Steven’s body crumpled to the ground, motionless, the thunder that once surrounded him flickering and fading away.

His sword, still crackling weakly with residual energy, lay beside him in the blood-soaked earth.

The collective gasp that had echoed across the wall now hung like a heavy shroud over the defenders.

Hope, so fragile and fleeting, shattered into pieces.

A grim, suffocating silence blanketed the battlefield, as if the world itself held its breath.

But it was not to last.

A guttural growl rose from the goblins below, a sound that grew into a cacophony of shrill cries and howls.

Their eyes gleamed with newfound confidence, and their clawed hands reached for the vines with renewed vigor.

The goblins surged forward like an unstoppable wave, their bodies scrambling over one another, their savage grins twisted in victory.

The soldiers on the wall, already weary and battered, faltered at the sight.

Panic was a living thing, spreading through their ranks, a silent scream in their eyes as they realized their strongest warrior had fallen and no one stood in the path of the oncoming storm.

Movok, the lizardman general, approached Steven’s unconscious form.

His golden eyes gleamed with a mixture of disdain and satisfaction.

Without a second thought, he seized Steven’s limp body by the tunic and tossed him aside like a broken doll, clearing his path.

The sound of Steven’s body hitting the ground echoed like a drumbeat of finality, drawing stifled gasps from those who dared to look.

Movok released his massive sword, letting it thud heavily against the ground as he reached for the vines.

In a single, fluid motion, he leaped, his powerful claws finding purchase.

He scaled the wall with ease, muscles flexing beneath his scaled hide.

The soldiers closest to him watched in horror, their limbs frozen, breaths caught in their throats.

Before they could react, Movok reached the top of the wall, his form a towering shadow that blotted out the sky.

Without hesitation, he launched into the fray.

His first punch collided with a soldier’s chest, the force of the blow sending the man flying backward, crashing into a cluster of his comrades.

Bones shattered, and screams erupted as bodies tumbled like ragdolls.

The next soldier, braver or more desperate, raised his sword and charged.

Movok’s hand lashed out, catching him mid-stride by the throat.

The lizardman’s grip tightened, and the soldier’s eyes bulged as he clawed helplessly at the scaled hand choking the life from him.

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Movok’s gaze was cold, emotionless, as he flung the man over the wall’s edge.

His scream cut off abruptly as he hit the ground below with a sickening thud.

Chaos erupted.

The defenders splintered under the onslaught.

Goblins, now flooding the walls in swarms, hissed and shrieked as they descended on the soldiers and mercenaries.

Steel clashed with crude blades, arrows flew wildly, and the sharp tang of blood filled the air.

The defenders, who moments ago had dared to hope, now found themselves in a fight for their lives.

Soldiers in polished armor stood their ground, sweat streaming down their faces, muscles straining as they fought off goblin champions with ferocity born of desperation.

Yet even they struggled against the relentless onslaught.

Movok’s presence loomed like a specter, every movement calculated, every blow devastating.

Mages tried to summon fire and ice to break the advance, but the goblins were too close, their sharp daggers and claws slashing through robes and silencing spells with brutal efficiency.

The archers, once perched confidently with quivers full, found themselves drawing daggers in a futile attempt to defend against the horde that clambered over the ramparts.

And then Movok’s eyes met Count Marcus.

The count stood firm, his sword in hand, face pale but determined.

He knew there was no retreat, no second chances.

With a roar, he charged, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the din of battle.

Movok met him head-on, their clash a meeting of two storms.

Count Marcus’s blade struck true, but Movok’s scales were impenetrable.

With one swift, crushing motion, Movok’s arm lashed out, striking Count Marcus in the chest.

Count Marcus staggered, pain splintering through his body.

He swung again, desperation in every sinew, but Movok’s next blow caught him across the face, sending him sprawling.

The count fell, his vision blurring as he looked up at the towering beast.

The last thing he saw was Movok’s merciless eyes before darkness took him.

A roar of triumph erupted from the goblins as they overran the wall.

The once proud fortress was awash in green and red, blood and bile mingling as the defenders were driven back or slaughtered where they stood.

Beyond the great walls of Feria, the citizens huddled together, hearts pounding with an uneasy rhythm as the sounds of the battle pierced the air.

The clash of metal, the shouts of soldiers, and the inhuman growls of goblins had reached fever pitch, then waned into a dreadful silence.

The people exchanged anxious glances, some clutching loved ones close, others silently praying to gods they weren't sure were listening.

Yet none dared move, their feet glued to the cobblestone streets as if movement itself might summon the horrors beyond the walls.

Then, as if to answer their unspoken fears, the first crimson drips appeared, seeping through the stone cracks and cascading down the wall like a grotesque waterfall.

Gasps of horror rippled through the crowd.

The coppery scent of blood thickened in the air, mingling with the faint, acrid stench of fear-sweat and bile.

It wasn’t long before they saw it—bodies, broken and twisted, hurled from the ramparts, landing with sickening thuds and splattering the ground.

A few citizens screamed, children cried, and old men sank to their knees, faces ashen with despair.

Before they could process the nightmare, a new, more horrifying sight emerged.

Goblins, snarling and cackling, their jagged teeth tearing at the fallen soldiers’ flesh, climbed over the blood-soaked battlements and descended like a plague into the city.

The streets, once bustling with life, became choked with the guttural sounds of feasting and the sharp cries of the dying.

Men and women froze, paralyzed with fear, while others began to scatter, only to be intercepted by the goblins that lunged and pounced, ripping into them with savage glee.

Chaos unfurled in every corner—people trampled one another in their frenzied attempts to escape, mothers clutched their children only to be dragged down, their screams cut short.

Blood splattered walls, painting a macabre mural of suffering.

From the heart of the wall, the heavy, ancient gates groaned and then swung open, their creaking like the howl of a dying beast.

A figure stepped through, his presence silencing even the most desperate screams.

The Demon King.

His eyes like burning coals that surveyed the panicked masses with cold indifference.

Every inch of him radiated power—ancient, ruthless, and unyielding.

Movok emerged beside him, blood still dripping from his scales, a grim smile curling his reptilian lips.

He knelt, casting a quick glance at the Demon King, whose expression remained unreadable.

“What should we do with them, my lord?” Movok’s voice was low and guttural, carrying across the square with a dreadful weight.

The Demon King’s gaze shifted from the crowd, taking in the wide eyes, the trembling hands, the frail bodies pressed against crumbling stone.

For a moment, his expression faltered, eyes narrowing as a memory surfaced, unwanted and raw.

He saw flashes of himself as a child, huddled in a dim corner with other young demons, fear in every breath as human knights closed in, their laughter sharp and cruel.

He remembered their words, cold and final, as they began their slaughter.

“Leave none alive.”

The Demon King’s jaw tightened, the echo of those words fueling the fire in his chest.

His expression hardened, and he spoke, voice low but resolute, a death knell in the air.

“Find every one of them and kill them.”

Movok’s grin widened, and Tores stepped forward, fingers caressing the flute he wielded with lethal precision.

A haunting note rose as he played, its sound wrapping around the crowd like an iron chain, paralyzing them in place.

Movok hefted his sword, its edge glistening red, and moved with brutal efficiency into the crowd.

The goblins surged forward, eyes wild, screams blending with the shrill, heart-stopping notes of Tores’ song.

The massacre was swift, merciless.

No one was spared—neither the strong nor the weak, neither the old nor the young.

Blood pooled and flowed in rivulets, staining the streets as the lifeblood of Feria spilled, soaking into the earth that once supported joyous markets and laughter.

In the end, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a final golden glow over the shattered walls and lifeless streets, the echoes of battle faded into a deathly silence.

Feria, once a proud territory, was now nothing but a graveyard of broken bodies and shattered dreams.

The Demon King turned away, the memories of his own suffering blending with the present scene of ruin, and marched onward with his generals.

The conquered city lay behind, a testament to the price of war and the unyielding cycle of vengeance.

And so, in span of few hours, Feria was wiped from the world, a memory drowned in blood and fear.