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—a being whose masked visage radiated eerie calm.

It was Tores.

The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances.

They had all heard the tales—of 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—trolls.

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.

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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—a 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—clanging 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—a 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—wounds 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—a 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.