The fortress walls of Feria now appeared as if they were being swallowed by an immense, green serpent.

The vines twisted and wove together, dense and unyielding, their rapid growth producing a sound like hundreds of tiny whips cracking in unison.

The soldiers hacked at them desperately, swords clanging and axes biting deep, but for each vine cut away, others surged back, thicker and stronger.

The mages, their brows furrowed and sweat trickling down their faces, muttered incantations, casting flames that flickered and sputtered against the relentless greenery.

The small bursts of fire were enough to singe the vines, but not enough to stop their advance, and the mages dared not summon greater flames for fear of setting the entire fortress ablaze.

Count Marcus stood tall on the battlements, eyes scanning the chaos below.

His jaw was clenched so tightly it ached, his mind racing for a solution.

The tension in the air was suffocating, and the soldiers’ panicked shouts blended into a cacophony of fear.

He glanced at Steven, who stood with sword drawn, his blue hair whipping in the wind, eyes narrowed and fierce.

Yet even Steven’s composure seemed strained, a flicker of uncertainty shadowing his otherwise determined expression.

Then, abruptly, the music stopped.

The haunting, cursed melody that had coiled around their minds like an unseen snake was gone, and in its place, an eerie silence fell over the plain.

It was so sudden, so complete, that it felt as if the world itself held its breath.

But in that silence, another sound emerged—a low rumble, like distant thunder, growing louder by the second.

The soldiers’ eyes darted to the tree line, the dark mass of the forest trembling as if alive.

And then, from between the gnarled, ancient trunks, they appeared.

First a trickle, then a wave—hordes of goblins, swarming forward like a living tide.

Their eyes glowed with malice, and their ragged war cries split the air.

Each one was armed, their crude weapons glinting wickedly despite their poor craftsmanship.

Rusted blades, jagged spears, clubs wrapped in barbed wire; their arsenal was as varied as it was deadly.

Amidst the swarm were larger figures, goblin warriors with bulging muscles and snarling expressions, their bodies draped in stolen armor that barely fit their hulking forms.

They towered over the smaller goblins, driving them forward with guttural roars and sweeping gestures.

And moving among them, almost spectral, were the goblin shamans, their twisted staffs topped with skulls and bones that clattered as they chanted in a tongue that made the hair on the back of Count Marcus’s neck stand on end.

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His breath caught in his throat as he took in the sheer number of them.

Hundreds, no—thousands—surged forward, more than he’d ever thought possible.

For years, the reports had spoken of dwindling goblin sightings, leading many to believe the threat had receded.

But now, with the ground shaking under the force of their charge, the truth became sickeningly clear.

They had not vanished; they had been waiting, gathering in the dark, preparing for this moment.

The purpose of the vines, once a mystery, now revealed itself in terrifying clarity.

The goblins reached the base of the fortress and, with the agility of spiders, began scaling the vine-covered walls.

Their green, clawed hands dug into the twisted plants, pulling themselves up with ease.

The soldiers on the walls watched in horror as the first goblins reached the parapets, their grotesque faces leering with wicked glee.

“Push them back! Don’t let them breach the walls!” Count Marcus roared, his voice cutting through the panic like a blade.

The archers loosed a barrage of arrows, the twang of their bows blending into a single, desperate sound.

The arrows struck true, felling goblins mid-climb, but for each one that fell, more took its place, their shrieks filling the air.

The soldiers at the walls hacked at the advancing creatures, their blades meeting green flesh and bone, but the goblins were relentless, driven by some dark purpose they couldn’t fathom.

Steven also leapt into action, his sword a blur as he cleaved through goblin after goblin, the weight of his strikes knocking some back into the seething horde below.

His swings were strong, fast and tore apart goblins.

Yet even as he fought, the sheer number of enemies began to press against the soldiers, pushing them back step by step.

Amidst the chaos, Count Marcus’s heart pounded in his chest, the metallic taste of fear sharp on his tongue.

He knew that this was not just a battle for their territory; it was a battle for survival.

The goblins kept coming, their numbers seeming endless, their war cries blending into a single, terrible roar that threatened to drown out even the bravest heart.

And beyond them, watching the siege unfold with cold, calculating eyes, stood the Demon King, a dark silhouette of power and ruin, unmoving but commanding every shadow that crept across the plain.

The air was thick with the acrid tang of sweat, blood, and the metallic hum of steel clashing against bone.

The archers on the walls shot until their quivers were nearly empty, the strain of drawing bowstrings making their arms tremble.

Every arrow loosed struck true, piercing goblin eyes and chests, sending them shrieking into the writhing sea of bodies below.

The mages stood in tight formations, their voices hoarse from chanting incantations, palms blistered from the heat of their magic.

Bolts of fire and crackling arcs of lightning cut through the hordes, lighting the night like a storm unleashed.

Yet for every spell that found its mark, the goblins surged anew, driven by an unyielding hunger.

On the battlements, the soldiers and mercenaries fought with desperate resolve, their blades slick with black-green ichor.

The clash of metal rang out in a deafening chorus, punctuated by the guttural snarls of goblins and the shouts of men and women straining to hold their ground.

The creatures climbed the walls in an endless wave, their limbs clawing over the lifeless bodies of their fallen kin without pause, their eyes glowing with an unnatural, rabid intensity.

The vines they used to scale the stone ramparts were slick with blood, both human and goblin, a gruesome testament to the battle’s ferocity.

“Push them back! Do not yield!” Count Marcus’s voice cut through the din, sharp and unrelenting.

But even as he barked commands, a cold dread settled in his chest.

His eyes flitted briefly to the figures standing on the edge of the forest—the Demon King and his generals, unmoved and watchful.

Why haven’t they moved yet?

The question coiled in his mind like a snake, suffocating in its implications.

Steven, sweat dripping down his face, lunged forward, cleaving a goblin warrior in two with a roar.

But the goblins didn’t stop.

The goblin warriors were monstrous, towering figures that soaked up blows like they were nothing.

Their jagged weapons, stolen from long-forgotten skirmishes or forged in primitive fires, crashed against shields with bone-jarring force.

For every one that fell, another took its place, driven not by intelligence but a raw, animalistic instinct to fight and consume.

A soldier nearby screamed as a goblin shaman’s spell hit him, dark tendrils of energy wrapping around his body and crushing him with merciless speed.

The shamans, scattered behind the main lines, chanted in guttural unison, their staffs pounding the ground in a rhythmic, blood-chilling beat.

Defensive spells shimmered around them, thwarting the mages' attempts to strike from afar.

The soldiers on the walls gritted their teeth as another volley of arrows bounced harmlessly off the magical barriers, leaving only frustration in their wake.

A sudden surge of goblins reached the parapets, their claws tearing at armor and skin.

One soldier was dragged screaming over the edge, his cries cut short by the sickening thud of his body hitting the ground below.

Another fell, throat slashed by a goblin's jagged blade, blood spurting in an arc that splattered across his comrades.

Still, the defenders did not falter, their faces etched with grim determination and fear.

They swung their swords, hacked with axes, and shoved with shields, each motion an act of survival.

But deep in their hearts, a question pulsed like a silent drumbeat: How long can we hold them off?

The Demon King watched it all with eyes as cold as polished obsidian, unmoved by the massacre unfolding before him.

His two generals flanked him, statuesque in their power.

The lizardman, muscles coiled and eyes slitted with anticipation, rested his colossal blade on one shoulder, a silent promise of bloodshed.

The Voodooist, Tores, stood still, the flute clutched loosely in one hand as if waiting for a cue.

And that’s what it felt like to Count Marcus and Steven—a game, a cruel performance orchestrated by beings who could end it with a mere gesture.

The goblins weren't just an assault; they were an overture, a prelude to something far more terrifying.

Blood coated the walls, staining them a dark, sickly green.

The soldiers' feet slipped on the slick stone, their breaths labored, eyes darting to their comrades who were fighting, bleeding, dying.

Yet the goblins kept coming, clawing over their fallen like a mindless tide, driven by terrifying instinct: they felt no fear.