consumed him, his body vanishing into the blinding flames. The horror was endless. And the source of this massacre remained unseen. Monsters couldn¡¯t wield elemental magic. It was an iron law of nature. They could twist the dark arts, summon curses, spread decay¡ªbut never had they harnessed the raw fury of fire, ice, or lightning. Even among the most gifted humans, true elemental mages were a rarity. Among elves, magic was an art, a birthright passed through generations. But there was one being who defied every law, who twisted magic into something unholy. Tores. A Voodooist. A general of the Demon King¡¯s army. A creature who bent the limits of magic until they shattered. And now, one of his students was here. Magnum. The fireballs kept falling, carving through their ranks like the hand of death itself, and with each blast, the battlefield was reduced further to a landscape of ruin and despair. ¡°Asael! Can you sense anything?!¡± Steven¡¯s voice cut through the chaos, frantic but sharp. He slashed apart a goblin that had leaped at him, his blade slick with gore. Asael closed his eyes, drowning out the noise, forcing himself to focus beyond the burning, the screaming, the blood. Nothing. Not even the faintest flicker of presence. Then a fireball came hurtling toward him. His eyes snapped open, body moving before thought. He twisted sharply, feeling the heat sear past his cheek as it barely missed. A second one roared toward him from the right¡ªhe reacted in an instant, swinging his sword in a blinding arc, deflecting it mid-air. Flames burst outward, scorching the ground but leaving him unharmed. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. The third attack came too fast. It struck his arm before he could react, the explosion swallowing him in its fiery grip. He staggered, breath torn from his lungs, skin blistering as searing heat consumed his body. Divine energy surged through his veins, desperately knitting his flesh back together¡ªbut the pain didn¡¯t vanish. It never did. Then came the cold. A spear of ice slammed into him, freezing his breath in his throat. A sharp, merciless chill spread through his limbs, ice forming along his armor, locking his joints in place. His vision blurred, muscles stiffening as frost crept over his fingers. The monsters saw their opening. A gnoll lunged, jagged claws gleaming, saliva dripping from its snarling maw. An ogre raised its massive club, veins bulging as it swung with the force to shatter bones. A horde of goblins shrieked as they rushed him, their crude weapons flashing under the crimson sky. Asael gritted his teeth, rage and instinct overriding the numbness in his limbs. Divine energy erupted from his core, shattering the ice that bound him. His golden sword flashed¡ª A single, perfect swing, and a goblin¡¯s arm flew free, the severed hand still gripping its blade as it thudded to the ground. Another slash¡ª A gnoll¡¯s head spun through the air, its eyes frozen in shock even as its body collapsed in a lifeless heap. The ogre¡¯s club came crashing down. Too slow. Asael shifted, feeling the rush of air as it barely missed his head. His sword found the creature¡¯s ribs, piercing through thick muscle and bone. The ogre let out a guttural howl, black blood gushing from its mouth. With a brutal twist, Asael tore the blade free. The wound split open further, intestines spilling onto the dirt in steaming coils. The monster staggered, twitched, then fell forward with an earth-shaking crash. But there was no time to rest. The fireballs were already falling again. Another explosion ripped through the battlefield. More screams. More bodies reduced to ashes. They had to find Magnum. ---- Giren fought like a beast, his axe a relentless force of destruction, carving through flesh and bone with merciless precision. Each swing sent monstrous bodies flying, their screams swallowed by the chaos of battle. Blood arced through the air, painting the ground in grotesque patterns. A gnoll lunged at him, snarling, but before it could strike, Giren¡¯s axe came down like a hammer from the heavens. The creature¡¯s skull cracked open, bone fragments splintering as its lifeless body crumpled at his feet. He barely had a moment to breathe before the earth beneath him shuddered. From the ground, thick, black tendrils of shadow burst forth, coiling around his legs like living chains. The unnatural energy constricted with terrifying strength, locking his limbs in place. He growled, muscles bulging as he fought against the restraint, but the tendrils only tightened, seeping cold into his bones. The monsters saw their chance. A pack of gnolls surged forward, their rabid grins stretching wide to reveal rows of jagged, saliva-drenched teeth. Giren gritted his teeth, sweat mixing with the blood streaking his face. His veins pulsed as he strained against the shadow¡¯s grip. One gnoll leapt, claws outstretched¡ª Giren¡¯s hand shot up like a vice, catching the creature by the throat. With a guttural roar, he hurled the gnoll with all his might, its body colliding with the oncoming pack in a sickening tangle of limbs and snarls. The force sent them sprawling, bones snapping like dry twigs beneath the weight of impact. A sharp crack echoed as one gnoll¡¯s neck twisted at an unnatural angle, the light in its eyes extinguishing before it even hit the ground. But Giren was far from done. He inhaled sharply, summoning every ounce of strength left in his battered body. With a thunderous yell, he tore himself free from the cursed tendrils. They disintegrated into black mist, vanishing like whispers on the wind. The gnolls, realizing their mistake, turned to flee. But they were too late. Giren¡¯s axe cleaved through the air, a single devastating sweep cutting them down where they stood. Bodies split apart, their severed spines exposed, entrails spilling onto the blood-soaked earth. Yet despite his defiance, the battle was shifting. The tide was turning against them. The fireballs never ceased. From the heart of the battlefield, flames rained down like divine punishment, devouring everything in their path. Screams of agony filled the air as men and monsters alike were consumed. Flesh melted from bone, armor glowed red-hot before warping and fusing with charred remains. Some tried to douse the flames, rolling desperately on the ground¡ªonly to be engulfed again as another inferno descended upon them. The strongest warriors stood their ground, pushing through the searing heat with sheer will. But the weaker ones¡­ They were being slaughtered. Their cries pierced the chaos, their terror palpable. The battlefield, once alive with the clash of steel and roars of defiance, had become a nightmare of fire and death. And then¡ª Steven stepped forward. He exhaled slowly. Then again. His eyes, once deep blue, ignited with a light as sharp as a blade, crackling with raw energy. His senses expanded. Time slowed. He could feel everything¡ªevery desperate movement, every dying breath, every spell cast, every enemy shifting in the flames. The screams of the burning, the growls of the monsters, the frantic prayers of priests, the distant cackles of goblins¡ªit all poured into his mind at once, overwhelming, suffocating. His skull throbbed, his brain burned from the flood of information¡ª But he embraced it. A fireball hurtled toward him. Steven moved. Lightning erupted from his body, a storm of raw power coursing through his veins. In an instant, he became a streak of thunder, faster than sight, faster than thought. His body screamed in protest. Blood trickled from his nose. Then his ears. His heart slammed against his ribs, erratic, frantic, threatening to shatter beneath the strain. But he held on. He had to. The sky darkened. And then¡ª A colossal thunderbolt crashed down. Blinding light swallowed the battlefield, turning night into day. A massive pillar of lightning tore through the land, obliterating everything caught in its fury. The ground split, blackened corpses thrown in every direction, their forms unrecognizable. A deafening explosion followed, a shockwave of raw energy rattling the bones of those still standing. Even the surviving monsters, wild and bloodthirsty just moments before, staggered back in terror, their instincts screaming at them to flee. And at the very heart of the destruction¡ª Magnum stood, his form flickering like a dying ember. His cloaking spell shattered, revealing the monstrous sorcerer beneath¡ªdraped in crimson robes, his scaled hands still raised in mid-cast. His flesh was seared, patches of burnt scales flaking from his body. His once-imposing figure now trembled, smoke rising from his charred limbs. The nightmare that had painted the battlefield in fire was on his knees, breath ragged, eyes wide with disbelief. And before him¡ª Steven stood, swaying, barely holding himself upright. His legs shook violently, struggling to support his weight. Blood dripped from his nose, from his ears, from the corners of his lips. His vision blurred. His breath came in short, broken gasps. But he had done it. And then¡ª His body gave in. With a heavy thud, Steven collapsed, his consciousness slipping away. For the first time since the battle began¡ª Silence reigned. And now, as the smoke cleared and the last embers of the storm faded, only one thing remained. The end of this battle. Wall of north (4) The battlefield lay in eerie silence, save for the crackling embers consuming the bodies of the fallen. Smoke curled into the sky like mourning spirits, the acrid scent of charred flesh thick in the air. Steven¡¯s wrath had left its mark. The once-overwhelming horde of monsters, emboldened by Magnum¡¯s magic, now stood shaken. Their formation crumbled, their relentless savagery dissolving into disarray. Their howls, once filled with bloodlust, wavered with hesitation. Moments ago, the defenders had been drowning in blood and fire, their screams swallowed by the monstrous tide. Now, they surged forward with a fury that burned hotter than the flames still licking at the ruins around them. Asael charged ahead, his golden eyes ablaze with righteous fury. His blade sang through the air, slicing through disoriented foes with effortless precision. Every swing carried divine energy, scorching through flesh, severing limbs, carving a path straight through the chaos. Beside him, Giren was an unrelenting force. His axe cleaved through skulls with bone-crushing impact, each strike a death sentence. Blood splattered across his armor, but he did not slow. He reveled in the destruction, the weight of his weapon nothing compared to the strength surging through his veins. Goblins and gnolls broke first, their screeches shrill with terror. They turned to flee, scrambling over the bodies of their fallen kin, their desperate cries swallowed by the relentless storm of steel and arrows. But there was no mercy. Lily¡¯s arrows rained down with unerring accuracy, each shot piercing skulls and hearts. Monsters collapsed mid-run, their bodies twitching before falling still. Anne moved through the battlefield like a angel, her glowing hands pressing against torn flesh, pouring her divine energy into the dying. Sweat clung to her brow, her fingers trembling as she worked tirelessly to pull men back from the brink of death. Some gasped back to life, coughing up blood, while others only offered a final, shuddering breath before falling silent. The archers upon the wall fired relentlessly, their arrows darkening the sky. Each projectile struck true, turning the retreating monsters into pincushions. Their wails of agony echoed across the battlefield, swallowed only by the chorus of warriors who fought side by side¡ªorc, elf, and human alike. Their war cries shook the very air. And then¡ªit happened. The monsters broke. The tide of bloodthirsty savages dissolved into a chaotic, desperate retreat. Fear had taken hold, a sickness spreading through their ranks. Their once-mighty roars twisted into panicked cries. Their ferocity crumbled into sheer desperation. The defenders did not pursue. They had survived. Yet, as they stood among the wreckage of what was once their home, staring at the mangled bodies of comrades and friends, it did not feel like victory. The surviving soldiers trudged back through the shattered gates, dragging the fallen behind them. The castle courtyard, once a place of security, now resembled a butcher¡¯s floor. Blood pooled in the dirt, the iron tang thick in every breath. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. The cries of the wounded were endless¡ªsome shrill with pain, others faint, barely clinging to life. Anne moved between them, her hands glowing with divine light, but even she could not heal them all. Some men had wounds too deep, their bodies too broken. She held their hands as their breathing slowed, whispering prayers as their souls slipped away. The battlefield outside the walls was a graveyard of shattered weapons, broken shields, and lifeless corpses. The stench of burned flesh hung heavy in the air, mingling with the sharp, coppery scent of blood. Crows had already begun to gather, circling above, their harsh cries blending with the mourning wails of the living. Giren and Asael carried Steven¡¯s unconscious body, his face pale, his skin slick with sweat. His clothes, once regal, were now tattered and soaked in blood¡ªsome of it his own, most of it not. Inside the castle, there was no cheer, no celebration. Only the grim reality of war. They had lived another day. But at what cost? ---- Far from the battlefield, deep within the twisted expanse of the blackened forest, the air pulsed with an unnatural tension. The trees themselves seemed to shudder, their gnarled branches twisting in silent dread. Shadows slithered between the trunks, whispering of something far worse to come. The monstrous war camp, once alive with roaring fires and drunken bravado, had fallen into uneasy silence. The warriors, creatures of chaos and bloodshed, now stood with hunched shoulders, avoiding each other¡¯s eyes, waiting for the storm they knew was about to break. At the heart of the encampment, Greg, the barbarian chief knelt, his head bowed, his massive frame trembling despite himself. His breath came in short, shallow bursts, fear gripping him like a vice. Before him stood Movok. The air around him was heavy, suffocating, thick with the scent of blood and violence. His green eyes burned with fury as he processed the words he had just heard. "What did you say?" Movok¡¯s voice rumbled like distant thunder, a low growl that sent shivers down the spines of even the strongest warriors present. Greg swallowed hard, his throat dry as sand. "M-Magnum¡­ is dead," he whispered, his voice barely audible. A single heartbeat passed. Then¡ª A hand clamped around his throat. Bones cracked. Flesh gave way beneath monstrous strength. The Greg¡¯s eyes bulged as he clawed at the iron grip crushing his airway. His legs kicked uselessly, his body convulsing in a frantic bid for survival. "You ran?" Movok¡¯s voice was as cold as the steel of his blade. The chief tried to speak, his lips parting, but only a strangled gasp escaped. His vision blurred, his strength fading. Movok sneered. "Instead of dying on that battlefield¡­ you retreated?" "Please forgive me!" Greg begged. "Pathetic!" With a disgusted grunt, Movok tossed him aside. The barbarian crashed onto the hard ground, coughing violently, clutching at his bruised throat as he wheezed for air. But Movok had already turned away, his mind made up. He strode toward his throne of stone, his boots crunching over dried blood and shattered bone. His fingers reached for his weapon¡ªa greatsword, nearly twice the size of a man. Its blade, blackened from years of slaughter, was chipped and worn, yet it gleamed with a deadly sharpness. The moment his fingers curled around the hilt, the air itself thickened. A wave of pure, suffocating bloodlust rolled through the camp. Warriors froze, their instincts screaming at them to flee, to bow, to kneel before the presence of something far greater than themselves. Movok rested the massive sword against his shoulder, his expression dark. "I¡¯ll handle it myself." And as he took his first step¡ª The very forest trembled. ---- The night was eerily silent. The fortress, still bearing the scars of the last battle, loomed under the cold embrace of darkness. The stone walls, cracked and weathered, stood as silent witnesses to the bloodshed that had taken place not long ago. Moonlight bathed the ramparts in a pale glow, casting long, twisting shadows that stretched like grasping fingers over the weary defenders. Steven sat weakly against a wooden beam, his breath slow, his body aching from the aftereffects of his power. The pain throbbed in his limbs, a constant reminder of the cost of battle. Around him, the air was thick with sorrow, the weight of lost comrades pressing down on every soul. But the silence did not last long. A voice¡ªsharp, cold, laced with fury¡ªshattered the night. "Humans! Come out!" The sound echoed through the fortress, rolling through the stone corridors and shaking the very marrow of those who heard it. A chill ran through every spine. Then¡ª Bong! Bong! Bong! The alarm bells rang, their frantic tolling piercing the night like desperate cries for help. Soldiers scrambled onto the walls, their hands trembling as they reached for weapons, eyes darting toward the open field beyond the gates. And then¡ªthey saw him. He stood at the forefront of the battlefield, far ahead of his monstrous horde. The moon¡¯s silver light draped over his towering form, illuminating the jagged ridges of his scaly, armor-like skin. His greatsword¡ªblackened and stained with fresh blood¡ªwas impaled into the earth before him, a silent promise of violence. His yellow, reptilian eyes burned with unfiltered hatred. They swept over the fortress, filled with a rage so raw it was almost tangible. "Come here and face me." His voice rumbled like distant thunder, deep and menacing, carrying an undeniable promise of destruction. Behind him, a vast horde of creatures stood waiting¡ªgnarled beasts with gleaming fangs, hulking brutes whose eyes gleamed with hunger. But none moved. Because this was different. Movok wasn¡¯t here to lead an invasion. He was here for battle. For blood. For revenge. A duel. And everyone atop the walls knew it. A wave of unease rippled through the defenders. Some tightened their grips on their weapons, others exchanged hesitant glances, but none spoke. Fear slithered into their hearts¡ªbecause Movok was not just any enemy. He was one of the Demon King¡¯s greatest warriors. A name that carried death. Then, from the tense silence¡ª "Everyone stay here. I''ll face him." Marquis Hector stepped forward. His expression was unreadable, his voice calm but firm. The soldiers snapped their heads toward him, some in disbelief, others in silent understanding. No one argued. No one protested. Because they knew. This was not a battle where numbers mattered. It was a clash between titans. Asael clenched his fists, his divine aura flickering like a struggling flame. His breath hitched in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs. "But¡ª!" "Please!" Hector¡¯s voice cut through the night, steady yet heavy. "Listen to my words. If you want to defeat the Demon King¡­ then you need to be alive." Silence. The soldiers looked down, their jaws clenched in frustration, in helplessness. Even Asael, who wanted nothing more than to stand beside him, could only lower his head, his fingers curling into his palms. Finally¡ªthe gates groaned open. Marquis Hector stepped forward, his silver armor reflecting the moonlight like liquid metal. His bloodstained spear rested firmly in his grip, steady despite the weight of the battle that awaited him. Each step he took was slow, deliberate, the sound of his boots crunching against the dirt echoing across the still night. The moment he passed through the gates, Movok¡¯s piercing gaze locked onto him. The air grew heavy, charged with an invisible force. The earth beneath them seemed to tremble, as if recoiling from the power that both warriors radiated. They stopped, mere feet apart. Face to face. One, the Wall of the North, a man who had stood against the tides of darkness for decades, his presence a beacon of hope for his people. The other, the Demon King¡¯s Sword, a monster whose strength had shattered kingdoms, a harbinger of death in the name of vengeance. Their breaths came slow, measured. The wind carried the scent of iron, blood, and the lingering smoke of past battles. Movok let out a low growl, his greatsword resting against his massive shoulder, his fingers curling around the hilt like a predator waiting to pounce. "So¡­ you¡¯re Marquis Hector?" His voice was eerily calm, yet behind it lurked a hunger for battle, for retribution. Hector¡¯s grip on his spear tightened, his knuckles turning white. His gaze did not waver. "And you¡¯re Movok?" There was no fear in his voice. Only resolve, steady and unshaken. For a moment, the world held its breath. Nothing moved. Nothing stirred. The battlefield was a frozen canvas of tension, every soldier, every beast watching in breathless anticipation. Then¡ª A single drop of blood from Movok¡¯s sword slid from the blade¡¯s edge, falling silently to the earth. And in the next instant¡ª The night exploded into battle. Wall of the north (5) Under the pale glow of the moon, two warriors stood face to face, their shadows stretching long over the battle-scarred ground. The fortress behind them loomed, its battered walls bearing silent witness to the bloodshed that had come before¡ªand to the battle that was about to begin. The air between them was thick with tension, so suffocating that even the monsters watching dared not move. Neither spoke. Neither flinched. The only sound was the slow, controlled breath of Marquis Hector and the low, guttural growl rumbling in Movok¡¯s chest. His reptilian eyes burned with barely restrained fury, reflecting the silver light above like molten gold. Then¡ª A blur of motion. Movok¡¯s claws tightened around the hilt of his greatsword, and with a monstrous roar, he swung. The sheer force of the strike howled through the air like a death knell, tearing apart the silence. Hector moved in an instant, bringing his spear up just in time. Steel met steel. A thunderous clang shattered the night as a shockwave rippled through the battlefield. Sparks erupted like dying stars. Hector¡¯s arms trembled from the sheer impact, his boots digging deep into the earth as he skidded backward. His body strained against the monstrous strength pressing down on him, but with a sharp exhale, he twisted his spear and deflected the blow to the side. Seizing the opening, he lunged forward, his fist slicing through the air toward Movok¡¯s snarling jaw. But just before it could land¡ª A solid wall of muscle met his strike. Movok¡¯s armored forearm blocked the blow effortlessly, his thick, scaled hide absorbing the force as if it were nothing. His lips curled back in a sneer. Then he retaliated. Without warning, his leg shot out in a brutal kick aimed straight at Hector¡¯s ribs. The Marquis barely had time to react. He twisted his body at the last moment, avoiding a direct hit, but the air still trembled from the sheer force behind the strike. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. And in that same breath¡ª He struck. Hector¡¯s spear whistled through the night, its tip gleaming as it shot toward Movok¡¯s chest. The impact never came. Instead¡ª The weapon stopped. Like striking solid iron. Movok didn¡¯t even flinch. A slow, wicked grin spread across his reptilian face, his sharp teeth gleaming under the moonlight. Then¡ª A massive clawed hand wrapped around the spear¡¯s shaft. Hector¡¯s heart pounded as he felt the overwhelming grip tighten. And with a merciless yank¡ª Movok ripped the weapon from his grasp. Before Hector could even process what had happened¡ª A fist, heavy and unyielding, slammed into his gut. A sickening crack echoed through the air. Pain exploded in his ribs. The breath was torn from his lungs as his feet left the ground. His body flew backward, skidding across the dirt, carving deep scars into the battlefield. Blood splattered from his lips, the metallic taste flooding his mouth. Gasps of horror rang out from the fortress walls. Soldiers gripped their weapons so tightly their knuckles turned white, their eyes wide with helplessness. But before fear could take hold¡ª Hector moved. His foot stomped down, anchoring him. He didn¡¯t fall. He refused to fall. Slowly, he straightened, one hand wiping the blood from his mouth. His sharp eyes never wavered from Movok. Then¡ª The air shifted. A silver glow began to pulse around him, faint at first, like embers flickering in the dark. Then it grew, spreading over his body, illuminating the torn fabric of his cloak, the fresh wounds staining his armor. The energy coursed through his veins, ancient and unyielding, a presence that sent shivers down the spines of those who watched. Movok¡¯s massive greatsword crashed onto the dirt with a dull, resonating clang, its blade still dripping with the blood of countless fallen warriors. The air around it trembled, but neither of them spared it a glance. Their battle no longer required steel¡ªit would be settled with their fists. Marquis Hector stood his ground, his breath steady despite the throbbing pain that wracked his body. His silver aura pulsed like a heartbeat, flickering across his skin in waves, illuminating the night like a ghostly flame. His sharp gaze locked onto Movok¡ªa silent challenge in his eyes. Movok grinned, revealing sharp, bloodstained fangs, his reptilian eyes gleaming with wicked amusement. His massive shoulders rolled, loosening, preparing. He accepted the challenge without hesitation. Then¡ª They moved. A blur of motion. Movok struck first¡ªhis enormous fist hurtling toward Hector¡¯s skull like a wrecking ball, the sheer force enough to shatter solid stone. But Hector saw it. His body twisted in a near-perfect arc, the rush of air against his skin as Movok¡¯s fist barely missed, missing him by a breath. The wind from the strike whipped past his ear, but Hector was already reacting. He countered. His hand shot out, fingers locking around Movok¡¯s thick, muscular arm in an iron grip. Crack! His elbow slammed into Movok¡¯s throat, the impact sending a vicious shockwave rippling through the beast¡¯s massive frame. Movok staggered. His yellow eyes widened in surprise, his body tensing against the force of the strike. Then¡ª A brutal kick. Hector¡¯s boot crashed against Movok¡¯s side, sending the greatsword skidding across the battlefield, far from its master¡¯s grasp. Now it was just them. Flesh against flesh. The watching monsters shrank back, fear thick in their eyes. They had seen Movok crush armored knights with a single blow, rip warriors apart as if they were made of paper. But now¡ª Movok was bleeding. A thick, dark stream of crimson dripped from his split lip. His once-unbreakable scales bore the evidence of Hector¡¯s blows¡ªdeep bruises forming beneath their once-impenetrable surface. Yet¡ª Movok only grinned wider. He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, his breathing slow and measured, like a predator savoring the fight. "You fight well, human." Hector didn¡¯t answer. He charged. Movok met him head-on. Their fists collided with a thunderous crash, the force of the impact sending shockwaves through the air, kicking up dust and flecks of blood. Neither gave an inch. Movok¡¯s attacks came like a raging storm¡ªevery swing, every punch carrying enough force to break bones, to crush a man¡¯s ribs in a single hit. But Hector was precise. He weaved through the onslaught, moving with the sharp, practiced grace of a warrior who had spent a lifetime in battle. He struck with deadly efficiency¡ªsharp jabs to the ribs, swift elbows to the throat, crushing blows to the jaw. Blood splattered onto the dirt. Movok¡¯s face was battered, his once-proud snarl turning into something twisted, something wild. His lip was torn, his golden eyes dark with rage. But Hector wasn¡¯t unscathed. Movok¡¯s fists had found their mark more than once. His ribs ached, each breath sharp and ragged. His left eye had swollen, nearly shut, and blood ran down his forehead, dripping onto the ground in slow, rhythmic droplets. His fingers trembled from the force of his own blows, his body screaming for rest. But neither stopped. Neither yielded. They fought like two ancient beasts locked in an endless struggle, their battle one of dominance, of survival. Each blow was heavier than the last. Flesh tore. Blood painted the earth. And still¡ª They fought. Movok vs all (1) The battlefield was a graveyard of steel and corpses, but for these two warriors, it was a stage for something far more primal. Marquis Hector and Movok clashed again and again, their bodies broken, their blood spilling freely onto the already tainted ground. Neither hesitated. Neither flinched. The night air hung heavy with the iron scent of blood, thick and suffocating. The battlefield stood eerily silent, the watching soldiers frozen in place, captivated by the sheer brutality unfolding before them. Movok¡¯s yellow reptilian eyes burned with unrestrained hunger, muscles rippling like coiled steel beneath his thick scales. He breathed heavily, savoring the battle, reveling in the pain. Hector, despite the deep gashes along his flesh and the fire that raged in his ribs, remained standing, his silver aura flickering like the dying embers of a once-mighty flame. His body screamed for rest, but his spirit denied it. Every time one of them was struck down, they rose again. Every drop of blood that poured only fueled their will to destroy. They were monsters in their own right¡ªunstoppable forces of chaos and carnage. Then, in a blur of movement, Movok lunged. Clawed fingers slashed through the air, fast as a striking viper. Hector barely had time to move before those monstrous talons sank into his shoulder, piercing through flesh with sickening ease. A deep, guttural scream tore from Hector¡¯s throat as burning agony ripped through him. Hot blood gushed from the wound, dripping down his armor in thick rivulets. Movok¡¯s claws twisted deeper, scraping against bone. Hector¡¯s vision blurred. His knees trembled. The world wavered before him. But he refused to fall. Summoning the last reserves of his strength, he drove his knee into Movok¡¯s gut, forcing the beast to loosen his grip. Without hesitation, he twisted, pouring everything into a vicious kick that sent Movok stumbling backward. Green blood splattered onto the dirt. The watching soldiers gasped. Yet even as Movok staggered, he never stopped smiling. His scaled chest rose and fell in ragged breaths, his muscles quivering with exhaustion, but his body still pulsed with the energy of a beast that had tasted victory. Because he knew. Hector was fading. The silver glow surrounding the Marquis flickered weakly, struggling to hold on against the overwhelming tide of pain and blood loss. Movok¡¯s eyes gleamed with the ruthless certainty of a predator closing in on its prey. With a low snarl, he launched himself forward, moving with inhuman speed. His fists became a storm, a merciless barrage of strikes. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. A brutal punch to the stomach¡ª Hector¡¯s body jerked forward, blood spewing from his mouth as he gasped for air that would not come. A savage kick to the face¡ª His vision shattered, white-hot agony exploding through his skull. His legs buckled, his knees slamming into the blood-soaked earth. Movok did not stop. With a roar that sent shivers down the spines of those watching, he pounced on Hector, his massive body pinning the battered warrior to the ground. The moon hung high above them, silent, cold, bearing witness to the final, unforgiving act of brutality. Movok raised his fist. And brought it down. A sickening crack echoed through the night as bone snapped beneath his knuckles. Hector¡¯s head snapped to the side, his mouth spilling blood onto the dirt. His body convulsed. Another punch. And another. And another. Movok¡¯s fists hammered into Hector¡¯s skull, into his ribs, into his throat. Each blow sent fresh splashes of crimson flying, painting the earth in violent streaks of red. His knuckles, once gleaming with golden scales, were now drenched in blood. The Marquis¡¯ breathing grew shallow, rattling, each exhale weaker than the last. His silver aura flickered one final time before vanishing into the darkness. His body went still. Limp. The silence that followed was absolute. The watching soldiers could not move. Could not breathe. Only when Movok was certain¡ªonly when he was sure that life had truly left his foe¡¯s body¡ªdid he finally stop. He exhaled, slow and steady, his broad chest rising and falling, his muscles trembling with the weight of exhaustion. His bloodied fists hung at his sides, fingers twitching, still stained with the remnants of his victory. Then, he lifted his head to the sky, and let out a deep, triumphant growl. Behind him, the gathered monsters roared, their voices shaking the heavens. And in that moment, the fate of the battlefield was sealed. The Wall of the North had fallen. ---- A haunting silence fell across the battlefield. The wind carried the heavy scent of blood and steel, mingling with the cold night air that wrapped around the fortress like a shroud. The sky, once adorned with a sea of stars, now seemed darker¡ªtainted by the death that had unfolded below. Above the fortress walls, the defenders stood frozen in place. Their hands clutched their weapons tightly, yet their arms felt like lead, too heavy to lift. Their breaths came in uneven gasps, and though their bodies trembled from exhaustion, it was not weariness that held them still. It was the sight before them. The lifeless body of Marquis Hector lay sprawled across the blood-soaked earth, his silver armor shattered and drenched in crimson. His once-mighty form, the man they had followed into countless battles, was now nothing more than a corpse beneath the pale moonlight. His sword lay just inches from his outstretched fingers, his grip loosened in death. And standing above him, towering over the fallen warrior, was Movok. His massive form was battered, deep gashes carved into his thick reptilian skin. Green blood dripped from his wounds, mixing with the red pooling beneath him. His chest rose and fell with heavy, labored breaths, but despite the injuries, despite the pain¡ªhe stood. Victorious. His reptilian eyes glowed in the dim light, sweeping across the walls, across the terrified faces of the soldiers who dared not meet his gaze. The corners of his mouth curled into a slow, deliberate smile, sharp fangs glinting as he took a step forward, his presence alone enough to send a ripple of unease through the ranks. He said nothing. He didn¡¯t need to. His stance, his expression, his very existence spoke a single, undeniable truth. Come down and fight me. Come down and avenge him. Come down and die. No one moved. No one dared to challenge him. Asael¡¯s hands clenched into fists, his nails digging so deep into his palms that he barely noticed the sting. His breath came sharp and uneven, his chest tightening with each passing second. Movok was injured. Weak. This was their only chance to kill him. His eyes darted toward the others. They had to move. They had to attack now. But their bodies refused. Every single one of them stood rooted to the spot, as if bound by invisible chains. The battle against Magnum had already drained them, left them gasping for breath, barely standing. Their wounds throbbed, their muscles burned, and even the strongest among them struggled to remain upright. Steven, due to the last battle, swayed on his feet, barely conscious. Anne had collapsed to her knees, her hands trembling from exhaustion of healing others. They had already given everything. And yet, it wasn¡¯t exhaustion that held them still. It was fear. Movok had not just killed Hector. He had crushed him. He had pounded his fists into the Marquis until there was nothing left but blood and broken bone. And in doing so, he had shattered something far more important¡ªhope. The unshakable belief that they could win. And then, there was the horde. The creatures that had stood behind Movok, watching in anticipation, now stirred, their claws raking against the earth, their eyes gleaming with hunger. They had been waiting. Waiting for their master¡¯s signal, waiting for the command to feast upon the remnants of the battlefield. Even if they killed Movok, even if they somehow managed to strike him down¡ª Could they survive what came next? Could they make it out alive? A single sound broke the silence. A voice, low and commanding, filled with nothing but cold, merciless finality. "Finish them." Movok''s words were spoken without hesitation. Without emotion. And then¡ª The monsters moved. A wave of death surged forward, claws scraping against the dirt, fangs bared, their howls rising into the air like a chorus of the damned. They came for them. Asael''s body locked in place. His breath hitched. They had to run. But his heart screamed against it. This wasn''t right. This wasn''t how it should end. Marquis Hector still lay there, his blood soaking into the earth, his body abandoned in the dirt. He had fought for them, bled for them, died for them. He had led them, shielded them, given them everything¡ª And now they were supposed to leave him behind? To let the monsters tear him apart? His throat burned as he gritted his teeth. "Marquis¡­" His voice trembled, his legs refusing to obey the command to move. He had to stay. He had to fight. But then¡ª "Asael!!" Sam¡¯s voice cut through the chaos, snapping him back to reality. He turned. The others were already moving. Marquis Hector¡¯s final words echoed in his mind. "If things get worse, flee." And this¡­ This was far beyond worse. His hands trembled, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt, but he forced himself to move. "I know!!" The words felt like shards of glass on his tongue, but he turned and ran. The others followed. They slammed the front gates shut with the last of their strength. And then¡ª The back gate burst open, and they vanished into the night, swallowed by the darkness. Behind them, the monsters roared, their howls shaking the very earth, their fury chasing them into the abyss. Movok vs all (2) The group stumbled through the darkened woods, their breaths heavy, their bodies aching from exhaustion. Each step was a struggle, their legs barely carrying them forward. Moonlight barely pierced through the dense canopy above, casting eerie shadows that twisted and danced across the ground. The wind howled through the branches, whispering like unseen spirits mourning the fallen. Humans, orcs, and elves¡ªonce enemies, now bound by the same fate¡ªhad somehow escaped death. But the victory was hollow. The weight of their retreat clung to them like a curse. They had lost Marquis Hector. They had lost their fortress. And now, they had nowhere left to run. Only when the distant roars of pursuing monsters finally faded into silence did they allow themselves to stop. Some collapsed against the trees, gripping their wounds, their ragged breaths echoing through the night. Others stood motionless, staring at the ground as if trying to wake from a nightmare. No one spoke. The silence was suffocating, pressing down on them like an unseen force. Then, a voice¡ªsmall, weak¡ªbroke through. "What¡­ what should we do next?" Anne¡¯s voice trembled, her exhaustion bleeding into every word. She looked up, her face pale, her eyes searching for an answer, for something¡ªanything¡ªto hold onto. The helplessness in her voice sent a sharp pain through Asael¡¯s chest. But he couldn¡¯t falter. Not now. His hands curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms. The sting barely registered. "We need to finish Movok." His voice was steady, but beneath it burned raw determination. "It¡¯s our only chance." The group exchanged wary glances. Even the orcs and elves¡ªwarriors who had fought countless battles¡ªhesitated. Movok was a monster in both body and mind. A beast that had slaughtered their strongest warrior like a mere insect. "You¡¯re right," Giren finally said, his usual composure shadowed by the weight of the night. "But we need a plan. A reckless fight will only get us killed." For a moment, no one spoke. Then, another voice¡ªhesitant, uncertain¡ªcut through the stillness. This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. "I¡­ I have an idea." Sam swallowed hard, his hands trembling at his sides. "I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s a good one, but¡­" "Speak." Steven¡¯s voice was sharp, but not out of anger¡ªonly urgency. All eyes turned to Sam, waiting. With his heart hammering against his ribs, he took a deep breath and began to explain. --- Time went by a little and two days. Morning arrived and sun rose up. Light shining over the fortress. In the main chamber of fortress, Movok was seated. His greatsword lay beside him, the blade still stained with Hector¡¯s blood. The metallic scent lingered in the damp air, mixing with the earthy musk of the forest. A group of lizardmen stood before him, their postures rigid, their gazes lowered in deference. "Did you prepare the resources for the next ritual?" Movok¡¯s voice was low, guttural, thick with the weight of a warlord who had carved his name into history through bloodshed. "Yes, my lord," one of the lizardmen responded, bowing deeply. Movok¡¯s gaze lingered on him for a moment before shifting to the others. "Good. Deliver them properly." The lizardman bowed again, then quickly stepped back. Movok¡¯s lips curled into a smirk. Human sacrifice. A ritual of strength and offering. One that had been performed countless times. The victims were already chosen. The preparations had been made. Soon, more blood would flow. But before the lizardmen could leave, another presence approached. Heavy footsteps. The undergrowth rustled as a towering figure emerged from the shadows. Greg, the barbarian chief. His scarred face twisted into a grin, his massive axe slung over his shoulder like a resting beast. "My lord," he said, bowing his head slightly. But his eyes¡ªwild, eager¡ªbetrayed his excitement. Movok narrowed his gaze. "We found the humans," Greg continued. A slow smile spread across Movok¡¯s lips, his reptilian eyes gleaming with anticipation. "Hmm¡­ good. Let¡¯s go." Greg¡¯s grin widened. "Shall we bring the others?" A lizardman stepped forward hesitantly. "Should we also come, my lord?" Movok¡¯s expression darkened for a moment. Then, with a dismissive wave of his clawed hand, he made his decision. "No. Stay here. Focus on the delivery." "As you command." The lizardmen bowed once more before retreating into the darkness. Movok rolled his shoulders, stretching his massive arms. The pain from the previous battle still pulsed beneath his scales, but it didn¡¯t matter. He was far from done. Turning to Greg, he gave a single nod. "Come." And with a small group of monsters at their backs, they set out¡ªmarching toward the scent of their prey. ---- Movok and his group ventured deeper into the forest, their footsteps sinking into the damp earth. Twisted roots coiled like serpents beneath them, waiting to ensnare the unwary. The air hung thick with the metallic scent of blood, mingling with the damp, mossy aroma of the ancient trees. A chorus of unseen creatures whispered in the shadows, their distant eyes gleaming like dying embers. The echoes of past battles lingered in the stillness, a silent requiem for the fallen. The dense canopy slowly parted, revealing a clearing bathed in cold, yellow morning sunlight. Shadows stretched long and jagged across the ground, weaving between patches of upturned earth and broken branches. In the heart of that clearing, three figures stood unmoving. Asael, Steven, and Giren, their forms statuesque, their weapons gleaming in the sun.. Their gazes locked onto Movok, sharp as blades, unyielding as stone. A few steps behind them, Lily and Anne stood with rigid shoulders, their fingers curled tightly around the hilts of their bow and staff. Their expressions were unreadable, but their stance spoke volumes. The air between them carried an unbearable weight, thick with unsaid words and unrelenting resolve. Movok narrowed his reptilian eyes, the faint glow of their golden hue cutting through the dense forest. A slow smirk spread across his bloodstained lips, revealing sharp, gleaming fangs. "So, this is where you''ve been hiding?" His deep, guttural voice rumbled like distant thunder, sending a shiver through the silence. Asael stepped forward, his sword glinting as it caught the sun¡¯s light. His movements were slow, deliberate¡ªthere was no hesitation in his stance. "No," he said, his voice steady, unwavering. "We were waiting for you. Today will be your last." Movok let out a low chuckle, a sound thick with amusement and something far more sinister. His claws flexed over the grip of his greatsword, the massive weapon an extension of his very being. The scars that laced his scaled arms seemed to pulse with the memory of a thousand battles. "Bold words," he murmured. His warriors tensed, claws twitching, fangs bared, ready to spill blood at his command. And then, in an instant, chaos erupted. Screams splintered the air like the crack of a whip. Movok turned sharply, his keen eyes darting across the battlefield¡ªonly to see his own soldiers being slaughtered. An ogre emerged from the veil of darkness, its monstrous hand wrapped around the throat of a struggling lizardman. With a sickening crunch, the ogre snapped the creature¡¯s neck and cast the limp body aside like a discarded doll. From the treeline, two barbarians roared, their axes gleaming as they cleaved into another lizardman, splitting him apart in a violent spray of dark blood. More figures rushed forth from the shadows. Goblins, gnolls, creatures that had once stood beside Movok now turned their weapons against his forces. Their eyes burned with something raw, something unshackled¡ªbetrayal. Movok¡¯s breath came in short, measured bursts. His mind raced, piecing together the unfathomable. "What is the meaning of this?!" he snarled, his voice sharp with disbelief, his fury rolling in waves. Greg stepped forward from the carnage. His grip on his axe tightened, his knuckles white with pressure. He lifted his weapon high and roared, "It¡¯s your end, Movok!" The cry was echoed by the others, a deafening war cry that drowned out the screams of the dying. Their weapons, once raised in his name, now pointed at him. Movok stood motionless. The battlefield swirled around him, a maelstrom of steel, fire, and treachery. His own kind, the monsters he had once led, had turned on him. The realization settled over him like a suffocating weight. He had been betrayed. And yet¡ªhe laughed. A slow, deep chuckle that rumbled through his chest, dark and mirthless. His head tilted slightly, rolling his shoulders as though shedding an invisible burden. The greatsword in his grasp felt lighter, almost welcoming the chaos. "So," he muttered, his voice like a low growl. "You¡¯ve all decided to go against me." To his left, the humans who had sworn vengeance. To his right, the beasts who had once followed him. Enemies from every side, blades drawn, eyes burning with the hunger to see him fall. Any other warrior would have felt fear. Any other commander would have faltered beneath the weight of his own downfall. But Movok? He grinned. With a single, fluid motion, he raised his greatsword, the blood of countless foes still fresh upon its edge. His muscles coiled beneath his thick, scaled hide, his stance as immovable as the mountain itself. "Come at me, then," he said. His voice rang through the battlefield¡ªnot as a plea, not as a warning, but as a challenge. Because no matter how many stood against him¡­ Movok feared no one. Movok vs all (3) Sam¡¯s plan had been deceptively simple¡ªto turn Movok¡¯s own forces against him. From the very beginning, he had seen the truth. Movok ruled not through loyalty, but through fear. The monsters under his command obeyed because they dreaded his strength, not because they followed him willingly. And fear, when given an alternative, could turn into rebellion. All Sam needed to do was offer them a better future¡ªone where Movok no longer existed. Of course, it was all a lie. He had no intention of letting these monsters live after the battle. The plan was to let them weaken Movok¡­ and then eliminate them as well. At first, his own comrades rejected the idea outright. "Work with them? With those who slaughtered our people?" Steven had growled, gripping his weapon so hard his knuckles turned white. It was unthinkable. To negotiate with the monsters who had burned their villages, killed their families, and hunted them like animals? But Sam remained firm. "Our goal is Movok," he had said, his voice steady. "We can kill them too, once he¡¯s gone." Silence had followed. No one liked it, but everyone knew it was their best chance. And so, the first approach was made. The barbarians were the first. Proud, savage warriors who despised taking orders¡ªespecially from a lizard. Movok had crushed their previous chieftain beneath his heel and forced them into servitude. There was no love for him among their ranks¡ªonly resentment, simmering and waiting to explode. The moment the offer was made, their leader, Greg, grinned wickedly. "About time. That bastard killed my father." Convincing the ogres was just as easy. They valued respect above all else. But Movok? Movok did not inspire them. He demanded obedience without respecting them. And in their eyes, that made him unworthy. They agreed without hesitation. The gnolls and goblins, however, were another matter. Fear ran deep in them. They had seen what Movok did to traitors. They had heard the screams of those who had dared defy him. For them, betrayal meant death. But Greg and the ogres spoke with fire in their voices, with conviction in their words. "We have no future under him. You think he won¡¯t turn on you next? He will. Just like he killed the others." This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. The words spread like wildfire, igniting long-buried doubts. And in the end, fear of Movok was replaced by something stronger¡ªhatred. One by one, they turned. Only the trolls remained untouched. There was no point in approaching them. They were not Movok¡¯s followers¡ªthey belonged to Tores, another of the Demon King¡¯s generals. And Tores¡¯ trolls were unshakable in their loyalty. If they had been brought into the scheme, everything would have collapsed. So Greg and the other monster chiefs had carefully avoided the trolls and the most loyal lizardmen. And now¡ª The trap was sprung. Movok stood alone, surrounded on all sides. Betrayed. Outnumbered. Hated. His once-loyal warriors had become his executioners. But despite this¡ª He did not waver. He did not fear. Instead, he stood tall, his grip tightening on his greatsword. His yellow reptilian eyes burned¡ªnot with despair, but with fury. A slow, cruel chuckle escaped his lips, the deep rumble like distant thunder before a storm. "So, this is your grand plan?" His gaze swept over the monsters, over the humans, over every face twisted with hatred and treachery. He raised his hands, his claws glinting under the moonlight like wicked scythes, and beckoned the traitors forward. His eyes gleamed, a terrifying mixture of amusement and bloodlust. "Come. Show me your strength. Or die like the filth you are." A chorus of furious roars erupted from the horde, the sound trembling in the cold night air. Then, they charged. Weapons gleamed in the light, their eyes burning with desperation and the mad hope of bringing him down. Four gnolls and three goblins sprinted ahead, blades raised high, their snarls twisted with rage. Fools. Movok didn''t even brace himself. With two slow, deliberate steps forward, he lifted his greatsword effortlessly in one hand and swung. A monstrous arc of steel cut through the night. A wet, sickening crack shattered the air. Their bodies exploded. The sheer force of his strike sent flesh and bone spraying in every direction. Shattered limbs tumbled through the air, chunks of meat slapping against the cold earth. Blood sprayed like a crimson wave, warm droplets pattering against Movok¡¯s face, staining his pale scales in streaks of red. A severed arm twitched at his feet. A head, eyes frozen in terror, rolled to a stop near the others. The survivors halted mid-charge, their weapons lowering as they stared at the carnage before them. Their fallen comrades lay in steaming, butchered remains, the dirt soaked in thick, pooling blood. Silence stretched over the battlefield, deep and suffocating. Then¡ª Movok moved. A barbarian barely had time to blink before Movok¡¯s claws wrapped around his skull. The pressure was instant, crushing, unbearable. "Pathetic," Movok muttered. With a casual twist of his wrist, the barbarian¡¯s neck snapped with a sharp, brittle crack. His body slumped, lifeless, before it even hit the ground. A gnoll, blinded by rage, lunged at him, howling, swinging its axe in a wild arc¡ª Only to be split in two. Movok¡¯s greatsword cleaved through the gnoll¡¯s body like paper, splitting flesh and bone clean apart. The two halves of the creature collapsed to the ground with a wet slap, its entrails spilling out in a glistening heap. An ogre, one of the strongest warriors in the horde, saw an opportunity. With a guttural roar, he swung his massive war axe at Movok¡¯s exposed back, the sheer force of the blow enough to split a boulder. The blade struck. A sharp, ringing clang echoed across the battlefield. The axe bounced off. The ogre staggered, his eyes widening as he stared at his weapon¡ªat the unblemished scales of Movok¡¯s back. Movok turned. The ogre barely had time to inhale before Movok¡¯s claws plunged into his chest. Flesh ripped, ribs snapped, and Movok''s fingers wrapped around something warm, something still moving. The ogre gasped, a strangled, shuddering breath escaping his lips. Then, with a vicious yank, Movok tore the heart free. A gush of dark, steaming blood erupted from the hole in the ogre¡¯s chest. He stumbled, his massive body convulsing, hands clawing weakly at the gaping wound¡ª Then he collapsed. Movok tossed the heart aside without a second glance. It landed in the dirt with a wet squelch. Before it even stopped beating, he had already moved on. A barbarian turned to flee. He didn¡¯t make it three steps before an axe spun through the air, embedding itself into his spine with a heavy, meaty thud. He collapsed, a final, ragged scream gurgling from his throat. Movok didn''t even look back. Blood dripped from his claws, staining the ground beneath him. His lips curled into a wide, satisfied grin. "Too easy." Then, his gaze locked onto his next prey. The weakest among them. The Goblin Chief. The goblin chief, realizing what was about to happen, let out a shrill, panicked screech. "N-No!" He spun on his heels and bolted, his tiny legs kicking up dirt as he fled. "Stop him! Stop him, you fools!" he wailed. His goblins scrambled to intercept Movok, their small forms trembling as they forced themselves to stand their ground. It was useless. Movok did not slow. He barreled through them like a beast, moving faster than their eyes could follow. One goblin lunged, thrusting a dagger at his leg. The blade snapped on impact. Movok didn''t even acknowledge it. Instead, he stepped forward¡ª And stomped down. The goblin''s skull caved in beneath his foot with a sickening crunch. Blood and brain matter splattered across the dirt. Another goblin shrieked and turned to run. Movok snatched him mid-stride, lifting him effortlessly with one massive hand. With a casual flex of his fingers, he tore the goblin in half. The small creature¡¯s spine snapped like dry wood, intestines spilling onto the ground in a steaming heap. Movok didn¡¯t even glance at the corpse as he kept moving. The Goblin Chief had barely made it ten steps when Movok reached him. With one swift motion, Movok hurled his greatsword. The massive blade spun through the air¡ª And crushed the goblin¡¯s leg. A piercing, agonized scream tore through the forest. The Goblin Chief collapsed, clutching at the mangled remains of his limb, his fingers slick with blood. He tried to crawl away, his hands clawing desperately at the dirt, his breath coming in frantic, ragged gasps. Then, the light around him darkened. A massive shadow loomed over him. Cold, iron fingers wrapped around his throat, lifting him effortlessly into the air. The goblin gagged, his feet kicking helplessly. "How could you have thought about standing against me when you¡¯re this weak?" Movok growled, his voice dripping with disgust. "P-please¡ªf-forgive¡ª" Before he could finish, Movok''s grip shifted. His claws latched onto the goblin¡¯s skull. With one brutal motion, he ripped it clean from the body. A fountain of blood erupted from the severed neck, hot and thick, drenching Movok¡¯s face and chest. The headless body twitched violently, spasming like a dying insect. Then it stilled. Movok tossed the severed head aside like discarded waste. It rolled, stopping near the feet of the remaining monsters. Silence. Pure, unbroken silence. Even Asael and his group, who had been watching from the sidelines, felt the weight of horror settle over them like a thick fog. Anne covered her mouth, swallowing back the bile rising in her throat. Movok turned his head slowly, eyes gleaming in the darkness as they locked onto his next target. The Gnoll Chief. The Gnoll Chief, a warrior who had once commanded legions without fear, now stood frozen. His fur bristled. His ears flattened. His breath came in shallow, shaking gasps. And in his eyes¡ª Was pure, paralyzing terror. Movok vs all (4) Asael and his group had been waiting. Waiting for the right moment. Movok was a monster, but even monsters had limits. Their plan had been simple¡ªlet him wear himself down, then strike when his strength faltered. But now¡ª That plan lay in ruins. Steven clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. His voice was tight, urgent. "We need to join the battle. Now." The others nodded, their gazes locked on the battlefield. Everything had changed. Movok stood amidst a sea of corpses, a living nightmare against the backdrop of carnage. Blood seeped into the dirt, forming pools beneath twisted, broken bodies. The Goblin Chief lay lifeless, his severed head discarded like a useless trinket. The remaining goblins and gnolls had lost all will to fight. They turned and ran, fleeing in sheer terror, their howls of fear echoing through the wasteland of death. If they hesitated any longer, there wouldn¡¯t be anyone left to fight. Movok''s grip tightened around his greatsword. His golden eyes swept over the battlefield, watching the weak scatter before him. A flicker of disgust crossed his face. "Pathetic." The goblins and gnolls had abandoned the fight, leaving only the strongest behind. The ogres and barbarians still stood, weapons clutched in their trembling hands. But they were no longer the warriors who had charged into battle with reckless confidence. They had seen what he was capable of. Movok tilted his head, his voice dripping with amusement. "Scared already?" Then, he moved. Faster than a beast unleashed. He lunged forward, greatsword poised to cut them down¡ª A sharp whistle cut through the air. Movok twisted his head just in time to see an arrow slicing toward him. He jerked to the side, the projectile missing his face by inches before embedding itself into the ground with a dull thud. He barely spared it a glance. Then, the earth beneath him shifted. Thick, gnarled vines erupted from the soil, writhing like living chains, coiling around his legs with crushing force. He let out a low growl, eyes narrowing. "Tch¡ª" Muscles tensed. Power surged through his limbs. With sheer brute strength, he tore through the vines, snapping them like brittle twigs. But a second was all they needed. "Now!" A voice rang out. This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. Giren charged, his massive axe gleaming, the blade pulsing with raw magical energy from Anne¡¯s enchantment. With a roar, he swung with every ounce of strength he had. The axe came down, a strike meant to cleave through bone and flesh alike. Metal met metal in a violent clash. Movok blocked it. With one hand. His greatsword caught the axe mid-air, stopping it as if Giren had swung a child¡¯s toy. A smirk curled Movok¡¯s lips. "Is that all your revenge amounts to, Giren?" Giren¡¯s eyes burned with fury, but before he could react¡ª A golden blur flashed at the edge of Movok¡¯s vision. Asael. His sword gleamed in the dim battlefield light, his golden eyes filled with raw determination and fury. Movok¡¯s instincts screamed. He released Giren, whirling just in time to see Asael¡¯s blade descending. A split second decision¡ª Movok¡¯s foot shot out, slamming into Asael¡¯s ribs with the force of a battering ram. A sickening crack split the air. Asael¡¯s body hurtled backward, skidding across the bloodstained ground, his sword slipping from his grasp. But before Movok could press the advantage¡ª Greg was already in the air. A fierce battle cry tore from Greg¡¯s throat as he dove from above, sword raised high, ready to drive it into Movok¡¯s back. Movok¡¯s eyes flashed. He was faster. He spun, his greatsword slicing through the air in a deadly arc. Greg was dead if it hit him. Then¡ª A spark ignited. A sudden, powerful blast of energy slammed into Greg mid-air, knocking him off course. The force sent him sprawling across the battlefield, barely avoiding Movok¡¯s strike by a hair¡¯s breadth. Movok¡¯s blade cut through nothing but air. His head snapped toward the source of the interference. Steven. Electricity crackled in Steven¡¯s outstretched hand, the remnants of his magic still flickering around his fingers. He took a step forward, voice steady. "Let¡¯s attack together." Greg groaned, pushing himself up from the dirt. He shot a glance at Steven before exhaling sharply. "Fine. Let¡¯s finish this bastard." The remaining warriors¡ªhumans and monsters alike¡ªclosed in, forming a circle around Movok, weapons poised, eyes burning with defiance. For the first time in the battle, Movok paused. He looked at them, then at his own bloodstained hands, red droplets pattering against the ruined earth beneath him. A deep, throaty chuckle rumbled from his chest. Then, he grinned, teeth gleaming like a wolf in the night. "Now it¡¯s finally getting interesting." ---- The battlefield reeked of blood and death. Corpses littered the ground, their lifeless eyes staring at the storm-darkened sky. The air was thick with the metallic scent of iron, the stench of charred flesh, and the agonized wails of the dying. Movok stood alone. Yet not a single warrior dared to rush him. One misstep. One moment of hesitation. That was all it took to die. His scaled body was a fortress, absorbing blows that would have felled lesser creatures. His greatsword cleaved through the air with terrifying speed, its reach turning the battlefield into a death trap. And worst of all¡ª He was hunting them. Like a beast culling the weak from a panicked herd. One by one. Slowly. Ruthlessly. A barbarian shifted his footing, his boot slipping on the blood-slick ground. Movok¡¯s golden eyes flashed, locking onto him like a predator sighting wounded prey. The greatsword moved. A glint of steel. A whisper of air. A fountain of red. The barbarian¡¯s head soared through the battlefield, his face frozen in an expression of shock. His body crumpled onto the pile of corpses beneath him, twitching once before falling still. The warriors hesitated, their hands trembling on their weapons. That hesitation was fatal. An ogre flinched, his grip on his war hammer faltering for just a second. Movok lunged. His claws tore into the ogre¡¯s chest with the sickening sound of flesh and ribs giving way. Blood gushed between his fingers as he wrapped them around the creature¡¯s still-beating heart. The ogre let out a gurgled scream¡ª Then Movok ripped his heart free. It pulsed in his grip for a brief moment before he let it drop into the mud. The remaining ogres roared, their fear giving way to desperation. One among them stepped forward¡ªtheir chief. A monster of a being, taller than the rest, his club like a tree trunk in his hands. His bellow shook the battlefield. "I won¡¯t lose to you!" He charged, the ground cracking beneath his massive strides. Movok did not move. Not until the last possible second. Then, faster than the eye could follow, his sword lashed out. A wet, sickening crack echoed across the battlefield. The ogre¡¯s legs shattered. He crumpled forward, screaming, his club falling uselessly from his grip. Movok towered over him, his shadow swallowing the broken warrior whole. The ogre gasped, dragging himself backward, his fingers clawing at the blood-drenched earth. Movok raised his greatsword, his voice calm, indifferent. "You¡¯re not even worth the effort." The blade fell. Bone split. The ogre twitched once¡ªthen lay still, his blood pooling around his corpse. --- Lily loosed an arrow, the string snapping against her fingertips. The projectile sailed through the air, striking Movok¡¯s shoulder¡ª And bounced off. Her breath caught in her throat. Anne¡¯s voice trembled as she whispered incantations, her fingers tracing glowing sigils in the air. Curses, debuffs, anything to weaken the monster before them. Movok didn¡¯t even glance her way. He just kept walking. Asael gritted his teeth, his grip tightening on his sword. "We can¡¯t just stand here!" Light exploded around him as he charged, his golden blade aiming for Movok¡¯s side. He aimed for the injured spots, the wounds left behind by warriors who had already fallen. His sword flashed down¡ª A massive hand shot out and caught his wrist mid-swing. The pressure was unbearable. Movok¡¯s fingers crushed down, grinding bone against bone, the pain like molten iron stabbing through Asael¡¯s arm. He gasped, his vision swimming. Movok leaned in, his voice a cold whisper. "I expected more from you, ¡®Hero.¡¯" The grip tightened, his bones groaning under the strain. "Have you grown weaker?" Then, with a flick of his wrist, Movok hurled Asael like a discarded doll. His body crashed into the dirt, rolling over broken weapons and corpses. His breath hitched, pain lancing through his ribs. A thin trail of blood dripped from his lips. Movok barely spared him a second glance. Lightning cracked through the air. A bolt of pure energy slammed into Movok¡¯s chest, a direct hit. The battlefield froze. Smoke curled from the blackened scales where the spell had struck. Steven stood, his staff still glowing, his face twisted with effort. A heartbeat passed. Then another. Movok exhaled, brushing dust from his armor like a man swatting away an insect. Then he laughed. A deep, rumbling sound that sent ice through the veins of those who heard it. He turned, golden eyes locking onto Steven. "You still haven¡¯t learned, little human." A smirk curled at the edges of his lips. "Your thunder is useless." Steven¡¯s face drained of color. His strongest attack. Did nothing. Giren¡¯s axe trembled in his grip. He had faced countless enemies. He had stood against beasts, giants, horrors that haunted the night. But this¡ª This was something else. Movok did not bleed like other creatures. He did not slow, no matter how many fell before him. Every strike against him was meaningless. Every counterattack was instant death. Unstoppable. Unkillable. Cruel. Merciless. And worst of all¡ª He was still just playing around. Giren vs Movok (1) The battlefield stank of blood and death. The thick, metallic scent clogged the air, mixing with the stench of rotting flesh and burnt remains. A pile of corpses lay stacked in the center, a grotesque monument to slaughter. Twisted, broken bodies of gnolls, goblins, ogres, and barbarians were heaped upon one another, their lifeless eyes staring at nothing. Some had been cleaved clean in half, their entrails spilling onto the dirt like spoiled fruit bursting from its skin. Others were missing limbs, jagged bone protruding from torn flesh, their bodies still twitching in the last, agonizing moments of death. The battlefield was silent now, save for the crackling of distant fires and the occasional wet squelch of blood pooling in the dirt. The survivors had already fled, abandoning their leaders, their comrades, and their honor in a desperate bid for life. Only seven or eight remained, their breaths ragged, their bodies battered and exhausted. Asael and his group stood among them, swords heavy in their hands, their fingers slick with sweat and blood. The taste of iron clung to their tongues, mixing with the dryness of exhaustion. The remaining barbarians, once proud warriors, trembled. Their hands clutched their weapons with little strength, arms shaking under the weight of fear. They had landed blows on Movok. They had seen his blood spill, watched steel bite into his monstrous flesh. Yet the beast still stood. Unfazed. Unbroken. Still grinning. Steven¡¯s body crackled with energy, arcs of lightning snapping along his skin. His breath came short, each inhale burning his lungs. His arms ached, screaming for rest. But he couldn¡¯t stop now. He surged forward, a blur of lightning and desperation, his feet kicking up dirt and blood-soaked earth beneath him. Movok¡¯s greatsword swung in a brutal, monstrous arc, slicing through the air with a deafening roar. Steven barely ducked in time. The blade howled past his head, the force alone enough to send a shockwave through his chest. His heart pounded as he lunged, eyes locked on the one weak spot¡ªa cracked scale patch on Movok¡¯s leg. His sword shot forward, the steel glinting under the dim light. A perfect strike. Then¡ª A metallic clang echoed through the battlefield. Steven¡¯s eyes widened as his blade skidded uselessly across Movok¡¯s thick, armored hide, leaving behind nothing but a shallow, meaningless scratch. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. Before he could react, Movok¡¯s knee drove into his stomach like a battering ram. The breath was ripped from his lungs. The world blurred. Pain exploded through his ribs as he stumbled backward, gasping for air, his vision darkening at the edges. Then came the shadow. The greatsword swung again, death rushing toward him. Before the blade could find its mark, a golden streak cut through the air. Asael. His sword glowed like the sun, its edge humming with power as it slashed toward Movok¡¯s exposed shoulder. It should have cut deep. Should have drawn blood. But Movok was faster. A flick of the wrist. A twist of the greatsword. Steel met steel with a deafening clang. Sparks burst into the air, scattering like dying fireflies. Asael¡¯s arms shook from the impact. His bones rattled, his grip faltering for just a moment. Movok barely moved. His monstrous strength turned the parry into a counter, and with a single push, Asael was flung backward. His boots skidded against the blood-soaked ground, his breath ragged. Giren saw an opening. With a roar, he dashed forward, his axe raised high. His muscles burned, his lungs screamed, but he pushed past the pain. Movok¡¯s back was turned. A perfect opportunity. He swung. But then¡ª A flash of movement. Movok¡¯s fist slammed into Giren¡¯s face with a sickening crunch. Bone shattered. Blood sprayed from his nose and mouth. His skull rattled, his vision exploded into white-hot agony. The world spun. He barely registered the sensation of flying before the ground rose up to meet him. He crashed down in a heap. Blood pooled beneath his broken face. His limbs twitched once, then went still. Greg leapt through the air, his sword poised, his heart hammering. He would strike Movok down, drive his blade through the beast¡¯s heart. End this nightmare. But before he could even bring his blade down, a clawed hand shot up and closed around his throat. His momentum stopped instantly. His feet dangled in the air, kicking helplessly. His hands clawed at Movok¡¯s fingers, but the grip only tightened. His vision blurred, his lungs burned. Darkness crept in. Then came the ground. Movok slammed him down with bone-crushing force. The earth beneath him cracked from the impact. His body spasmed, blood spilling from his lips. And Movok did not hesitate. The greatsword lifted. Then it came down. A wet, sickening sound. Greg¡¯s body convulsed, his breath hitching in a weak, choked gasp. His fingers twitched once. Then, nothing. Movok ripped his sword free, and Greg¡¯s lifeless body slumped into the dirt. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the earth. The remaining barbarians saw this. And broke. Weapons clattered to the ground. They turned and fled, abandoning everything in sheer terror, their screams lost in the wind. The battlefield fell into silence. Movok exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. The scent of blood filled his lungs, intoxicating. He turned his gaze toward Asael and his group. The only ones left. Their bodies were battered, bruised, bloodied. Their breaths came in ragged gasps. Yet they still stood. Still fought. Movok¡¯s lips curled into a smirk. His clawed fingers tightened around his greatsword. His scales, though marred with scratches, still gleamed beneath the dim sky. He stood tall. Unshaken. And with a voice rich with cruel amusement, he spoke. "Now, it¡¯s just you all." His golden eyes burned, filled with hunger. The thrill of battle. The thrill of killing. --- The result of battle is decided by momentum and strength. Words Giren had heard all his life, hammered into his mind like an unyielding war drum. Movok knew this too. That¡¯s why, despite the deep gashes in his flesh, despite the blood trickling from his side, he still stood with that same unbearable confidence. Because confidence alone could turn the tide of war. And if Giren let doubt creep into his heart, even for a second¡ª He would lose. So he refused to hesitate. Not anymore. "You all rest for a moment," Giren growled, his golden eyes locked onto Movok¡¯s piercing gaze. Asael stepped forward, voice tight with disbelief. "What? But¡ª" "Our teamwork is a mess. We¡¯re getting in each other''s way. If we keep this up, we¡¯ll all die." His grip tightened around the hilt of his weapon before he let it go entirely. "I¡¯ll hold him. But listen¡ª" His voice carried the weight of a final command. "You¡¯ll only get one chance. Just one. When the time comes¡ªstrike." Silence. Asael hesitated, his hands trembling. "But what if¡ª" "It doesn¡¯t matter." Giren cut him off, his voice barely above a whisper, yet firm as steel. "As long as I can kill him, it¡¯s worth it." Nobody spoke. Steven clenched his fists so hard his knuckles turned white. Anne looked down, biting her lip, refusing to meet Giren¡¯s eyes. They all knew what this meant. But there was no stopping him now. Giren stepped forward. Movok mirrored him. Their towering figures cast long shadows over the ruined battlefield. The remaining orcs and barbarians lingered in the distance, unwilling¡ªperhaps unable¡ªto interfere. This was no longer a battle. This was a reckoning. Movok¡¯s sharp yellow eyes gleamed with amusement. "So," he drawled, stepping forward with a lazy confidence that made Giren¡¯s blood boil. "You¡¯re fighting me alone now?" Giren¡¯s stare did not waver. "Yes." "And I¡¯ll defeat you." With those words, he released his grip on his axe, letting it fall to the ground. Movok raised an eyebrow. Then, with a deep, rumbling chuckle, he followed suit. His greatsword crashed into the dirt with a weight that made the earth tremble. "You remember our past battles, don¡¯t you?" The first¡ª Movok had snapped Giren¡¯s tusk like it was nothing more than a brittle twig. Left him in the dirt, broken and bleeding, a mockery of a warrior. The second¡ª Movok had beaten him within an inch of his life, only to walk away, unimpressed. And the third¡ª Movok had slain his brother without hesitation, yet never even bothered to finish Giren off. Because Giren was never a threat. Not then. Not now. But this time was different. Movok could feel it. The rage burning in Giren¡¯s stance. The unwavering determination smoldering in his golden eyes. For the first time¡ª Movok saw not a broken warrior, not a failed brother¡ª But a real challenge. And it made his blood sing. "This time," Movok murmured, voice low and edged with danger, "I won¡¯t be merciful." Giren¡¯s muscles coiled like a predator about to strike. "Don¡¯t worry." His lips curled back, revealing teeth bared in a snarl. "This time¡ªyou¡¯ll die." Giren vs Movok (2) The air between them was thick with tension, heavy enough to crush the breath from their lungs. Blood mingled in the battlefield, twisting into a suffocating haze, but in this moment, nothing else existed. Just the two of them. Movok, the monstrous lizard warrior, loomed like an unshaken monolith, his scaled body carved with the scars of countless battles. And Giren, the battle-worn orc, standing firm, his heart a furnace of fury and vengeance. They had fought before. Three times. And each time, Giren had fallen. Movok had shattered him, humiliated him, stripped him of everything. His father died in front of him. His tusk¡ªcrushed beneath an unrelenting grip. His pride¡ªtrampled into the dirt. His brother¡ªslain before his eyes. But not this time. This time, he would not fall. He would win. Or he would die trying. ---- The battlefield was a graveyard of bodies, soaked in blood, the scent of iron and death suffocating the air. Crows circled overhead, their hungry cries mingling with the distant echoes of dying men. Only two figures remained standing amidst the carnage, locked in a battle that had long surpassed the limits of their endurance. Their bodies were broken, their limbs trembling, their breaths reduced to ragged gasps. Yet neither warrior would yield. Giren moved first. His fist coiled with raw, untamed power. Muscles screamed, veins bulging under his skin as he lunged, driving his fist straight toward Movok¡¯s face, a strike meant to shatter bone and end it all. Movok reacted at the last possible moment, twisting his head, the wind from the blow slicing across his cheek like a blade. His claws, sharp as obsidian, lashed out. They struck Giren¡¯s stomach with brutal precision. A sickening crack tore through the air. Pain erupted inside Giren¡¯s gut like wildfire. His ribs groaned under the pressure, maybe even cracked, but he refused to stagger. His mind screamed at him to retreat, to breathe, but instead, he grabbed onto Movok¡¯s arm, his grip like iron shackles tightening around his enemy¡¯s flesh. With a furious roar, he yanked Movok forward. Then came the impact. His knuckles slammed into Movok¡¯s jaw with the force of a collapsing mountain. Movok¡¯s head snapped sideways, a spray of blood and spittle flung into the air. Yet, even as the pain rattled through his skull, he did not fall. Neither did Giren. They fought like beasts. A flurry of fists, kicks, and clawed swipes turned the ground beneath them into a storm of dirt and blood. Each blow sent shockwaves through the earth. Each kick could have shattered stone. But still, they endured. Giren swung, but Movok blocked. Movok slashed, but Giren dodged. Neither could afford to make a mistake. The first to falter would not rise again. Then it happened. Giren lashed out with a powerful kick, his foot connecting with Movok¡¯s stomach, driving the breath from his lungs. But Movok was faster than pain. His hand shot forward, claws curling around Giren¡¯s leg mid-air. Giren¡¯s eyes widened. Then the counter came. Movok¡¯s elbow crashed into Giren¡¯s other knee. The joint buckled under the force, and the world tilted sideways as Giren collapsed, his back slamming into the blood-drenched earth. The impact sent white-hot agony tearing through his body. Movok was upon him in an instant. His claws gleamed like polished steel as he raised them high. Then, with a single, vicious movement¡ª They sank deep into Giren¡¯s stomach. A strangled gasp tore from Giren¡¯s lips, his body arching as fire exploded through his core. His blood, hot and thick, coated Movok¡¯s fingers as they burrowed deeper, tearing through muscle and sinew. A cruel grin twisted across Movok¡¯s lips, his teeth glistening with the hunger of a predator about to deliver the final strike. His free hand rose, claws poised over Giren¡¯s heart. The killing blow. But before they could fall, Giren¡¯s hand shot up, latching onto Movok¡¯s wrist with an unrelenting grip. His fingers dug deep, nails tearing into flesh, but he did not let go. Movok snarled, pressing down, his claws carving through Giren¡¯s skin, parting flesh like parchment. Blood poured from the wounds in thin, crimson rivers, pooling beneath them. Pain screamed through Giren¡¯s nerves, but he held on. He had only one chance. He twisted his body with all his remaining strength, forcing Movok¡¯s balance to shift. It was a desperate gamble, but one born of sheer instinct and will. And it worked. With a sudden, brutal heave, Giren flipped Movok over. In an instant, he was the one on top. There was no hesitation. His fist came crashing down. Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. Once¡ª A sickening crack as Movok¡¯s jaw fractured. Twice¡ª A spray of blood erupted from his lips. Again, and again, and again¡ª Each punch stronger, more desperate, fueled by fury and survival. Movok¡¯s once-mighty frame shuddered under the relentless assault. His lips split open, blood trickling down his chin, his reptilian eyes flashing with something he had never felt before¡ª Fear. And that was when Giren saw it. A wound. A damaged scale on Movok¡¯s left shoulder, barely clinging to his flesh. Without thinking, he lunged, his fingers curling around the loose scale. Movok¡¯s eyes widened. He thrashed wildly beneath Giren, his claws scraping against Giren¡¯s sides, but it was too late. Giren gritted his teeth, braced himself against the pain, and pulled. Movok screamed. Agony like he had never known tore through his body as the scale ripped free. Flesh came with it, tearing open a raw, gaping wound that bled freely. His body convulsed, every muscle seizing, his voice breaking into a primal, tortured howl. His scales had always been his armor. His greatest defense. Now, he was vulnerable. Giren staggered back, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his hands slick with Movok¡¯s blood. His vision blurred from pain and exhaustion, but through the haze, a grin stretched across his face. Because now¡ª Movok could finally be killed. ---- The battlefield was a slaughterhouse. The ground, once firm and unyielding, had turned into a morass of blood and filth. The air hung heavy with the coppery scent of spilled life, mingled with the acrid stench of burning flesh. Yet, the battle was not over. And Giren refused to fall. --- Movok¡¯s hulking form trembled, his breath ragged as he clutched his torn scales, thick rivulets of blood oozing from the gaping wound in his side. His once-impenetrable armor was shattered, leaving his flesh exposed, vulnerable. But Giren condition was worse. The prv warrior barely stood, his legs shaking beneath him. His body, once a testament to power, was now a canvas of wounds and crimson streaks. A deep wound in his stomach oozed thick, dark green blood, each drop falling onto the trampled earth like sand slipping through an hourglass¡ªhis time was running out. Pain gnawed at him, threatening to pull him into the abyss, but he clenched his fists. He gritted his teeth. And he held on. Movok saw it¡ªthe weakness, the dwindling fire. A snarl tore from his throat as he lunged forward, his bloodstained claws extended, the battlefield trembling beneath his charge. He was aiming straight for Giren¡¯s heart. A killing blow. One strike¡ªone death. Giren did not move. He let it happen. A sickening crunch. Agony tore through Giren¡¯s chest as the claws ripped through flesh, puncturing deep. His ribs cracked, muscles shredded, and a burning, unnatural cold flooded his body. Blood gushed from his mouth, warm and thick, painting his chin red. His vision blurred. His heartbeat slowed. But his hands never wavered. With the last of his strength, he latched onto Movok¡¯s arm, his grip tightening like a steel vice. Movok snarled, struggling, but Giren held firm. His voice, hoarse and weak, ripped through the battlefield. ¡°Now!¡± Asael¡¯s eyes widened. This was the moment¡ªtheir only chance. Yet his hands shook. If they struck now, Giren would die. Was it worth it? Could he live with that choice? His heart hesitated. But Steven did not. Lightning crackled around his body, sparks leaping from his fingertips, illuminating his face with an eerie glow. His eyes burned with cold, unyielding resolve. There was no time for doubt. Raising his sword high, he called upon the storm. Thunder howled in response. Movok¡¯s eyes, once filled with rage, flickered with something else¡ªfear. He struggled, muscles bulging, trying to rip his arm free. But Giren¡¯s bloodied grip held him in place. The executioner¡¯s blade fell. And the storm answered. A deafening roar split the heavens as lightning struck. A blinding flash of blue and white engulfed the battlefield, illuminating the carnage for the briefest of moments. Electricity coursed through the air, setting flesh ablaze, twisting the scent of blood with the acrid stench of charred meat. The shockwave hurled Movok into the air like a broken marionette. His body twisted, flipped, and slammed into the ground with a force that sent cracks racing through the earth. Smoke curled from his charred form, his flesh sizzling, his agonized roar echoing through the wasteland. And Giren¡ª His body convulsed violently as the electricity surged through his veins. Every nerve burned, muscles locking in searing agony. But he did not scream. He simply collapsed. His body hit the blood-soaked ground with a lifeless thud. His breathing, faint. His eyes, dim. "Giren!" Asael and the others rushed to his side. Blood pooled beneath him, seeping into the earth, staining their hands as they reached for him. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, each one weaker than the last. His skin was marred with burns, the wound in his stomach still leaking life. His fingers twitched, as if still holding onto Movok in his final act of defiance. StevThe air between them was thick with tension, heavy enough to crush the breath from their lungs. Blood mingled in the battlefield, twisting into a suffocating haze, but in this moment, nothing else existed. Just the two of them. Movok, the monstrous lizard warrior, loomed like an unshaken monolith, his scaled body carved with the scars of countless battles. And Giren, the battle-worn orc, standing firm, his heart a furnace of fury and vengeance. They had fought before. Three times. And each time, Giren had fallen. Movok had shattered him, humiliated him, stripped him of everything. His father died in front of him. His tusk¡ªcrushed beneath an unrelenting grip. His pride¡ªtrampled into the dirt. His brother¡ªslain before his eyes. But not this time. This time, he would not fall. He would win. Or he would die trying. ---- The battlefield was a graveyard of bodies, soaked in blood, the scent of iron and death suffocating the air. Crows circled overhead, their hungry cries mingling with the distant echoes of dying men. Only two figures remained standing amidst the carnage, locked in a battle that had long surpassed the limits of their endurance. Their bodies were broken, their limbs trembling, their breaths reduced to ragged gasps. Yet neither warrior would yield. Giren moved first. His fist coiled with raw, untamed power. Muscles screamed, veins bulging under his skin as he lunged, driving his fist straight toward Movok¡¯s face, a strike meant to shatter bone and end it all. Movok reacted at the last possible moment, twisting his head, the wind from the blow slicing across his cheek like a blade. His claws, sharp as obsidian, lashed out. They struck Giren¡¯s stomach with brutal precision. A sickening crack tore through the air. Pain erupted inside Giren¡¯s gut like wildfire. His ribs groaned under the pressure, maybe even cracked, but he refused to stagger. His mind screamed at him to retreat, to breathe, but instead, he grabbed onto Movok¡¯s arm, his grip like iron shackles tightening around his enemy¡¯s flesh. With a furious roar, he yanked Movok forward. Then came the impact. His knuckles slammed into Movok¡¯s jaw with the force of a collapsing mountain. Movok¡¯s head snapped sideways, a spray of blood and spittle flung into the air. Yet, even as the pain rattled through his skull, he did not fall. Neither did Giren. They fought like beasts. A flurry of fists, kicks, and clawed swipes turned the ground beneath them into a storm of dirt and blood. Each blow sent shockwaves through the earth. Each kick could have shattered stone. But still, they endured. Giren swung, but Movok blocked. Movok slashed, but Giren dodged. Neither could afford to make a mistake. The first to falter would not rise again. Then it happened. Giren lashed out with a powerful kick, his foot connecting with Movok¡¯s stomach, driving the breath from his lungs. But Movok was faster than pain. His hand shot forward, claws curling around Giren¡¯s leg mid-air. Giren¡¯s eyes widened. Then the counter came. Movok¡¯s elbow crashed into Giren¡¯s other knee. The joint buckled under the force, and the world tilted sideways as Giren collapsed, his back slamming into the blood-drenched earth. The impact sent white-hot agony tearing through his body. Movok was upon him in an instant. His claws gleamed like polished steel as he raised them high. Then, with a single, vicious movement¡ª They sank deep into Giren¡¯s stomach. A strangled gasp tore from Giren¡¯s lips, his body arching as fire exploded through his core. His blood, hot and thick, coated Movok¡¯s fingers as they burrowed deeper, tearing through muscle and sinew. A cruel grin twisted across Movok¡¯s lips, his teeth glistening with the hunger of a predator about to deliver the final strike. His free hand rose, claws poised over Giren¡¯s heart. The killing blow. But before they could fall, Giren¡¯s hand shot up, latching onto Movok¡¯s wrist with an unrelenting grip. His fingers dug deep, nails tearing into flesh, but he did not let go. Movok snarled, pressing down, his claws carving through Giren¡¯s skin, parting flesh like parchment. Blood poured from the wounds in thin, crimson rivers, pooling beneath them. Pain screamed through Giren¡¯s nerves, but he held on. He had only one chance. He twisted his body with all his remaining strength, forcing Movok¡¯s balance to shift. It was a desperate gamble, but one born of sheer instinct and will. And it worked. With a sudden, brutal heave, Giren flipped Movok over. In an instant, he was the one on top. There was no hesitation. His fist came crashing down. Once¡ª A sickening crack as Movok¡¯s jaw fractured. Twice¡ª A spray of blood erupted from his lips. Again, and again, and again¡ª Each punch stronger, more desperate, fueled by fury and survival. Movok¡¯s once-mighty frame shuddered under the relentless assault. His lips split open, blood trickling down his chin, his reptilian eyes flashing with something he had never felt before¡ª Fear. And that was when Giren saw it. A wound. A damaged scale on Movok¡¯s left shoulder, barely clinging to his flesh. Without thinking, he lunged, his fingers curling around the loose scale. Movok¡¯s eyes widened. He thrashed wildly beneath Giren, his claws scraping against Giren¡¯s sides, but it was too late. Giren gritted his teeth, braced himself against the pain, and pulled. Movok screamed. Agony like he had never known tore through his body as the scale ripped free. Flesh came with it, tearing open a raw, gaping wound that bled freely. His body convulsed, every muscle seizing, his voice breaking into a primal, tortured howl. His scales had always been his armor. His greatest defense. Now, he was vulnerable. Giren staggered back, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his hands slick with Movok¡¯s blood. His vision blurred from pain and exhaustion, but through the haze, a grin stretched across his face. Because now¡ª Movok could finally be killed. ---- The battlefield was a slaughterhouse. The ground, once firm and unyielding, had turned into a morass of blood and filth. The air hung heavy with the coppery scent of spilled life, mingled with the acrid stench of burning flesh. Yet, the battle was not over. And Giren refused to fall. --- Movok¡¯s hulking form trembled, his breath ragged as he clutched his torn scales, thick rivulets of blood oozing from the gaping wound in his side. His once-impenetrable armor was shattered, leaving his flesh exposed, vulnerable. But Giren condition was worse. The prv warrior barely stood, his legs shaking beneath him. His body, once a testament to power, was now a canvas of wounds and crimson streaks. A deep wound in his stomach oozed thick, dark green blood, each drop falling onto the trampled earth like sand slipping through an hourglass¡ªhis time was running out. Pain gnawed at him, threatening to pull him into the abyss, but he clenched his fists. He gritted his teeth. And he held on. Movok saw it¡ªthe weakness, the dwindling fire. A snarl tore from his throat as he lunged forward, his bloodstained claws extended, the battlefield trembling beneath his charge. He was aiming straight for Giren¡¯s heart. A killing blow. One strike¡ªone death. Giren did not move. He let it happen. A sickening crunch. Agony tore through Giren¡¯s chest as the claws ripped through flesh, puncturing deep. His ribs cracked, muscles shredded, and a burning, unnatural cold flooded his body. Blood gushed from his mouth, warm and thick, painting his chin red. His vision blurred. His heartbeat slowed. But his hands never wavered. With the last of his strength, he latched onto Movok¡¯s arm, his grip tightening like a steel vice. Movok snarled, struggling, but Giren held firm. His voice, hoarse and weak, ripped through the battlefield. ¡°Now!¡± Asael¡¯s eyes widened. This was the moment¡ªtheir only chance. Yet his hands shook. If they struck now, Giren would die. Was it worth it? Could he live with that choice? His heart hesitated. But Steven did not. Lightning crackled around his body, sparks leaping from his fingertips, illuminating his face with an eerie glow. His eyes burned with cold, unyielding resolve. There was no time for doubt. Raising his sword high, he called upon the storm. Thunder howled in response. Movok¡¯s eyes, once filled with rage, flickered with something else¡ªfear. He struggled, muscles bulging, trying to rip his arm free. But Giren¡¯s bloodied grip held him in place. The executioner¡¯s blade fell. And the storm answered. A deafening roar split the heavens as lightning struck. A blinding flash of blue and white engulfed the battlefield, illuminating the carnage for the briefest of moments. Electricity coursed through the air, setting flesh ablaze, twisting the scent of blood with the acrid stench of charred meat. The shockwave hurled Movok into the air like a broken marionette. His body twisted, flipped, and slammed into the ground with a force that sent cracks racing through the earth. Smoke curled from his charred form, his flesh sizzling, his agonized roar echoing through the wasteland. And Giren¡ª His body convulsed violently as the electricity surged through his veins. Every nerve burned, muscles locking in searing agony. But he did not scream. He simply collapsed. His body hit the blood-soaked ground with a lifeless thud. His breathing, faint. His eyes, dim. "Giren!" Asael and the others rushed to his side. Blood pooled beneath him, seeping into the earth, staining their hands as they reached for him. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, each one weaker than the last. His skin was marred with burns, the wound in his stomach still leaking life. His fingers twitched, as if still holding onto Movok in his final act of defiance. Steven clenched his fists, his jaw tight as he stared at his fallen comrade. Was this victory? Or had they just sacrificed one of their own? Movok lay motionless in the distance, his hulking form barely stirring. Was he dead? They didn¡¯t care. Because right now¡ª There was only one thought in their minds. Would Giren survive?en clenched his fists, his jaw tight as he stared at his fallen comrade. Was this victory? Or had they just sacrificed one of their own? Movok lay motionless in the distance, his hulking form barely stirring. Was he dead? They didn¡¯t care. Because right now¡ª There was only one thought in their minds. Would Giren survive? Giren vs Movok (3) Giren¡¯s charred body trembled, his breath shallow and uneven. His skin, once thick and unyielding, was now blackened and cracked, each wound a testament to the battle he had barely survived. The scent of scorched flesh clung to him, mingling with the iron tang of blood in the air. Anne knelt beside him, her trembling hands glowing with divine light. A faint golden aura wrapped around his broken form, flickering like a dying candle. She pressed her palms against his ruined chest, sweat forming on her brow as she poured every ounce of magic she had into him. But the wounds were too deep, the burns too severe. Asael crouched nearby, his voice tight with barely restrained panic. "How is he?" Anne¡¯s face twisted with frustration, her jaw clenched as she fought against the inevitable. "He¡¯s alive. But barely. I can only slow his death. We need proper healing¡ªfast." Asael cursed under his breath, his fists clenching so hard his nails bit into his palms. He turned sharply. "Lily, go to Sam. Tell him we need help now!" Lily didn''t hesitate. Without a word, she spun on her heel and sprinted across the blood-soaked battlefield, her boots splashing in the crimson-stained mud. Anne gritted her teeth, pressing harder, desperately trying to keep Giren¡¯s life from slipping through her fingers. Every second counted. But it was then¡ªthey heard it. A faint, scraping noise. Like something dragging against stone. Their heads snapped toward the source. And there¡ªMovok moved. His massive, broken body twitched, his limbs shaking violently. Burned and beaten, his scales cracked and bleeding, he lay in a pool of his own lifeblood. And yet, his fingers grasped at the dirt, claws digging into the earth as he dragged himself forward, inch by agonizing inch. His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest rising and falling unevenly. But still, he reached for his greatsword¡ªhis lifeblood, his pride. With one final, defiant heave, he planted the blade into the ground and pulled himself up. His legs trembled, barely able to support his weight. His body screamed in protest, but he ignored it. He stood. Even at death¡¯s door¡ªhe stood. His flesh was ruined. His body failing. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. But in his eyes, there was no fear. No pain. Only the unshaken confidence of a predator. Asael¡¯s fury boiled over. His hands shook as he gritted his teeth, anger mixing with disbelief. "Why¡­?!" he shouted, his voice raw. "Why won¡¯t you just fall?!" Movok chuckled weakly, the sound rasping from his burned throat. It was a hollow, weary thing, yet carried the weight of unwavering pride. "You know, hero..." his voice, hoarse but steady, carried across the battlefield. "I was the strongest in my tribe." His glowing red eyes locked onto Asael, burning with something deeper than rage¡ªsomething ancient, primal. "It was my duty to protect them. I killed anyone who threatened them." He staggered, blood dripping from his lips, but his stance did not waver. "But one day... they all died." His voice did not shake. Asael and Steven stood in stunned silence. "Not because the enemy was strong," Movok continued, his breath heavy, "but because my tribe... was weak." He took another step forward, defying death itself with every motion. "Only I was strong. So I survived." His fingers tightened around the hilt of his greatsword, his knuckles turning white. The ground beneath him cracked as he steadied himself, his broken body barely holding together. "In this world, being weak is a sin, hero." His voice was laced with conviction, with an unshakable belief carved into him through years of blood and war. "The law is one and only one¡ª" His smoldering red eyes bore into them. "The strong survive." Blood pooled beneath him, his steps leaving crimson trails, yet he never faltered. His body was failing. His life was slipping away. Yet¡ªhe moved forward. "So even if I die today¡­" He raised his sword, though his muscles screamed in agony. His teeth, stained with his own blood, bared in a savage grin. "I will die as a strong one should¡ªgiving my all." Steven and Asael gripped their weapons, their muscles taut as they braced themselves. They knew. This was it. The final clash. A battle not just of strength, but of will. A dying beast¡¯s last stand. And they would honor it. Movok exhaled, his breath heavy with finality. Then, with one last, defiant roar¡ªhe charged. And they rushed to meet him. ---- Lily had vanished into the distance, sprinting toward Sam, her figure swallowed by the battlefield¡¯s swirling smoke and dust. Anne knelt beside Giren, her hands trembling as golden divine light seeped into his ruined body, desperately trying to keep him tethered to life. His breathing was shallow, barely more than a whisper against the chaos around them. His charred flesh barely stirred with each fading breath. But there was no time to linger, no time to grieve. Because Movok was still standing. Only Asael and Steven remained capable of fighting. Althought, Steven had already expended most of his strength, his body swaying, his breath ragged. The exhaustion clung to him like a heavy chain, but his grip on his sword remained firm. He would not fall¡ªnot yet. Movok¡¯s condition was far worse. His once-impenetrable scales were shattered, his flesh torn, blood seeping from countless gashes. His massive frame was slumped, yet he moved forward¡ªslow, methodical, unyielding. One step. Then another. The battlefield trembled beneath him, each footfall a defiance against the death clawing at his heels. Asael¡¯s golden eyes narrowed, his sword cutting through the air in a deadly arc. The blade whistled, a streak of silver slicing toward Movok¡¯s exposed chest. But Movok reacted. A metallic clash rang out as their weapons met, sparks dancing in the smoke-filled air. His greatsword, chipped and splattered with blood¡ªhis own and that of countless foes¡ªstill held its ground. Then pain. A white-hot agony tore through Movok¡¯s stomach as Steven¡¯s blade found its mark. A blue spark flared as steel carved through muscle and scale, sinking deep. Blood erupted from the wound, painting the ground in sickly green. Movok¡¯s arm shot forward, clawed fingers clamping around Steven¡¯s skull in a vice-like grip. Steven choked, breath hitching as his exhausted body failed to react in time. Movok roared. The battlefield shook beneath the sheer force of his voice, a sound that rumbled through the bones of the living and the dead alike. With a single, monstrous motion, he hurled Asael away, sending the swordsman crashing into the dirt. Then he swung. His greatsword descended in a brutal arc, aiming for Steven¡¯s throat. But Asael struck. A piercing pain erupted in Movok¡¯s side as Asael¡¯s sword drove into his stomach, the steel tearing through vital organs. More blood spilled, thick and heavy. Movok¡¯s fingers loosened, his grip on Steven faltering. The warrior dropped to his knees, gasping for breath. Steven¡¯s eyes burned with renewed resolve. He grasped a fallen blade¡ªnot his own, but the weapon of a slain soldier. And without hesitation¡ª He drove it deep into Movok¡¯s arm. A sickening crunch echoed as steel met bone. Movok gritted his teeth, refusing to let out a sound. Then another strike. And another. Asael¡¯s blade cut deep into his shoulder, slicing through muscle. Steven tore another weapon from the battlefield, plunging it into Movok¡¯s ribs. Blood pooled beneath him, his once-unbreakable form reduced to a canvas of ruin. Yet¡ªhe did not fall. Even as his body betrayed him, even as pain overwhelmed his senses, he stood. Like the unstoppable beast he had always been. Steven staggered back, steadying his breath. His sword began to glow, golden light swirling around the steel, forming a divine radiance. He raised it, his stance unwavering, his expression grim. Energy condensed at the tip, a searing force so sharp it cut through the air itself. Movok watched. His chest heaved. His vision swam. He knew. This was the end. He had seen countless warriors die. Now, it was his turn. But he did not step away. He did not cower. He accepted the strike. Steven let it loose. A golden beam erupted from his sword, cutting through the battlefield like judgment itself. It pierced straight through Movok¡¯s heart. His body jolted. His vision darkened. He could no longer feel his legs. The monstrous strength he had always relied upon was gone. Yet he did not collapse. His knees buckled, his body swayed. But he did not fall. His greatsword slammed into the ground, his fingers tightening around the hilt like a lifeline. Even in death, he clung to his pride. His vision blurred, but his mind swam with memories. His tribe. His home. The battles that defined him. The warriors he had slaughtered. The warriors who had died before him. The law of the strong. His lips curled¡ªnot in sorrow. But in satisfaction. Even in his final breath, he did not kneel. His grip loosened. His eyes dimmed. And then¡ªsilence. Movok was dead. Forest of monsters (1) The battlefield lay silent, the echoes of clashing steel and desperate cries now nothing more than ghosts in the wind. A faint crackling of fire flickered in the distance, its embers painting the night with an eerie glow. The air hung thick with the scent of blood and charred flesh, mingling with the low groans of the wounded who still clung to life. Asael and Steven stood in the heart of it all, their bodies aching, their breath coming in ragged gasps. Every muscle burned, every step felt like wading through a sea of lead, yet they remained standing. Around them, the land had become a graveyard of monsters alike¡ªcorpses strewn across the blood-soaked earth, their weapons shattered, their shields discarded. And at the center of it all¡ª Movok¡¯s lifeless body remained standing. His greatsword was still planted in the earth, his fingers locked around the hilt as if refusing to let go. His eyes, though dim and hollow, held onto something fierce¡ªa defiance that not even death could take from him. A warrior who never knelt. Asael found himself unable to look away. For the first time, he wasn¡¯t just seeing a monster. He was seeing a warrior. Steven, still catching his breath, wiped the blood from his cheek before glancing at Asael¡¯s silent form. "What¡¯s on your mind?" he asked, his voice quieter than usual. Asael¡¯s golden eyes remained locked on Movok. "Do you think¡­ if his tribe hadn¡¯t been wiped out by humans and orcs, he would have lived a different life?" His voice was barely more than a whisper. "Would we have avoided all this destruction?" Steven followed his gaze, taking in the sight of the fallen general, then the battlefield that stretched endlessly around them. "I don¡¯t know," he admitted. "Maybe he would¡¯ve still become a Demon General. Maybe not. We can¡¯t change what happened." He exhaled, glancing at the corpses surrounding them. "But I do know one thing¡ªhe fought for something. For his reasons. His people. And that¡¯s why we should also fight for our reasons. Our people." Asael nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. "Since childhood, I was taught to hate monsters. Even now¡­ I still do. But today, I think I understand them a little more." His fists clenched at his sides. "Everyone fights for something. For a reason. My reason is to protect this world. And the Demon King¡¯s reason is to rule it. That¡¯s why I have to stop him." Steven let out a tired chuckle, though there was no real humor in it. "Yeah¡­" His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword. "For me, it¡¯s revenge. The Demon King¡¯s army took my family from me. That¡¯s the only reason I need." Before they could say more, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the ruins. A group of warriors appeared through the haze, their figures illuminated by the dying fires. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. Sam led the charge, his eyes scanning the battlefield before landing on them. Lily was at the front, her face pale with worry. Anne rushed past them, immediately kneeling beside Giren, who lay unconscious but alive. Relief flooded her features as she checked his pulse. Sam knelt beside the fallen orc, pressing a hand to his burned chest before looking up at Asael. "You bought us time," he said. "We¡¯ll handle things here." Asael gave a weary nod. The battle was over. Now, they had to prepare for what came next. --- Many days passed away. The fortress, once on the brink of destruction, had been reclaimed. The banners of the Demon King¡¯s army had been torn down, their fabric trampled beneath the boots of the resistance. In their place, new banners were raised, bright with the colors of defiance and hope. The air, once thick with the scent of blood and fire, carried something different now¡ªthe scent of rebuilding. Warriors worked tirelessly to repair the damage, fortifying the walls, tending to the wounded, preparing for the battles yet to come. Giren had recovered enough to stand, though his body still bore the scars of his battle with Movok. Asael, Anne, Steven, and Kenta gathered in the main hall, their supplies packed and their next destination set. Sam leaned against the cold stone wall, arms crossed as he watched them. "So, where are you headed next?" he asked. Asael adjusted his cloak, his expression sharp with determination. "The Forest of Monsters. It was our first destination before all this happened. We might find clues about the Demon King there." Giren and Lily stepped forward. "Then we¡¯re coming too," Giren said, his deep voice carrying no room for argument. Lily nodded beside him. "We won¡¯t be left behind." Asael studied them for a moment before nodding. "The more, the better." Sam sighed, pushing himself off the wall. "I¡¯d go with you, but someone has to stay behind and hold this place." Asael placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "I know. Keep it safe for us." And with that, final preparations began. Kenta checked the supplies in the subspace bag, ensuring they had everything they needed. Giren and Lily bid farewell to the orcs and elves who had chosen to stay behind. Anne double-checked her supply of healing potions, while Steven sharpened his blade with slow, practiced movements. Then, without hesitation¡ªwithout looking back¡ª They set off. Through the ruined gates, past the battlefield where Movok¡¯s lifeless form still stood, frozen in defiance. Toward the Forest of Monsters. Where new dangers awaited. ------ Deep within a land untouched by human rule, a thriving town pulsed with life beneath the rule of beasts. The streets were alive with the chatter of merchants and the laughter of children. Young ones of various beast races darted between the bustling stalls, their tails swishing, their ears twitching with excitement as they played. The scent of fresh meat and spices filled the air, mingling with the metallic tang of sharpened steel from weapon forges. Stalls displayed shimmering gemstones, hand-crafted bows, and blades designed for clawed hands. This was no human settlement. Those who walked its streets bore fangs and horns, claws and tails, fur and scaled skin. They were beastmen¡ªproud, untamed, warriors and hunters by birth. At the heart of it all, seated upon a stone throne within a grand hall carved into the mountainside, their ruler watched over them. Korran, the Tigerkin. His golden fur gleamed beneath the torchlight, streaked with bold black stripes that rippled with every movement of his steel-corded muscles. A great beast of a man, he exuded raw power, his claws idly tapping against the armrest of his throne. The open balcony before him overlooked the town, allowing him to see his people as they thrived beneath his rule. To outsiders, he was a demon general¡ªa ruthless warlord who had earned his title through blood and conquest. To the beastmen, he was their protector, their leader, their king in all but name. And he ruled without fear. Then¡ª The massive doors to his throne room burst open, the heavy stone slabs groaning as a group of his most trusted warriors strode in, their movements urgent. Without hesitation, they knelt before him, their heads lowered in deference. Korran¡¯s piercing yellow eyes flicked toward them, his tail giving a single slow flick. ¡°What happened?¡± His voice rumbled like distant thunder, deep and edged with a growl. One of the warriors¡ªa scarred wolfkin with matted fur¡ªstepped forward. ¡°My lord, Movok is dead.¡± The room fell into a heavy silence. Korran did not move. His claws stilled against the stone, his gaze sharp and unreadable. His tail flicked again, once. Then, he leaned forward, the weight of his presence pressing down on the room like an unseen force. ¡°Say that again.¡± The wolfkin swallowed hard but held his ground. ¡°Movok is dead.¡± For a brief moment, the only sound was the distant crackle of torches. Then, Korran¡¯s grip tightened against the armrest, stone grinding beneath his claws. Movok was a brute, but he was strong. Too strong to fall so easily. His voice, though calm, carried a dangerous edge. ¡°Who killed him? Do we have a name?¡± The wolfkin hesitated for the first time, his ears twitching back slightly. ¡°No name, my lord. But according to the few gnolls that survived, they spoke of warriors unlike any we¡¯ve faced before.¡± Korran¡¯s golden eyes narrowed. ¡°Explain.¡± ¡°One had golden eyes and a golden aura. Another had blue eyes and wielded blue lightning. There was an orc with a broken tusk, an elf, and a woman with golden hair who radiated divine light.¡± A slow exhale left Korran¡¯s lips, his sharp teeth glinting as a low, rumbling chuckle escaped him. ¡°Golden eyes¡­ the Hero. Golden hair¡­ the Saintess. A broken-tusked orc¡­ the last Orc King¡¯s bloodline. An elf¡­ insignificant. And thunder?¡± He leaned back slightly, resting his chin on his clawed hand. ¡°That can only mean one thing.¡± A slow grin stretched across his face. ¡°Duke Driesell¡¯s son.¡± It had been a long time since he felt something other than boredom. Movok had been a warrior, but he relied on raw strength and instinct. Yet these warriors had defeated him. They were dangerous. ¡°What are your orders, my lord?¡± one of the kneeling beastmen asked cautiously. Korran remained still for a moment, then his expression shifted¡ªhis lips curling into a slow, predatory smile. ¡°Inform the Demon King,¡± he said, his voice laced with amusement. ¡°And watch them carefully. If they continue forward, they have only two paths¡ªthrough my lands or through Tores¡¯s domain.¡± His claws dragged lazily against the stone, leaving deep grooves in its surface. ¡°Either way, they will face us eventually.¡± His yellow eyes burned with anticipation as he leaned forward, his presence alone enough to send a shiver down the spines of those before him. ¡°Let them come.¡± It had been far too long since he had a real challenge. Forest of monsters (2) The road from Marquis Hector¡¯s fortress to the Forest of Beginning stretched endlessly, an unforgiving path riddled with hardship. Asael and his companions pressed forward, but the land seemed determined to break them. Monsters lurked in the undergrowth, watching, waiting. When night fell, glowing eyes pierced through the darkness¡ªwolves with matted fur and hunger-driven madness, goblins dragging rusted blades across the dirt, insects the size of hounds, their mandibles glistening with venom. They came in waves, relentless. Blades slashed through flesh, lightning crackled, golden light seared through the swarm. Blood sprayed across the earth, thick and black, filling the air with the stench of burning bodies. The sounds of dying beasts mixed with their own ragged breaths, their bodies trembling from exhaustion. And then, there was hunger. The last of their supplies had run out days ago. Their stomachs twisted in agony, muscles sluggish, minds clouded. Asael, sustained by the divine energy coursing through his veins, pushed forward without faltering. But the others¡ª Steven and Giren forced themselves to eat the meat of slain creatures. It was bitter, tough, and carried a sickening aftertaste of rot. They gagged with every bite but swallowed it down. Survival demanded sacrifices. Anne and Lily refused. Monster flesh was unnatural, tainted. Instead, they scoured the land for anything edible¡ªroots, wild fruits, leaves that wouldn¡¯t poison them. But the land was cruel, offering little. Some nights, all they had was water from the rivers they crossed, cold and thin, barely enough to keep them moving. Despite their suffering, they did not ignore those in need. Scattered across the path, they found refugees¡ªfamilies with hollow eyes, children clinging to their mother¡¯s skirts, soldiers too wounded to wield a blade. They sent them to Sam¡¯s fortress, the only sanctuary left in a world that was crumbling. But there was no sanctuary for them. Their journey had only one destination. And so, they pressed on. The moment they reached the forest¡¯s edge, an unnatural chill crept over them. The trees loomed like ancient titans, their blackened bark twisted, their gnarled branches clawing toward the heavens. A thick mist clung to the ground, curling around their legs like spectral hands, moving with a will of its own. And the sounds¡ª A distant howl. The chittering of unseen creatures. Somewhere, deep within, a scream¡ªlong, drawn-out, ending in a sickening gurgle. Kenta clutched the straps of his bag, his fingers white. ¡°It feels like¡­ the whole forest is watching us.¡± It did. The very air was thick, heavy with unseen malice, pressing against their chests. There was no turning back. Steeling themselves, they stepped into the abyss. At first, it was only an uneasy feeling, the sensation of unseen eyes tracking their every movement. The trees seemed to shift when they weren¡¯t looking, twisting ever so slightly, warping the path. Then, the first attack. Stolen novel; please report. A pack of goblins lunged from the undergrowth, their ragged clothes barely clinging to their skeletal frames. Daggers flashed in the dim light, their shrill cries ringing through the air. Asael met them head-on, his golden eyes burning like twin stars. His blade sang through the darkness, severing limbs, cutting through flesh with practiced ease. Steven followed, his sword crackling with lightning, reducing the creatures to smoldering corpses. Then came the wolves. Not ordinary beasts. These were massive, their fur bristling with shadowy tendrils, their eyes empty pits of darkness. One lunged at Lily, its jaws snapping just inches from her throat¡ªonly for Giren¡¯s axe to cleave through its body in a single, brutal swing. Blood splattered across the ground, black and steaming. And still, the monsters came. Spiders the size of men scuttled from the canopy, their segmented legs clicking against the bark, venomous fangs dripping with hunger. Anne raised her hands, a burst of divine light exploding from her palms. The creatures shrieked as their exoskeletons cracked, light burning through their bodies like fire through dry leaves. The battle raged on, stretching into hours, their bodies aching, lungs burning. The deeper they ventured, the darker the world became. The thick canopy above smothered the last traces of sunlight, plunging them into an endless twilight. Their torches flickered weakly, swallowed by the oppressive gloom. And then¡ª A tremor. The ground shuddered beneath them, a deep, unnatural vibration. In the distance, trees groaned, their trunks snapping like brittle twigs, crashing to the earth in an avalanche of splintered wood. Silence fell. Steven tightened his grip on his blade. ¡°Something¡¯s coming.¡± Then, something impossible happened. The monsters stopped attacking. They turned¡ª And ran. A tide of creatures rushed past them, claws scraping against the earth, wings flapping desperately. Their howls, their screeches¡ªthey carried not rage, but terror. And then¡ª BOOM. A tree exploded into splinters, its remains crashing into the ground just ahead of them. Through the dust and debris, a shadow loomed. A monstrous figure stepped forward, the earth trembling beneath its colossal weight. Thick yellow skin stretched over bulging muscles, each sinew pulsing with unnatural strength. It was a giant. No¡ªsomething worse. A towering three-headed ogre, each grotesque face twisted into a different expression¡ªrage, hunger, madness. Its six eyes gleamed, reflecting the dim torchlight, unblinking and devoid of mercy. In its massive hand, it gripped a club the size of a small tree, its surface lined with jagged metal spikes, dripping with fresh blood. The monster inhaled deeply, sniffing the air. A deep, guttural laugh rumbled from all three throats, vibrating through the forest like distant thunder. Asael barely had time to react. ¡°Hide,¡± he whispered, his voice barely audible. The others obeyed without hesitation. Heartbeats pounding in their ears, they pressed themselves against the nearest trees, the rough bark digging into their backs. The ogre took another step forward. The earth trembled. --- Asael and his group held their breath, pressing themselves against the rough bark of the trees, their hearts pounding in their chests. The forest was eerily silent, save for the distant rustling of leaves and the low, guttural breathing of the beast that hunted them. The massive ogre stood in the moonlight, its grotesque form illuminated in a pale, ghostly glow. Each of its three monstrous heads twisted and turned, sniffing the air with flaring nostrils, its jagged yellow teeth gleaming as it exhaled in frustration. Its six eyes, milky and unfocused, scanned its surroundings, searching for the faintest movement. For a fleeting moment, it seemed to turn away, its hulking form shifting toward the deeper woods. Then, it stopped. The ground trembled beneath its massive footfalls as it pivoted, drawn by some unseen instinct. It lumbered forward, its heavy club dragging against the earth, carving a deep groove into the soil. Kenta stood behind that tree. He clamped a tiny hand over his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut, his whole body trembling. He could feel the heat of the monster¡¯s breath, smell the rancid stench of rotting meat clinging to its skin. His legs refused to move. The ogre inhaled deeply, its nostrils flaring, and with a grunt of frustration, it raised its club high above its head. A moment later, the tree exploded. A deafening crack shattered the silence as wood splintered in all directions, shards flying through the air like deadly daggers. The entire trunk collapsed, crashing down with a force that shook the earth. Kenta, by some miracle, had instinctively dropped to his knees just in time, the monstrous weapon missing him by a hair¡¯s breadth. He lay in the dirt, eyes wide, chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths. But now, he was exposed. The ogre hesitated, its weak eyesight struggling to detect the small, trembling figure just beneath it. It grunted, its three heads turning in different directions, sniffing, confused. Kenta exhaled softly, his body loosening, the tension beginning to fade. Then¡ªsnap. His foot pressed against a brittle twig. The sharp crack echoed through the stillness like a death knell. The ogre froze. Its grotesque ears twitched, its six eyes narrowing. For a single, agonizing moment, time seemed to slow. Kenta¡¯s breath hitched in his throat. His heart slammed against his ribs, his entire body frozen in sheer terror. Then, the club swung. The air around him howled as the sheer force of the swing carved through it, a monstrous force so powerful it felt as if the world itself was about to collapse upon him. His legs wouldn¡¯t move. But in that instant¡ª A flash of blue. Steven erupted into motion, his body a blur of lightning and speed. Sparks crackled around him as he lunged forward, his arms locking around Kenta¡¯s small frame, yanking him away just as the club came crashing down. The earth exploded upon impact. A shockwave burst outward, sending dirt, rock, and shattered wood flying in all directions. The force alone knocked leaves from the trees, sending a ripple through the very forest itself. A massive crater remained where Kenta had stood just seconds ago. The ogre roared, frustration rippling through its three voices, a sound so powerful it rattled their bones. Its rage burned in its six glowing eyes as it stomped forward, each step reducing the undergrowth to pulp, shattering trees as if they were mere twigs. Lily¡¯s hands trembled as she raised her bow, her fingers tightening around the string. The moonlight glinted off the arrow¡¯s polished tip as she pulled it back, steadying her breath. She fired. The arrow streaked through the air, finding its mark¡ªonly to barely sink into the ogre¡¯s thick, calloused hide. It was like trying to pierce stone. She gritted her teeth and fired again. And again. The ogre barely flinched. Desperation surged through her veins. Muttering an incantation under her breath, she thrust her hand forward. The earth responded. Vines erupted from the ground, thick as serpents, twisting and coiling around the ogre¡¯s massive legs, constricting with unnatural strength. For a brief moment, the monster slowed. Then, with a brutal jerk of its muscles, it tore through them as if they were mere threads. The shattered vines whipped through the air, snapping apart with sickening cracks. ¡°Damn it!¡± Lily spat, reaching for another arrow. Giren roared. The massive orc charged, his muscles rippling with raw power as he latched onto the ogre¡¯s leg, digging his feet into the ground, trying to hold it in place. His grip was like iron, veins bulging from his arms. The ogre glanced down. And then, almost amused, it simply lifted its foot and kicked. Giren was sent hurtling through the air like a ragdoll, smashing through trees, his body carving a path of destruction through the forest. He landed hard, blood splattering from his lips as he gasped for breath. The ogre didn¡¯t hesitate. Its club swung next, descending toward Giren like an executioner¡¯s blade. But Asael was already there. Steel met wood in a blinding flash. The impact sent a shockwave through Asael¡¯s arms, rattling his bones, sending sparks flying into the darkness. His boots scraped against the dirt, his knees bending under the monstrous force. His muscles screamed in agony, but he refused to yield. Then, the ogre¡¯s fist came next. A massive, calloused hand slammed into his ribs with bone-crushing force. A sickening crack echoed through the air. Asael¡¯s vision blurred as pain exploded through his body. He was sent flying, his body tumbling through the undergrowth before slamming into the dirt with a heavy thud. Blood dripped from his lips. Steven placed Kenta down gently, his gaze hardening as he turned to face the monster. Electricity crackled around his blade. Anne clasped her hands together, golden light enveloping her form, magic pulsing at her fingertips. Giren groaned, wiping blood from his mouth, his grip on his axe tightening. Lily steadied her aim, eyes burning with determination. Asael forced himself up, spitting blood onto the ground. His body trembled, but his golden eyes blazed with unyielding resolve. The three-headed ogre bellowed, its roar splitting the night. And the battle truly began. Forest of monsters (3) The massive ogre loomed over them, its three monstrous heads snarling in unison. Thick strands of drool dangled from its jagged fangs, glistening in the faint light before splattering onto the ground. Its yellow hide, slick with sweat and filth, stretched over bulging muscles that pulsed with sheer brutality. With a deafening roar, it raised its enormous club high above its heads. The weapon, a crude but terrifying slab of stone and iron, caught the dim glow of the battlefield as it hovered in the air for a brief moment. Then, it came crashing down. The impact was cataclysmic. The earth split apart, a jagged fissure ripping through the battlefield. A shockwave erupted from the point of impact, tearing through the land with relentless force. Trees groaned as their roots were wrenched from the soil, entire trunks toppling like brittle twigs. Chunks of debris soared through the air, pelting the warriors like shards of a shattered world. Each impact sent tremors rolling across the ground, as if the very bones of the earth were cracking under the sheer might of the beast. Golden light flared around Asael, his divine energy crackling like a raging inferno. It burned along his body in radiant arcs, illuminating his figure against the chaos. His breath came in measured, steady beats, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword. Then, in a blur of motion, he shot forward. His feet barely kissed the ground as he propelled himself toward the towering monster. He leapt¡ªsoaring high, his blade gleaming with celestial power, poised to carve into the ogre¡¯s hide. To the beast, he was nothing more than a glowing speck, a mere insect buzzing too close. One of its massive hands swung lazily through the air. The blow struck with crushing force. Asael¡¯s body hurtled through the sky like a broken doll. He slammed into the ground with bone-shattering impact, the earth cracking beneath him. A spray of blood painted the dirt where he landed. Pain flared like wildfire, raw and unforgiving. His ribs groaned under the strain, his limbs trembling violently as agony lanced through every fiber of his being. Yet, even as his body lay in ruin, his divine energy surged once more. It pulsed like a heartbeat, wrapping around him in a desperate attempt to mend his shattered form. With sheer force of will, Asael dragged himself up, his breath ragged, his vision swimming. Steven didn¡¯t hesitate. Lightning crackled along his blade, wrapping it in veins of electric fury. His grip tightened, his muscles coiling like steel springs. Then, with a single powerful motion, he swung. The blade cut through the air with a sharp, deafening crack. A thunderous arc of energy exploded forward, colliding with the ogre¡¯s hide. The electricity danced along the beast¡¯s grotesque form, crackling over its thick skin. But the ogre barely reacted. A mere twitch. A slight flinch. It was nothing. Before Steven could adjust, a massive hand came down. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. He threw himself to the side, rolling across the dirt just as the ground where he stood exploded into a crater. The force of the impact sent a shockwave through the battlefield, launching him backward. He tumbled through the air before skidding to a halt, his body raking against the jagged earth. Blood trickled from the corner of his lips. His vision spun. But he grit his teeth, swallowing the pain, and forced himself back to his feet. A deep, guttural war cry tore from Giren¡¯s throat. He surged forward, his massive axe gripped tightly in his calloused hands. His muscles burned with exertion, every step fueled by sheer determination. With a mighty swing, his blade bit into the ogre¡¯s thick leg. The flesh parted, dark blood oozing from the shallow wound. But before he could drive the blade deeper, the ogre¡¯s limb jerked violently. The force of the movement sent Giren flying. He crashed onto the dirt with a heavy thud, pain flaring through his spine. And then, before he could react¡ª A massive hand clamped around his entire torso. His ribs groaned under the crushing grip. He thrashed, his muscles straining, veins bulging against his skin as he fought to break free. Every fiber of his being screamed in protest, his lungs burning for air. But he was too weak. His body¡ªstill battered from the battle with Movok¡ªcouldn¡¯t keep up. The ogre lifted him effortlessly into the air. Giren gritted his teeth, his vision darkening at the edges. The pressure on his ribs grew unbearable, each second an agonizing eternity. Then¡ª The ogre slammed him down. The earth quaked violently beneath the force. A thick cloud of dust and debris erupted into the air. The sickening snap of bone echoed through the battlefield. Blood bubbled from Giren¡¯s mouth. His vision blurred. For a moment, everything fell silent. The ogre snorted, already dismissing him as dead. But then¡ª A faint golden shimmer pulsed against Giren¡¯s broken form. A translucent barrier flickered around him, barely holding together. Anne stood firm, but her face was as pale as death. Her hands trembled violently, fingers outstretched as divine energy pulsed from her core. The barrier she had summoned shimmered like fragile glass, barely containing the raw power of the ogre¡¯s wrath. Blood trickled from her nose. Her breathing was ragged, each inhale labored as exhaustion pressed down on her like an iron weight. The ogre growled in frustration. It raised its club once more. Then, it brought it down. The impact sent a deafening shockwave rippling through the battlefield. The barrier quivered, straining against the monstrous force. Another strike. A sharp crack splintered through the air. Anne gasped, her knees buckling. Her entire body trembled under the unbearable strain. One more. The ogre raised its club high, the air around it warping from the sheer weight of the blow. Then, it struck. The barrier shattered. The sound of breaking glass echoed through the battlefield as divine energy scattered into the wind. Anne collapsed, gasping for breath, her body barely holding itself together. And now¡ªthere was nothing left between the ogre and Giren. The orc lay motionless, blood pooling beneath him, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. He couldn¡¯t move. The ogre¡¯s massive hand reached down, fingers curling, ready to crush him completely. Just as the hand began its deadly descent¡ª A golden light tore through the battlefield. Asael surged forward, his sword a radiant beacon against the overwhelming darkness. Every muscle in his body burned, exhaustion clawing at him, yet he pushed forward, fueled by sheer will. His gaze locked onto the fresh wound Giren had inflicted earlier¡ªa weakness, a sliver of hope against an unstoppable force. With a cry that tore from the depths of his soul, he drove his sword into the gash. Flesh ripped apart in a grotesque symphony. The thick hide surrendered to his blade, parting to reveal the sinewy, pulsating muscle beneath. A hot, dark flood of blood burst forth, coating his hands, seeping into his armor, dripping from his chin. The stench of iron and decay filled his nostrils, making his stomach churn. The ogre howled, its three heads shrieking in discordant agony. The very air trembled with its suffering. It turned its fury upon Asael, eyes burning with wrath beyond mortal comprehension. Its foot lifted, a shadow of death looming over him, ready to crush him like an insect. Arrows sliced through the night, whistling like a death knell. They struck the ground around the ogre¡¯s feet, and almost immediately, thick vines erupted from the earth. They coiled like serpents, wrapping around its ankles, anchoring it just enough to stall its advance. The ogre thrashed, muscles bulging against nature¡¯s restraints. The vines snapped one by one, their resistance futile against such raw power. But it was enough. The sky split open, lightning crackling in the heavens. Steven charged, his sword wreathed in brilliant arcs of electricity. Each step sent sparks cascading from his blade, the raw power humming through his veins. His weapon found its mark. The blade plunged into the open wound, and in an instant, a deafening explosion of thunder followed. White-hot energy surged through the ogre¡¯s body, burning it from within. Smoke curled from the gaping wound, flesh searing, nerves frying, a scent of charred meat polluting the battlefield. The ogre bellowed, reeling from the agony, its three heads writhing wildly. Its grip on its massive club faltered, the weapon tumbling to the ground with an earth-shaking thud. Yet even in its wounded state, it refused to fall. With a final act of desperation, it slammed both fists into the ground. A shockwave erupted. The force sent warriors tumbling like ragdolls, weapons scattering, breath stolen from their lungs. The battlefield became a maelstrom of chaos. And then¡ªthe ogre lashed out, an uncontrollable storm of fury, swinging its limbs in reckless destruction. Above them all, hidden among the tangled branches of a dying tree, Kenta watched. His small hands clenched around the hilt of his dagger, knuckles white with tension. He breathed slow, controlled, his heartbeat steady despite the carnage below. He waited, watching, calculating. And then¡ªhis moment came. The ogre bent down, scanning the battlefield, its three heads turning in all directions, seeking a target to obliterate. Kenta leapt. His dagger gleamed under the dim light as he plunged it deep into the middle head¡¯s ear. A sickening squelch followed. The ogre¡¯s body jerked, its screech so piercing it rattled the marrow in Kenta¡¯s bones. Blood, thick and black as tar, gushed from the wound, drenching him. The beast thrashed, desperate to dislodge the tiny warrior clinging to its skull. Kenta held fast. He twisted the dagger, driving it deeper, carving his path through flesh and nerve. The ogre¡¯s massive fingers clawed at him, nearly crushing him in its frenzied attempt to tear him away. But he was faster. With one last strike, he drove his dagger into its massive eye. The orb exploded beneath the blade, a sickening burst of fluid spilling down its grotesque face. The ogre staggered, its equilibrium shattered, its pain unfathomable. Asael and Giren seized their chance. They lunged, their weapons carving through the ogre¡¯s already wounded leg. Steel met flesh, tearing through sinew and bone. The beast¡¯s balance shattered. It toppled forward, the earth trembling as its colossal form crashed into the dirt. Dust and blood filled the air, a grim haze settling over the battlefield. Steven sprinted forward, snatching Kenta from the beast¡¯s face just before it hit the ground. Lily loosed arrow after arrow, each one finding its mark, embedding deep into the ogre¡¯s thrashing form. Vines coiled tighter around its limbs, restraining its final struggles. The beast gasped, choked, twitched. And then¡ªthe final blow fell. Asael and his warriors delivered the decisive strike, their weapons cleaving through the thick neck of the beast. Steel met flesh, bone cracked, blood burst forth in a river of darkness. The three heads convulsed, mouths opening in silent screams. And then¡ªstillness. The mighty ogre was dead. The battlefield fell into an eerie quiet. No cheers of victory, only the ragged breaths of exhausted warriors. Asael fell to one knee, chest heaving, his sword slick with blood. Steven wiped a hand across his face, smearing crimson across his cheek. Giren swayed but remained standing, his battered body refusing to fall. Lily and Anne exchanged glances, gazes heavy with exhaustion. They had done it. The three-headed ogre lay before them, its lifeless eyes staring into the void. A monstrous force, once unstoppable, now nothing more than a corpse among the ruins. Morris (1) The colossal corpse of the three-headed ogre lay still, its massive form sprawled across the battlefield like a monument to the brutal struggle that had just taken place. Its thick, matted fur was soaked in dark blood, pooling beneath the severed necks, seeping into the earth as if the ground itself was drinking in the remains of its life. The air was thick with the scent of iron and sweat, clinging to the exhausted warriors like a second skin. Asael and his group slumped onto the ground, their limbs heavy, their bodies screaming with exhaustion. Every breath they took felt like fire in their lungs, raw and ragged from the endless fight. Their weapons, once wielded with determined fury, now lay loosely in their grips, the weight of battle pressing down on them. For a moment, silence reigned. The eerie, fragile stillness that follows a hard-fought victory. Then¡ª "Ohoho! You all managed to defeat him? Incredible!" The voice rang out, deep and booming, carrying an unsettling amusement. It seemed to come from nowhere, yet somehow from everywhere at once. Asael¡¯s breath hitched. Every muscle in his body tensed. The others snapped to attention, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten. Something shifted. The air shimmered, a distortion rippling through space like a reflection on disturbed water. A shape began to form within that disturbance¡ªat first faint, barely more than a mirage, but then growing more defined, more real. And then, he was there. The figure stood before them, his presence as unnatural as the magic that had summoned him. His body was translucent, flickering at the edges like a dying flame, as if the world itself refused to fully contain him. Dark tattoos crawled across his arms and chest, pulsating with an eerie, shifting glow¡ªliving ink that writhed like snakes beneath his skin. A mask concealed his face, devoid of emotion, void of humanity. Yet the weight of his presence was undeniable. It pressed down on them like an unseen force, something ancient, something that should not be lingering in the world of the living. Asael¡¯s fingers curled around his sword, knuckles whitening. His voice was steady, but there was an edge of caution beneath it. "Who are you?" The figure chuckled. The sound was deep, smooth¡ªyet there was something off about it. Something wrong. "Me?" His arms spread slightly, his flickering form swaying as if caught between existence and nothingness. "I''m an Abyss devotee. In your orders, an exile. A Voodooist." The word fell into the air like a curse. A Voodooist. The name alone sent a chill down their spines, their blood turning cold at its mere mention. The Voodooists¡ªonce a sect of humans who had dared to tamper with the forbidden. They had reached beyond the veil of life and death, torn open the fabric of existence, and bargained with the unknown. Their magic was not of the world¡ªit was a corruption, a twisting of the natural order. This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. They had sacrificed flesh and soul alike, wielded power that was never meant for mortal hands. And for that, they had been hunted, cast out, erased from history. Yet here, one of them stood again. Not a whisper of the past. Not a fading memory. A living shadow from a forgotten horror. Asael¡¯s heart pounded in his chest. This was dangerous. This was not something they could simply walk away from. The man tilted his head slightly, his voice almost playful. "Well, you can call me Morris." The name meant nothing. But his title did. Before Asael could process it, Lily¡¯s instincts took over. She moved without hesitation, fingers tightening on her bowstring as she loosed an arrow in a single, fluid motion. The projectile sliced through the air, aimed directly for Morris¡¯s heart. But¡ª It passed through him. Like he wasn¡¯t even there. "It won¡¯t work on me." Morris¡¯s voice was tinged with amusement, as if he had seen this reaction countless times before. Kenta narrowed his eyes. "A ghost?" Morris shook his head, his form flickering like a candle caught in the wind. "Not exactly." The tattoos along his arms shifted, twisting and writhing with something almost alive, pulsing like a second heartbeat. "I am a spirit." Asael¡¯s grip on his sword tightened. "A spirit?" "Yes, a spirit fixed in this forest. A watcher, an observer." Something in his tone sent a shiver down Asael¡¯s spine. There was an ominous weight to those words, a depth of meaning that he wasn¡¯t sure he wanted to understand. Asael¡¯s mind raced. A Voodooist. A spirit. A being bound to this place. Someone had put him here. "Who fixed you here?" Asael asked, voice tight. Morris let out a slow, knowing chuckle. "Oh, it was Tores. One of my tribesmen." The name landed like a hammer. Asael¡¯s stomach twisted. Tores. They all knew that name. Tores¡ªthe Demon King¡¯s general. The most feared monster of all time. Asael¡¯s throat was dry. His fingers trembled slightly before he steadied them. "You knew him?" Morris nodded, and for a moment, there was something almost nostalgic in his voice. "Knew him?" His tone softened. "He was one of us. We were from the same tribe." His flickering form became momentarily more solid before fading again. "I was the chief. And Tores... he was meant to be my successor." His voice dropped lower, reverent, filled with something that was almost admiration. "A prodigy. A true master of dark magic. No one could match him." Morris¡¯s glowing eyes flickered as he studied the group, lingering on Asael¡¯s golden irises. A ghost of something unreadable passed across his face before he spoke, his voice carrying an unsettling ease. "By the way... are you a Hero, by chance?" The words hung in the air like a blade suspended by a thread. The gentle rustling of the trees seemed to fade, swallowed by the weight of the question. Asael met the spirit¡¯s gaze without hesitation. There was no point in lying. "Yes." Morris¡¯s lips curled into a slow, eerie smile beneath his mask. It was not a smirk of amusement, nor was it one of malice. It was something else entirely¡ªsomething deeper, like a man unraveling a mystery long kept from him. "Oh, how interesting..." His voice dropped, taking on a thoughtful cadence. "Then that must mean..." He let the words trail off, but there was no need to finish them. The truth was already sinking into place. "The Demon King has risen." Asael nodded. "Yes. That¡¯s why we¡¯re here¡ªto find clues about him." Morris let out a low chuckle, the sound barely above a whisper, yet it seemed to echo through the trees. The tattoos spiraling across his translucent body pulsed, shifting like ink in water, forming and reforming patterns beyond comprehension. "Is that so? Well then..." He took a step closer. Though his body was that of a spirit, his presence felt unnervingly tangible, as though he stood at the edge of a great abyss, staring into something only he could see. "How about I help you?" A ripple of tension passed through the group. "You?" Asael asked, his voice edged with caution. "Of course," Morris chuckled. "I know everything about this forest. Every creature that lurks here, every secret buried beneath its roots." His words sank into their minds, heavy with unspoken implications. An ally with such knowledge would be invaluable. And yet, something about him made Asael¡¯s stomach twist. "But," Morris continued, tilting his head slightly, "I cannot leave this place. I am bound here, forever cursed to wander these trees." His glowing eyes gleamed beneath his mask, flickering like embers in the dark. "So, in exchange for my knowledge... I want you to answer some questions of mine." Asael¡¯s expression hardened. "That depends on your questions." Morris let out another amused chuckle. "Of course, of course. You¡¯re free to refuse, but I think you¡¯ll find my questions... quite relevant." A pause. Then, as though savoring the moment, he finally asked, "You all seem to know Tores. Can you tell me what happened to him?" His voice had changed¡ªjust slightly. A faint shift in his tone, subtle enough that the others might not have noticed. But Asael did. It carried something deeper, something personal. Asael hesitated for only a moment before answering. "Tores is now one of the Demon King¡¯s generals." Silence. It was not the kind of silence that came from surprise. It was the kind that stretched, that settled in the bones, that felt as if the very forest itself had stopped breathing. Morris exhaled slowly, a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of centuries. "Ah... I see. That boy always did have a dangerous talent for the dark arts." His fingers twitched at his side, as if recalling something long buried. Then, his gaze sharpened. "And what about Grion?" Asael frowned. "Grion?" The name was unfamiliar on his tongue. "I¡¯ve never heard that name before." The others exchanged confused glances. None of them knew. Morris tilted his head ever so slightly, unreadable. Then, without another word, he moved on. "Tell me, then," he murmured, "what does the Demon King look like? What are his powers?" Asael hesitated only for a moment. "His appearance isn¡¯t fixed," he said carefully. "He can transform into any monster at will." The moment the words left his lips¡ª Morris¡¯s eyes burned with a strange, eerie light. A deep chuckle rumbled from within him, something between understanding and bitter amusement. "Ahaha... of course. As expected. So he is Demon king now." There was no shock in his voice. No hesitation. Only certainty. A cold unease curled in Asael¡¯s chest. He clenched his fists. "How can you be so sure?" His voice was sharper than before, demanding. Morris slowly tilted his head. The forest darkened. The gentle golden light filtering through the trees dimmed as though the very air had thickened, choking the sun. "Because," Morris whispered, "that power belongs to Grion." A tense silence fell over them. A dreadful realization began to take root. Asael¡¯s breath hitched. His pulse pounded in his ears. "What do you mean?" he asked, barely above a whisper. Morris¡¯s translucent form flickered like a dying flame. "The ability to change oneself at will," he said, his voice quiet but weighted with finality. "Grion is a doppelganger." The words crashed into them like a thunderclap. The air grew heavy, suffocating. No one moved. Asael could hear his own heartbeat hammering against his ribs. A doppelganger. A race that had been wiped out long ago. A race that could become anyone. Take any form. Wear any face. And the Demon King... was one of them. "That¡¯s impossible," Lily whispered, shaking her head. "The doppelganger race was wiped out ages ago!" Morris merely smiled. "So you thought." There was something almost pitying in his tone. "But some things never truly vanish." The world Asael thought he knew was shifting beneath his feet. The Demon King wasn¡¯t just a monster. He was something worse. A creature that could have been lurking in the shadows of history, waiting, preparing. His mind raced. How long had the Demon King existed? Morris (2) The sun dipped toward the horizon, bathing the sky in a golden-orange glow. It cast long shadows across the dense forest, where leaves shimmered like molten gold in the fading light. But as the minutes passed, those warm hues dimmed, swallowed by the creeping tendrils of dusk. A gentle wind rustled through the trees, their branches swaying as if whispering secrets to the unseen. It carried the earthy scent of moss and damp wood, mingled with the distant chirping of unseen creatures. Asael stood still, his golden eyes reflecting the dying sunlight as he studied Morris carefully. The spirit¡¯s translucent form flickered like a candle in the breeze, his tattoos pulsing faintly with an eerie glow¡ªfragments of memory stirring in response to the weight of the past. Then, with a firm yet curious tone, Asael finally spoke. "Where did you find the Demon King? Can you tell me more about him?" Morris remained silent at first, his gaze distant. The glow of his markings wavered, shifting like ripples on water, before he exhaled¡ªthough it was not truly breath, merely the eerie motion of a spirit reliving its final days. "Well¡­" he murmured at last, his voice heavy with old wounds. "It wasn¡¯t us who found him." His head tilted slightly, his expression darkening. "He was the one who approached us first." Asael tensed, his fingers curling slightly. Around him, the others leaned in, drawn by the weight of the spirit¡¯s words. A long pause hung between them before Morris continued. "One day, he came to our village," Morris said, his voice quieter now, laced with something almost reverent. The wind shifted, its whisper turning colder. The trees groaned softly, their branches creaking as if they, too, remembered. "He asked us if we could kill him." Asael blinked, his brow furrowing. "What?" He leaned forward slightly. "What do you mean?" Morris exhaled, shaking his head. "I don¡¯t know. It was a strange question¡ªone we never understood. I asked him about it, but he never explained." His voice turned thoughtful. "Maybe Tores knows." Asael stared at him, searching for any hint of understanding in Morris¡¯s eyes, but all he found was the same uncertainty. "Then what happened?" he pressed. Morris hesitated for a moment before continuing. "After some time¡­ after he stayed with us, he told us he could restore our strength. That he could make us whole again." Asael narrowed his eyes. "And? What did he ask for?" Morris chuckled, but the sound was empty¡ªhollow, like the echo of a man who had lost everything. "It was about a ritual. A ritual that would grant us power from the Abyss God." The moment those words left his lips, a heavy stillness settled over the group. The forest, once alive with distant sounds of birds and insects, fell eerily silent. Even the air felt heavier, pressing against their skin like an unspoken warning. "Abyss God¡­" Kenta murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Morris nodded slowly. "Yes. The elder child of the Supreme God. The ruler of destruction, death, and despair. The one who was sealed away by his own brother, Lucarux." His gaze darkened, as if staring into a past he wished he could forget. "Of course, we refused. Even in our desperation, we knew better than to meddle with forbidden power." His voice wavered slightly before he forced himself to go on. "The ritual required¡­ souls." The weight of that single word sent a chill down Asael¡¯s spine. Around him, the others shifted uneasily, their faces tense with quiet horror. "And yet," Morris murmured, his tone bitter, "it seems that after our deaths¡­ Tores agreed to him." A slow, creeping dread coiled within Asael¡¯s chest. The pieces were beginning to fall into place, like fragments of a shattered mirror reflecting a truth too terrible to face. The Demon King was a doppelganger¡ªa creature that should never have possessed such overwhelming strength. But if he had been blessed by the Abyss God¡­ Then everything made sense. No mere monster or mortal could wield a power once strong enough to threaten the gods themselves. Asael clenched his fists. "That explains his strength." Yet, something still didn¡¯t fit. Doppelgangers were not violent creatures. Their nature was to blend, to survive by adapting, to exist unnoticed in the shadows of other lives. And yet¡ª The Demon King they had faced was different. He did not simply fight¡ªhe raged. He destroyed with an intensity that went beyond mere survival. "But still," Morris murmured, as if sensing Asael¡¯s thoughts, "one thing doesn''t make sense." The spirit¡¯s glowing eyes lifted, filled with something close to sorrow. The last traces of sunlight slipped away, leaving only the dim illumination of his spectral form. Shadows stretched around them, clinging to the trees like silent watchers. "Doppelgangers are peaceful creatures," Morris whispered. "Yet¡­ watching him fight, seeing the way he harbored such immense rage and hatred¡­" He trailed off, his expression unreadable. Then, after a long pause, he added in a low voice, "Something must have happened to him." The silence that followed was suffocating. Had the Demon King been betrayed? Tormented? Twisted into something monstrous? Had he once been a soul that sought peace¡ªonly to be broken by the cruelty of the world? Asael, however, remained unmoved. His golden eyes sharpened, cutting through the thick fog of uncertainty. Then, after a moment, he spoke. "Or," he said coldly, "he could have just wanted power and supremacy." Morris turned to him, his expression unreadable. The others shifted, glancing between them, uncertain. For a moment, nothing was said. Then¡ª Morris let out a slow, knowing chuckle. "Well, it could be that as well." His voice was calm¡ªnot sharp, not mocking. Just steady, like someone who had seen too much to hold onto anger. His faint glow flickered, as though reflecting something ancient, something weary. "But you know, hero¡­ everything has more than one perspective. And everyone has a story." His words lingered, settling over them like dust over forgotten ruins. No one replied. A breeze rustled through the treetops, soft yet insistent, as if the forest itself was bearing witness. Morris exhaled a soundless sigh, his ghostly form dimming for a moment. "Do you know why we were exiled from human lands?" Asael didn¡¯t hesitate. His voice was firm, unwavering. "Because you performed dark rituals and sacrifices." A slow, almost knowing smile formed on Morris¡¯s lips. It was neither amused nor bitter¡ªjust tired. "Nope." Asael frowned. Morris tilted his head slightly, his glowing eyes unreadable, filled with something far deeper than mere resentment. "It was simply because we prayed to the Abyss." A cold chill swept through the group. "Our beliefs were different. That was our only crime." The forest fell silent. Even the insects had stopped their quiet chorus, as if nature itself recoiled from the weight of his words. "And the worst part?" His voice softened, losing its lightness entirely. "We didn¡¯t go extinct. It was you humans who killed us." Asael felt his breath hitch, his chest tightening as the weight of the words sank in. The others stiffened. No one spoke. Even the wind had died down, as if refusing to interrupt this truth. Morris turned his gaze fully on Asael now, his glowing eyes unwavering, piercing through the veil of certainty Asael had always carried. "And as for what happened to Tores¡­" He hesitated. A flicker of something crossed his expression¡ªsomething raw, something deeply buried yet never truly forgotten. "That, I would rather not speak of." The playfulness in his voice was gone. There was no teasing, no lingering amusement. Only a deep, aching sorrow that could not be masked. "But just so you know, hero¡­" He stepped forward, his ghostly form flickering like a candle struggling against the wind. "If you had been in his place¡­ you would have chosen the same path." Asael felt his pulse quicken, something twisting painfully in his chest. "What do you mean? What happened to him?" Morris sighed, his gaze dropping slightly. "Sorry. But I can''t reveal that." Asael¡¯s fists tightened. A quiet frustration bubbled inside him. "A spell has been cast on me." The words were spoken simply, yet they carried the weight of chains. A long silence stretched between them. Asael took a deep breath, forcing the tension in his body to ease, if only slightly. He exhaled sharply, his golden eyes dark with contemplation. "Haa¡­ I understand that something terrible happened to your people." His gaze hardened. "But that doesn¡¯t justify destroying everything in revenge." Morris raised an eyebrow, and for a moment, a flicker of amusement returned. Then, with a small smirk, he asked, "Well, then¡­ why are you hunting monsters, hero?" Asael froze. The others shifted uncomfortably. No one answered. Morris let out a quiet, knowing chuckle. "Let me guess," he continued, "is it because monsters took something precious from you?" His voice darkened, taking on an almost hollow quality. "Just like humans took something precious from us?" Something tightened in Asael¡¯s chest. A strange, nagging thought whispered in the back of his mind, clawing at the edges of everything he had been taught. Morris wasn¡¯t done. His voice, still calm, cut through them like a well-honed blade. "Do you know why the barbarians started attacking the north?" Asael furrowed his brows, trying to recall the stories he had been told. "Wasn¡¯t it because of resources?" Morris shook his head. "Nope." He turned his gaze upward, watching the darkening sky. The glow of his form pulsed faintly, like a dying ember. His voice, when he spoke again, was filled with quiet grief. "It was because humans first eliminated one of their tribes." The silence that followed was deafening. Morris lowered his head once more, his luminous eyes locking onto Asael¡¯s. "There is no right or wrong, hero. Only different perspectives." The words echoed in Asael¡¯s mind, unraveling something deep inside him. Memories surfaced. A scene he had buried, long ago. Movok. A Demon King General. His entire tribe, wiped from existence by human hands. His rage, his grief, his desperate thirst for vengeance¡­ And now, Asael understood. Morris took another step forward, his form wavering as though the weight of his own words threatened to pull him apart. And with a voice barely louder than a whisper, he said, "To you, we are monsters." His glowing eyes burned¡ªnot with hatred, but with sorrow so vast, so unrelenting, it could never fade. "To us¡­ you are the monsters." A gust of wind howled through the forest, bending the trees, scattering fallen leaves into the air like fleeting memories. Asael didn¡¯t know how to respond. Morris (3) A heavy silence clung to the air, thick and suffocating, as if the very atmosphere had been drained of life. Asael and his group stood frozen, their gazes locked onto Morris. His words from before lingered, pressing down on their chests like an invisible weight. A question unspoken, a revelation yet to be understood, loomed between them. Then, suddenly, Morris let out a sigh and shrugged, breaking the tension as if it had never existed. "Hmm¡­ anyway, I''m done with my questions. Now, tell me¡ªhow can I help you?" Asael hesitated. For the first time in a long while, he wasn¡¯t sure what to ask. The shadows of uncertainty wrapped around him, tightening like unseen chains. Morris¡¯s words still echoed in his mind, yet another part of him knew they had to move forward. They had come here for answers, and hesitation would only drown them deeper in the unknown. Steven stepped forward, his voice the first to cut through the uneasy quiet. "Can you show us your village?" Morris tilted his head, a faint smile playing at the edges of his lips. "Sure. Follow me." And with that, he turned and began to walk. --- As the last embers of daylight vanished beyond the horizon, the world surrendered to the night. The sky deepened into a vast, endless void of indigo, where only the moon dared to shine, a lone sentinel in an ocean of darkness. The forest stirred. The wind whistled through the towering trees, their skeletal branches swaying like specters whispering ancient secrets. The distant hoot of an owl punctuated the eerie stillness, while unseen creatures rustled in the undergrowth, their presence felt more than seen. Asael and the others followed Morris, their footsteps muffled by the damp earth. Every step forward felt like a descent into something unseen, something waiting beyond the veil of night. The only light came from the fire torch they carried, its feeble glow casting flickering shadows that twisted and danced against the trunks of gnarled trees. The darkness pressed in from all sides, thick and suffocating, as if the forest itself was watching them. Then¡ª Through the dense veil of trees, they saw it. A village¡ªor the remains of one. The moment they stepped into the clearing, a cold breeze swept past them, carrying a scent so faint yet so haunting¡ªash and decay. The village lay in ruin. Time had devoured it, leaving behind only fragments of what once was. Huts stood as hollow husks, their walls shattered, their rooftops collapsed into splinters. Stone houses, once sturdy, now bore deep claw marks, as though something had ripped through them in a blind, merciless rage. The earth beneath their feet was cracked and lifeless, the very soil seeming to mourn the ghosts that lingered here. This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. A place that had once breathed with life now lay as a graveyard of memories. Asael¡¯s chest tightened. He could almost hear it¡ªthe echoes of laughter, the soft murmur of conversations, the warmth of existence that had once thrived within these very ruins. But now¡­ there was only emptiness. Anne took a step forward, her boots crunching against shattered wood. Her eyes scanned the remains, searching¡­ for what, she wasn¡¯t sure. Then¡ªshe stopped. Her breath hitched, and she pointed. "Hero, look!" They turned their eyes toward what she had seen¡ªa broken stone wall, standing tall against the ruins, defying the decay that had consumed everything else. It was ancient, cracked by time, yet its carvings were still strikingly vivid. Symbols. Drawings. A forgotten language, etched deep into the stone with unwavering precision. "What is this?" Asael murmured, stepping closer. Morris moved forward, his fingers¡ªpale, almost ghostly¡ªtrailing over the carvings with a reverence. "These are symbols related to the Abyss God." Asael studied the wall, his brow furrowing. Something about it felt wrong. It was more than just the weight of history. It was something deeper, something¡­ alive. And then, his gaze caught another carving. A creature¡ªno, a monstrosity, carved with such intricate detail that even in stone, it seemed to pulse with hunger. It was an abomination. Multiple hands. Multiple eyes. Rows upon rows of jagged teeth. Its mouth stretched wide¡ªunnaturally wide. And it was devouring everything. The ground. The sky. The very fabric of existence itself. Surrounding it were winged figures, armed with weapons of divine craftsmanship, their stances desperate as they tried to contain the horror. Asael felt a chill creep through his veins. His fingers curled into fists. His breathing shallowed. Because this thing¡ª It looked like the Demon King''s true form. Only, more terrifying. "What¡­ is this?" Asael whispered, his voice barely escaping his lips. "Who is this?" Morris¡¯s expression darkened. His eyes flickered with something ancient, something burdened by knowledge long untouched. Then, he spoke. "It is Gluttony." The name itself felt like a curse, each syllable laced with centuries of fear and devastation. "One of the Abyss God''s forms¡ªor rather, one of His egos." The air grew colder. Morris continued, his voice dropping into something barely above a whisper. "It is said that Gluttony was so hungry¡­ that it tried to eat the earth itself." A gust of wind tore through the ruins, rattling the bones of the dead village. Leaves swirled in the moonlight like lost souls, drifting, searching. "The gods fought to stop it. They waged a battle beyond human comprehension." Morris''s gaze gleamed under the cold silver glow of the moon. "And somehow, they succeeded." But Asael couldn¡¯t look away from the monstrous carving. Asael¡¯s breath caught in his throat as he stared at the grotesque carving on the wall. His fingers twitched at his side, his pulse hammering in his ears. The jagged lines, the monstrous form, the devouring hunger captured in its hollowed-out eyes¡ªhe knew it all too well. It was too familiar. A memory clawed its way to the surface, one he wished he could forget. The stench of burning flesh. The screams of the dying. The oppressive weight of a presence so vast, so all-consuming, that it threatened to crush the very air from his lungs. "It resembled the Demon King¡¯s true form." The words left his lips in a whisper, barely audible, yet they sent a chill through the room. Morris¡¯s expression darkened. He cast a sidelong glance at Asael, and for a fleeting moment, something flickered in his eyes¡ªconcern, maybe even fear. Then he exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of an unspoken burden. ¡°Then that¡¯s a big problem.¡± His voice was light, almost casual, but the tension beneath it was unmistakable. A silence followed, thick and suffocating. Morris¡¯s next words dropped like a stone in Asael¡¯s gut. ¡°Because, except for divine attacks, Gluttony is not affected by any other attack.¡± A deep, gnawing dread settled in Asael¡¯s chest. His fingers clenched into fists, his knuckles white. Damn it. A murmur of unease rippled through the group. No one spoke, but their shifting stances, the way some glanced toward the exit as if considering escape, spoke volumes. If that thing was anything like Gluttony¡­ How were they supposed to fight it? It was overwhelming. It was impossible. Asael forced himself to take a slow breath, pushing the panic down. His mind raced, clawing for something¡ªanything¡ªthey could use. He couldn¡¯t afford to let fear take hold. After a long pause, he exhaled sharply and shook his head. ¡°By the way, do you know any weaknesses of Tores?¡± Morris regarded him for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. Then, with a tilt of his head, he spoke. ¡°Well, I think you shouldn¡¯t give him time to cast his spells.¡± His voice was even, calm, but there was something else lurking beneath it¡ªa warning. ¡°And my suggestion?¡± Morris¡¯s lips curved slightly, though it was far from a smile. ¡°You don¡¯t fight him at your current level.¡± Asael stiffened. The words landed heavier than he expected. ¡°You all wouldn¡¯t stand a chance.¡± His jaw tightened. ¡°Why do you think so?¡± Morris leaned slightly forward, the glow of the moon catching the edges of his otherworldly form, making him seem even more unsettling than usual. ¡°Do you remember that three-headed ogre?¡± Asael frowned, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword. ¡°Yeah¡­ what about it?¡± Morris¡¯s next words sent an icy shudder down his spine. ¡°Well, it was created by Tores. He used ogres as sacrifices to make it.¡± A cold weight settled in Asael¡¯s stomach. Created? That thing¡ªits overwhelming strength, its unnatural regeneration, the way it had nearly crushed them beneath its claws¡ªwasn¡¯t born, but crafted? His heartbeat pounded in his ears. His fingers curled tighter around his weapon. Morris continued, his voice smooth, but there was a grimness in his tone that made Asael¡¯s skin crawl. ¡°And he must have more than just one or two of them.¡± The room seemed to shrink. The others exchanged uneasy glances, their faces pale. No one wanted to say it, but the truth was staring them in the face. That thing had nearly killed them. And Tores had more? Worse¡ªhe made them as if they were mere tools. It was madness. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Finally, Steven broke it, his voice hesitant. ¡°Perhaps¡­ we should approach from another side and avoid his territory?¡± Asael¡¯s shoulders sagged slightly. He hated it, but¡ª ¡°Yes. You¡¯re correct.¡± They had no choice. Charging into Tores¡¯s domain would be nothing short of suicide. They needed a plan. A different route. A way to fight on their own terms. Asael turned back to Morris, his voice quieter now, more measured. ¡°By the way¡­¡± He hesitated, then forced the words out. ¡°Can you not tell Tores about our meeting?¡± Morris let out a low chuckle. It wasn¡¯t amusement. It was pity. ¡°Sorry, that¡¯s not possible.¡± Asael¡¯s breath caught. ¡°What?¡± Morris¡¯s expression remained unchanged, but there was something colder in his gaze now, something almost¡­ detached. ¡°He already knows everything.¡± A slow, creeping dread curled around Asael¡¯s spine. ¡°Huh? What do you mean?¡± Morris tapped his temple with a single finger. ¡°From the moment you met me¡­ he was aware of you all.¡± Asael¡¯s blood turned to ice. "You see, whatever my eyes sees, they are conveyed to him on their own." The realization settled in like a death sentence. His heart pounded against his ribs. His hands shook. They had been watched. From the very start. And now, Tores knew everything. Town of beasts (1) The air in Beastwell Town was thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and damp fur. The pungent mix clung to the streets, carried by the wind that howled through narrow alleys lined with towering wooden structures. Fires flickered in iron braziers, casting long, jagged shadows that danced across the walls like lurking predators. No human walked freely here. This was a land of dominance, ruled entirely by beastmen¡ªfierce, untamed, and unwavering in their authority. At the heart of this brutal society stood Korran, a towering tiger beastman draped in regal armor. Every piece of his golden-plated chest piece gleamed under the torchlight, and his piercing eyes¡ªburning like molten gold¡ªheld an intensity that could shatter a man¡¯s resolve with a single glance. Strength, authority, and ruthlessness coiled around him like an unbreakable chain. Walking beside him was his most trusted aide, Morales. Unlike the brutish warriors that filled the town, Morales was a sleek, sharp-eyed wolfkin. His movements were silent, his steps calculated, his gaze always searching. He was not a warrior¡ªhe was a shadow, a whisper carried by the wind, a dagger poised to strike from the dark. As they walked through the chaotic streets, Morales spoke in a low, measured voice, his tone betraying no emotion. ¡°Our spies have noticed a group approaching, my lord.¡± Korran¡¯s ears twitched, and his golden eyes flicked toward his informant, his sharp gaze cutting through the flickering torchlight. ¡°Humans?¡± ¡°Yes. A group consisting of humans, an orc, and¡­¡± Morales hesitated for a moment before continuing, ¡°an elf.¡± Korran halted mid-step. A thick silence spread through the street as beastmen passing by instinctively moved aside, afraid of provoking their leader¡¯s ire. The tension coiled around them like a predator waiting to strike. Then, Korran¡¯s lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk. ¡°Hmm¡­ could they be the heroe and his group?¡± Morales gave a curt nod. ¡°Yes, my lord.¡± A deep, rumbling chuckle rolled from Korran¡¯s throat, low and menacing, like the distant growl of a storm. ¡°How long before they arrive?¡± ¡°Approximately five days.¡± Though Morales¡¯s voice remained composed, his tail flicked slightly, betraying a flicker of anticipation. Then, as if offering the final piece of a hunt to his master, he added¡ª ¡°The elf¡­ is the princess of the Elven Kingdom.¡± For a moment, the flickering torchlight seemed to gleam even brighter in Korran¡¯s golden eyes. A princess. The thrill of the hunt ignited in his chest, spreading through his limbs like wildfire. His grin widened, revealing razor-sharp fangs that glistened in the dim light. ¡°Excellent. Let''s invite them." "Invite my lord?" Morales puzzled. "Yeah, I have a great show prepared for them." Korran said. Without another word, he resumed walking, his heavy steps leading them toward the heart of the city. Toward the colossal structure where the beastmen gathered in the thousands, waiting for the one thing that fueled their very existence. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. Blood. The arena stood like a fortress carved from stone, towering over the rest of the city. Massive torches lined its walls, their flames casting a crimson glow over the eager crowd. The scent of metal and sweat filled the air, mingling with the guttural roars of beastmen who had gathered for a single purpose. To witness carnage. From the lowest-ranking beastmen to the highest warriors, they filled the stands, their voices merging into a chaotic, deafening symphony. Some barked out bets, their claws clinking against the coins in their palms. Others bared their fangs, saliva dripping in anticipation of the bloodshed to come. At the very front of the stadium stood the arena¡¯s announcer¡ªa flamboyantly dressed duckkin with a voice that could carry over the wildest of crowds. His feathered arms spread wide, his chest puffed out as he addressed the masses. ¡°Welcome, ladies and gentlebeasts!¡± he bellowed, his voice cutting through the uproar like a blade. The arena erupted with cheers, stomps, and howls. ¡°Today, we have a most spectacular battle prepared just for you!¡± He gestured toward the very center of the blood-stained pit, where two fighters stood, their chains rattling as they were released from their bindings. ¡°On one side! A wild, untamed orc¡ªborn in the depths of savagery!¡± The orc let out a guttural snarl, his muscles bulging beneath his thick, scarred skin. He slammed a massive fist against his chest, the impact echoing like a war drum, his teeth bared in unrestrained fury. His eyes glowed with the burning hunger of a caged beast finally unleashed. Pure, raw rage. ¡°And on the other side! A former human soldier¡ªonce proud, now fighting for his life!¡± The human stood tall, though the weight of exhaustion pressed against his shoulders. His face was a mask of calm, yet his eyes held a storm of emotions¡ªdetermination, regret, and the quiet acceptance of fate. His fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of his rusted sword, the knuckles pale, his grip unwavering. He had seen too many battles. And perhaps, in the depths of his heart, he knew this might be his last. The crowd roared in response. ¡°Place your bets, place your bets!¡± Coins clattered into the betting pools as beastmen eagerly shouted their wagers, voices merging into a chaotic frenzy. Korran leaned back against the railing, watching the fighters with interest. Then, he turned to Morales, amusement lingering in his voice. ¡°So, Morales¡­ who do you think will win?¡± Morales crossed his arms, his tail flicking lazily. ¡°Hmph. I put my money on the orc.¡± Korran let out a deep, guttural chuckle. ¡°Interesting. I bet on the human.¡± The announcer lifted his wing high, the tension thickening as the crowd held its breath. ¡°Let the battle¡­ BEGIN!¡± The chains dropped. The orc roared, a sound so feral it sent a shudder through the earth. The human exhaled, lifting his blade with practiced ease, his feet sliding into a steady stance. And then¡ª The orc roared as he charged forward, his massive frame a blur of raw muscle and fury. His thunderous footsteps sent tremors through the ground, rattling the loose dust and sand beneath him. His fists, thick as tree trunks and hardened by the brutality of countless battles, swung with the force of a wrecking ball, seeking to crush his opponent in a single decisive blow. But the human soldier was faster. At the last possible moment, he twisted his body, sidestepping the deadly strike with only inches to spare. His boots scraped against the dirt, sending a cloud of dust into the air as he fought to maintain balance. The orc, undeterred by the missed attack, let out another feral growl, his yellowed tusks glistening with saliva as he lunged forward once more. This time, the human was ready. He had studied the orc¡¯s movements, the predictable shifts in his weight, the telegraphed swings of his fists. With precise footwork, he evaded the second charge and retaliated with a swift, calculated strike. His rusted sword, dulled from overuse but still deadly in skilled hands, sliced across the orc¡¯s knee. The blade found its mark between thick muscles, severing tendons. The orc howled in agony, staggering as his leg buckled beneath him. Pain twisted his features into a grotesque snarl, but the human gave him no time to recover. He dashed forward, using the orc¡¯s moment of weakness, and drove his sword straight into the creature¡¯s throat. A spray of hot blood filled the air, spattering across the arena floor. The orc gurgled, clawing at the wound, his massive body swaying before finally collapsing with a thunderous thud. His lifeless eyes stared into nothingness, the fight drained from them forever. For a moment, silence blanketed the arena. Then¡ª "The human wins!!" The crowd erupted into a chaotic symphony of cheers and curses. Coins exchanged hands as gamblers either celebrated their winnings or lamented their losses. Up in the stands, Korran chuckled, leaning back in satisfaction. "Look, Morales. I won the bet." The wolfkin standing beside him, though clearly displeased, gave a slow nod. "Yes, my lord¡­ but how did you predict the outcome?" Korran¡¯s golden eyes gleamed as he watched the victorious human stagger, exhausted but alive. "Humans have great potential, Morales. One should never underestimate them, no matter the situation." From his tone, it might seem admiration for humans. But it was far from the truth. The battle had ended, but the horror of Beastwell¡¯s Blood Arena never ceased. As the next match was announced¡ªhuman soldier was forced to fight another human¡ªKorran and Morales left the stands, descending into the depths of the coliseum. The air grew heavier, thick with the stench of blood, sweat, and decay. Flickering torches lined the damp stone corridors, casting twisted shadows against iron-barred cages stacked atop one another like a grotesque slaughterhouse. Inside, the prisoners waited. Humans. Orcs. Dwarves. Elves. Captives of the beastmen, stripped of dignity and hope. They were chained like animals, their wrists and ankles bound in rusted shackles so tight that raw wounds festered beneath them. Some prisoners bore bruises, others carried the cruel marks of whips, their skin torn open, their blood dried into dark crusts over old scars. The air was alive with misery. Some wept, their sobs weak and hollow. Others clung to the bars of their cages, their skeletal hands trembling as they reached for food that would never come. The most unfortunate ones had lost limbs in the arena, yet instead of receiving care, they had been left to rot. The floor beneath them was stained crimson, old and fresh blood mingling in a sickening testament to their suffering. For these prisoners, there was no rescue. No mercy. No future. Only death awaited them. Korran walked past the wailing, the desperate pleas, his boots squelching against the filth-soaked ground. He barely spared the prisoners a glance¡ªuntil he reached a particular cell. Unlike the others, this prisoner did not beg. He did not scream. He did not plead for food or freedom. He sat in the darkness, his back against the cold stone wall, his wrists bound in chains far thicker than the rest. Once, his silver hair had gleamed under the sun. Now, it was matted with grime, tangled from months of neglect. His pointed ears twitched ever so slightly as Korran approached, but he did not raise his head. Korran grinned. "How have you been, Prince?" Slowly, the prisoner lifted his gaze. Even in the dim torchlight, his emerald-green eyes burned with defiance. He was none other than the prince of the Elven Kingdom. And more importantly¡ª He was Lily¡¯s elder brother. But he said nothing. Not a single word. Korran¡¯s grin widened. "I have good news for you." His voice dripped with amusement as he leaned closer. "Your dear little sister will be here soon." The prince did not react. But Korran could feel it. The shift in his posture, the subtle clench of his fists, the slight rattle of his chains. It was slight, almost imperceptible¡ªbut it was enough. The seed of despair had been planted. Satisfied, Korran turned and walked away, his laughter echoing through the dungeon like a lingering curse. The moment the beastman ruler was gone, the prince¡¯s fist slammed against the stone floor. His teeth clenched, his entire body trembling with frustration. "Damn it¡­!" His voice was hoarse, worn from months of captivity. Rage and helplessness warred within him, burning through his veins like wildfire. From the next cell over, a rough, gravelly voice spoke. "Don¡¯t lose hope, child. That bastard could be lying." The prince turned his head. In the dim light, he could barely make out the withered frame of an old dwarf. His once-powerful body was frail now, weakened by time and suffering, but his eyes¡ªhis eyes still held the fire of a warrior. This was no ordinary prisoner. This was the King of the Dwarves. The prince let out a shaky breath. "I know¡­" he murmured. But his hands wouldn¡¯t stop shaking. He pressed his forehead against the cold stone wall, whispering a silent prayer. "I just hope¡­ Lily doesn¡¯t come here." Town of beasts (2) Once, Leinart was a land of glory and honor¡ªone of the kingdom¡¯s greatest territories, where warriors from all corners of the realm gathered to test their strength in the grand arena. It was a place where knights, mercenaries, and adventurers sought fame, where battles were fought not for bloodshed but for honor. The roars of the crowd, the clashing of steel, and the songs of victory once defined this city. But that golden age was gone. Ever since the Demon King¡¯s conquest, Leinart had been twisted beyond recognition. The proud city had been renamed Beastwell, and its streets no longer echoed with the cheers of spectators. Now, they pulsed with the guttural growls and savage howls of beastmen. The once-glorious arena, where champions were crowned, had become a wretched coliseum soaked in blood and despair. No longer was it a place where warriors tested their mettle. Now, it was a pit of torment where humans, elves, dwarves, and orcs were forced to fight¡ªnot for honor, but for the twisted amusement of their new overlords. They were no longer warriors. They were slaughtered like animals. The noble lords and fair maidens who once filled the arena¡¯s seats had been replaced by jeering beastmen, their claws clicking against rusted metal cups as they placed bets on which unfortunate soul would die first. The air reeked of sweat, blood, and the sickening scent of rotten meat. Beneath the arena, in the dark, suffocating depths, the once-prestigious warrior chambers had been turned into a nightmarish dungeon. Chains clanked in the darkness. The moans of the wounded and dying blended with the distant roars of the beastmen above. Despair lingered like a thick fog, pressing against the minds of those trapped inside. And at the center of it all, ruling over Beastwell with an iron claw, was Korran, the tigerkin warlord. Korran was cruel. His rule was absolute, his judgment swift and merciless. Any who dared to challenge him were crushed without hesitation. To the beastmen, he was a mighty king, a protector who had given them a home, a ruler who demanded loyalty but offered strength in return. To everyone else, he was a tyrant. Under his command, Beastwell had grown into a fortress of beastmen supremacy. He used human ingenuity and dwarven craftsmanship to expand his domain, forcing prisoners to build his empire even as they wasted away under his watchful gaze. He was death, wrapped in fur and sinew. In his human form, he moved with terrifying grace, his claws striking faster than a man could blink. His enemies barely had time to scream before he silenced them. But when he shed his human skin, taking on his full beast form, he became a force of nature¡ªtowering, monstrous, capable of tearing soldiers apart with nothing but raw, unrelenting strength. And beneath him, serving as his most trusted warriors, were five beasts¡ªeach a nightmare in their own right: The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Morales, the wolfkin ¨C A master of shadows, slipping through the darkness to gather secrets and strike unseen. Borris, the bearkin ¨C A walking wall of muscle, capable of reducing stone and steel to rubble with a single blow. Kelly, the foxkin ¨C A cunning sorceress, weaving illusions and fire to burn her enemies to nothing. Kevin, the monkeykin ¨C Unpredictable, chaotic, fighting with an acrobat¡¯s speed and a madman¡¯s cunning. Talon, the eaglekin ¨C A predator of the skies, his spear finding hearts before his enemies even knew he was there. And beyond them, an army of beastmen stood ready to tear apart anything that threatened their dominion. Deep within the forest outside Beastwell, a small group of warriors stood in a tense circle. The towering trees swayed gently in the morning breeze, their whispers doing little to ease the tension that gripped the gathering. Asael stood at the center, his expression grim. His hand rested on the hilt of his blade, but he did not draw it. There was no enemy before him¡ªonly the weight of what lay ahead. Steven had just finished speaking. His words hung in the air like a funeral toll. Silence followed. The mission pressed down on them, a suffocating weight that none could ignore. "It is not wise to fight him head-on," Steven finally said again, his voice quiet, yet firm. "Even if we manage to kill him, the beastmen won¡¯t stop. They¡¯ll hunt us to the ends of the earth." The others shifted uneasily. No one wanted to admit it, but they all knew he was right. To challenge Korran and his warriors in open battle was not courage. It was suicide. "We need more information," Asael muttered, his gaze fixed on the distant walls of Beastwell. From here, they could see only the large buildings in the city. But they knew. Somewhere in that cursed city, people were suffering. And time was slipping through their fingers like grains of sand. They had to act. But kenta focus was elsewhere. A ripple ran through him, a sudden stiffness in his posture. His eyes locked onto a trembling bush a few feet ahead, his breath hitching in his throat. His hand found the hilt of his dagger. Fingers curled around it with quiet intensity. ¡°What is it?¡± Anne¡¯s voice was barely above a whisper, but in the suffocating silence, it might as well have been a shout. Kenta¡¯s heart pounded against his ribs. ¡°Something¡¯s there.¡± The bush quivered again, just slightly. Barely noticeable. But to Kenta, it might as well have been a drumbeat announcing danger. He took a cautious step forward, eyes narrowing, muscles coiled tight. Then¡ª ¡°PEEKABOO!¡± A blur of motion. A figure burst from the undergrowth, wild and sudden, like a specter given form. Kenta reeled back, his heart slamming against his ribs as his hand instinctively yanked his weapon free. The moment stretched, tension snapping tight before his eyes could process what he was seeing. A beastman. Not one of the towering, fearsome figures he had imagined, but a lean, nimble creature clad in a jester-like mask. His long tail flicked behind him with restless energy, and his entire body trembled¡ªnot with rage, but with amusement. A monkey. Laughter rang through the clearing, bright and sharp as shattered glass. ¡°AHAHAHA! You got scared, little kid!¡± The beastman slapped his knee, doubled over with glee. Kenta clenched his jaw, heat rushing to his face. ¡°Who are you?¡± he demanded, voice taut with frustration. The monkey straightened, his grin visible even beneath his mask. ¡°My name is Kevin! The very same monkey you were whispering about!¡± The moment his name left his lips, steel hissed through the air. Steven¡¯s sword glinted under the pale moonlight, its tip aimed directly at Kevin¡¯s throat. The amusement in Kevin¡¯s posture didn¡¯t fade, but something sharpened behind his eyes, a flicker of calculation. Kevin raised his hands in mock surrender, his tail curling lazily behind him. ¡°Whoa, whoa, easy there! No need to get all dramatic.¡± He wiggled his fingers in a ridiculous manner, striking an exaggerated pose. ¡°Seriously, put that sword away before you hurt yourself.¡± Asael¡¯s gaze darkened. ¡°Then why are you here?¡± Kevin smirked, tilting his head. ¡°I¡¯m here to invite you to Beastwell. By Lord Korran¡¯s orders.¡± Silence fell, thick and suffocating. The kind of silence that followed a revelation that no one wanted to acknowledge. An invitation. Asael¡¯s stomach twisted. He didn¡¯t need to say it out loud. He didn¡¯t need to glance at his companions to know they were thinking the same thing. It was a trap. Steven¡¯s grip on his sword tightened. ¡°So what?¡± His voice was cold, unforgiving. ¡°If we kill you now, that¡¯s one less problem to deal with.¡± Kevin let out a mock gasp. ¡°Oh, you¡¯re absolutely right!¡± He clapped his hands together as if genuinely delighted by the idea. ¡°But¡­¡± His eyes gleamed as he lifted a single finger, pointing toward the sky. ¡°He won¡¯t let that happen.¡± Everyone looked up. The sky cloud twisted, shapes forming where before there had been nothing. And then, they saw them. Dozens of shadowy figures gliding soundlessly above, hidden by the thick canopy. Wings stretched wide, claws curled, silent predators lurking in the darkness. A gust of wind stirred the air. Then, with a heavy thud, something massive landed in front of them. Dust curled around his towering frame as he straightened, his wings folding against his back like a dark mantle. His talons flexed against the earth, carving deep grooves into the soil. A beastman. Not just any beastman¡ª Talon. He didn¡¯t speak. He didn¡¯t need to. The raw menace that rolled off him was enough. His piercing gaze, sharp as a hawk¡¯s, locked onto them, measuring, weighing. The scars crisscrossing his muscular form told stories of bloodshed and survival. The forest rippled with movement. Shadows detached from the trees, stepping forward. Dozens of beastmen emerged, their eyes glinting with hunger and something worse¡ªcertainty. They had been surrounded from the start. Kevin stretched, cracking his neck. ¡°So, where were we?¡± His voice was light, but beneath it lurked something razor-edged. ¡°Oh right, the part where you were going to kill me.¡± Talon took a single step forward. The ground beneath his claws sank. His gaze locked onto Steven, unblinking. Predatory. His body coiled, like a spring wound too tight, moments from release. Steven¡¯s knuckles whitened around his sword. The tension was suffocating. Asael could feel it pressing down on them, heavy and unrelenting. If they fought now¡­ They would all die. Kevin sighed dramatically. ¡°Stop it, Talon! We need them alive!¡± For a moment, Talon didn¡¯t move. His piercing stare never wavered, as though testing them, judging their worth. Then, with the slow deliberation of a beast conceding to a leash, he stepped back. The killing intent in the air lingered like smoke, but the immediate threat had passed. Kevin clapped his hands. ¡°Whew! That was close! I thought we were about to have an unfortunate little massacre.¡± Then he turned, all easygoing charm, toward Asael. ¡°So what do you say now?¡± Asael exhaled slowly, his mind racing. The pieces were falling into place, and none of them were in their favor. But if they played this right¡­ If they bided their time¡­ Maybe they could turn the board. ¡°Fine.¡± His voice was calm. But inside, he was already planning. Kevin grinned wide, eyes glinting like a fox who had just cornered its prey. ¡°That''s the spirit! Welcome to Beastwell, my dear guests.¡± Town of beasts (3) The golden morning light poured over Beastwell, casting long shadows that stretched across the cobblestone streets. The town was awake, alive, a stark contrast to the bloodstained arena that loomed in the distance like a silent reminder of a different world. Markets bustled with activity, their stalls overflowing with fresh fruits, exotic fabrics, and finely crafted trinkets. Vendors called out in melodic tones, their voices weaving into the background of everyday life. Laughter spilled from beastmen women gathered in circles, chatting over woven baskets filled with the day''s purchases. Among them, workers set out for their morning duties¡ªmuscular lionkin blacksmiths hammering metal with rhythmic precision, towering bearkin laborers hauling crates with ease, and sleek foxkin merchants negotiating deals with smooth confidence. The town pulsed with motion, a symphony of footsteps, clinking metal, and the rustling of goods being shuffled from one hand to another. But it was the children who brought the most life to the town. A group of little beastmen tore down the cobblestone path, their voices bright with laughter. A tiny rhino boy thundered ahead, his small horn barely poking from his forehead, each step a heavy stomp. A dog beastkin pup dashed beside him, his tail wagging wildly, his excitement boundless. A hawk beastkin flapped his arms as he ran, his tiny wings twitching as if willing himself to take flight. And trailing behind them, a little cat beastkin girl¡ªher bright eyes filled with the simple joy of the chase. She didn¡¯t see the uneven stone in her path. Her foot caught. She tumbled forward, a small gasp escaping her lips before she hit the ground. Ouch! Before she could push herself up, gentle hands lifted her. "You should be careful." She blinked up in awe, her scraped knee forgotten. Standing before her was Kelly, the fox mage. The morning sun caught the golden strands of her hair, making them shimmer like spun light. Her long robes, deep violet with silver embroidery, billowed softly in the breeze. Her golden eyes, warm yet firm, studied Selene with quiet amusement. Beside her stood Borris, a massive bearkin whose sheer size alone could make anyone cower. But his expression was soft, his kind eyes betraying the intimidating presence he carried. "Kelly! I am a big fan!" The cat girl gasped, her pain already an afterthought. At her words, the other children immediately rushed over, their excitement spilling over like an overflowing cup. The rhino boy stomped his foot eagerly. "Mr. Borris, what do I have to do to be as strong as you?" The dog beastkin wagged his tail. "Mr. Borris, can you arrange a meeting with Mr. Morales?" The hawk beastkin flapped his arms again, practically bouncing in place. "Miss Kelly, what about Mr. Talon? Can I meet him?" Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. Kelly let out a soft laugh, lifting a delicate hand. "Calm down, little ones. They¡¯re all busy, but we¡¯ll see what we can do." To these children, Korran¡¯s generals weren¡¯t warriors of war. They weren¡¯t soldiers who bathed in blood and violence. They were legends. Each of them held a different charm in the eyes of the younger generation. Kelly was the intelligent and composed mage, the embodiment of wisdom and grace. Borris, despite his hulking form, was simple and soft-spoken, a figure of strength wrapped in kindness. Talon was the serious, disciplined warrior¡ªadmired but also feared, the one who never smiled. Morales was a shadow, barely seen, his name whispered like a myth. And then there was Kevin. Kevin was different. Wild. Unpredictable. Chaotic. He wasn¡¯t admired in the same way the others were. To most, he was reckless, a storm without direction. But to some of the children, he was something else. A fun older brother. The kind who caused trouble but always made sure you laughed along the way. Then¡ª The sound of distant shouting split through the warm air. "Make way! Make way!" Heads turned. The playful chatter died down. Kevin came sprinting down the street, his arms flailing in exaggerated motions, a manic grin stretched across his face. The children scattered, watching with wide eyes as dust kicked up in his wake. But Kevin wasn¡¯t alone. Behind him¡ª A group of outsiders. Asael and his companions. Bound. Surrounded by beastmen guards. The mood shifted in an instant. The warmth of the morning faded, replaced by something heavier, something colder. The laughter was gone. The children, who had been running and playing just moments ago, now stood frozen in place, their wide eyes locked onto the newcomers. Because they knew. Humans and other outsiders did not walk freely in Beastwell. And when they arrived, it never meant anything good. "Humans." The word slithered through the town like a venomous whisper, spreading from mouth to mouth, ear to ear. The once lively streets of Beastwell stilled, as if a cold wind had swept through and stolen the warmth of morning. Eyes turned. Glares sharpened. The beastmen, who had just moments ago been going about their day¡ªhaggling over fresh produce, hammering steel in their forges, laughing with their families¡ªnow stood frozen, staring at the group of outsiders being led through their home. Mothers pulled their children close, shielding them with protective arms. The little ones peeked out, their small faces filled with something more than curiosity¡ªfear. Not one of them greeted Asael and his companions. Not one of them offered so much as a nod. Instead, the air became thick, heavy with something unspoken yet undeniable. Hatred. It was in the way the merchants gripped their wares as if expecting them to be stolen. It was in the way the blacksmiths clenched their hammers, their muscles tensing as though preparing for battle. It was in the way the beastmen guards stood taller, hands resting on the hilts of their weapons. Asael and his group walked on, their steps uneven, uncertain, weighed down by the crushing presence of a town that did not welcome them. This was not what they had expected. They had braced for savagery. A land ruled by brute strength and barbarism. A place where beastmen lived like monsters, reveling in chaos and bloodshed. Instead, they found something disturbingly familiar. A town. A community. A home. But there was no warmth for them here. "Why are they here?" "Who allowed them in?" "Did they bring trouble?" The whispers chased their every step, some hushed, some openly spoken with sneering disdain. Asael felt the weight of every glance, the unmasked hostility seeping into his skin like poison. This was their land. Their territory, no, their home. And in it, he and his companions were the monsters. Borris, the towering bearkin, walked stiffly beside Kelly, his massive arms crossed over his chest. His usual, quiet demeanor had darkened into something tense, something wary. "Why did the lord bring them here?" he muttered under his breath, his deep voice gruff with unease. Kelly, ever composed, adjusted the sleeves of her robe. "I don¡¯t know," she admitted, her golden eyes flicking toward the growing crowd. "But let¡¯s trust Lord Korran." Without another word, she walked ahead. Borris hesitated, then followed. Kevin, of course, grinned as if nothing was wrong. But even he, the wildest of them all, kept his distance from Asael and the others. The heart of Beastwell was nothing like the rest of the town. Here, stone pillars rose like jagged fangs, surrounding a grand hall that loomed over everything else. Beasts of war¡ªmassive, armored creatures with glaring eyes and sharpened tusks¡ªstood chained at the entrance, their breaths coming in deep, rumbling huffs. And at the center of it all, seated upon an immense throne of carved stone, was Korran. His presence was a force unto itself. The moment Asael stepped inside, it hit him¡ªa pressure, a sheer commanding weight that made the air feel heavy, as though the very walls were leaning in, watching. Even seated, Korran¡¯s form was monumental. His battle-worn armor, etched with old scars and claw marks, barely concealed the sheer power of the body beneath it. His dark-striped fur rippled with each subtle movement, the muscles underneath shifting like coiled steel. And then there were his eyes. Golden. Piercing. Watching Asael like a predator watches its prey. Slowly, Korran leaned forward, his massive fingers tapping against the armrest of his throne. "Welcome, hero," he said at last, his deep voice rolling through the hall, calm yet edged with something unreadable. His lips curled into a smirk, baring the hint of sharp fangs. Asael¡¯s fists clenched at the greeting, his spine stiffening. He refused to falter beneath that stare. "Why did you call us here?" Korran tilted his head slightly, studying him, his expression unreadable. Then he leaned back, the smirk widening. "I have something to show you." A pause. Asael narrowed his eyes. "To us? What is it?" Korran¡¯s claws tapped against the stone, slow, deliberate. "Not today," he said. "Tomorrow." His gaze swept over Asael¡¯s group, gleaming with amusement at their evident frustration. "For now, rest. You may use that house." He gestured lazily toward a stone building outside the hall, as if the decision was nothing more than an afterthought. Asael ground his teeth, but he knew there was no choice. They were surrounded. Outnumbered. Watched. One wrong move here could mean death. He exhaled sharply, forcing the tension from his shoulders. "Fine." But just as he turned to leave¡ª Korran¡¯s voice dropped, low and quiet. "Oh¡­ and one more thing." Asael stopped. The room seemed to darken, the very air thickening with an unseen weight. "Don''t do anything foolish." The golden in Korran¡¯s eyes gleamed, cold and unyielding, his voice lowering to something almost a growl. "You are in my territory now." It was not a warning. It was a promise. Town of beasts (4) Korran sat upon his stone throne, his massive frame casting long shadows against the flickering torchlight. His golden eyes, sharp and unyielding, scanned the three figures standing before him. Though they had served him faithfully for years, none of them could meet his gaze without feeling the weight of his presence¡ªa presence that was suffocating, like a predator watching its prey. Morales, Kelly, and Borris stood in tense silence, waiting for his command. The room was eerily still, save for the occasional crackle of the fire. Finally, Borris, the bearkin warrior, took a step forward. His muscles were taut, his usual confidence laced with unease. ¡°My lord, may I ask a question?¡± Korran exhaled through his nose, his lips curving ever so slightly. He already knew what his subordinate was about to ask. ¡°I can see the question in your eyes, Borris,¡± he said, voice deep and smooth like a growl beneath his breath. ¡°You want to know why I brought those humans here.¡± Borris gave a stiff nod. ¡°Yes, my lord.¡± Korran leaned back against his throne, claws drumming idly against the armrest. His gaze flickered to each of them, measuring their reactions before speaking. ¡°As you all know, Movok is dead.¡± The words were spoken without ceremony, but their weight crashed into the room like a thunderclap. Morales, ever calculating, narrowed his eyes slightly. Kelly cast a solemn glance downward, while Borris tightened his fists. They had all known it was coming, but hearing it aloud made it real. Just like their lord, Movok was one of three Demon King¡¯s general. He was much stronger than them. Korran¡¯s voice remained calm, measured. ¡°His absence will slow demon king supply chain.¡± No one spoke. They all knew what he meant. The humans taken from raids¡ªtheir captives¡ªwere the resources. Morales, ever perceptive, tilted his head slightly. ¡°You intend to replace him.¡± Korran let out a low, satisfied growl. ¡°No¡­ I intend to secure something superior.¡± Kelly¡¯s eyes flickered with understanding. ¡°The hero and his party.¡± A slow smirk spread across Korran¡¯s face. ¡°Exactly.¡± Silence followed, heavy with unspoken questions. Then Kelly, ever the strategist, spoke again. ¡°Then why bring them here? Why not capture them?¡± Her voice carried an edge, but Korran was unbothered. In fact, he chuckled. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. ¡°Because they are strong,¡± he answered simply. ¡°A direct fight would cost us as much as it would them.¡± His golden eyes glowed with a cruel amusement. ¡°But if we break them first¡­ If they surrender their will¡­ Then they will become our resources willingly.¡± Borris took a step forward, his expression darkening. ¡°And if they refuse?¡± Korran¡¯s smirk did not waver. ¡°They have no other choice.¡± --- As the sky melted into shades of deep orange and violet, Beastwell¡¯s streets began to empty. The warm glow of lanterns flickered in the windows of homes, casting shadows along the stone paths. Most of the town had settled in for the night. But in one narrow alley, four small figures moved carefully between the shadows. The young cat beastkin, crept silently along the walls, her golden eyes flickering with determination. Behind her, the rhino, dog, and hawk beastmen followed hesitantly, their steps quieter than usual. ¡°Are you sure this is okay?¡± the rhino beastkin whispered, his voice uncertain. She didn¡¯t hesitate. ¡°We have to watch them.¡± The dog beastkin, always wary, crossed his arms. ¡°Yeah! We can¡¯t trust humans.¡± The others nodded. They had been told since they were old enough to listen¡ªhumans were cruel creatures. They invaded, hunted, captured. They saw beastmen as monsters to be slain or slaves to be broken. And yet¡­ these humans hadn¡¯t hurt anyone. Not yet. Young cat pressed her back against the stone wall, peeking around the corner. Asael¡¯s group was just ahead, moving through the alley. They weren¡¯t talking much. Just walking, their expressions unreadable. ¡°Come on,¡± she whispered, motioning for the others to follow. Quietly, carefully, they trailed behind. Then¡ª One of them vanished. The group froze. ¡°W-Where did he go?¡± She whispered, ears twitching. ¡°I just saw him¡ª¡± A voice spoke from right behind them. ¡°What are you all doing?¡± A chill ran down their spines. The children yelled in surprise. Young cat jumped so hard that she lost her balance, tumbling backward into the rhino beastkin. The hawk beastkin, startled, flapped his wings in panic, only to crash into the dog. They collapsed onto the ground in a tangled heap. Standing behind them, arms crossed, was Steven. His sharp gaze studied them with a mixture of amusement and intrigue. A slow smirk tugged at his lips. ¡°What?!¡± The little dog beastkin¡¯s ears perked up in shock. ¡°Run!!¡± young cat shouted. Without hesitation, the group of children scattered, their small forms slipping into the dimly lit streets like shadows vanishing into the night. Their tiny feet pounded against the ground, hearts hammering in their chests. But then¡ª Thud! A sharp yelp of pain cut through the air. The little dog beastkin had fallen, his body curled up as he clutched his leg. Blood seeped through the fur, a jagged stone now slick with red lying beside him. ¡°Oh no!¡± young cat gasped, skidding to a halt. The others hesitated, torn between instinct and loyalty. Running was safer, but their friend was hurt. Before they could react, footsteps approached¡ªcalm and measured. Anne. She moved without hesitation, her soft presence somehow even more startling than the looming threat of capture. Kneeling beside the injured child, she gazed at him with an expression far different from the cruelty they had been warned about. "Hey, are you alright?" she asked, her voice laced with warmth. The little dog beastkin flinched. His breath hitched, fear locking his limbs in place. His mother¡¯s warnings echoed in his mind. Never trust humans. They kill our kind. They took your father away. And yet¡ª A golden light shimmered around her hands. Warmth spread over his wound as the glow wrapped around his leg like a soothing embrace. The sharp sting of pain dulled, then faded entirely. Torn skin closed, leaving no trace of the injury. The little dog beastkin stared at his leg in stunned silence. He flexed his paw. It didn¡¯t hurt anymore. Anne smiled gently. "Are you okay now?" she asked again. He hesitated. His ears twitched, his tail curling slightly. Then, in a small, unsteady voice, he whispered, ¡°You¡­ you won¡¯t hurt me?¡± His wide, golden eyes locked onto hers, searching for something¡ªdoubt, cruelty, deception. But there was none. Anne¡¯s smile faltered. "Why would I?" she asked softly. Silence stretched between them. The little dog beastkin swallowed hard, his small hands clenching into fists. "Because my mother told me... Humans killed my father." The words fell like heavy stones into the still night air. Anne froze. Her hands, still faintly glowing, slowly lowered. She had no words. No apology could erase the pain behind that simple truth. A sharp voice broke the silence. "Hey! Run away!" The other beastkin had already started fleeing, calling for him. The little dog hesitated a moment longer, his ears flicking back, eyes darting between Anne and his friends. Then, without another word, he turned and ran. Anne watched his small figure disappear into the darkness, an unfamiliar weight settling in her chest. "Hero," Anne murmured after a long pause, turning to him. "What do you think about them?" Asael let out a slow breath, his gaze lingering in the direction where the beastkin children had vanished. The town had been watching them all day. Beastmen peered from doorways, their eyes filled with quiet wariness. Adults whispered amongst themselves. Children clung to their parents'' sides, their small bodies tense with fear. Fear. The same fear humans held for monsters lurking beyond their walls. The same hatred humans reserved for creatures they were told to exterminate. And yet, standing here, in this town where beastmen lived, laughed, and loved, Asael couldn''t see them as the monsters they were supposed to fight. They weren¡¯t monsters at all. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Asael admitted after a moment, his voice quieter than before. ¡°But they¡¯re far from what we thought they were.¡± Since their arrival, they had been met with nothing but silence and cold stares. Nobody spoke to them. Nobody welcomed them. Even the one exception¡ªKevin, the wild monkey beastkin¡ªhad known little. But tomorrow, that would change. A "show" was being prepared. And the only thing they knew for certain was that every single beastman in this town had been hurt by humans. It wasn¡¯t surprising. The kingdom had flourished off of beastmen slavery for generations. Asael had seen it firsthand¡ªnoble houses treating beastmen as property, caging them behind gilded walls, stripping them of their freedom. A grudge was expected. But there was something worse beneath it all. Something deeper. Something neither he nor Anne understood yet. A slow exhale left Asael¡¯s lips as he rubbed his temples, exhaustion creeping into his bones. "Well," he muttered, "let''s see what happens next." Town of beasts (5) The morning sun hung high, casting long shadows over the Beastwell Arena. The stands were packed with beastmen of all kinds¡ªwolves, lions, rhinos, eagles, and more¡ªcheering, growling, and laughing as they eagerly awaited the day''s spectacle. On a raised podium, Asael sat stiffly, his hands clenched into fists. Beside him, Korran lounged comfortably, a smug grin playing on his lips. He turned to Asael, his golden eyes glinting with amusement. ¡°So, hero,¡± Korran said, stretching his arms lazily. ¡°How was yesterday? Enjoying your stay?¡± Asael didn¡¯t answer immediately. His mind was still reeling from everything he had seen. The beastmen were nothing like he had imagined¡ªnot monsters, not savages, but people. A town filled with families, children, laughter, and life. He exhaled, eyes narrowing as he turned to face Korran. ¡°Why don¡¯t you stop working for the Demon King?¡± Asael finally asked, his voice firm. Korran raised an eyebrow before chuckling. ¡°What?¡± ¡°Your people are innocent,¡± Asael continued, his tone unwavering. ¡°They love you. If you stop this madness, I¡¯ll make sure they stay safe. I¡¯ll make sure others forgive you.¡± Korran stilled. For a second, just a second, Asael thought he saw something flicker in the beastman lord¡¯s expression. But then¡ª Korran threw his head back and laughed. A deep, cruel, mocking laugh. ¡°Forgive me?¡± Korran scoffed, his fangs flashing. ¡°Don¡¯t make me laugh, human.¡± His golden eyes darkened, his voice dropping into something more dangerous. "I don''t need your forgiveness. I don¡¯t need your pity.¡± He leaned in slightly, his aura suffocating. "What I want is simple. The destruction of your kind.¡± Asael''s breath caught in his throat. Korran wasn''t just angry. He was consumed by hatred. Before Asael could say anything, a loud voice rang across the arena. "LADIES AND GENTLEBEASTS!" Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. The announcer, a tall duck beastkin in a flamboyant red coat, spread his wings wide. "Are you ready for today¡¯s battle?!" A deafening roar shook the arena. ¡°YES!¡± The crowd stomped their feet, the excitement in their voices like a wave crashing over Asael. His unease grew. Then¡ª The gates on the far side of the arena creaked open. Two figures stumbled out. Humans. Their wrists and ankles were bound in heavy iron chains. Their faces were pale, drenched in fear. One of them¡ªa man no older than twenty¡ªlooked up at the roaring crowd, his whole body trembling. The other, a woman, had bruises on her arms as if she had been struggling before being dragged here. Asael''s heartbeat quickened. ¡°Good! Today¡¯s fight will be¡ªHUMAN vs. HUMAN!!¡± The duck¡¯s voice echoed. ¡°PLACE YOUR BETS!!¡± The cheers only grew louder. Asael stared, his stomach twisting. This isn¡¯t happening. The two captives were shoved forward. A pair of beastmen guards tossed swords at their feet. The weapons clattered against the bloodstained sand. The young man swallowed hard, glancing at the terrified woman beside him. Neither of them moved. ¡°Fight,¡± growled one of the guards. ¡°Or die.¡± A heavy silence fell. The woman trembled, shaking her head. Tears welled in her eyes. The man¡¯s breathing turned ragged. Then¡ªhis hand, trembling, slowly reached for the sword. Asael shot to his feet. ¡°WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!¡± he roared. His voice boomed through the arena. But nobody cared. The beastmen laughed, cheered, and placed their bets, as if this was just another game. Asael¡¯s hands shook with rage. Two innocent people, forced to butcher each other for amusement. Korran sighed beside him, unimpressed. ¡°Sit down, hero.¡± Asael turned to him, his eyes burning with fury. ¡°Using them like this, for entertainment¡ªyou¡¯re insane!¡± His fingers gripped the hilt of his sword. Korran¡¯s expression remained calm. Then¡ªhe leaned forward slightly, voice lowering. ¡°Think before you act, Asael.¡± A sinister smile crept across his face. "There are more humans than just these two." Asael¡¯s blood ran cold. His grip on his sword tightened¡ªthen loosened. Slowly, he sat back down, his teeth clenched. The fight had begun. And he was forced to watch. The cheers of the arena faded as Asael turned to Korran, his voice sharp with anger. "Why are you doing this? Why don¡¯t you just let them die in peace?" Korran smirked, leaning back in his seat as if he were discussing the weather. "You know what, hero? Many years ago, I fought in this same arena¡ªagainst my own brother." Asael¡¯s breath hitched. The crowd¡¯s roars blended with the echoes of the past as Korran continued, his voice laced with something unreadable. "The crowd back then? It was the same." His golden eyes swept across the beastmen in the stands. "The betting system? The same." His claws lightly tapped the armrest of his throne. "The only difference?" Korran¡¯s lips curled into a cruel smile. "Back then, it was humans watching us fight. And now? They¡¯re the ones inside the arena." Asael¡¯s fists clenched. Korran let out a soft chuckle. "You ask why I¡¯m doing this? My answer is simple: why did I fight back then? Was it not¡­ just for fun?" Asael felt something inside him snap. His knuckles turned white as he gritted his teeth. Below them, the arena¡¯s bloodstained sands were soaked once more. One of the humans had fallen, his lifeless body discarded like a broken doll. The survivor trembled, tears streaking his face. But there was no time to grieve. Another captive was dragged in from the opposite gate, chains clanking as they stumbled forward. The cycle began anew. A merciless, endless slaughter. Korran stood up. "Come, hero. There''s something else I wish to show you." His tail swayed as he walked away, expecting Asael to follow. Asael hesitated. But what choice did he have? His party trailed behind Korran, dread settling in their stomachs. The deeper they went, the colder the air became. The roars of the crowd above faded into wretched screams. A suffocating stench filled the halls¡ªa mix of sweat, rot, and despair. They had reached the prison. And what they saw shattered them. Humans, elves, orcs, and dwarves¡ªall crammed into filthy iron cells, barely recognizable as living beings. Their bodies were skeletal, their skin clinging to bone. Some reached out weakly through the bars, pleading for food, for water, for mercy. Others didn¡¯t even move. They had long given up. The sound of chains rattling and muffled sobs filled the corridor as they walked deeper into the abyss. With each step, the suffering grew worse. The cells at the farthest end¡­ were the worst of all. There, a fragile voice broke the silence. "Lily?!" A pair of hands shot out from the rusted bars, gripping the iron as if his life depended on it. A young man, his face gaunt and covered in bruises, stared in shock. "Brother!!" Lily ran forward, her fingers desperately reaching for him through the bars. Her eyes, once filled with light, now glistened with tears. "I thought you were dead!" Her brother swallowed hard, his lips trembling. "Just why are you here¡­?" He pressed his forehead against the cold iron, trying to hold back the pain of lost years. It was a cruel, pitiful reunion. One where hope felt like an illusion. Asael turned to Korran, his eyes burning with rage. "What do you want?!" he demanded. Korran chuckled, amused by Asael¡¯s anger. "Nothing much." He met Asael¡¯s glare, his golden eyes gleaming with wicked intent. "Just obediently become a sacrifice." A chill ran down Asael¡¯s spine. "What?" Korran smirked. "You must have heard about the Demon King¡¯s human sacrifices, no? I¡¯m talking about that." The weight of his words hit like a boulder. Asael¡¯s gaze darted to the prisoners. Some had gone silent. Others stared, waiting, hoping. If he refused¡­ they would all die. He took a shaky breath, then spoke through gritted teeth. "Fine. But release them first." Korran smiled. A liar¡¯s smile. "Sure." Asael knew. Korran had no intention of keeping his word. And yet¡­ He had no choice. Counter attack (1) The cold, iron chains bit into Asael¡¯s wrists, heavy with the weight of their impending fate. Beside him, Magnum, the Dwarf King, and Lily¡¯s brother, their faces grim, trudged forward under the watchful eyes of their captors. The beastmen guards sneered, their grips tight on the chains as they herded their prisoners forward like cattle. Each step away from Beastwell Town felt like another step closer to death. The road stretched endlessly beneath them, the sky an indifferent gray. Hope dwindled with every footfall. Steven and Giren clenched their fists, their bodies tense with restrained fury. "We can''t just walk to our deaths!" Steven hissed under his breath. Giren''s fingers curled around his chains, muscles flexing, ready to break free. But before they could act, Asael raised a hand. A silent command. A warning. The message was clear: "Not yet." They were not the only ones here. The prison back in Beastwell had been filled with humans, orcs, dwarves, and elves¡ªinnocent souls who would suffer if they acted rashly. If they rebelled now, Korran would not hesitate to slaughter them all. So, with teeth gritted and rage swallowed, they walked on. Enduring the jeers. The mockery. The looming specter of death. The dirt path crunched beneath their feet as the convoy pushed forward. The sun beat down. The chains rattled. And then¡­ Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. The air shifted. A thick, black smoke slithered into the air without warning. It was fast. Unnatural. "Hey, what''s going on?!" one of the beastmen growled, his ears twitching. The smoke curled around them, creeping into every space, until¡ª Visibility vanished. "I can''t see!" another beastman shouted. Panic spread like wildfire. The sound of shuffling boots and clinking weapons turned into cries of pain. "Who¡¯s hitting me?!" "Stop swinging, you idiot! You''re hitting our own men!" The darkness swallowed them whole. A presence moved within the chaos. The prisoners barely had time to react. A strange sensation wrapped around them¡ªgentle yet firm. And then¡ª Everything shifted. When Asael opened his eyes, the smoke was gone. The beastmen were gone. The chains were gone. Instead, they stood in a completely different place. The familiar dirt road had vanished, replaced by dense trees and thick undergrowth. The air felt different. The pressure that had been crushing their spirits only moments ago had lifted. Kenta rubbed his wrists where the chains had been, his voice laced with confusion. "What¡­ happened?" Magnum¡¯s eyes darted around, his warrior instincts on high alert. Then, realization dawned on his face. "Teleportation." He exhaled sharply. "Someone used that spell." Silence fell upon them. They were free. But the question lingered¡­ Who had saved them? It was then. A low, aged voice broke the tense silence. "Oh! You''re correct, elf prince." Everyone whirled around toward the source. A figure stood before them, draped in flowing purple robes that shimmered faintly under the dim light, like liquid amethyst catching the last breath of dusk. A deep hood obscured most of his face, but the presence he exuded was unmistakable. Despite the frailty of age evident in the slight stoop of his posture and the weathered lines on his hands, there was an undeniable force about him. Power radiated from his very being¡ªnot loud or oppressive, but patient, restrained, the quiet hum of a storm waiting to break. Then, his eyes¡ªsharp as steel, deep as the endless sky¡ªglowed with an intelligence that seemed to pierce through flesh and soul alike. Anne felt her breath quicken. An inexplicable sense of familiarity gripped her, a whisper of recognition echoing in the back of her mind. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice barely above a breath. The old mage smiled¡ªnot wide, not warm, but something in it sent a shiver through her bones. "My name is Hemel, Saintess." The title landed like a weight upon her chest. He knows who I am? How? Steven stiffened beside her, the realization dawning on him like a bolt of lightning. His voice, usually steady, wavered between shock and disbelief. "Wait¡­ are you that Hemel? The Lord of the Magic Tower?" A chuckle, low and knowing, rolled from the mage¡¯s throat. "Yes, as far as I know." A silence fell over them, heavy with the weight of his words. This was not just any mage. This was Hemel¡ªthe Chief of the Magic Tower, the most powerful sorcerer in the human kingdom. A legend whispered through the halls of scholars and warriors alike. A man whose name carried the weight of countless victories, unfathomable knowledge, and the kind of magic that defied understanding. That he would stand here, before them, outside his sacred domain¡ªwas unthinkable. For a moment, his presence seemed to stretch time itself, making even the air too thick to breathe. Before anyone could fully process the gravity of the situation¡ª Another voice rang out. Not aged. Not slow. This voice was young, strong, and commanding, like the steady strike of a war drum. "Are you all alright?" The group turned, hearts leaping into their throats. Anne¡¯s breath hitched. From the veil of shadows, a lone figure stepped forward. He was no ordinary man. Silver hair, like threads of moonlight, caught the faint glow of their surroundings. A regal red cape, embroidered with gold and bearing the proud insignia of the royal family, flowed behind him, barely rustling with each measured step. There was something in the way he carried himself¡ªan unshakable presence, firm yet effortless, like a mountain standing unyielding against the storm. His gaze held no doubt. No hesitation. Only the quiet, steady strength of a man who had been forged in the fires of duty and loss. The silence stretched taut between them. Anne¡¯s heart pounded violently against her ribs. Her lips parted, though no words came. Steven was the first to move. With a deep breath, he lowered his head in reverence, his voice steady but laced with a deep, aching respect. "I greet the rising sun of the kingdom, Your Highness, Crown Prince." A flicker of something passed through the young man¡¯s eyes. It wasn¡¯t pride. Nor relief. It was something far heavier. He exhaled slowly, and his next words carried the weight of a shattered past. "I am no longer a Crown Prince, young Duke. The kingdom no longer belongs to us." His words were not just a statement. They were a verdict. A truth that could not be undone. No longer a kingdom of men. No longer a land of honor. The Demon King had taken it all. Counter attack (2) The young man standing before them was Prince Sirius¡ªthe once-crowned heir to the human kingdom, now a ruler without a throne. His name had once echoed across the land, spoken with reverence by allies and whispered in fear by his enemies. Not just because of his royal blood, but because of the mind that resided behind those sharp silver eyes¡ªcalculated, precise, and unshaken even in the direst of situations. A prodigy unlike any before him. Even as a child, Sirius had surpassed the greatest scholars, warriors, and mages of his generation. His intellect cut through problems like a finely honed blade, his strategic mind shifting battlefields before a single sword was drawn. His magic¡ªpowerful, refined, and terrifying¡ªhad caught the attention of the Magic Tower itself. Despite being the heir to the throne, the Tower had claimed him. They named him their Chief Disciple, a title reserved only for the most exceptional mage of an era. The kingdom celebrated it as an honor. The royal court saw it as a sign of unmatched potential. And in the end¡ªit was what saved his life. The day the Demon King attacked, the capital burned in an ocean of fire. The once-mighty human kingdom crumbled. His father, the king, was slaughtered in his own throne room. The ministers, the nobles, even the royal guards¡ªall fell. But Sirius was not there. Hemel had seen it coming. The old mage, his mentor, had sensed the shift in fate before the first flames were even lit. He had no time to warn the kingdom, no time to prepare. There was only one thing he could do. He reached for Sirius. A tear in space split the air itself. The prince was wrenched from his homeland, his body swallowed by magic. In the span of a single breath, the world he had known was gone. And when he opened his eyes again, he was standing in the shadows, watching from afar as everything he had been born to protect was reduced to ashes. Months passed. The kingdom he had once called home had become a land of nightmares. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. The streets ran red with blood. The royal banners had been burned, replaced by the sigil of the Demon King. The people¡ªhis people¡ªwere either dead, enslaved, or worse. But then¡­ word of the Hero reached them. A rebellion. A spark of light flickering in the endless dark. It was a fragile hope, but a hope nonetheless. And so, when Asael and his companions were captured, Sirius and Hemel did not hesitate. A smokescreen engulfed Beastwell, a fog so thick it swallowed the very air, turning day into night. Shadows twisted, dancing along the walls as the battlefield was drowned in utter blackness. And beneath its veil, Hemel wove his spell. A pulse of magic rippled through space. One by one, they vanished. Every single one of them, pulled from the clutches of the Demon King¡¯s hound. Asael exhaled, his lungs burning as he steadied himself. They had escaped. But at what cost? His thoughts spiraled, racing back to the people they had left behind. His hands clenched into fists. His voice, though weary, carried unwavering resolve. "I need to go back." Sirius, who had been watching him closely, barely blinked at the words. His expression remained unreadable, his crimson cape shifting slightly in the breeze. "You¡¯re worried about those who remained?" Asael met his gaze, his shoulders tense. "Yes. Korran will kill them. I can¡¯t just¡ª" "They were going to die either way." The coldness in Sirius¡¯ tone sent a sharp chill through the group. There was no softness to his words, no room for comfort. Only brutal, unshaken logic. "Korran never intended to spare them. Even if you had surrendered, he would have slaughtered them the moment you were gone. You know that." The truth struck like a dagger to the gut. Because Asael knew. Even if he had walked willingly into the Demon King¡¯s grasp, Korran would never have let them go. Even so¡ª "I have to try," Asael whispered, his voice hoarse. "Even if the odds are against me. I have to try." A heavy sigh escaped Sirius'' lips. His silver hair gleamed under the dim light, his crimson cape shifting as he crossed his arms. His presence was unwavering¡ªcalm, composed, and utterly unshaken, as if no force in this world could move him. "For now, your priority should be survival." His voice was firm, carrying the weight of a ruler who had already witnessed the collapse of everything he once held dear. "Right now, they¡¯re already searching for us." A thick tension settled over the group. And then¡ª A sudden ripple in the air. A shift, small but undeniable. Hemel¡¯s head snapped up, his sharp eyes gleaming with magic. His voice rang through the silence, cold and certain. "Too late, my lord." His fingers twitched, his aged hands tightening around his staff. "They¡¯re already here." A pulse of dread swept through the air. The stillness shattered. And in the next instant¡ª Sirius turned, his expression unchanged, but his stance shifting in an instant. "Quickly move." The hunt had begun. Asael lost in thought for a moment, Steven''s voice rang out sharply behind him, cutting through the tense air like a blade. "No. We need to finish Korran. We won¡¯t get a chance like this." The group froze. The weight of those words settled over them like a storm on the horizon. Sirius narrowed his eyes, his sharp gaze locking onto Steven. "What do you mean?" Steven stepped forward, his jaw set with determination. "How many beastmen have come?" Sirius glanced toward Hemel. The old mage closed his eyes, his lips moving in a silent incantation. A faint, eerie glow surrounded him as his magic reached out, weaving through the battlefield like invisible threads, seeking the movements of their enemies. Moments later, Hemel¡¯s eyes snapped open, his breath shallow. "Talon, Kevin, and Morales are here¡ªwith their troops." A ripple of tension spread through the group, like the first crack in a dam before the flood. These were not mere soldiers. These were some of the Korran¡¯s most powerful subordinates, commanders feared even among their own ranks. Steven clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. "Then this is our moment." The realization struck like lightning. With Talon and the others leading the army, Korran would be left behind¡ªpractically unguarded. A golden opportunity. A single decisive strike could change everything. Steven¡¯s voice was steady, unwavering. "If some of us stay behind to hold off the beastmen, the rest can take down Korran before reinforcements arrive. This could be our only chance." Asael hesitated, his heart pounding. The plan made sense, but the risk was enormous. "Who will stay?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Steven stepped forward without a moment¡¯s hesitation. "I will. I can take down Talon and his birds." It wasn¡¯t arrogance¡ªit was truth. His thunder attacks was devastating against aerial enemies. Against Talon, a hawk-winged beastman, he was the perfect counter. A soft yet firm voice followed. "I''ll fight with him." Lily. She stood with her bow clutched tightly in her hands, her fingers grazing the fletching of an arrow. Her precise shots could rain down death upon the battlefield, striking where it mattered most. Then another voice, deep and unyielding. "We¡¯ll stay as well." Magnum and the Dwarf King stepped forward, their presence a force of nature. Magnum, unlike his sister, wielded the mystical power of a spirit mage, a rare and formidable magic that could turn the tide of battle. The Dwarf King, a titan of raw strength, was an unmovable wall¡ªan unstoppable force of sheer will. Asael¡¯s gaze swept over them, taking in their unwavering expressions. They had already decided. Their resolve was unshakable. He swallowed hard before nodding. "Alright. Then the rest of us will go after Korran." Silence fell as all eyes turned to Sirius. The young prince stood motionless, his mind calculating every possible outcome, every risk. For a moment, the only sound was the distant clash of steel, the distant roars of war echoing through the night. Then, he lifted his head. His silver eyes were sharp, cold, and unwavering. "Fine. But if there is even the slightest chance of failure¡ªHemel, you will teleport us all away. No hesitation." Hemel placed a hand over his chest and bowed slightly. "As you command, my lord." The decision was made. Counter attack (3) The sun blazed high in the sky, its golden light piercing through the scattered clouds. The wind carried the rustling whispers of the leaves, but beneath the peaceful scenery, war loomed like an unspoken promise. Above, Talon and his bird beastmen soared through the sky, their keen eyes scanning the land below. The sunlight gleamed off their sharp talons, their wings slicing through the air with deadly precision. Each beat of their wings stirred the dust and leaves beneath them, a silent warning to all below: the hunt had begun. On the ground, the massive gorilla-like warriors led by Kevin swung through the towering trees with a terrifying grace. Their powerful arms propelled them forward like relentless hunters, their deep growls blending with the creaking branches. The earth trembled beneath their weight as they landed, muscles rippling with raw, untamed power. And in the shadows, Morales and his pack of canine beastmen slithered through the underbrush, their movements eerily quiet. Their ears twitched, noses flaring as they caught the faintest traces of their quarry¡¯s scent. Their claws scraped against the dirt, their breath a whisper of hunger and bloodlust. They could smell it¡ªthe fear, the tension. It only made the hunt more exhilarating. Their mission was clear: capture the Hero. If anyone stood in the way, kill them. Meanwhile, Asael and his hidden team moved soundlessly through the dense forest, their presence masked by Hemel¡¯s invisibility spell. Every step was careful, every breath controlled. They had one task¡ªto reach Korran. To strike before the enemy knew they were even there. But not all moved in silence. Steven, Lily, Magnum, and the Dwarf King strode forward in plain sight, their steps deliberate and loud. They were the bait, the distraction¡ªa trap disguised as prey. Talon¡¯s sharp gaze caught the movement instantly. His wings tightened, his piercing eyes narrowing as he locked onto them. "There! Below!" His voice was sharp, commanding. With a powerful downward thrust, he led his troops into a dive, the wind screaming past them. The moment they moved in¡ª Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. A crack split the air. A blinding bolt of lightning tore through the sky, slamming into the descending beastmen. Screams filled the air as feathers burned, wings contorted, and bodies tumbled from the sky. Some managed to recover mid-air, but others spiraled helplessly, crashing into the trees with bone-snapping force. Talon pulled back, his wings flaring as he steadied himself, his keen eyes locking onto the culprit. "The Thunder Duke''s son," he muttered, his beak tightening in irritation. With a single motion, he rallied his remaining forces. The sky was theirs, and they would take it back. Below, Steven clenched his teeth as he and the others ran. Arrows rained down around them, slicing through the air with deadly speed. Every few steps, he thrust his hand skyward¡ª Boom. Another flash of lightning. Another beastman wrenched from the heavens. But their enemies were relentless. From the shadows, Morales¡¯ pack was closing in, their low growls weaving together like a song of death. And from the trees, Kevin¡¯s gorilla warriors swung ever closer, their hulking forms crashing through the branches with terrifying ease. Then, the forest ended. Before them stretched an open plain, bathed in sunlight. The grass swayed gently under the breeze, oblivious to the blood that was about to stain it. There were no trees to hide beneath. No cover to take advantage of. Here, in this vast emptiness, the skies belonged to the enemy. Steven came to a sudden stop. His breath was steady, his gaze unwavering. "Running any further is pointless," he said. His voice carried the weight of certainty. "This is where we make our stand." The others fell into place beside him. Steven, lightning crackling at his fingertips, the air around him humming with power. Lily, arrow nocked, her hands steady as her sharp eyes locked onto the incoming enemy. Magnum, spirit magic coiling around his hands like a living entity, ready to lash out. And the Dwarf King, standing firm, his axe resting heavily in his grip, the reflection of the sun glinting off its deadly edge. Above them, the sky darkened with circling figures. Talon and his remaining beastmen hovered like vultures, waiting to strike. The ground trembled beneath the relentless march of the beastmen surging from the depths of the forest. Dust swirled into the air, carried by the force of their charge, as their roars and snarls filled the battlefield with a primal, unrelenting hunger. Monkeys, gorillas, and canines¡ªeach a deadly predator in their own right¡ªstormed forward, their bodies sleek with tension, their muscles rippling with anticipation. Morales and Kevin led the hunt, their eyes gleaming with bloodlust, their warriors moving as one unstoppable force. Every step they took sent vibrations through the earth, an unspoken promise that nothing would stand in their way. Steven watched them approach, his grip tightening around his sword. The weight of the moment pressed against his chest, but he remained steady. His breathing was slow, measured. "Magnum, can you summon pillars to slow them down?" he asked, his voice firm but calm. Magnum hesitated, his eyes darting toward the horde. "I can, but what good will that do?" "Just do it," Steven said, his gaze locked on the advancing army. Magnum swallowed hard before nodding. Taking a deep breath, he spread his arms, his fingers curling as if reaching for something unseen. The air shifted. A low hum vibrated through the battlefield, subtle at first, but quickly growing into a howl. "Heed my call, O benevolent spirit of the forest!" The ground cracked. A deep rumble echoed through the earth, like the growl of a waking beast. Then, with a sudden, violent burst, thick wooden pillars erupted from the soil, their roots twisting and clawing their way upward as they soared toward the sky. The trees formed an intricate maze, jagged and towering, a wall of nature itself meant to halt the oncoming storm. But it wasn''t enough. The monkeys leaped effortlessly from branch to branch, their agile forms flickering between the twisting limbs. The gorillas charged forward, their colossal fists smashing through wood and bark as if it were nothing more than brittle glass. The canines slithered through the narrow gaps, their sleek bodies weaving through the barriers with chilling precision. They were still coming. Steven exhaled, slow and steady, his fingers trembling as he loosened his stance. The memories of his father¡¯s words stirred within him, etched into his mind like lightning scars across the sky. The Driesell family¡¯s Thunderstorm Techniques. A fighting style that transcended mere swordsmanship. It was the mastery of thunder itself. There were four known stages. The first: Thunder Charge¡ªwhere electricity infused a weapon, each strike laced with a crackling shock. The second: Thunder Wave¡ªarcs of lightning unleashed in controlled bursts, striking enemies from a distance. The third: Thunder Split¡ªa concentrated, high-voltage slash, sharp enough to cleave through steel. The fourth: Thunder Strike¡ªsummoning lightning from the heavens, a storm¡¯s wrath made flesh. And then, the forbidden fifth. Thunderous Rampage. Not just infusing lightning into steel, but becoming the storm itself. It was a technique few dared to attempt, for it demanded more than just mastery¡ªit demanded sacrifice. Every vein would burn, every muscle would tear beneath the overwhelming power. The body was never meant to wield the storm in its entirety. The price was agony. The risk was death. Steven knew this. And yet, as he watched the enemy advance, as he saw the gleam of fangs and the flicker of claws in the failing light, he made his choice. He would become the storm. Electricity crackled along his skin, racing through his veins like wildfire. Sparks danced across his armor, flickering along the edges of his blade as it trembled beneath the power surging through it. Pain lanced through his body, hot and unforgiving, his muscles seizing under the sheer voltage coursing through him. The scent of scorched flesh filled the air, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to falter. Thunder roared in his chest. Lightning bled from his fingertips. The storm had awakened. Counter attack (4) Steven closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath. His heartbeat pounded like war drums in his ears, each thump reverberating through his bones. His body burned with anticipation, muscles coiling like a predator ready to strike. Then, the storm awakened. Blue sparks crackled across his skin, slithering like living serpents. Electricity danced between his fingers, crawling up his arms and legs in jagged veins of light. His breath came slow, steady, but his body trembled¡ªnot with fear, but with raw power surging through him. His eyes snapped open, glowing an eerie electric blue. A storm trapped within human flesh. Then¡ª A blinding flash. A deafening roar. The battlefield shattered as an explosion of lightning erupted from his body. Dust and debris blasted outward in every direction. The ground beneath him scorched black. His form became a streak of thunder, a force too fast for the eye to follow. Each step left behind a trail of searing electricity, scorching deep into the earth. Air crackled around him, the pressure of his presence alone sending loose stones hurtling away. His blood felt like molten fire, his veins screaming under the strain, but he gritted his teeth. The beastmen froze mid-charge. Their instincts screamed at them to flee. Too late. Steven was already among them. His sword blurred in a deadly arc, slicing through the thick hide of a towering gorilla warrior. The beast barely had time to react before lightning surged through the wound, racing up its body in a violent burst of energy. The creature¡¯s eyes bulged. Smoke poured from its mouth as it convulsed violently, limbs locking in place. Then, with a gruesome crack, the electricity burst from its skull¡ªits eyes melting into blackened pits. The beast hit the ground, a smoldering corpse before it even knew it was dead. Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. Steven twisted mid-air, channeling a surge of thunder from his feet. The force launched him off the falling body, sending him streaking like a comet toward his next target. A wolf-headed beastman raised his axe in desperation¡ªtoo slow. Steven¡¯s blade cleaved downward, splitting the weapon in half before carving straight through the beast¡¯s shoulder, ribs, and spine. A violent shockwave of electricity blasted outward upon impact, igniting the fur of the surrounding beastmen. They screamed, raw and agonized, as lightning crawled across their bodies, frying them from the inside out. Their fur ignited in bursts of white flame, their skin bubbling and peeling away. Some clawed at their own faces, eyes rolling back as their hearts ruptured from the sheer voltage coursing through them. Others collapsed mid-step, twitching violently, their corpses still crackling with residual energy. But Steven didn¡¯t stop. He moved like a wraith, vanishing and reappearing in bursts of light. He leapt from corpse to corpse, using the dying bodies as stepping stones. Jumped across the trees. The beastmen¡¯s numbers worked against them¡ªpacked too tightly together, giving lightning the perfect path to spread its devastation. Each strike of his sword sent bolts of thunder leaping from one enemy to the next, like a spiderweb of destruction. A monkey warrior shrieked, swinging a club at his head. Steven was gone before the blow could land. He reappeared behind him, blade already in motion. A flash of blue light. The monkey¡¯s head separated cleanly from his shoulders, spinning through the air. His body staggered forward a few steps before finally crumpling to the dirt. Smoke curled from his exposed neck, his nerves still firing in a futile attempt to move. The battlefield lit up in an endless storm. Beastmen fell by the dozens, their shrieks blending into a chorus of horror. The air reeked of burning flesh, singed fur, and ozone. Blood boiled within their veins, their muscles cooked from the inside out. Some tried to run, only to collapse mid-stride, bodies betraying them as lightning devoured their strength. The ground was littered with charred bodies, some still twitching, others reduced to little more than blackened husks. Lily, Magnum, and the Dwarf King stood frozen, unable to tear their eyes away from the carnage. The battlefield¡ªonce teeming with snarling, bloodthirsty enemies¡ªwas now a graveyard of smoldering corpses. The storm had consumed everything. Steven stood in the center of it all, steam rising from his skin. His chest heaved, sweat and blood mixing on his burned flesh. His blood vessels, once throbbing with electricity, slowly faded, but his body bore the cost of his power. His arms were scorched, deep gashes leaking crimson down his fingers. His armor, once polished and strong, was blackened and cracked. His sword trembled in his grip, its metal still humming with residual energy. He swayed slightly, exhaustion clawing at him. And yet... The few remaining beastmen hesitated, their once unshakable bloodlust reduced to nothing but fear. Even Talon and his airborne warriors, who had circled overhead, flapping their wings in readiness, now hesitated, keeping their distance. For the first time in their lives, they had witnessed something more monstrous than themselves. And its name was Steven Driesell. The beastmen roared in fury, their bloodlust rising like a tidal wave as they charged forward, trampling over the charred remains of their fallen kin. Their eyes gleamed with savage hunger, their claws thirsty for vengeance. Above them, Talon¡¯s airborne warriors circled like vultures, their razor-sharp talons poised to tear through flesh. But then¡ª A voice cut through the chaos, clear and unwavering. ¡°O, Benevolent Spirit of Wind! Guide your children! Spirit of Water! Protect your children!¡± Magnum¡¯s chant carried across the battlefield, each word laced with divine power. Suddenly¡ª A gust of wind surged forth, wrapping around Steven¡¯s battered body like an unseen force cradling a broken warrior. His body had suffered¡ªthe relentless storm had drained him. His muscles screamed with agony, his vision swam in and out of focus, and blood still dripped from the wounds carved into his flesh. But as the wind lifted him, the pain dulled. A shimmering veil of water spiraled around him, its soft glow pressing into his wounds, coaxing his body to heal. Torn flesh knitted together, seared skin was restored, and exhaustion loosened its grip. His body floated weightlessly, gliding through the air like a fallen soldier carried home by unseen hands. Magnum guided him, bringing him gently to the ground beside his allies. Magnum stood tall, his silver-blue eyes calm yet burning with unshakable resolve. He turned toward his sister, his expression firm. ¡°Lily.¡± ¡°I know, brother.¡± She was already prepared. Her bow was steady in her hands, her eyes sharp as a hawk¡¯s. With practiced ease, her fingers danced over the quiver, pulling three arrows at once, their fletching glinting under the storm-lit sky. The Dwarf King stepped forward, his heavy axe resting on his shoulder. His voice rumbled like the deep earth. ¡°I will fight as well.¡± The battlefield shifted. The raw devastation Steven had unleashed left the enemy staggering, but this was not the moment to falter. It was time for Lily and Magnum to strike back. Lily inhaled deeply, feeling the familiar warmth of spirit energy flowing from her brother. It did not force its way into her, nor did it overwhelm. It simply merged¡ªnatural, effortless, as though it had always been part of her. The air shimmered around her. The very tips of her arrows gleamed with wind magic, their edges honed to an unnatural sharpness. The bowstring thrummed under her fingers, charged with unseen energy as she drew it back, waiting for the perfect moment to release. Magnum, meanwhile, rose into the air, a cyclone of wind and water coiling around him. His robes billowed, his outstretched hands pulsing with magic that crackled against the storm. The beastmen hesitated, sensing the shift in power, but their bloodlust would not let them retreat. They charged forward, roaring, their weapons raised high. Above them, Talon¡¯s winged warriors shrieked as they dove down like falling stars, their claws ready to carve through flesh. But Lily and Magnum were waiting. The battle was far from over. Counter attack (5) While Steven, Lily, Magnum, and the Dwarf King waged war against the beastmen outside, Asael and the others moved like shadows, slipping undetected through the dense forest toward Beastwell Town. The town loomed ahead, its towering stone walls cracked and weathered, stained with the dark remnants of old blood. The heavy scent of iron and decay clung to the air, filling Asael¡¯s lungs with every breath. The silence was unnatural¡ªtoo still, too oppressive. This was a place where suffering had taken root, where the cries of the fallen had long faded, leaving only ghosts behind. As they approached the entrance, a flickering torchlight revealed their obstacle. Two figures stood waiting¡ªKelly and Borris, their monstrous forms illuminated by the fire¡¯s trembling glow. Their beastly eyes burned with cruel anticipation, sharp claws flexing in the dim light. Behind them, a small army of beastmen warriors stood ready, their weapons gripped tight, their growls rumbling through the night air. "You all go ahead," Sirius commanded, stepping forward with a quiet, deadly resolve. "Hemel and I will handle them." "I¡¯ll also help," Giren said, his voice steady, but his gaze locked onto Borris with an intensity sharp enough to cut steel. Asael hesitated for only a moment. His fists clenched, but he knew there was no time to argue. "Okay," he finally said. "Be careful." Then, without a sound, they vanished. Under the veil of Hemel¡¯s invisibility magic, Asael, Anne, and Kenta moved like whispers through the battlefield, slipping past the enemy undetected. Behind them, the silence shattered. Sirius, Hemel, and Giren stepped forward, revealing themselves to Kelly and Borris. The air vibrated with raw energy, a deadly storm about to break. Then, the tension snapped like a bowstring ¡ª Asael, Anne, and Kenta moved swiftly through the war-torn town, their footsteps light against the cracked stone streets. The silence here was different. It wasn¡¯t the hush of a town at rest¡ªit was the breathless stillness of something watching, something waiting. They reached the grand arena, its towering stone pillars casting jagged shadows against the dark sky. The massive coliseum stretched open before them, a vast circle of death where countless beastmen gathered, their voices low murmurs filled with anticipation. And there, standing at the center of it all, waiting like a predator savoring the hunt¡ª Was Korran. The lion beastman stood tall, his golden fur gleaming in the torchlight, a crimson cape draped over his broad shoulders like a mantle of war. His arms were crossed over his chest, a slow, knowing grin curving his lips. "So, you¡¯ve finally arrived," he mused, his voice laced with amusement. Asael tensed. Even under the magic¡¯s invisibility, he felt Korran¡¯s piercing gaze settle on him¡ªon all of them. Stolen story; please report. "Foolish," Korran scoffed, shaking his head. "You think tricks of light can fool me?" He took a slow, deliberate inhale, his sharp senses drinking in their scent. There was no point in hiding. With a silent agreement, Asael, Anne, and Kenta stepped forward, revealing themselves beneath the torchlight. The beastmen surrounding them stiffened, their grips tightening around their weapons. Low growls rippled through the crowd, teeth bared in anticipation. The bloodlust in their eyes was unmistakable. But Korran wasn¡¯t done yet. With that same eerie smirk, he turned, his heavy boots echoing against the stone floor as he approached a towering podium at the heart of the arena. A massive curtain hung from above, concealing something behind its thick folds. He reached up¡ª And with a swift, effortless motion¡ª He pulled it away. The sight that greeted them turned their veins to ice. Human bodies dangled from thick ropes, their lifeless eyes wide with horror, their mouths frozen in silent screams. The ropes groaned under their weight, creaking as the corpses swayed ever so slightly, a grotesque dance to the rhythm of death. Beneath them, scattered across the bloodstained ground, lay countless more¡ªbodies twisted and broken, their fingers curled into fists, the final remnants of a fight that had long since ended. And those who hadn¡¯t fought? They had been hung like cattle, left to choke, to struggle, to suffer. The stench of decay hit them like a physical force, thick and suffocating, curling in Asael¡¯s throat. His breath caught, his chest tightening as his fingers curled into shaking fists. Anne bit her lip so hard it bled, her entire body trembling with rage. Kenta stood frozen, his fists clenched until his knuckles turned ghostly white. And Korran¡ª Korran simply laughed. "Take a good look," he said, spreading his arms as if unveiling a masterpiece. His golden eyes gleamed with twisted satisfaction. "This is the fate of those who refuse to bow." His voice was calm, almost casual, but it dripped with something far worse¡ªsomething that made Asael¡¯s blood burn. Korran met his gaze and smiled. "And soon¡­" He tilted his head, his grin widening, his voice soft but sharp as a dagger against the skin. "It will be yours." ¡°You monster!¡± Asael¡¯s furious roar tore through the arena, his voice trembling with uncontained rage. His golden eyes blazed with fury, locked onto Korran, the executioner of countless innocents. The weight of all those lost lives pressed upon him, and his hands tightened around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white. Korran simply chuckled, his sharp fangs gleaming under the flickering torchlight. There was no remorse in his gaze, no hesitation in his movements. Only amusement. ¡°That¡¯s the price for running away, Hero,¡± he sneered. Then, with a lazy wave of his hand, he turned to his warriors. ¡°Now, finish them.¡± A deafening roar erupted from the beastmen as they surged forward, a frenzied tide of claws, blades, and bloodlust. Their weapons gleamed under the dim light¡ªclawed gauntlets, jagged swords, crude axes still wet with the blood of past victims. Their eyes burned with the thrill of the kill, their fangs bared in anticipation. Asael stepped forward, his grip tightening as he summoned his sword in a flash of golden light. The air around him crackled, and in the next instant, radiant armor formed around his body, the metal gleaming like celestial fire. A divine aura flared to life, its sheer intensity pressing down upon the battlefield like a wrathful god descending upon mortals. Anne clasped her hands together, whispering prayers that carried the weight of heaven itself. Her magic surged, not a gentle stream, but a raging storm. Light coiled around her, a golden tempest of holy energy, searing the approaching beastmen while mending the wounds of her allies. Her radiance pulsed outward, wrapping around Asael and Kenta, strengthening them with a divine blessing of speed and resilience. Kenta exhaled slowly, feeling the surge of power from Anne¡¯s magic. His small frame trembled as dark purple energy coiled around him, the signature technique passed down by Marquis Hector. A killing technique. One that made him faster than the eye could follow, that let him strike before his enemy even felt the pain. His daggers glowed with an ominous violet hue, his breathing slowing, his mind sharpening into a lethal edge. Then, in a single heartbeat¡ª The battle began. Asael launched forward like a golden tempest, his sword carving a gleaming arc through the air. The first beastman¡ªa hulking wolf hybrid¡ªbarely had time to react before Asael¡¯s blade tore through his chest. A gurgling choke left the beast¡¯s throat as blood sprayed into the night, his massive form crumpling with a sickening thud. A tiger beastman with twin axes lunged from the side, roaring as he brought his weapons down. Clang! Sparks flew as Asael parried, twisting his blade and driving it straight into the beastman¡¯s gaping maw. A gruesome crack followed as the golden steel burst through the back of his skull, his body convulsing before going limp. Pain flared through Asael¡¯s side. A sudden spear had pierced through his armor, the warmth of his own blood spilling down his waist. But before he could even register the agony, Anne¡¯s divine energy pulsed, sealing the wound as if it had never been there. Asael snarled, wrenching himself free and twisting his body in a deadly arc, cleaving the spearman in half. Blood splattered across his armor, dripping down in thick rivulets, but he didn¡¯t stop. He kept cutting. Kept killing. While Asael tore through the battlefield like a vengeful storm, Kenta became a shadow of death. One moment, he was there. The next¡ªgone. A monkey beastman gasped, clutching at his throat as Kenta¡¯s dagger buried itself deep into his windpipe. Before the body could hit the ground, Kenta was already behind another enemy, slicing through his Achilles tendons with eerie precision. The beastman howled, collapsing onto his knees, his wide eyes filled with horror. And then¡ªa flash of dark steel. His head rolled from his shoulders, landing with a dull, lifeless thud. The enemies never saw him coming. Each time he struck, there was only a brief moment of agony, then silence. Bodies dropped like flies, throats slit, arteries punctured, eyes gouged out. Anne¡¯s magic made him even faster, his daggers moving with such unnatural speed that the beastmen barely realized they had already died. The scent of blood grew thicker, the air heavy with the stench of death. Anne stood at the heart of the battlefield, her hands trembling as she continued to chant. She could feel it¡ªthe weight of the battle, the suffocating malice of the enemy. But she did not falter. Her golden light pulsed outward, wrapping Asael and Kenta in warmth, sealing their wounds, easing their pain. She fortified their spirits, turned their fatigue into endurance, their fear into fury. A massive boar beastman charged straight for her, his colossal hammer raised to crush her skull. Anne¡¯s breath hitched. There was no time to react. Just as the hammer came crashing down¡ª Asael moved. His sword intercepted the hammer mid-air, golden sparks exploding upon impact. With a fierce snarl, he drove his knee into the beastman¡¯s gut, the force so great that bones shattered with a sickening crunch. As the beastman choked on his own bile, Asael ended him with a single downward slash, cleaving his body in two. The arena fell into an eerie silence. The golden glow of Asael¡¯s armor flickered, dimming slightly. Kenta¡¯s daggers dripped with thick, blackened blood, his breath coming in sharp gasps. Anne¡¯s hands trembled, her magic still surging but her energy nearly spent. And all around them¡ª Bodies. Beastmen littered the battlefield, their corpses butchered beyond recognition. Blood pooled beneath their feet, soaking the dirt so deep that it turned into thick, muddy gore. Yet, in the center of it all, Korran still stood. His smug grin remained, but there was something new in his eyes¡ªinterest. He clapped his hands slowly, his deep chuckle resonating across the battlefield. Hero (1) The battlefield was drenched in blood and steel, the scent of death thick in the air. Asael, Kenta, and Anne fought like demons, their bodies pushed to the brink of exhaustion. Neither side held the advantage. Every warrior that fell was replaced by another. Every beastman cut down only made way for another, more ferocious than the last. And then¡ª The tide shifted. "Proceed with transformation." Korran¡¯s voice cut through the chaos like a blade, calm and absolute. For a moment, everything stilled. The beastmen froze mid-fight, their weapons slipping from their hands. At first, Asael didn''t understand. Then it began. A grotesque symphony of agony filled the air as their bodies convulsed. Bones cracked like splintering wood. Flesh twisted, stretched, and reformed in unnatural ways. Limbs elongated or thickened, muscles pulsing with unnatural power. Human features melted away, replaced by something raw and monstrous. Fur sprouted in thick patches, claws sharpened into razors, and eyes¡ªthose once filled with intelligence¡ªnow burned with nothing but savage hunger. Some became towering bears, their hides thick as steel. Others turned into wolves, their bodies sleek and built for blinding speed. Snakes slithered with new, grotesque length, their fangs dripping venom. Lions, tigers, panthers, apes¡ªeach one took the form of the deadliest predator they could become. This wasn¡¯t a natural ability. Not all beastmen could do this. But Korran¡¯s army could. And now, they were unstoppable. A deafening roar shook the battlefield, and then they charged. Asael swung his blade with all his might, cleaving through the throat of a lunging tiger. The beast staggered but did not fall, its hide too thick for a clean kill. A shadow loomed to his side. A massive bear¡¯s paw, larger than a shield, slammed into him with the force of a battering ram. The impact sent him flying, his body crashing against the dirt with a sickening thud. A sharp, unbearable pain exploded in his ribs. Something had cracked¡ªno, shattered. Before the agony could fully register, Anne''s golden aura pulsed, knitting his broken bones together in an instant. He gasped for breath, barely rolling away as a wolf¡¯s fangs snapped inches from his throat. His sword lashed out, severing its snout in a spray of hot blood. But another beast was already upon him. A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. They were too fast. Too strong. His divine energy kept him from dying, but it wasn''t enough. --- Kenta was barely keeping up. His speed had always been his greatest strength. But now, it was matched¡ªno, outclassed. A panther beastman leapt from the shadows, claws gleaming in the firelight. Kenta twisted, but not fast enough. A flash of pain. Blood burst from his arm, the flesh torn down to the bone. He didn''t scream. Teeth clenched, he vanished in a blur, reappearing behind the panther, his dagger plunging deep into its spine. The beast howled, collapsing. But two more took its place. He was losing ground. --- Anne stood in the heart of the battlefield, hands trembling, golden light pouring from her fingertips. She was the only thing keeping them alive. A shadow loomed over her. She turned, breath catching in her throat. A monstrous gorilla-like beastman towered above her, its crimson eyes locked onto hers. "No¡­" It raised both arms¡ªmuscles rippling, veins bulging. Then it struck. The ground shattered beneath her as she was hurled through the air like a ragdoll. Her body slammed into a stone pillar, her bones screaming in protest. Blood spilled from her lips. Her vision blurred. Her magic flickered. And then¡ª Her healing stopped. --- Asael saw Anne collapse. Saw Kenta struggling to even stand. Saw the monstrous horde closing in. No. His fingers tightened around his sword. His golden aura flared, surging wildly, breath ragged and unsteady. He had only one choice. Korran. The bastard was watching, perched atop the ruined stone steps, amusement flickering in his cold eyes. If he could just kill Korran, this nightmare would end. No matter the cost. With a furious roar, Asael charged straight through the battlefield. A lion lunged at him. He ducked, severing its legs in a single stroke. A snake beast coiled around his torso, fangs bared. He drove his elbow into its skull, feeling the bone crack beneath his strike. A boar gored him through the side, its tusks sinking deep. He ripped them out with a snarl, divine energy sealing the wound as he pressed forward. But it was getting harder. His bones cracked under the pressure. His muscles screamed in agony. Yet he did not stop. Blood streamed from his body, his armor battered and broken. Every beast was after him now. But he didn¡¯t care. Step by step, he reached the top. Korran stood there, waiting. Asael raised his sword, every last ounce of strength pouring into a single, final strike. A blow meant to cleave through the heavens themselves. A finishing blow. But¡ª Korran was already gone. Asael¡¯s blade sliced through nothing but empty air. Before he could even comprehend what had happened¡ª A knee slammed into his stomach. His ribs caved in with a sickening crunch. Blood exploded from his mouth. His body folded from the sheer force, launching him backward. The world spun before he crashed into the shattered ruins, pain erupting in every nerve. He couldn''t breathe. Couldn¡¯t move. Korran¡¯s chuckle echoed through the battlefield. "You¡¯re too predictable." His voice dripped with amusement, as if he were scolding a child. Asael stood up again. He charged forward, his golden aura flaring like a wildfire, his sword a streak of divine radiance cutting through the dimly lit arena. His breath was steady, his grip firm¡ªeach step fueled by desperation, by purpose. But Korran was already moving. With a casual grace, he sidestepped, his inhuman reflexes turning what should have been a fatal strike into nothing but a wasted effort. His eyes, sharp and calculating, never left Asael. He saw the attack before it even happened. Then came the counter. A brutal kick struck Asael¡¯s back like a battering ram, the force sending him stumbling forward. His boots scraped against the stone floor, barely keeping him upright. Pain flared across his spine, but he gritted his teeth, shoving it aside. He wouldn¡¯t fall. He couldn¡¯t afford to. He turned sharply and attacked again, his sword slicing through the air with blinding speed. But once more¡ªhe struck nothing. A whisper of movement. A breath of wind. And Korran was gone. "I told you," Korran¡¯s voice drifted through the arena, calm, amused, mocking. "It¡¯s too obvious." Asael barely registered the words before something crashed into his stomach. A fist. Not just any fist¡ªKorran¡¯s. The force drove into him like a sledgehammer, sinking deep into his gut. His ribs cracked under the sheer power of the blow, splintering like brittle wood. His body folded inward, his breath vanishing in an instant. His sword slipped from his grasp, metal clattering against stone. A ragged cough tore from his throat, and with it came blood, thick and dark, dripping from his lips. The world blurred, twisting and tilting, but he forced himself to stay conscious. His fingers twitched. His will refused to break. Through sheer determination, he summoned his sword back to his grasp, its golden glow flickering, its once-mighty brilliance now dimming in his trembling hands. He refused to fall. Even as his legs trembled beneath him, even as pain carved itself into every fiber of his being¡ªhe would fight. He had to. --- Among the Demon King¡¯s generals, each was a master of something. Movok was destruction incarnate, a force of raw, overwhelming strength. Torex wielded sorcery that turned dreams into nightmares, bending darkness to his will. And Korran was a strategist whose intellect carved paths to victory before a battle even began. His power wasn¡¯t brute force. It wasn¡¯t magic. It was something far more terrifying¡ªforesight. He saw every opening before it even appeared. Every swing of a sword, every shift in stance, every flicker of hesitation¡ªhe saw it all, calculated it, turned it against his enemy. To fight Korran was to battle someone who had already won. --- Asael lunged, pushing past the searing pain in his ribs. His golden sword flashed toward Korran¡¯s heart, a desperate, final gambit. But the moment the attack began, it was already over. Korran moved like a shadow slipping through cracks in the light, sidestepping as if he had read Asael¡¯s thoughts before the strike even began. Then, the counter. A sharp, brutal kick lashed out. Bone shattered. Pain unlike anything Asael had ever known roared through his leg. His knee gave out, and he collapsed onto the cold, unforgiving ground. He gasped, trying to rise, but hands¡ªtoo many hands¡ªclawed at him. Beastmen. They surged forward, their snarling faces twisted with anticipation. Their claws dug into his flesh, gripping his arms, wrenching them back with impossible strength. He thrashed. He kicked. He fought with everything he had left. It wasn¡¯t enough. They pinned him down. The hot breath of the beastmen brushed against his skin, their growls rumbling through his bones like distant thunder. Then they stopped. The air shifted. Korran was approaching. The beastmen parted, giving way to their master. Slow, deliberate footsteps echoed through the arena. Korran¡¯s gaze locked onto Asael, cold and unreadable. He raised a clawed hand, talons glinting under the pale arena lights, their edges wickedly sharp. He smiled¡ªa cruel, knowing smirk. "Let¡¯s finish this." Asael¡¯s heart pounded, a frantic drum against his chest. He could heal wounds. He could mend broken bones. But he could not regrow a heart once it was ripped out. He could not reattach a severed head. "Can you?" Korran wondered. His mouth formed a cruel grin. The claws descended. And Asael could do nothing but watch. Hero (2) Asael struggled against the beastmen¡¯s grip, but their iron-like hands held him firmly in place. Two on his left arm and shoulder, two on his right, their claws dug into his flesh, pressing him down to his knees. Despite the pressure, despite the pain¡ªhis golden eyes remained locked onto Korran. Korran raised his hand, his claws gleaming like polished daggers. He was about to strike. And Asael could do nothing. Then¡ª A shadow lunged from behind. A flash of movement¡ªsilent, precise, deadly. Kenta. His dagger gripped tight, his small form barely making a sound as he darted toward Korran''s exposed back. His blade was aimed straight for the throat. It would have been a perfect kill. But Korran¡­ Knew. Faster than the eye could follow, his arm shot out. A sickening crack echoed through the air. Korran¡¯s clawed hand wrapped around Kenta¡¯s throat mid-air, halting him just inches before the dagger could make contact. The impact sent a violent jolt through Kenta¡¯s small frame. His eyes widened in shock. His dagger slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the stone. Korran looked at him with amusement, as if a child had just attempted to punch a giant. ¡°That¡¯s not how you attack someone.¡± His voice was calm, almost mocking. He placed Kenta down on the ground, his grip still firm on the young assassin¡¯s throat. ¡°Let me show you how it¡¯s really done.¡± Korran¡¯s claws extended, their razor edges glistening with malice. His voice was smooth, almost like a teacher giving a lesson. ¡°You should always aim for the veins, the heart, or the neck. Like this¡ª¡± Then, without hesitation¡ª A wet, sickening sound filled the air as Korran¡¯s claws plunged deep into Kenta¡¯s chest. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. Straight into his heart. Kenta¡¯s body jolted, his spine arching in agony. His breath hitched, sharp and desperate, his hands twitching as if trying to grasp onto something¡ªanything. Blood erupted from his mouth, spilling over his chin, drenching his shirt in a deep crimson stain. His pupils dilated, his eyes wild, confused, terrified. For the first time¡ª He realized he was dying. Korran twisted his claws, stirring them inside the still-beating heart. Kenta¡¯s body convulsed. A strangled gasp left his lips, his breath trembling, fragile, fleeting. But Korran wasn¡¯t done. "But just to be sure¡­" His other hand flashed forward¡ª A brutal slash tore across Kenta¡¯s throat, severing flesh, veins, life itself. A thick stream of blood burst forth, spraying the cold stone floor like a crimson fountain. Kenta let out a gurgled, wet gasp, his voice lost in the flood of blood drowning his throat. His knees buckled. His small hands, once trained to kill in silence, now clutched desperately at his own throat, as if trying to hold his life inside. But it was useless. His vision blurred. His strength faded. The world around him grew distant, dark, cold. And then¡ª He collapsed. Korran let go. Kenta¡¯s lifeless body crumpled onto the stone floor. The sound of a life ending. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking the stone, soaking the ground, soaking everything. Asael and Anne could only watch. Frozen. Helpless. A single warm splash of blood landed on Asael¡¯s cheek. His golden aura flickered¡ªdimmed. His friend¡ªhis comrade¡ªlay before him. Lifeless. Eyes empty, staring at nothing. A boy who had fought for his life, for his friends¡ª Now nothing more than a corpse. Korran slowly turned back to Asael, smirking. "Your turn." ---- The battlefield stood frozen. Cold. Unforgiving. A hushed silence loomed, thick as a storm about to break. The air was damp with the scent of iron, the ground painted with fresh blood. And at the center of it all, Korran stood tall, his hulking form barely illuminated by the dim torchlight. He tilted his head, the corner of his lips curling into a smirk as he raised his blood-soaked claws. Thick, crimson liquid dripped from his fingertips, tracing slow, deliberate paths down his fur. It fell in rhythmic droplets, staining the ground like ink bleeding into parchment. "Shall we finish this?" His voice was smooth, almost mocking, as though he were savoring the moment. The beastmen tightened their grip on their weapons, their muscles coiling as they prepared to strike down the lone warrior before them. Asael remained motionless. His knees pressed against the cold, unforgiving stone. His hands limp at his sides. His golden eyes fixed¡ªnot on Korran, nor the snarling beasts encircling him¡ªbut on Kenta¡¯s lifeless body. Small. Still. Soaked in blood. And something inside Asael broke. His fault. He had let Kenta come. He had promised to protect him. He had sworn it. And he had failed. Memories of the boy flashed like shattered glass in his mind. The mischievous smirk when he¡¯d boasted about becoming the greatest assassin. The quiet fire in his eyes when he swore to stand by them no matter what. The way his small hands had once grasped his own, steady and unwavering. But that warmth was gone now. All that remained was cold. Stillness. Silence. Asael¡¯s breath hitched. The edges of his vision blurred, warped. The world around him twisted, colors bleeding together like ink running in the rain. The distant echoes of battle faded, replaced by something else. Screams. Pain. Nothing. His mind cracked, spiraling into something raw, primal, uncontrollable. And then¡ª The heavens trembled. A sudden gust of wind howled through the battlefield. Then, without warning, a golden explosion erupted from Asael¡¯s body. It wasn¡¯t just light¡ªit was fury incarnate. Blinding, chaotic, alive. The beastmen staggered back, their instincts screaming at them. Danger. Korran¡¯s smirk faltered, his expression tightening. He took a step forward, claws tensing. "Kill him. Now." The beastmen lunged. But before they could reach him¡ª Boom. A shockwave of golden energy blasted outward, sending them hurtling through the air like ragdolls. They slammed against the stone walls, their bones snapping like brittle twigs. Some landed in crumpled heaps, others lay twitching in agony. Asael no longer knelt. He no longer even stood. He floated¡ªsuspended above the battlefield as though gravity itself no longer dared touch him. His eyes, once golden orbs filled with warmth and determination, had become something else entirely. They no longer held pupils. No irises. Just endless, searing gold¡ªpure, radiant, consuming. Golden lines etched themselves across his face, down his arms, spreading over his armor as though divine hands were reforging him in celestial fire. His wounds vanished, but they did not merely heal. They burned with molten light, glowing like sunfire, as if he had become something beyond flesh and blood. And then¡ªhis weapons answered the call. His sword lifted on its own, rising beside him, vibrating with newfound energy. But it was no longer alone. From the air, weapons began to materialize, forming out of the very light that poured from his soul. A spear, its tip blazing like a falling star. An axe, crackling with raw power. A lance, its edge sharp enough to carve through mountains. A bow, its string drawn by unseen hands, golden arrows forming in midair. They hovered around him, orbiting like celestial sentinels awaiting his command. His armor shifted, reshaped, reinforced by the divine energy coursing through him. Runes glowed across each plate, pulsing with the heartbeat of a god. The battlefield stood in stunned silence. The beastmen could do nothing but stare, their feral instincts overtaken by a deeper, more primal fear. Korran took another step forward, but this time¡ªhis movements were slower. Measured. For the first time, unease flickered in his eyes. Asael slowly turned his head toward him. There was no rage in his gaze. No sorrow. Only judgment. He was no longer just a warrior. No longer just a man. At that moment¡ªhe had become something beyond them. Hero (3) The battlefield was chaos incarnate. The roars of battle¡ªsome of fury, others of agony¡ªdrowned out all else. Talon surged forward, his wings carving through arrows with relentless precision. Beside him, Morales and Kevin fought with equal ferocity, their movements swift and merciless. On the other side, Magnum, Lily, and the Dwarf King struggled to hold the line. The enemy¡¯s assault was unrelenting, crashing against them like an unstoppable tide. Sweat dripped from their brows, their breaths ragged, but they refused to yield. And then¡ª A flash. Not just any light. A brilliant golden radiance erupted from the heart of the battlefield, as if the sun itself had descended upon the earth. It consumed the sky, casting long shadows and turning the world into a landscape of blinding gold. Talon''s steps faltered, his eyes widening in shock. The light was overwhelming, suffocating in its intensity. It pulsed with something ancient, something divine. A chill crawled down his spine. That light¡ª It could only mean one thing. His breath caught in his throat. He knew. Deep in his bones, he knew. "The hero¡­" The words left his lips in a whisper, barely audible over the din of battle. But the weight of them was crushing. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. His instincts screamed at him. Run. Get away. Now. He didn''t hesitate. "Fall back! Now!" Talon roared, his voice cutting through the battlefield like a whip. Morales and Kevin turned to him, confusion flashing in their eyes. But then, they saw it too. The golden radiance was not just light¡ªit was power. A force beyond comprehension. They didn¡¯t question him. Without hesitation, they signaled the retreat. The battlefield shifted in an instant. Warriors who had moments ago fought with reckless abandon suddenly broke away, their movements frantic, their gazes flickering back toward the golden eruption with fear. Lily, panting from exhaustion, furrowed her brows as she watched the enemy retreat. Confusion warred with the relief in her chest. "What¡¯s going on?" she asked, gripping her weapon tighter. Magnum wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Something happened inside the arena¡­" His voice was low, uncertain. The Dwarf King gritted his teeth, adjusting his posture. His heart pounded against his ribs. "Then we need to move. Now." No hesitation. No second-guessing. They ran. Steven, still wrapped in the swirling embrace of his water spirit, turned his gaze toward the arena. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. Something was coming. Something that pulled them all toward it like an inescapable force. --- On the far edge of the battlefield, Kelly and Borris were locked in a deadly dance with Sirius, Hemel, and Giren. Borris fought with brutal efficiency, each swing of his claws aiming to cleave through his enemy, but Giren was faster, his axe a blur of silver as he countered every strike. Victory was within reach. Despite the numbers stacked against them, Sirius, Hemel, and Giren held their ground. The beastmen¡¯s forces pushed harder, but they weren¡¯t breaking. Then¡ª The light. It surged from the arena, flooding the battlefield with its golden brilliance. Kelly and Borris froze mid-strike, their bodies tensing, instincts flaring with a warning they didn¡¯t understand. The battlefield seemed to hold its breath. Sirius felt it first. A force beyond reason, beyond power, beyond anything he had ever encountered. His heart skipped a beat. Hemel clutched his staff tighter, his fingers trembling. His voice came out uneven, filled with something he had never known before¡ªfear. "I don¡¯t know what that is¡­ but it¡¯s far beyond anything we¡¯ve ever faced." Giren¡¯s victorious smirk faltered. His hands trembled around his weapon. Borris and Kelly met each other¡¯s gaze. They didn¡¯t speak. They didn¡¯t need to. Their decision was instant. They turned and ran. Their troops, hesitant and confused, hesitated for only a moment before following. Fear drove them, an instinct buried deep in their bones screaming at them to flee. Giren watched them go, his grip tightening around his axe. "What the hell?" he muttered, breathless. Sirius exhaled sharply. His ears twitched, picking up the shift in the battlefield. He saw it now¡ªmovement everywhere, warriors abandoning their fights, drawn toward the same overwhelming presence. His jaw clenched. "We will follow them." No hesitation. No arguments. They moved. And they weren¡¯t the only ones. The townspeople saw it too. Fear. Curiosity. Desperation. It gripped them all. One by one, they began to move. Drawn toward the arena. Toward the unknown. Toward something that should not have been possible. And as the battlefield slowly shifted its focus, the war itself momentarily forgotten, a single, unshakable truth settled over them all. Something had awakened. ---- The arena was unrecognizable. What had once been a battleground¡ªa place of clashing steel and roaring warriors¡ªhad become a grotesque slaughterhouse. The golden glow of Asael¡¯s floating weapons carved through the air like vengeful spirits, each blade moving with an unseen will, cutting down any beastman that dared to stand in their path. They struck with deadly precision, piercing flesh, shattering bones, and severing limbs in fluid, merciless motions. The scent of blood hung thick in the air, warm and metallic, mingling with the acrid stench of burning fur and smoldering flesh. Smoke curled upward from charred bodies, creating a haze that blurred the boundary between the living and the dead. Screams of agony rang out, sharp and raw, only to be silenced just as quickly. The wet, visceral sound of flesh being torn apart followed¡ªripping, splattering, echoing in the chaos. The battlefield had been loud before. Warriors shouted commands, weapons clashed, and battle cries filled the sky. But now¡ª Now, there was only the sound of death. Korran, his massive form fully shifted into that of a towering tiger, roared with fury and desperation. His deep, guttural cry carried through the battlefield, but it no longer held the strength of a commander rallying his troops. It was the cry of a man watching his people perish before his eyes. His warriors¡ªhis brothers¡ªwere being butchered like cattle. A golden spear streaked toward him, its tip glowing with divine fury, aimed straight for his heart. With a snarl, he twisted, his claws swiping through the air, deflecting the weapon at the last moment. The spear spun wildly before embedding itself into the blood-drenched earth. But there was no time to breathe. A golden lance followed, its point gleaming as it streaked toward his throat. He threw himself to the side, his powerful legs propelling him out of its path. He landed with a thud, claws sinking into the soft, blood-soaked dirt, muscles tensed, ready to move again. But Asael was already there. He moved like a phantom, silent and inescapable. His golden eyes locked onto Korran¡¯s with a cold intensity, devoid of warmth, devoid of mercy. A brutal kick slammed into Korran¡¯s ribs, a force like a warhammer shattering through bone. The pain was instant and blinding, stealing the air from his lungs. He was sent skidding across the ground, his massive form carving deep furrows into the battlefield. Dirt and blood caked his fur, but he pushed himself up, his breathing ragged, his vision swimming. The warriors who had rushed to his aid¡ªbrave, loyal warriors¡ªwere not as fortunate. Asael¡¯s floating arsenal showed them no mercy. Swords carved through torsos, splitting them open in fountains of crimson. Axes cleaved into shoulders, cutting through flesh and bone in a single swing. Spears impaled chests, the tips bursting through backs slick with blood. Flesh ripped apart. Limbs were severed, fingers still twitching in the dirt. Heads tumbled, their eyes frozen in expressions of shock, mouths parted in screams that never finished. Their deaths were swift. Their ends were merciless. Korran¡¯s breath hitched in his throat as he watched his people fall. One by one. Slaughtered like nothing more than vermin. Rage, raw and uncontrollable, surged through him. A roar of grief tore from his throat as he lunged, his fangs bared, his claws poised to rip Asael apart. But Asael caught him mid-air. The impact should have sent the smaller man stumbling. Instead, Asael held Korran in place with an unnatural grip, his fingers digging into fur and flesh with unshakable strength. Korran thrashed, his massive form writhing, muscles straining against the divine strength that held him in place. His jaws snapped forward, fangs sinking into Asael¡¯s shoulder, his claws tearing into the flesh of his arms. Blood poured, hot and thick, painting both their bodies in crimson. But Asael did not flinch. His wounds should have crippled him. His flesh should have torn beyond repair. Yet, before Korran¡¯s very eyes, the divine energy wove itself through Asael¡¯s body, sealing the wounds as if they had never existed. The pain that should have brought him to his knees¡ª It did not even register. And in that moment, Korran understood. There was no humanity left in Asael¡¯s gaze. No hesitation. No remorse. Only raw, unrelenting vengeance. A cold hand clamped down on Korran¡¯s jaw, fingers tightening like a steel vice. Panic flashed through him as he tried to yank himself free, but Asael¡¯s grip only tightened. Then¡ª A sickening crunch. White-hot pain exploded through Korran¡¯s skull as his lower jaw was ripped apart with brutal force. A scream of pure agony ripped from his throat, but it was garbled, choked by the blood pouring from his ruined mouth. His tongue lolled uselessly, his breath coming in desperate, ragged gasps. His massive body convulsed, his golden eyes wide with horror. The pain was unbearable. His mind swam in it, drowning in the white-hot agony that pulsed through his nerves. But Asael wasn¡¯t done. Above them, swords hovered in the air, their golden edges gleaming in the dim light. Then, they struck. A storm of death rained down. Blades pierced his flesh. Arrows buried themselves deep into his muscles. Spears skewered his body, ripping through his chest and limbs. Each wound should have been fatal. But Korran was strong. He had survived wounds that would have killed lesser men. He had risen from the brink of death before. He tried to rise again. Tried to fight. Tried to stand. But Asael would not allow it. With a single, merciless motion, he drove his sword straight into Korran¡¯s heart. Korran¡¯s massive form shuddered. A strangled sound¡ªa mix of a growl and a desperate gasp¡ªescaped his broken throat. But Asael did not stop. With deliberate, ruthless slowness, he reached out¡ª And crushed Korran¡¯s heart in his hand. A final, gurgling breath. Then¡ª Silence. Korran¡¯s lifeless body collapsed onto the blood-soaked earth. The once-great general of the Demon King¡¯s army lay motionless, his blood pooling beneath him, mixing with the countless others who had fallen. The beastmen who had surged forward moments before now stood frozen. Their weapons trembled in their hands. Their bodies shook with horror. Before them, the lifeless remains of their comrades lay in pieces. And at the center of it all¡ª Asael. His body was bathed in golden light, a figure of divine judgment. But his hands¡ª His hands dripped with blood. His golden eyes, burning with an unholy fury, turned toward the remaining warriors. There was nothing righteous in his gaze. Nothing merciful. Nothing human. Just a harbinger of death. And in that moment¡ª The beastmen knew. They were already dead. Hero (4) Borris and Kelly arrived first¡ªand froze in place. The sight before them was something out of a nightmare. The once-mighty Korran lay motionless, his massive tiger form drenched in blood. Golden arrows protruded from his torn body, their radiant glow stark against the dark pools spreading beneath him. His lifeless eyes stared at nothing, mouth frozen in a silent snarl, as if death had stolen his final roar. And at the center of it all¡ª Asael. Floating above the carnage, his body bathed in golden radiance, yet his hands dripped with fresh blood. The contrast was haunting¡ªdivinity and brutality woven into a single figure. His expression was empty. His eyes¡ªhollow. A being that had once been human was now something else entirely. A divine executioner. Borris'' fury ignited, an inferno consuming his grief. His roar shattered the stillness, a thunderous sound that made the very air tremble. Muscles tensed, bones cracked, his body expanding as fur burst from his skin. His transformation was violent, primal¡ªa towering beast of raw power, pulsing with the rage of his kind. With a snarl, he ripped a massive chunk of shattered metal from the ground, fingers digging into the steel like it was soft clay. His breath came in ragged huffs, hot with fury, and with every ounce of strength he had, he hurled the twisted mass toward Asael. It came fast. A blur of deadly weight, whistling through the air like a meteor. But¡ª Asael moved. With a slight tilt of his head, the massive projectile shot past him, slamming into the blood-soaked earth with an earth-shaking crash. Dust and gore erupted from the impact, but Asael remained untouched, suspended in the golden glow of his own radiance. Before Borris could react, fire erupted at his side. Kelly had fully transformed¡ªnine tails fanned behind her, each one glowing with raw magic. Her fox-like features twisted with hatred, eyes burning like embers. With a flick of her tails, orbs of fire shot toward Asael, searing through the air like miniature suns. And behind her¡ª The remaining beastmen followed suit. Weapons flew. Spells crackled. A storm of desperation surged toward the divine figure. But¡ª Nothing worked. Asael moved through the chaos like a wraith, golden weapons orbiting him like a storm. He dodged with fluid grace, deflected with effortless precision, his radiant form an untouchable specter amid the bloodshed. Even when a fireball struck his chest, even when a blade slashed across his side¡ª Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. The wounds healed instantly, erased as though they had never existed. And then¡ª He attacked. His floating weapons became instruments of death. A sword sliced through a beastman¡¯s throat, sending a crimson arc into the air. A spear impaled a wolfman through the heart, pinning him to the ground as his body convulsed in its final moments. Limbs were severed, flesh torn as divine steel carved through them like paper. A lance hurtled toward Kelly, a precise strike meant to end her. But Borris caught it mid-air, massive hands closing around the shaft with sheer strength. For a moment, it seemed he had stopped it. But¡ª A second lance came from behind. Before he could react, it pierced through his back. Cold steel drove through muscle, bone, and organs, bursting from his chest in a spray of red. Borris let out a roar of agony, his voice cracking with pain. His grip on the first spear weakened. And in that split second¡ª The first spear, no longer held back, shot forward. It impaled him again. The sheer force lifted his massive body off the ground, his shadow twisting beneath him as blood poured freely, soaking the battlefield. His breath came in ragged gasps, vision darkening at the edges. He barely registered the blur of gold rushing toward him¡ª Until the final blow came. A sword flashed. And his head was gone. His body collapsed with a heavy thud, shaking the ground. His severed head rolled, eyes still open in shock, until it stopped at Kelly¡¯s feet. Her eyes widened, her entire body trembling. "B-Borris...?" Her voice was barely a whisper, fragile, cracking under the weight of loss. She turned, rage, grief, and fear churning inside her¡ª But Asael¡¯s golden eyes were already on her. And in them¡ª There was nothing. No regret. No mercy. Just judgment. Before he could strike¡ª A new presence arrived. Giren, Sirius, and Hemel rushed in. They found Anne first, her trembling form barely visible behind a barrier of divine shield. Even shielded, she was shaking, her eyes locked onto the battlefield, unable to look away from the horror unfolding before her. Hemel quickly casted invisibility spell upon themselves. The newcomers stood frozen, staring at the carnage around them. The bodies. The blood. The massacre. And then¡ª Giren¡¯s gaze fell on something else. Something that made his heart stop. A small body. Kenta. The boy¡¯s lifeless form lay motionless, his tiny fingers curled, his face still frozen in that final moment of pain. Giren¡¯s chest tightened. His breath hitched. His hands clenched into fists so hard his claws dug into his palms, drawing his own blood. "Kenta..." The name escaped his lips like a breathless whisper, a sound too small to match the grief inside him. All he could see was that small, lifeless body. A child who had followed them. A child who had trusted them. And now¡ª He was gone. A storm of emotions churned within him. Grief. Rage. Helplessness. His nails bit deeper into his palms, sharp pain grounding him as his gaze slowly lifted. To the one who stood above them all. To the one who had become something beyond human. To the one whose golden light no longer seemed like salvation¡ª But destruction. "Asael..." His voice trembled with anger and sorrow, a fragile thing on the verge of shattering. But Asael was no longer himself. Kelly stumbled forward, her hands trembling as she pressed them against Borris'' lifeless chest. Her body burned with exhaustion, but she didn¡¯t care. Her fingers glowed with healing magic, pressing desperately against his torn flesh, shattered organs, and severed arteries. But¡ª It was useless. His body was too broken. His blood had already soaked the ground beneath him, pooling in thick, dark crimson rivers. His face, once so fierce and full of life, was now pale and empty. A lump formed in Kelly¡¯s throat. Her breath hitched. "Come on, Borris¡­ just a little more¡­" Her magic flared brighter, but his body did not respond. She pressed harder, tears forming in her golden eyes. "Don''t die...! Not like this!" But no matter how much she poured her soul into the healing spell¡ª He was gone. And then¡ª The air shifted. A deadly aura descended upon her. Kelly''s ears twitched¡ª But before she could react, a shadow loomed over her. A sudden whistling sound filled the air. A dozen weapons rained down like falling stars. The beastmen around her¡ªthose who had rushed in to protect her¡ª Were torn apart instantly. A massive blade impaled a lion-headed warrior through the chest, lifting him off the ground before pinning him like a broken doll. A spear burst through a wolfman¡¯s skull, sending a sickening crack through the battlefield. Another warrior, a fox like her, was bisected at the waist, his upper body sliding off in a grotesque heap. Blood splashed across Kelly¡¯s face. She barely had time to scream before a hand wrapped around her throat. Her entire body was yanked into the air. Her vision swam, her lungs burned, and she struggled desperately¡ª But the grip around her throat was ironclad. Asael. His face was half-burned, the skin peeled away, revealing raw, red muscle beneath. Yet¡ª His veins pulsed gold. And within seconds, the burned flesh regenerated. The torn skin stitched itself back together, his features restored as if nothing had happened. Kelly¡¯s eyes widened in horror. "That¡¯s¡­ impossible¡­" Asael stared at her, his face devoid of emotion¡ª And then, without hesitation, he lifted her higher. Kelly gasped, her feet kicking helplessly in the air. Her hands clawed at Asael¡¯s grip, but it was like trying to break stone. She couldn¡¯t breathe. Her vision darkened. Then¡ª "STOP IT!" A voice boomed from the battlefield. Asael¡¯s head turned slightly. Talon had arrived. His wings flared out, his body gleaming under the arena¡¯s cursed light. His eyes burned with fury. "Put her down!" Talon roared, drawing his blade. But Asael didn¡¯t listen. Instead¡ª He let go. Kelly''s body plummeted. The world blurred around her. The ground rushed up fast. If she hit¡ªshe would die. A golden blur shot past her. Talon caught her mid-air, wrapping his arms around her. For a moment, relief flooded her. But then¡ª A shadow descended upon them. A blur of gold and death. Asael. He landed on Talon¡¯s back with a force that shook the entire battlefield. Talon¡¯s body convulsed¡ª As two swords impaled straight through him. A horrifying crack echoed through the air as bone shattered. Blood burst from his mouth, splattering across Kelly¡¯s face. She gasped in shock¡ª Before her eyes widened in absolute horror. Asael¡¯s fingers tightened around Talon¡¯s wings. Kelly saw his muscles flex. She realized what he was about to do. "Talon¡ª!" RIP. A sickening, wet tearing sound echoed across the battlefield. Talon¡¯s scream tore through the air. His wings¡ª Ripped from his back. His flesh tore apart. His bones cracked and splintered. Golden feathers scattered in the wind, drenched in blood. And then¡ª They fell. Both Talon and Kelly crashed onto the ground with a heavy, bone-shattering thud. Blood splattered across the stone. Their bodies twitched violently. Talon gasped, his back an open ruin of torn muscle and shredded bone. Kelly, barely conscious, reached out¡ªher fingers trembling¡ªtoward Talon. His eyes, once so brave, were now distant and clouded. "T-Talon¡­" But before either could move¡ª The sky darkened. A shadow loomed above them¡ª And then¡ª A storm of arrows fell. Their world vanished beneath an ocean of steel and death. Hero (5) The arena was silent. A bizarre, unnatural silence that clung to the battlefield like a suffocating fog. No cheers. No battle cries. No sounds of dying warriors gasping their final breaths. Only silence¡ªthick and oppressive, pressing down on those who remained. Blood pooled in thick, dark lakes, rippling as broken bodies collapsed into them. The eerie golden light radiating from Asael¡¯s floating weapons reflected off the crimson surface, twisting into grotesque patterns. Morales and Kevin arrived, their troops in tow. Then they saw it. Their breath hitched. Their footsteps slowed. It was a massacre. Steven, Lily, Magnum, and the Dwarf King entered the arena, their gazes locking onto the horrific scene before them. The sight rooted them in place, their stomachs churning as the full weight of the carnage settled upon them. The battlefield was littered with bodies. Not just warriors¡ªbut civilians. Innocents. Men, women, and children lay strewn across the blood-drenched ground, their bodies twisted in agony. Many had been disemboweled, their intestines spilling onto the cold stone. Others were missing limbs, their severed hands and legs discarded like butchered meat. Some had been impaled, their corpses grotesquely suspended on golden spears, their lifeless eyes staring into nothingness. The stench of burned flesh and fresh blood choked the air. Hemel¡¯s heart pounded against his ribs. His fingers trembled as he quickly whispered an incantation, shrouding the group in invisibility before Asael¡¯s golden gaze could fall upon them. They had to stay hidden. The survivors gathered, their bodies pressing close together as they struggled to contain their horror. Anne rushed to Steven¡¯s side, her hands glowing with warm light as she channeled healing magic into his wounds. But her eyes, wide with terror, kept flicking toward the slaughter. Lily¡¯s gaze darted frantically across the battlefield. Then she saw him. Kenta¡¯s lifeless body lay sprawled across the scarlet-stained ground. His eyes, once brimming with determination, were empty and dull. His face, once filled with warmth, was now deathly pale. A gaping hole marred his chest where his heart had once beat. The Dwarf King clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white as realization dawned upon him. This was no ordinary warrior. This was a Hero. An Apostle of the Gods. A Hero¡¯s purpose was clear. To protect. To slay monsters. To stand against the darkness. But a Hero was also a weapon. A tool forged by divine hands, meant to execute the will of the gods. A Hero had to balance these two roles. Those who failed¡ª The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. Became something far more terrifying. And right now¡ª Asael was that failure. His golden weapons hovered around him like celestial harbingers of death. They shone with a divine radiance, yet there was nothing righteous about the slaughter they had wrought. Nothing just. Nothing merciful. Asael turned his gaze toward the last remnants of Beastwell. Terror-stricken men, women, and children stood frozen in fear. Their fur was matted with blood¡ªnot their own, but of their fallen kin. Their ears flattened against their heads, their tails curled in despair. They knew. They would be next. The Dwarf King gritted his teeth, his voice a harsh whisper. "We need to stop him." The others nodded, but the unspoken question loomed over them. How? --- Kevin¡¯s muscles tensed, his fury a boiling storm beneath his skin. He turned to Morales, his voice thick with rage. "You take the civilians! We¡¯ll handle him!" Morales nodded sharply, his instincts screaming at him to move. He signaled his troops, preparing to lead the survivors away. But before they could take a single step¡ª A blade shot forward. Like a flash of golden lightning, it tore through the air¡ª Straight toward Morales. His instincts screamed. He dodged one. Then two. But the third¡ª Pierced his side. Pain erupted through his body. He staggered, clutching the bleeding wound¡ª Another weapon followed. And another. The air filled with screams as Asael¡¯s weapons descended upon the beastmen. Some tried to run. The blades were faster. A mother clutched her young child, her breath coming in frantic gasps¡ª A golden spear impaled her back. Her body jerked, her eyes wide with shock¡ªbefore she collapsed forward, limp. Her child, still beneath her, trembled violently, too young to understand. A sword sliced through the air. A small body fell still. The innocent froze. They saw what would happen if they ran. They saw what would happen if they stayed. There was no escape. Kevin¡¯s rage reached its boiling point. His fists clenched so tightly his claws pierced his own palms. His entire body trembled, his breath coming in ragged, furious huffs. "You bastard¡ª!" With a mighty roar, he charged. His massive gorilla frame launched toward Asael, fist raised high¡ª But before he could strike¡ª A spear impaled his gut. Kevin gasped. His body shook as the weapon burrowed deeper. His massive hands grasped at the shaft, trying to pull it out¡ª A lance struck from behind. It burst through his back, the sharp edge protruding from his chest. Kevin coughed blood. His vision swam. His legs trembled¡ª A golden sword slashed across his neck. His head left his body. His troops watched in stunned horror. Their mighty leader¡ªgone in an instant. Then Asael¡¯s weapons descended upon them. Blades sliced through flesh. Spears impaled massive frames. One beastman tried to flee. An axe cleaved his legs off, leaving him to crawl helplessly before a sword ended him. Their roars turned to screams. Their screams turned to silence. And then¡ª Only the innocent remained. The defenseless. The helpless. The ones who could do nothing but shake in terror. Asael floated above them. His golden aura still burned, bright and merciless. His weapons, drenched in blood, hovered¡ª Blades poised to strike. Spears eager to pierce. Lances ready to tear through flesh and bone. The children clung to their parents, their tiny hands gripping for comfort that no longer existed. The elders closed their eyes, whispering prayers to gods who would not answer. There was no hope left. And above them¡ª Asael stood, bathed in golden light. A Hero of the Gods. A merciless executioner. "Oh! Merciful Goddess of Aria! Please protect your child from straying from his path!" Anne''s voice trembled, her hands clasped so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Tears streamed down her face as she lifted her gaze to the heavens, eyes wide with desperate faith. "Oh! Benevolent Mother of All! Please help your poor children!" Lily and Magnum followed, their voices raw with pleading, thick with sorrow. Desperation bled into every syllable, a cry not just for mercy, but for salvation. Even Steven, exhausted and broken, managed to whisper a prayer, his lips barely moving, breath shallow and weak. The Dwarf King, ever the skeptic, felt something heavy settle in his chest. An icy dread curled around his heart, yet he too bowed his head, muttering words of hope, words he was not sure anyone would hear. Above them¡ª Asael¡¯s weapons hovered in the air, gleaming like celestial instruments of divine punishment. They trembled, vibrating with barely contained fury, poised to strike down the last of the beastmen. But then¡ª A voice. Soft. Soothing. Divine. "Stop it, my child." "Do not lose yourself to darkness, chosen one." "Be merciful, hero." The voices were not mortal. They carried an ethereal weight, pressing into his very soul, commanding obedience. Asael¡¯s golden gaze flickered. His weapons wavered, lowering slightly. For a moment¡ª A brief, fleeting moment¡ª It seemed like he would stop. Like he would listen. But then¡ª Another voice slithered into his mind. Darker. Colder. It coiled around his thoughts like a serpent, hissing with quiet, insidious malice. "Kill them." The whisper was soft¡ªyet it drowned out all others. The divine voices screamed in protest. "No! Stop!" But they faded as they reached his ears. Vanished before he could think. And then¡ª Asael¡¯s golden eyes blazed, brighter than before. Like twin suns, ready to consume everything in their wake. His weapons trembled once more¡ª Then moved. Fast. Deadly. Merciless. The first line of beastmen never even had time to react. Spears shot forward, piercing chests with a sickening crunch. Blades cleaved through ribcages, splitting flesh and shattering bone. Blood erupted into the air, thick and hot, splattering the ground in crimson pools. A lion beastman gasped, his wide, disbelieving eyes staring down at the weapon lodged deep in his heart. He clutched at it weakly, but his legs gave out before he could even scream. A wolf mother turned, arms wrapped protectively around her son. The blade did not stop. It ran through her first¡ª Then her child. The boy''s small, trembling hand reached for his mother, fingers barely brushing her lifeless face before his body collapsed beside hers, his eyes still open, frozen in silent horror. The massacre had begun. And it would not stop. A young dog boy sprinted through the chaos, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst. The air was thick with the scent of blood, filled with the dying screams of his people. He looked back. His best friend, a young rhino beastman, lay on the ground, moaning, struggling to rise. He was alive. The dog boy turned back. He could escape. He could run. He could live. But then¡ª He made a choice. He turned back toward his friend. "Get up!" he cried, grabbing the rhino''s shaking shoulders. "We have to¡ª" The words never finished. A sword tore through his back. The blade¡¯s tip erupted from his chest. His body jerked violently, his ears twitching, his hands trembling. He turned his head slightly, his wide, uncomprehending eyes meeting the rhino¡¯s. His mouth opened¡ª But no words came. Blood spilled from his lips. And then¡ª He collapsed. Face-first into the dirt. The rhino beastman screamed. And then he too fell silent. The young cat, hawk also tried to protect each other. But they also met their end. One by one¡ª They all fell. The old. The young. The warriors. The defenseless. Blades ripped through bodies. Spears tore through throats. Heads rolled onto the blood-soaked ground. The once-proud city of Beastwell had become a graveyard of corpses. And at the center of it all¡ª Asael stood. Bathed in golden light. His holy aura flickered, brilliant and blinding¡ª Yet his feet stood in pools of blood. The hero of the gods had become a butcher. A merciless executioner. Towards the last battle (1) The sky remained bright, the sun hanging high, its golden light indifferent to the slaughter below. Clouds drifted lazily across the heavens, blind to the blood-soaked earth beneath them, to the silent screams frozen in the eyes of the fallen. The arena, once a place of battle and glory, had become a grotesque display of death. The bodies of beastmen lay scattered, some torn apart beyond recognition, others impaled on jagged debris, their fur matted with blood and dirt. Limbs lay twisted at unnatural angles, eyes wide with the terror of their final moments. The stench of death was suffocating, thick and heavy in the air. Blood pooled in deep cracks, forming sluggish rivers of crimson that slithered through the ruined stone like veins of the battlefield itself. And above it all, Asael floated. Silent. Unmoving. His golden weapons hovered around him, their radiant edges gleaming in the sunlight, dripping with the blood of those they had butchered. A divine glow surrounded him, an eerie contrast to the carnage below¡ªa beacon of holy destruction, a messenger of salvation and damnation alike. Then, from the emptiness of the battlefield, something wrapped around him. Thick chains of light, pulsing with raw arcane energy, lashed around his limbs, coiling tightly around his waist and neck. The glow of the chains flickered violently as they locked him in place, forcing him to halt mid-air. "Now!" Hemel''s voice rang out, sharp and desperate. "I can''t hold him for long!" Sweat dripped from his forehead, his hands trembling as he poured every ounce of his power into keeping Asael bound. His magic pulsed erratically, a testament to the sheer strain it took to restrain something that should never have been restrained. Anne took a deep breath, her fingers tightening into fists before she slowly clasped them together. She began to pray. A saintess¡¯s prayer. A sacred chant meant to reach the depths of Asael¡¯s soul, to call forth whatever remained of the hero he once was. But as she whispered the words, her body was left completely vulnerable. She was defenseless. And Asael knew it. A pulse of divine energy erupted from his body, sending waves of power rippling through the air. The chains of light cracked, splintering as his very presence rejected them. Then, with a single movement, he shattered them. The bindings exploded into nothingness. His golden weapons spun in midair, turning with deadly precision. Then they launched toward Anne. They sliced through the air like golden comets of death, streaking toward her heart and throat with lethal accuracy. A metallic clash rang out. Giren had intercepted them. With a ferocious battle cry, he swung his massive axe, knocking the weapons aside. This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. The force of his strike sent a shockwave through the battlefield, shaking the very earth beneath them. Beside him, the Dwarf King, breath heavy and ragged, picked up a fallen war hammer. His hands, calloused and bloodied, tightened around the handle as he slammed the weapon into the ground. The earth trembled. A wall of jagged stone erupted upward, a final barrier standing between Asael and Anne. For a moment, it held. But only for a moment. Asael tilted his head, golden eyes flickering with something unreadable. The weapons shifted again, weaving through the air, preparing to strike from another angle. Then, arrows rained from above. Lily''s sharp gaze locked onto her target. She loosed arrow after arrow, her hands moving in a blur, her breath steady despite the chaos around her. Beside her, Magnum chanted in rapid succession, his spirit magic weaving into the projectiles. The arrows glowed with ethereal light, their tips shimmering as the enchantments took hold. Asael moved to dodge. But some found their mark. They pierced through his armor, embedding deep into divine flesh. For the first time, Asael flinched. His hand reached up, golden fingers grasping at the arrows lodged in his body. His expression remained unreadable, but his movements were slower, his glow flickering for the briefest moment. Before he could pull them free¡ª A bolt of lightning descended from the heavens. Not from Steven. From Sirius. The thunder crashed into Asael¡¯s body, drawn like a beacon toward the open wounds where the arrows had struck. Electricity ripped through him, searing through flesh and bone, lighting up his veins with a blinding glow. His body convulsed, spasming uncontrollably as the magic coursed through his divine form. The arrows embedded in his skin became conduits, channeling the full force of the storm into his very core. His veins blackened. His skin split open, the exposed muscle beneath crackling with raw power. Then¡ª A massive fireball engulfed him. Hemel¡¯s magic. Larger than any before. The flames roared to life, devouring Asael in a burning inferno. The heat was so intense that the air itself twisted, warping the battlefield into a haze of blistering light. The fire consumed him, wrapping around his form like a living beast, licking hungrily at his divine flesh. Then came the explosion. A deafening blast of pressure and heat rocked the battlefield. The ground trembled, dust and debris surging into the air as the inferno erupted outward. Smoke billowed in thick, choking waves, swallowing the battlefield in a veil of suffocating darkness. For a long, agonizing moment¡ª No one could see what remained of Asael. The battlefield fell silent. Only the crackling of flames remained, their dying embers drifting into the sky. But deep within the smoke¡ª Something still glowed. Something still moved. Then¡ª A sudden movement within the suffocating fog. A spear tore through the haze, a golden streak of death aimed straight for Hemel¡¯s heart. His breath hitched. Instinct took over. He twisted his body at the last possible moment, the weapon whistling past his ear, its tip grazing the edge of his tattered robe. But before he could recover¡ª Asael appeared. Not walking. Not dashing. He simply manifested, as if the very fabric of reality had warped to his will. One moment he was absent, the next, he was there¡ªstanding before Hemel with his sword raised, poised to strike. His eyes, golden orbs that once shone with unwavering righteousness, now burned with something else. Something merciless. Something inhuman. Without hesitation, he thrust his sword forward. The force behind it was absolute, an unrelenting judgment meant to split Hemel in two. It would have been his end¡ª But at the last moment¡ª A flash of blue light. The spell activated. Hemel vanished, leaving nothing but empty air in the path of Asael¡¯s blade. The sword carved through the space where his body should have been, but Asael did not falter. He merely tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable, as if this outcome had already been foreseen. Slowly, he turned. The divine energy surged around him, pulsing through his once-wounded body. Wounds that should have festered. Flesh that should have blackened. Bones that should have shattered under the unrelenting storm of fire and lightning. Instead¡ª His body had already healed. The arrows were gone. The burns had vanished. His skin, unmarred, glowed with unnatural perfection. Divine energy. That was the answer. Asael, the weapon of the gods, was never meant to fall so easily. Then, a soft voice broke through the stillness. ¡°It¡¯s done.¡± Anne stood firm, her hands clasped tightly, her face pale with exhaustion. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths, but her eyes¡ªher eyes shone with unwavering conviction. The golden radiance around Asael intensified. A sphere of pure divinity bloomed into existence, enveloping him completely. It was no mere prison of force. No cage of steel or chains could have bound him. This was different. This was absolute protection. No attack could enter. No attack could leave. And only one person could undo the spell. Anne. Asael¡¯s expression remained unreadable, but his fist clenched. Then, without hesitation, he struck the barrier. The ground quaked beneath the force of his blow. A shockwave tore through the battlefield, sending loose stones and debris skittering away. Cracks splintered along the earth beneath the golden sphere, but the barrier itself remained unshaken. Again, he struck. And again. Each blow sent tremors rippling through the ground, a thunderous rhythm of fury and defiance. The sky itself seemed to tremble with every impact. But the barrier did not break. It did not bend. It did not yield. Finally, Asael lowered his hands. His golden gaze, filled with something unknowable, remained locked onto them. Silent. Watching. Waiting. Anne exhaled a shaky breath. ¡°We need to take him to Sam,¡± she said, her voice firm despite the weight of exhaustion dragging at her limbs. ¡°Perhaps they can help.¡± Giren nodded, gripping his bloodstained axe. Before they could move, Sirius turned, scanning the battlefield one last time. ¡°Have you freed everyone?¡± Steven, still catching his breath, nodded. ¡°Yes.¡± And behind him, a sea of weary souls emerged from the ruins. Humans. Orcs. Elves. Dwarves. Their faces bore the marks of suffering¡ªbruised, bloodied, and exhausted beyond measure. Many of them had known only torment, their bodies bent under chains, their spirits shattered by cruelty. But now¡ª They were free. Tears glistened in the firelight, streaking paths through the filth on their faces. Yet despite the weight of their suffering, they stood tall. They did not flee. They did not collapse. They bowed. The orcs, their mighty frames trembling with exhaustion, bowed to Giren. The elves, their elegant robes torn and dirtied, bowed to Lily and Magnum. The dwarves, their beards matted with dried blood, bowed to their king. And the humans¡ªthose who had endured so much, who had lost everything¡ªbowed to Sirius. It was not a gesture of mere thanks. It was a pledge. A vow that this moment, this act of salvation, would never be forgotten. Hemel took a deep breath, then lifted his hand. A portal shimmered into existence, the swirling light reflecting off their battered forms. One by one, they stepped forward, leaving behind the battlefield drenched in blood. Leaving behind the ruins of their suffering. Towards the last battle (2) The cold air shifted as the portal hummed with power, its swirling glow casting long, wavering shadows on the worn stone beneath their feet. One by one, the survivors stepped through, their bodies heavy with exhaustion, their hearts weighed down by the horrors they had endured. And as the last of them emerged¡ª The portal vanished. They had arrived. Marquis Hector¡¯s castle. Once, it had stood as an unshakable bastion of power, its banners rippling proudly in the wind. Now, under Sam¡¯s command, it had become something else¡ªa sanctuary. A place where hope still flickered, fragile but refusing to die. The stationed guards, a mix of humans, orcs, and elves, turned at the sudden arrival. Their eyes widened as recognition dawned. The soldiers parted, allowing them to pass, but as the newly freed orc prisoners hesitated at the threshold¡ª A single, choked gasp broke the silence. Then, a roar of joy. The orcs surged forward, their deep voices trembling with emotion as they recognized their lost kin. Brothers embraced, gripping each other¡¯s arms so tightly it seemed they feared letting go would make this moment vanish. Sisters wept into each other¡¯s shoulders, their sobs filled with both grief and overwhelming relief. Fathers and sons, once convinced they would never meet again, held each other close, their massive arms shaking. And it wasn¡¯t just the orcs. The elves, usually composed, broke down as well. Soft cries of relief filled the air as family members touched each other¡¯s faces, whispering prayers of thanks. But amidst the flood of joyous reunions¡ª One figure stood apart. Prince Magnum. The moment the elves saw him, the breath was stolen from their lungs. Then, one by one, they knelt. It was not forced. It was instinctual. Their prince, long thought lost to the void of time, had returned. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, their kingdom had hope. The dwarves, never ones for excessive sentiment, clasped arms with other species, their expressions gruff yet proud. But even they could not fully conceal the relief in their eyes. And the humans¡ª They had no crowns, no noble bloodlines to bind them¡ª But they cheered. They shouted their joy. Because in the face of death, they had survived. Because even in the depths of darkness, they had found the light again. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. Yet, amid the celebration, the greatest shock was yet to come. The guards, still reeling from the sight of the returning warriors, turned their gaze toward two figures standing at the back. Hemel. The Chief of the Magic Tower. And¡ª Sirius. The Crown Prince. A stunned hush fell over the soldiers. Some gasped, their hands flying to their mouths in disbelief. A warrior, his face lined with old scars, let his weapon slip from his grasp. His voice, hoarse with emotion, trembled. ¡°Your Highness¡­¡± The moment of silence shattered like glass. A cry of triumph erupted from the gathered soldiers. ¡°The Crown Prince lives!¡± ¡°Our kingdom still stands!¡± The castle shook with renewed hope. But not everyone smiled. Sam, the one who had held this stronghold together through sheer will, watched the scene unfold with careful eyes. And in his gaze¡ª Doubt. Because among the returning heroes, there was one missing. Kenta. His chest tightened as he swept his gaze across the weary survivors, searching for the child who should have been there. Then¡ª His eyes fell upon Asael. The golden sphere hovered in silence, enclosing the once-righteous hero in its divine embrace. The glow of holy power pulsed faintly, as if struggling to contain something monstrous within. For the first time in a long while, Sam felt fear. They were given a day to rest. Warm food was placed in their hands, though few had the appetite to eat. Wounds were treated, yet the pain lingered in their hearts. Laughter was heard in the halls, but the weight of loss never lifted. And when the time finally came to speak, the mood had shifted. The grand hall was eerily quiet as the survivors gathered around the long table in the war room. Candles flickered against the cold stone walls, casting restless shadows over faces marked by exhaustion and grief. Sam¡¯s gaze was cold, piercing. ¡°Now¡­ tell me everything.¡± And so, they did. They spoke of Beastwell. The endless horrors. The prison of blood and chains. They spoke of Kenta. A child. Too small. Too young. But still, a warrior. Still, braver than men twice his age. His sacrifice wrapped around them like a suffocating shroud. Some turned away, unable to meet Sam¡¯s eyes. Others clenched their fists, silent in their grief. And then¡ª They spoke of Asael. What he had become. The righteous hero turned executioner. The man who once swore to protect, now standing amidst the corpses of the innocent. Sam¡¯s face darkened. His fingers curled into fists, the leather of his gloves groaning under the pressure. --- The air in the war room was heavy, thick with tension, as though the weight of their impending decision threatened to crush them. The torches lining the cold stone walls flickered, casting long, restless shadows that danced with the uncertainty in their hearts. The scent of melted wax mingled with the iron tang of armor and the faint musk of sweat, remnants of weary bodies that had long abandoned rest. Sam leaned forward, his fingers interlocked, his eyes sharp, calculating. The light barely reached his face, leaving half of it swallowed by darkness. "So, we''ve finally reached the final battle?" His voice was quiet, but beneath the calm, there was an undeniable edge¡ªa simmering resolve honed by the countless battles that had led them here. Sirius exhaled slowly, a breath that carried the weight of command. "Yeah. But we can¡¯t just charge in recklessly." His words were measured, but his fists were clenched, knuckles taut and white. They all knew what was at stake. The Demon King¡¯s reign of terror had to end. But one misstep¡ª And they would be the ones buried beneath the ruins of failure. Steven, still wrapped in bandages, shifted where he stood, wincing slightly at the movement. His gaze met Sirius¡¯s, unwavering. "You¡¯re right, Crown Prince. But the longer we wait, the stronger he grows." His voice was hoarse, yet firm, carrying the echoes of pain and resolve. The Demon King fed on sacrifices. Every second they delayed¡ª More innocent lives were lost. Sirius¡¯s expression hardened. "Then what do you all propose?" His question cut through the silence like a blade. Steven didn¡¯t hesitate. "We will launch an attack as soon as Asael wakes up." The room fell into a tense stillness. Then¡ª "I agree," Giren said, arms crossed over his broad chest. His voice was low, solid as stone. "Me too," the Dwarf King added, his deep voice carrying an unwavering certainty. Sam studied them all, his gaze lingering before he finally gave a single nod. "With Korran gone, the path is open. We have an army. His two generals are dead. This is our best chance." Lily and Magnum exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them. Then, as if on cue, they both nodded. "It¡¯s time." Sirius slowly stood, the movement drawing every eye in the room. He raised his head, and for a heartbeat, the chamber was silent, as though the very walls held their breath. "Then it¡¯s decided. We will march the moment Asael is ready." The decision was made. And just like that¡ª The preparations for the final battle began. --- The days blurred together, a relentless march of steel, strategy, and bloodstained resolve. The clang of weapons filled the air as soldiers trained tirelessly, their movements honed to perfection, their bodies weary but their spirits burning with purpose. The scent of freshly sharpened blades, sweat, and the damp earth mixed in the wind, a silent reminder of what was to come. Yet amidst all the preparation¡ª One man lay still. Asael. His body, once divine and untouchable, now lay weak, his golden aura dimmed to nothing but the faintest glimmer. The war had drained him, but worse still¡ªthe burden of his own sins. He was no longer the shining hero of legend. He was a man¡ª Broken by the weight of his own actions. And then¡ª One morning, his eyes opened. A sharp gasp tore from his lips as reality came crashing down on him. The memories¡ª The blood¡ª The echoes of screams he could never silence. His hands trembled as they clutched the fabric of his blanket, his fingers curling into the worn cloth as if to ground himself. "What have I done?" The words left him in a whisper, barely audible, but the pain behind them was heavier than steel. Images surged in his mind, relentless and cruel. The innocent beastmen, their cries ringing through the air¡ª The children, hiding behind their fallen mothers¡ª Their terror. Their desperation. He had been their protector. Instead¡ª He had been their executioner. A rustle of fabric broke the silence. Anne, who had been keeping watch by his side, hesitated before reaching out. Her fingers barely brushed his wrist before she stopped, as if afraid he might shatter beneath her touch. "Hero¡­ It wasn¡¯t you." He let out a bitter chuckle, one void of warmth. "Wasn¡¯t it?" His golden eyes, once filled with light, were now dull, haunted. Anne clenched her fists, her voice steady despite the sadness in her gaze. "Listen to me. We can¡¯t change the past. But the Demon King is still out there. He is the one behind all of this. We have one last battle, Hero." A shadow loomed in the doorway. Giren stepped forward, his presence as solid as a mountain. His tone was gruff, but there was no cruelty in it. "You don¡¯t get to collapse here, Asael. You owe it to those you killed¡ªto make this right." The words struck deep. For a moment, Asael did not move. Then¡ª He breathed in. A slow, steady inhale, drawing in all the pain, all the guilt, all the unbearable weight pressing down on him. When he exhaled, his shoulders straightened. His sins would never be erased. But he could still fight for the living. And so, with a heavy heart, Asael made his choice. They would march in one week. For the final battle. For the future of the world. Demon king (1) Doppelgangers¡ªmysterious and misunderstood ¡ª were a rare species, few in number, yet rich in spirit. They did not seek war. They did not crave power. They simply wanted to live in peace. Far from the eyes of humans and other species, they built a quiet sanctuary¡ªa village nestled deep within an untouched valley, hidden by dense forests and towering cliffs. Here, they farmed their land, tended to their animals, and raised their families, just as any other civilization would. Yet, unlike humans, every doppelganger possessed a unique gift. They could shift their forms, becoming any monster or human they desired. At the core of their existence, both literally and figuratively, was a small, glowing gem embedded in their bodies¡ªthe source of their shapeshifting ability. But among them, one doppelganger stood above the rest¡ªGrion, their leader. A kind and just ruler. A loving husband. A devoted father. He, like every leader before him, carried a special gift¡ªimmortality. It was a power passed down through generations, given only to the one who would bear the burden of leadership. With his wife and young daughter by his side, Grion ruled wisely and gently, ensuring that their people could thrive in secrecy. Their village was small but prosperous, their hearts light with the joy of a life untouched by war. Or so they thought. One day, as the sun hung low in the sky, a group of doppelgangers discovered injured humans in the nearby forest. The humans were wounded, starving, desperate. Grion, as always, chose compassion over fear. The strangers were brought into the village. Their wounds were treated. Their hunger was satisfied. For days, the doppelgangers cared for them, tending to their injuries, feeding them, offering them shelter. The humans smiled at their kindness. Laughed with them. Thanked them. And when they were strong enough, they left. The village continued their daily lives, unaware¡ª That their greatest mistake had already been made. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. A month passed. It was a day like any other. The sun rose over the valley, casting golden light over the village. Children played, farmers worked, and the doppelgangers continued their peaceful existence. Then¡ª A tremor in the earth. A distant metallic clang. And then¡ª Shouts. Footsteps. Weapons. Armor. From the forest, they came¡ªthe same humans they had once saved. But this time, they did not come in need. They came in war. Behind them, an army marched¡ªa force of soldiers clad in steel, weapons gleaming under the daylight. The doppelgangers stood frozen, confused, fearful. They had done nothing wrong. They had only helped. And yet¡ª The soldiers drew their blades. Arrows were nocked. A war horn blew, shaking the very air. Grion stepped forward, his golden eyes filled with disbelief. ¡°Why¡­?¡± His voice was soft, yet it echoed in the silence. The man who had once thanked him¡ªnow stood at the front of the army. His expression was cold. "Monsters like you should not exist." And the slaughter began. ----- The air was thick with the scent of blood and burning wood, a sickening blend of death and destruction. The once-peaceful valley echoed with the sounds of steel cleaving flesh, the agonized cries of the helpless, and the merciless laughter of those who held the blades. Without a moment¡¯s hesitation, without a shred of remorse¡ªthe human army descended upon the village like a storm of steel and fire. Swords flashed, spears thrust forward, and arrows rained down like a merciless downpour, striking down doppelgangers before they could even comprehend what was happening. The village, their sanctuary, had become a slaughterhouse. Panic surged through the streets like a wildfire, but there was nowhere to run. The towering cliffs that had once shielded them from the world now served as their prison. Doppelgangers were shapeshifters, not warriors. They had no weapons, no battle formations, no experience in the ways of war¡ªonly the desperate will to survive. Some tried to transform¡ªinto towering beasts, monstrous creatures, even into the very humans who had betrayed them. They hoped to frighten their attackers, to make them reconsider. But fear did not halt the blades. Fear did not stop the slaughter. The humans outnumbered them tenfold. Blades tore through soft flesh, severing limbs, piercing hearts, crushing throats. Blood soaked the soil, thick and dark, painting the village in hues of red and black. Children screamed, their voices shrill with terror, as they watched their parents butchered before their eyes. Mothers clutched their infants, pleading for mercy, only to be run through where they stood. Fathers threw themselves at the invaders, their fists and claws striking out in desperate defiance, but their fury was nothing against sharpened steel. Some doppelgangers fell to their knees, hands raised in surrender, their voices trembling with disbelief. "Why? Why are you doing this?" The humans scoffed, their faces twisted with disdain. "There is nothing to say to monsters." And they drove their swords through their skulls. At the heart of the carnage stood Grion, their leader. His red eyes blazed with fury, his voice a deafening roar as he tore through the ranks of invaders. His claws sliced through flesh, his rage turning the air thick with the scent of blood. Spears and swords struck his body again and again¡ªstabbing, slashing, piercing deep. But he did not fall. He could not fall. His wounds sealed themselves within seconds, flesh knitting back together even as the weapons were pulled from his body. He kept fighting. But it didn¡¯t matter. For every soldier he struck down, ten more took their place. He watched helplessly as his people fell around him. A young girl, no older than five, reached out for her mother¡ªonly to be silenced by a soldier¡¯s sword. An elder, his wrinkled hands raised in surrender, was impaled through the mouth by a waiting spear. A mother shielded her infant with trembling arms, sobbing, whispering prayers to gods who would not answer¡ªonly for an arrow to pierce through both their hearts. Bodies littered the ground, broken and lifeless. Their blackened doppelganger blood seeped into the earth, swallowed by the land that had once been their refuge. Smoke curled into the sky, thick and suffocating, as the village burned. Their home, their haven, was being reduced to ash. Then, through the smoke and blood, he saw them. His wife. His beloved. His daughter. His precious child. The soldiers had cornered them, their faces twisted with sadistic pleasure. His wife held their daughter close, tears streaking down her face, her body trembling as she whispered soft reassurances. Grion¡¯s heart shattered. He lunged forward, claws ripping through soldiers in his path. His roars tore through the battlefield, a desperate plea, a command, a prayer. "DON¡¯T TOUCH THEM!" But it was too late. A soldier grabbed his wife by her hair, yanking her away from their child. His daughter screamed, struggling, reaching out for her mother. Grion¡¯s voice cracked with desperation. "No¡ªplease! Take me instead! We saved you! WHY?" The soldiers sneered. "Monsters should know their place." The sword sank into his wife¡¯s stomach. Her breath hitched. Her lips parted in a silent gasp as blood dripped from her mouth. She turned her gaze toward Grion¡ªeyes filled with sorrow, with love, with farewell. "Grion..." Her body crumpled to the ground. Their daughter wailed, tiny arms reaching out. A soldier raised his sword. And in a single stroke¡ª Her small body was split in two. Grion¡¯s scream shook the heavens. "NOOOOO!" He charged forward, blind with agony, deaf to reason, uncaring of death. Swords plunged into his chest, arrows buried themselves deep into his flesh. But he did not die. He could never die. And so, the human mages intervened. Chains of magic wove around him, tightening like vipers, binding his limbs, forcing him to the ground. A frost spell surged through his body, encasing him in unyielding ice. He could do nothing but watch. Watch as the last of his people were butchered. Watch as the soldiers laughed, cheered, celebrated their glorious victory. Demon King (2) Grion lay bound, his body restrained by thick, enchanted ropes that coiled around his limbs like venomous serpents. Layers upon layers of binding spells pressed down on him, their weight crushing, suffocating. His muscles twitched, his veins burned with resistance, but his body refused to obey. He could feel everything¡ªevery breath, every heartbeat, every agonizing second of stillness. But worst of all, his mind was clear. Too clear. There was no haze to shield him, no fog to dull the reality before him. He saw it all. And he would never forget. The massacre was over. The once-thriving village had been reduced to nothing but a graveyard of torn flesh and fading echoes. Smoke still coiled in the air, the scent of burning wood mingling with the metallic tang of fresh blood. The ground, once teeming with life, was now a canvas of ruin, painted in reds and browns. Yet even in death, the humans did not allow the doppelgangers peace. Their lifeless bodies lay scattered, but their torment was far from over. Grion¡¯s golden eyes widened in horror as the soldiers moved methodically through the corpses, their boots squelching against blood-soaked earth. They knelt beside the fallen, not to mourn, not to offer prayers, but to desecrate. One by one, they plunged their hands into the cooling bodies, fingers digging through ruptured chests, parting flesh and bone with brutal efficiency. And then, they tore the cores free. Glowing spheres of black and crimson pulsed in their hands¡ªessence, identity, life itself¡ªripped from the very beings they had slaughtered. Grion¡¯s breath hitched. Some of them were still alive. Broken bodies twitched, fingers curled weakly in the dirt. Ragged, wheezing breaths fought against the weight of death. But the soldiers didn¡¯t hesitate. Blades gleamed in the dying firelight. Steel plunged into soft stomachs. Hands reached into still-warm torsos, pulling, twisting¡ª The air filled with screams. They weren¡¯t the cries of warriors. They weren¡¯t the desperate wails of men begging for mercy. They were raw, primal, torn from the depths of suffering no being should endure. Grion couldn¡¯t move. He couldn¡¯t scream. He could only watch. Then he saw them. His wife. His daughter. Their bodies lay close together, arms outstretched as if reaching for each other in their final moments. Their skin was pale, lips slightly parted, frozen in the cruel mockery of sleep. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. He wanted to believe they would wake up. That they would stir, look at him with tired eyes, whisper his name. But they wouldn¡¯t. They never would. And then, the butchery began. A soldier grabbed his wife¡¯s limp form, rolling her onto her back as if she were nothing but an object. A mage knelt beside her, hands pressing into her chest, feeling for the core within. Grion¡¯s pulse pounded in his ears. No. The blade came down. The metal slid through flesh like a hot knife through butter, cutting deep, splitting her open with sickening precision. Grion thrashed, a raw, animalistic scream tearing from his throat. His bonds burned against his skin, the spells cracked through his nerves like whips of fire. "Stop! Please!" But they didn¡¯t. Their hands reached inside, fingers wrapping around the still-warm core nestled within her body. They pulled. Her body spasmed, a grotesque, unnatural jerk¡ªlike a puppet with its strings cut. And then, they tossed her aside. Like waste. Like nothing. A choked sob clawed its way up Grion¡¯s throat, but there was no time to grieve. Because now, they were reaching for his daughter. She was so small. So fragile. A soldier chuckled, his lips curling into a smirk. "This one¡¯s core should be fresh." Something inside Grion snapped. A violent, all-consuming rage erupted within him, black and red, hotter than fire, heavier than grief. He thrashed wildly, muscles screaming, throat raw from the force of his own cries. The ropes cut into his flesh, his skin seared where the spells tightened their hold, but none of it mattered. "Don¡¯t touch her! Don¡¯t you dare touch her!" But they did. Their hands reached¡ª And then, she was gone. --- The portal swallowed him whole. Grion¡¯s body twisted as he was dragged through, every fiber of his being stretching, tearing, unraveling¡ªonly to be pieced back together in a place far, far worse. When his vision cleared, he was no longer in his village. He was somewhere cold. Artificial. The air was thick with the stench of rot and chemicals, a suffocating mix of death and something vilely unnatural. Rows of glass tubes lined the walls, stretching into the darkness, each one containing a shape¡ªsome shifting, some still, some barely clinging to life. Tables overflowed with dissected bodies, their organs methodically arranged like tools in a craftsman¡¯s workshop. Jars of cores lined the shelves, stacked like trophies, their once-vibrant light dimming with every passing moment. Grion¡¯s body was hoisted into a glass tank. The liquid inside was thick, cloying, wrapping around him like an unrelenting grip. It pressed against his skin, seeped into his lungs, suffocated him without mercy. He clawed at the glass. He thrashed, but there was no escape. And beside him, he wasn¡¯t alone. To his left, a golden-eyed hobgoblin bared his teeth, his body marred with deep, seared scars. "Damn them all! These wretched humans! If I were free, I¡¯d tear them apart¡ª!" To his right, two slimes pulsed weakly, their translucent forms flickering like candle flames on the verge of extinction. "We are the last¡­ The last of our kind¡­" Their voices were filled with sorrow. Grion understood them. Doppelgangers, masters of transformation, could understand any tongue, any language. Grion¡¯s rage was a storm¡ªviolent, endless, and consuming. It had taken time, far too much time, but he had finally uncovered the reason behind the massacre. And it was so simple. So pathetic. So monstrous. The king and his nobles wanted to live longer. That was it. That was all it took for them to burn his village to the ground, to butcher his people without a second thought. To rip the glowing cores from his wife¡¯s and daughter¡¯s bodies while grinning, their eyes alight with the twisted pleasure of extending their own wretched existence. They feared death. So they hunted creatures with long lifespans. Dark slimes, beings as ancient as the mountains, were dragged from their hidden caverns, their essence extracted drop by drop. A golden hobgoblin, a rare and noble creature whose blood was rumored to slow the decay of time, was captured and bled dry, his agonized cries ignored as the nobles drank his life away. And Grion¡ª Grion, the immortal one. His eternity made him the most valuable of all. So they took him. They bound his wrists in chains forged from cursed silver, magic searing into his flesh with every movement. They paraded him through the castle halls like a trophy before locking him away in the depths of their accursed laboratory. Not as a prisoner. Not even as a living being. But as a specimen. A thing to be examined, torn apart, and reshaped at their whim. His entire race had been slaughtered for nothing more than the greed of cowards. He tried to break the glass. He slammed his fists against the barrier, again and again, but the enchantments held firm. The chamber around him trembled with the force of his rage, his muffled roars sending ripples through the thick, sickly fluid that encased his body. The mages on the other side only laughed. "Still resisting? You should be honored, monster." "Your body will give birth to eternal kings." Then the pain came. It always did. The arcane sigils carved into the floor flared to life, filling the chamber with a suffocating pressure. Magic surged into his veins, burning, twisting, seizing every fiber of his being. He convulsed as thin, gleaming instruments pierced his flesh, slicing through muscle and bone with precise, merciless efficiency. They peeled his skin away in layers, watching it regrow with fascination. They drained his blood, replacing it with substances thick and black, waiting to see how his body would react. They forced him to consume monster after monster¡ªinjecting their essence into his core, pushing him past the limits of what should have been possible. Some experiments left him writhing, his limbs contorting into grotesque shapes. Some filled his lungs with liquid fire, each breath a struggle against suffocation. Some shattered his mind, reducing him to a trembling husk on the chamber floor. But he never died. He couldn¡¯t die. So they kept going. Time lost all meaning. Days blurred into months. Months bled into years. He stopped counting. The chamber beside him, once occupied, now lay empty. The golden hobgoblin had screamed until his voice broke, had fought until his body gave out, had pleaded for mercy until his final breath. And then, like all the others, he had been discarded. The dark slimes, their fluid bodies contorted in agony, had been forced to watch as their cores were extracted one by one, their bodies dissolving into nothing. Their wails still echoed in his ears. And then came new prisoners. New creatures dragged in. New cries of suffering. And the cycle continued. Grion¡¯s rage never faded. It only grew. Through the agony, the torment, the endless suffering, he noticed something. He was changing. The experiments, the forced mutations, the injections that had been meant to break him¡ª They had made him stronger. Each time they shattered him, he reformed faster. Each time they forced a new essence into his core, his body adapted. At first, his transformations had been weak, unstable. He could mimic only small changes, altering his skin to resemble the humans around him. Then he could shift further, his limbs stretching and twisting, his bones bending like molten iron. And now¡ª Now he could do more. His arms could lengthen into the razor-sharp talons of a eagle. His legs could coil with the strength of a werewolf, ready to pounce. His bones could harden, becoming an unbreakable fortress of armored titan¡¯s hide. He could shift, morph, become anything. But he hid it. He let them believe he was still weak. Still broken. Still their helpless specimen. Because he was waiting. Waiting for the right moment. For the perfect time. To break free. To tear them apart. To make them suffer, just as they had made his family suffer. And when that moment came¡ª Not a single human would be spared. Demon king (3) Years had passed. Grion had long stopped feeling pain. The experiments, the torture¡ªnone of it mattered anymore. He no longer flinched when they cut him open, no longer screamed when they seared his flesh just to measure how fast he would regenerate. He had become something else. A hollow shell of hatred, waiting for the right moment. And then, one day, it came. Most of the knights and mages had left the laboratory. Grion listened carefully as the remaining ones chatted, their voices laced with boredom, oblivious to the monster they had created. "The king has declared war on the eastern kingdoms. Almost all the royal knights have been deployed." "The Grand Mages too. They¡¯re out leading enchantments on the battlefield." War. Their insatiable greed had finally led them into conflict with their own kind. Perfect. Grion curled his fingers, his hands shifting, stretching into massive, brutish fists, thick with the sinew of an ogre. He took a slow, deep breath¡ª And swung. The chamber trembled. The enchanted glass of his prison quivered under the force of his blow. The thick containment fluid rippled violently, sloshing against the walls of his cage. The mages nearby turned, their idle expressions twisting into horror. Grion swung again, his monstrous fist hammering against the glass. A web of fractures snaked across its surface, veins of death splintering outward. The magic struggled, crackling, failing to hold. One more. One final blow. The chamber exploded into chaos as the glass shattered into a thousand jagged shards, the containment liquid flooding across the cold stone floor. Grion collapsed forward, gasping for air, his body trembling as the thick, suffocating fluid drained away. His muscles, weak from years of confinement, spasmed as they awakened once more. For a moment, there was silence. Then¡ª Panic. "H-He¡¯s loose!" a mage shrieked, scrambling backward. "Sound the alarm! Get the¡ª!" Too late. Grion¡¯s legs twisted, his form shifting in an instant. Muscles thickened, bones stretched, and in the blink of an eye, he launched forward with the speed of a dire wolf. His claws found flesh. The mage barely had time to scream before Grion¡¯s talons sliced through his face, carving deep trenches into his skull. Blood sprayed in wild arcs as Grion¡¯s clawed foot slammed down, crushing the man¡¯s head like a ripe fruit. The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. The wet crunch echoed through the room. The first kill. But not the last. Grion¡¯s eyes turned to the rows of containment tubes lining the walls. Monsters¡ªhundreds of them¡ªtrapped, suffering, waiting. Some had lost their sanity long ago, their eyes void of reason. Others still had flickers of rage, smoldering embers buried beneath years of torment. They were like him. Victims of human cruelty. Grion raised a fist and drove it into the release levers. Glass exploded. The liquid prison gushed forth, releasing its captives into the world once more. Goblins shrieked as they scrambled free, their thin, wiry limbs twitching with newfound energy. Gnolls bared their yellowed fangs, their snarls reverberating through the chamber. Ogres and trolls blinked as their massive forms dripped with containment fluid, their monstrous eyes adjusting to the sight of freedom. They stood there, stunned, hesitant¡ª Until they realized. They were free. And they wanted blood. The remaining knights and mages burst into the chamber, weapons drawn. "Contain them! Do not let them escape!" Grion smirked. "You should be more worried about yourselves." A knight charged, his sword gleaming under the laboratory¡¯s dim glow. Grion did not move. The blade struck his shoulder, cleaving through flesh and bone. The knight¡¯s lips curled into a triumphant grin¡ª Until Grion¡¯s body stitched itself back together before his very eyes. The grin faltered. Fear took its place. Grion¡¯s hand morphed, his fingers elongating into razor-sharp talons. With inhuman speed, he grasped the knight¡¯s head, his claws sinking into the soft flesh of his cheeks. With one monstrous pull¡ª The head tore free from the body, spine still dangling from the mangled flesh. The knight¡¯s body convulsed, a wet gurgle escaping his throat before collapsing into the growing pool of blood. Grion inhaled deeply, the scent of death thick in the air. It smelled good. A mage stumbled backward, hands shaking as he whispered a spell. His lips barely formed the final syllable when a horde of goblins descended upon him, their jagged daggers and claws plunging into his stomach, his throat, his eyes. His scream turned to a wet, choking gurgle as they ripped him apart, tearing at his flesh like starved animals. A troll seized another knight in its massive, gnarled hands. The man struggled, kicking, screaming¡ª Until the troll¡¯s jaws snapped shut, his head vanishing between its yellowed teeth. Blood gushed down the troll¡¯s chin as it chewed, savoring the taste. More knights fell. More mages perished. Limbs were torn from sockets. Throats were ripped open. Bodies were trampled under the weight of a stampede of monstrous fury. The laboratory was drowning in death. And at the center of it all, Grion stood, watching. For years, the humans had experimented on them, tortured them, reduced them to nothing more than flesh to be studied, to be used, to be discarded. Now, the tables had turned. Now, the monsters were in control. And there would be no mercy. Not until every single human in this cursed place was dead. Grion did not stop. The humans had stolen everything from him¡ªhis family, his people, his very life. So he would take everything from them. He walked among them, hidden in plain sight, his body shifting with ease. A noble draped in silk and gold, sipping wine with the elites. A merchant with a warm smile, peddling his wares in the bustling markets. A wandering priest, whispering false prayers to the faithful. A kind old man, offering sweets to unsuspecting children. He wore their faces, spoke in their voices, walked in their streets. And when the sun dipped below the horizon¡ª He became their nightmare. It began like a whisper. A single house reduced to cinders, flames licking the night sky. A merchant found sprawled across his counter, his body twisted and mangled beyond recognition. Then, an entire noble household, slaughtered in their sleep¡ªblood pooling beneath silken sheets, their once-opulent chamber now a silent grave. Fear took root. The people spoke in hushed voices, their eyes darting at every shadow. A demon walked among them, they whispered. A creature of death, unseen, unstoppable. Yet none of them knew. Because he was one of them. And then the whispers became screams. Towns fell, one after another, reduced to nothing but smoldering ruins. Villages were erased from existence, their streets littered with lifeless bodies. Cities drowned in rivers of blood. No one was spared. Men clutched their swords with trembling hands, only to fall before they could swing. Women ran, pleading for mercy, only to collapse with crimson staining their dresses. Children hid beneath beds, in closets, in dark corners¡ªwhimpering, praying. But prayers could not save them. Their screams echoed through the night, but they were nothing compared to the agony that had once shattered his world. The pain they felt now was a mere whisper of what he had endured. Because when his family cried for help¡ªno one came. He remembered his wife''s gentle smile, the way her voice was soft as morning dew. He remembered his daughter¡¯s laughter, bright and pure as sunlight. Gone. Gone like the wind that carried the scent of burning flesh. Gone like the lives he now took without hesitation. So he burned their homes. Tore their families apart. Made them feel everything he had felt. For months, his rage swept across the land, a storm of endless destruction. And yet, deep inside¡ª It was not enough. No matter how many lives he stole, how much blood he spilled¡ª The emptiness remained. The grief still clung to him like a curse, refusing to fade. No amount of suffering could ever bring them back. One night, beneath the glow of the pale moon, Grion stood alone in a city that no longer breathed. The streets were littered with bodies, their vacant eyes staring into nothingness. The scent of fire and death thickened the air, suffocating, overwhelming. And yet¡ªhe felt nothing. He had waited for satisfaction, for the rage to finally settle. But all that remained was a hollow silence. He missed them. More than anything. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the bloodstained ground. The grief twisted inside him, raw, endless, suffocating. He had killed hundreds, thousands. And still, they were not here. Still, he was alone. He clutched his head, his breath ragged, uneven. It was unbearable. So he did the only thing left to do. He tried to end it. A dagger through the heart. A blade to the throat. A crushing grip against his own skull, trying to shatter it into pieces. But his immortality mocked him. Every wound closed. Every attempt failed. His body refused to break. His life refused to end. And so he remained, trapped in a nightmare of his own making. He could not see them again. Could not hold them, speak to them, be with them. The gods had cursed him with eternity, forcing him to exist in a world where they no longer did. The thought clawed at his sanity. Until there was only one path left. If he could not die¡ª Then he would ensure that none of them lived. He would erase them all. Every last human, until nothing remained of their wretched kind. But he needed more. A greater force. Something that could match the gods themselves. And so he wandered, listening for whispers in the dark corners of the world. Voodooists. Mages who dealt in forbidden arts. Casters of death magic, manipulators of souls, masters of rituals best left forgotten. Perhaps they could end him. Perhaps they could finally break the curse. He hunted them, tracked them through the shadows. And when he found them, he spoke a single command. "Kill me." They tried. Spells wove through the air, curses wrapped around him like venomous tendrils. Dark magic tore at his soul, seeking to unravel his existence. And yet, nothing worked. Not even the strongest death magic could undo him. So he gave up on the idea of dying. Demon king (4) Grion lived among the Voodooists, hidden deep in the world¡¯s shadows. They were a people of whispers and curses, shunned by all, feared even by those who dabbled in the darkest of magics. Yet even among them, one man stood apart¡ªTores. A figure wrapped in silence. A man whose voice had been stolen by cruelty. At first, Grion thought Tores was simply quiet. But then he noticed¡ª The way Tores struggled to form words, the guttural sounds that barely resembled speech. The way his lips moved as if grasping at lost syllables, at a voice that had been taken from him. And yet, somehow¡ª Grion could understand him. It was in the way his eyes burned with hatred. The way his hands trembled when recalling his past. So Grion listened. And slowly, he pieced together the truth. Tores was a half-breed. Born between a human father and a Voodooist mother. But he never knew her. She had died in childbirth, leaving behind a boy cursed by his bloodline. His father, a kind-hearted man, raised him alone. He did not want Tores to become a Voodooist. He wanted him to live as a normal child. To be accepted by the village. But the villagers¡ª they never saw him as one of them. To them, he was always a curse. A blight. A child of forbidden blood. And so, whenever misfortune struck¡ª They always had someone to blame. --- The village¡¯s harvests failed. Crops withered. Hunger loomed like a vulture, circling overhead. And when a traveling priest arrived, he spoke the words the villagers had been waiting to hear. A sacrifice is needed. And just like that¡ª They chose him. Tores. A child. They came for him at night. A mob of men and women, holding torches, eyes filled with righteous hatred. But his father¡ªhe refused to let them take his son. He fought them. He begged them. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. And in return¡ª They burned his house to the ground. Tores watched as the flames consumed everything. Watched as his father screamed, trapped in the inferno. The villagers held him down. Made him watch. Until the screams stopped. But it wasn¡¯t enough. They turned to Tores next. Dragged him through the village. Held him down. And with a heated knife¡ª They cut his tongue. Not completely. Just enough so he could never speak properly again. So he would never be able to curse them with words. Then, they set him on fire. The flames licked his flesh, melting his skin. The agony was unbearable. He screamed, but no one listened. No one cared. Then¡ª Rain fell. A sudden downpour, saving him from certain death. The villagers, thinking he was already dead, left him there. Left him to rot in the mud. But he did not die. With skin charred, body broken, and his father¡¯s ashes scattered to the wind¡ª He crawled. And crawled. Until he reached the forest. He should have died there. Would have died there. But fate had other plans. The Voodooist chief, Morris found him. And so, Tores became one of them. --- Grion listened to the story in silence. Every word¡ªetched into his mind. Tores¡¯ pain¡ªso similar to his own. The flames. The loss. The hatred that could never fade. For the first time in years, Grion felt something besides rage. He felt understood. So he told Tores his own story. The experiments. The slaughter of his people. The reason for his unending fury. And when he was done¡ª He placed a hand on Tores¡¯ shoulder. His voice was calm. Cold. Deadly. One day, I will burn that village to the ground. I will make them suffer¡ªjust as they made you suffer. And I will make sure their screams last longer than your father¡¯s did. Tores did not cry. He did not thank him. But in his scarred, broken face¡ª For the first time in years¡ª A small, twisted smile appeared. ---- Tores led Grion through the dense, mist-laden forest, to outer area. They moved in silence, their breath barely audible against the whispering wind. Then, Tores stopped. His body tensed, his breath shuddering as he slowly raised a trembling, scarred hand and pointed forward. His eyes, dark pools of hatred and grief, glistened with an emotion Grion could not name. ¡°There,¡± he rasped, his voice broken, rough as stone scraping against stone. Grion narrowed his eyes. In the distance, nestled between gnarled, blackened trees, was a village. It stood eerily still, untouched by time, as if frozen in a past that should have crumbled long ago. The faint glow of torches flickered in the cold night air, illuminating a place that should not exist. The village that had forsaken Tores. Grion¡¯s fists clenched. A slow, smoldering hunger for vengeance burned deep within him, clawing at his chest, urging him forward. He imagined the screams, the crackling flames devouring their homes, their pleas for mercy that would never come. But before he could take a single step¡ª Tores grabbed his arm. His grip was iron, his fingers digging into Grion¡¯s flesh. His head shook slightly, eyes locked onto something beyond rage. There was something else. Something more important than simple revenge. And in a voice barely above a whisper, he spoke of it. Tores told him about a ritual. A secret whispered in the darkest corners of Voodooist lore, passed through generations with hushed reverence. It was no simple spell, no common necromancy. This was something greater. Something blasphemous. A ritual that could bring back the dead. But not as puppets of rotting flesh, bound by cursed magic. No, this was different. This was true resurrection. Tores had spent years searching, clinging to the fragments of lost knowledge, desperate to complete what had been fractured over time. He had scoured forbidden texts, listening to the murmurs of spirits, piecing together what others had long abandoned. He had wanted to see his father again. To undo the cruelty, the suffering, the fire that had swallowed everything he loved. But there was a problem. The ritual was incomplete. And worse¡ªit demanded an unfathomable price. Blood. Lives. Sacrifices beyond counting. A moment of silence stretched between them, heavy as the weight of the dead. Then¡ª Something stirred in Grion¡¯s chest. Something cold. Something dangerous. Hope. For the first time since his world had been torn apart, he saw a way forward. He could bring back his family. His people. Everything that had been taken from him. And so, without hesitation, he turned to Tores. ¡°Then let¡¯s use the humans as sacrifices.¡± Tores did not need convincing. He did not hesitate, did not blink. He simply nodded. But power alone would not be enough. If they wanted to hunt humans, if they wanted to bring their ritual to completion, they needed something more. Something beyond blood magic. They needed something even more forbidden. Tores had an idea. There was one way to gain immeasurable power. Calling upon the Abyss God. A being of endless darkness, its name erased from history, feared even by the most wicked of sorcerers. It was not a deity of mercy, nor of bargains. It was hunger incarnate, a force that consumed everything it touched. Grion¡¯s eyes gleamed. ¡°Then let¡¯s do it.¡± But there was one problem¡ª Only one man knew the spell. The Voodooist chief. Grion and Tores approached him, laying their plan bare. The chief listened in silence, his aged, weary eyes darkening with something between horror and grief. When they finished, he shook his head. ¡°You do not understand what you are asking for.¡± His voice was thin, almost pleading. ¡°The Abyss God does not grant power. It devours. Once called, you will never be free.¡± But Grion didn¡¯t care. Freedom was meaningless without his family. Yet the chief refused. And for now, Grion did not force him. Instead, he and Tores left the village, determined to find another path to power. They searched for weeks, venturing into the unknown, grasping at every dark corner of magic they could find. And when they finally returned¡ª Their world was gone. Smoke. The thick, suffocating scent of burned flesh. The once-living village was nothing but ruin. Houses reduced to embers, their skeletal remains reaching toward the sky. Bodies scattered like broken dolls, limbs twisted in unnatural angles. The elders, the children, the warriors¡ª All gone. Grion stood still, his hands shaking with rage. Something inside him cracked, a piece of his soul shattering beyond repair. Tores fell to his knees, his body wracked with silent screams. His hands clawed at the dirt, at the remains of a home that no longer existed. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps. Then¡ª He did what only a Voodooist could do. With a single, trembling hand, he drew runes into the scorched earth. Dark energy pulsed through the air, thick and suffocating. The shadows trembled, the very fabric of reality bending under the weight of what was being summoned. The dead spoke. From the smoke, spirits emerged¡ªflickering, half-formed, their faces twisted in agony. The Voodooist chief. The elders. Their souls, bound to this world by the cruelty of their deaths. Tores¡¯ eyes filled with something beyond rage. Beyond sorrow. He asked them one question. ¡°Tell me the spell.¡± For a moment, the spirits hesitated. But they knew¡ªthere was no one else left. And so, the Voodooist chief revealed the knowledge he had once forbidden. The spell to call upon the Abyss God. Tores did not let them go. Instead, he held on their spirits to help in looking over places. Grion stared at the ruins one last time. He had lost another home. Another people. But he would not grieve. There was no time for grief. Not anymore. Because now¡ª He had everything he needed. Power. Hatred. A path to vengeance. And when the time came¡ª He would burn the world for it.