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.
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“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—it 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—Count Valor, Count Sylas, and Count Ambrose—sat 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—a 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.