[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—the heart of faith and strength—ran 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—warriors 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.
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Among the mercenaries were legends—fighters 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—it 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—no 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—rusty 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—wolfkin, bearkin, tigerkin and others–each 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.