The walls shuddered under the relentless force of the goblin swarm, a living, writhing mass clawing their way upward, fueled by primal rage and an insatiable will to destroy.
Soldiers and mercenaries fought like cornered wolves, blades slick with dark, putrid blood, their muscles screaming in protest as they struck again and again.
The screams of the wounded mingled with the roars of battle, each cry a haunting reminder of how precarious their position had become.
For every goblin they felled, more clambered over the writhing pile of bodies, driven by sheer, mindless instinct.
Steven’s gaze darted to the mages, their faces pale as they hurled spell after spell, their reserves of mana dwindling dangerously low.
The sight of goblins breaking through their defenses sent a shiver down his spine.
His heart hammered in his chest as he saw two creatures slip past and lunge at the nearest mage, their eyes gleaming with savage hunger.
Without hesitation, Steven leaped into action, his sword a flash of silver that cleaved through the air, cutting the goblins down before they could strike.
"Count! I don’t think we can hold out much longer!" Steven shouted over the din, sweat streaming down his face as he met Count Marcus’s grim eyes.
Count Marcus clenched his jaw, his expression shadowed with worry as he parried a goblin's spear and shoved it back into the mass below.
"Do you have any plan?" he called back, voice taut with strain.
Steven glanced at the horizon, searching desperately for any sign of their reinforcement, but the plains stretched out empty, save for the roiling sea of goblins.
"How much longer until reinforcements arrive?" he demanded, his eyes flicking to Count Marcus.
Count Marcus's expression faltered, and his response came with a heavy weight.
"A few hours at best," he admitted.
The words hung between them, a silent acknowledgment of the impossible odds they faced.
Steven’s jaw tightened as he watched another soldier fall, his scream cut short as goblin claws tore into him.
The defenders' line was faltering, breaking under the onslaught.
His mind raced, weighing their few options.
Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he made his decision.
"Cover me, Count. I’m going down there to clear the way and buy us time. Tell the soldiers to regroup and brace for the next wave!"
Count Marcus's eyes widened in shock.
"Are you insane? That's too dangerous!"
But there was no room for doubt in Steven’s gaze, only a fierce, unyielding resolve.
"I know," Steven said, voice steady as a heartbeat. "But it’s our only chance."
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Count Marcus swallowed hard, seeing the determination etched on Steven’s face.
With a reluctant nod, he shouted, "Archers, cover him! All units, regroup and hold the line!"
Steven moved forward, gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly that his knuckles blanched white.
With one powerful leap, he vaulted over the edge of the wall, plunging into the chaos below.
The wind roared in his ears as he descended, and goblins screeched, their red eyes tracking his descent.
Time seemed to slow as he fell, and an electric energy built around him, crackling blue and alive.
The charge coursed through his body, igniting with raw, focused power.
The ground rushed up to meet him, and with a deafening boom, he landed.
The impact sent shockwaves rippling outward, and the energy erupted from him in a dazzling burst of blue light.
Goblins near him were shredded, their bodies disintegrating in a violent flash, limbs and torsos hurled away like ragdolls.
For a breathless moment, there was silence, as if the world itself had paused to witness the power unleashed.
Blood and dust mingled in the air, and the goblins nearest to Steven hesitated, their instincts reeling from the sudden display of force.
The few heartbeats of reprieve were enough for the defenders above to catch their breath, eyes wide with awe and fear.
Steven stood in the clearing he had created, chest heaving, the light of the charge still crackling along his blade.
His eyes blazed with determination as he met the feral, countless eyes surrounding him.
This was far from over, but he had bought them precious moments.
And moments, in battle, could mean the difference between life and death.
The goblins surged forward, a relentless tide of green, gnashing teeth, and crude weapons.
They clawed at the walls, clambering over the writhing mass of their dead and injured kin.
But this time, standing between them and their goal was Steven, his blue hair matted with sweat and goblin blood, eyes like steel and unwavering.
He gripped his sword, the blade humming with a lethal energy that seemed almost alive.
The Driesell family was renowned, a name spoken with respect and awe across the kingdom.
Descendants of a line blessed by Indra, the god of thunder, they were famed for wielding a unique and devastating power: Thunderstorm.
It was said that when a Driesell took up their sword, even the heavens shuddered.
Yet not all in the family could master this technique, for it demanded not just skill but an indomitable spirit.
Steven, still young by the standards of war-hardened soldiers, had proven himself a prodigy.
His training was incomplete, yet even a fragment of Thunderstorm in his hands was a weapon unlike any other.
Steven stood his ground as goblins poured towards him, their snarls echoing in the blood-soaked air.
He shifted his stance, the muscles in his arms tensing.
As he swung, a brilliant arc of blue lightning crackled from the blade, searing the air with a hiss.
The strike connected with a group of goblins, their shrieks cut short as their bodies were obliterated in a flash of electric fury.
The ground scorched black where they stood, the acrid smell of charred flesh rising in thick waves.
Each swing of Steven’s sword was a symphony of destruction.
Lightning surged from the blade, bolts snapping and ricocheting in unpredictable directions, leaving smoldering craters in their wake.
The goblins hesitated, their base instincts warring with the command to advance.
But more still came, driven by the insatiable will of their shamans and the looming figure of the Demon King in the distance.
The wall above teemed with soldiers and mercenaries, eyes wide with both terror and newfound hope.
They watched Steven carve a path of devastation below, his form almost godlike amidst the swarm.
Yet their battle was far from idle; arrows rained down from the archers, each shot aimed to pick off goblin shamans whose foul chants bolstered the horde.
Mages focused, their eyes alight with power as they hurled bolts of flame and ice into the fray.
The shamans countered with waves of dark magic, but the defenders pressed on, sweat streaming down their brows, hearts pounding in tandem with the chaos.
The soldiers on the wall used the brief reprieve Steven provided to push back.
They worked feverishly, tossing goblin bodies from the ramparts and clearing space.
Shields were propped up, spears bristling outward to impale any goblin that dared climb.
The mercenaries, ragged but determined, hurled spears and weighted nets, tangling goblins in a death grip before finishing them off with sharp thrusts.
Blood slicked the stones, turning the wall into a treacherous battlefield of crimson and grit.
Steven’s body moved on instinct, the Thunderstorm coursing through him like a second pulse.
Each step forward was a calculated gamble, his boots slipping on gore but never faltering.
The surge of lightning that spilled from his sword illuminated his face, revealing eyes locked in a mixture of determination and exhaustion.
His breath came in ragged gasps, but he pushed forward, teeth clenched against the searing pain in his muscles.
The green blood of the goblins splattered over him, warm and sticky, soaking through his armor and painting him in a grotesque testament to his defiance.
The soldiers on the wall caught glimpses of Steven’s defiance and felt something stir within them.
Tired arms lifted swords, wounded men gritted their teeth and took aim once more.
The hopelessness that had gripped their hearts began to shift, replaced by a flicker of belief.
For the first time since the battle began, they felt a chance—a slim, razor-thin chance—that they could hold the line.
A sudden bellow rose from the mass of goblins as a hulking goblin warrior, twice the size of the others and wielding a jagged axe, barreled toward Steven.
The creature’s eyes were crimson slits of rage, its muscles rippling with raw power.
Steven steadied himself, feeling the crackle of energy surge from his core to the tip of his sword.
The warrior swung its axe with a force that could shatter bone, but Steven sidestepped, bringing his sword down in a blinding arc.
The Thunderstorm leapt from the blade, and the warrior’s roar was choked off as the lightning tore through its body, leaving a smoking husk where it once stood.
Cheers erupted from the wall, raw and fervent, as the sight of Steven’s victory emboldened them.
But there was no time to rest.
The wave of goblins continued, an endless tide against their desperate stand.
The Demon King and his generals stood motionless in the distance, their presence a chilling reminder that the true battle had yet to begin.