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—a 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.
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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—nothing 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—a 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.