A city besieged, a city battered, and a city finally breached. Its ancient stone walls were reduced to rubble, its fertile fields lay flamed, and its bustling streets turned barren. Bodies and blood coat the once-polished marble streets; with no time to bury or burn their neighbors, pestilence ails the few still alive.

The stench of blood hung heavily in the morning air. Its pungence clung particularly to a man riding an Onyx Wolf. His amorphous red armor swirled around him as he cantered across the front line, inspiring his troops.

"No matter the cost, we must hold!

No matter the sacrifice, we must not fold!

We may never be able to claim our gold!

We may never be able to grow old!

But OUR story will be told!!

Even when our bodies grow cold!

Our story will be extolled!!

Yivlä nobiscum!!"

Smashing their swords against their shields, almost a thousand soldiers roared back.

"Yivlä nobiscum!!!

Yivlä nobiscum!!!

Yivlä nobiscum!!!"

The clanking of steel and impassioned shouts of the soldiers did nothing to dispel the looming air of death. For three long months, they have stood stalwart against insurmountable odds, bravely holding against ghastly monstrosities and terrible siege equipment. They witnessed their friends perish in their arms and watched helplessly as their families were butchered. Now the few who remain, block the city's breach. Behind them, the weak and the weary, the old and the young, stood trembling, clutching their hastily forged armaments.

'What gives people strength in times like these? Is it duty, a belief in something higher, or simply desperation?' the man pondered before pushing these thoughts away to focus on the upcoming battle.

Soon the man's golden locks transformed into a deep and dreadful black, and his piercing blue eyes shifted into a pool of blood. Alone a man and his mount charged forward, the wolf's powerful muscles rippling beneath its ebony fur. Alone they faced a sea of steel.

The pair traversed the desolate wasteland, where once-vibrant forests and farmland were now churned and trampled; its trees stripped for siege weapons and crops plundered.

"Ue ad Impulsum" an officer barked in a foreign tongue. Even before he finished his command, hundreds of disciplined soldiers began to embed their shields into the soil, poking their swords through the slits.

Despite their efforts, the wolf tore into the porcupine formation like a knife through butter. Its maw crushed heads and gigantic paws swatted soldiers with enough force to shatter their armor and spines. However, the wolf's rider was far more sinister. Each time he swung his blade, the sickle of death claimed another life. Dancing on his mount's back, he ducked, weaved, and parried what most would consider inevitable blows. The few that hit ricochet from his armor with little consequence.

The scorched soil began to shimmer as if the autumn showers had come early.

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But it wasn't from rain; it was from blood. The more Leonis split, the more his power grew. His armor shone more brilliantly with each swing, and his attacks became stronger, driven by his indomitable desire to protect his people.

The taste of blood lingered in Leonis' mouth as he carved his way through the enemy lines, his sword now slick. Sweat trickled down his face, mixing with the grime and dirt that covered him. He felt the weight of his sword in his hand and the thrill of battle coursing through his veins. His hulking body was on autopilot; his mind only focused on the next target and the next slash of his sword.

"Come on, you bastards! Is this all you've got?" Leonis yelled, his voice hoarse from battle.

The battle raged on, and for hours it seemed that Leonis would not falter. Conjuring crimson tendrils that coiled through the air, Leonis impaled enemy after enemy, but even the most powerful warrior had their limits. Soon his movements began to slow, his breathing grew labored, and his once-impenetrable armor began to fracture.

Suddenly, a flaming spear ripped through Leonis' blood barrier and impaled his lifelong companion through his thought. The beast let out a vicious howl and charged toward the attacker, but with each step, his legs began to buckle, and his body accumulated more injuries. Soon the beast collapsed, its eyes lifelessly staring toward the sky, its fur matted, and its body a mangled mess of wounds.

With a guttural growl, Leonis lunged toward the man who killed his companion. As he sprinted towards the son of the enemy general, the earth quacked and crumbled beneath his feet. His heart crescendoed and pounded in eager anticipation as he got closer.

The sun sparkled off the assaliants armor as he stood smugly atop a small mound, watching Leonis advance with a placid expression. His eyes, the color of dying embers, were somehow more cold and unfeeling than the frigid Kingdom of Glasis. His sword grip was loose and indifferent. Only at the last moment he bothered to draw his weapon towards the Duke, a lazy smile playing across his lips.

The deafening clash of their swords reverberated across the battlefield. Each ensuring blow landed with the force of a thunderbolt, their shockwaves shattering the internals of all the surrounding soldiers and sending those in a radius of over one-hundred meters flying.

Leonis's swings were sharp, systematic, and calculated, contrasting his opponent's relaxed and fluid combat style. His opponent erratically dodged his attacks like the flame that danced along the length of his blade.

Their swords collided repeatedly, each blow ringing like a church bell. Leonis felt his muscles ache with fatigue, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He knew he had to end this fight quickly before his body collapsed. So, with a burst of desperation, he fiegned an opening.

Taking the bait, the man lunged forward, his sword skewing Leonis through his stomach. Feeling the searing heat of the metal against his flesh, Leonis knew his opponent had struck true, but this was precisely what he desired. Gritting his teeth through the pain, Leonis drew a concealed dagger and swiftly plunged it into his opponent's exposed neck.

The man stared at him in shock and coughed blood. "It seems you have bested me…" he wheezed, a faint smile crossing his lips. "My father always said a desperate man was a dangerous man. Haha, for once, I wish I had listened to that old bastard. Sol.." The man's sentence was cut short by a vicious bought of coughing. "Sol will find..."

Before the man could finish his sentence, Leonis retrieved his dagger and once again impaled it into his enemy's throat; however, he knew that this would be the last enemy he vanquished in battle.

Breathless and bleeding, Leonis looked over the battlefield, his gaze resting on his wife in the distance, a bittersweet smile plastered across his wan face.

Sanguine sorcerer, fallen in battle,

His life force spent, his power rattled.

Surrounded, he knew it was the end,

But he refused to yield or to bend.

With a gesture, he summoned a sphere,

A ball of blood, his last resort clear.

He pulled the liquid from the ground,

A force of nature, so violent and profound.

The orb grew and pulsed a crimson hue,

A symbol of his fury, his pain, and his due.

He held it close, his grip firm and strong,

A last stand against a merciless throng.

Already imprinted with a deep dread of Leoni's blood magic, the surrounding soldiers panicked.

"Run AWAY," "Retreat," "Leave the fallen, save yourself."

He whispered a word, a final verse,

To Yivla and his kin, a prayer, and to Sol, a curse.

Then he let go, and the ball took flight,

A weapon of vengeance, a wretched sight.

The sphere exploded, a bloody rain,

A shower of death, a gruesome stain.

The enemies fell, their fate sealed,

The warrior's legacy, its end revealed.

His body shattered, his soul at rest,

A hero's end, his final conquest.