The battlefield lay in eerie silence, save for the crackling embers consuming the bodies of the fallen.

Smoke curled into the sky like mourning spirits, the acrid scent of charred flesh thick in the air.

Steven’s wrath had left its mark.

The once-overwhelming horde of monsters, emboldened by Magnum’s magic, now stood shaken.

Their formation crumbled, their relentless savagery dissolving into disarray.

Their howls, once filled with bloodlust, wavered with hesitation.

Moments ago, the defenders had been drowning in blood and fire, their screams swallowed by the monstrous tide.

Now, they surged forward with a fury that burned hotter than the flames still licking at the ruins around them.

Asael charged ahead, his golden eyes ablaze with righteous fury.

His blade sang through the air, slicing through disoriented foes with effortless precision.

Every swing carried divine energy, scorching through flesh, severing limbs, carving a path straight through the chaos.

Beside him, Giren was an unrelenting force.

His axe cleaved through skulls with bone-crushing impact, each strike a death sentence.

Blood splattered across his armor, but he did not slow.

He reveled in the destruction, the weight of his weapon nothing compared to the strength surging through his veins.

Goblins and gnolls broke first, their screeches shrill with terror.

They turned to flee, scrambling over the bodies of their fallen kin, their desperate cries swallowed by the relentless storm of steel and arrows.

But there was no mercy.

Lily’s arrows rained down with unerring accuracy, each shot piercing skulls and hearts.

Monsters collapsed mid-run, their bodies twitching before falling still.

Anne moved through the battlefield like a angel, her glowing hands pressing against torn flesh, pouring her divine energy into the dying.

Sweat clung to her brow, her fingers trembling as she worked tirelessly to pull men back from the brink of death.

Some gasped back to life, coughing up blood, while others only offered a final, shuddering breath before falling silent.

The archers upon the wall fired relentlessly, their arrows darkening the sky.

Each projectile struck true, turning the retreating monsters into pincushions.

Their wails of agony echoed across the battlefield, swallowed only by the chorus of warriors who fought side by side—orc, elf, and human alike.

Their war cries shook the very air.

And then—it happened.

The monsters broke.

The tide of bloodthirsty savages dissolved into a chaotic, desperate retreat.

Fear had taken hold, a sickness spreading through their ranks.

Their once-mighty roars twisted into panicked cries.

Their ferocity crumbled into sheer desperation.

The defenders did not pursue.

They had survived.

Yet, as they stood among the wreckage of what was once their home, staring at the mangled bodies of comrades and friends, it did not feel like victory.

The surviving soldiers trudged back through the shattered gates, dragging the fallen behind them.

The castle courtyard, once a place of security, now resembled a butcher’s floor.

Blood pooled in the dirt, the iron tang thick in every breath.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

The cries of the wounded were endless—some shrill with pain, others faint, barely clinging to life.

Anne moved between them, her hands glowing with divine light, but even she could not heal them all.

Some men had wounds too deep, their bodies too broken.

She held their hands as their breathing slowed, whispering prayers as their souls slipped away.

The battlefield outside the walls was a graveyard of shattered weapons, broken shields, and lifeless corpses.

The stench of burned flesh hung heavy in the air, mingling with the sharp, coppery scent of blood.

Crows had already begun to gather, circling above, their harsh cries blending with the mourning wails of the living.

Giren and Asael carried Steven’s unconscious body, his face pale, his skin slick with sweat.

His clothes, once regal, were now tattered and soaked in blood—some of it his own, most of it not.

Inside the castle, there was no cheer, no celebration.

Only the grim reality of war.

They had lived another day.

But at what cost?

----

Far from the battlefield, deep within the twisted expanse of the blackened forest, the air pulsed with an unnatural tension.

The trees themselves seemed to shudder, their gnarled branches twisting in silent dread.

Shadows slithered between the trunks, whispering of something far worse to come.

The monstrous war camp, once alive with roaring fires and drunken bravado, had fallen into uneasy silence.

The warriors, creatures of chaos and bloodshed, now stood with hunched shoulders, avoiding each other’s eyes, waiting for the storm they knew was about to break.

At the heart of the encampment, Greg, the barbarian chief knelt, his head bowed, his massive frame trembling despite himself.

His breath came in short, shallow bursts, fear gripping him like a vice.

Before him stood Movok.

The air around him was heavy, suffocating, thick with the scent of blood and violence.

His green eyes burned with fury as he processed the words he had just heard.

"What did you say?" Movok’s voice rumbled like distant thunder, a low growl that sent shivers down the spines of even the strongest warriors present.

Greg swallowed hard, his throat dry as sand.

"M-Magnum… is dead," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

A single heartbeat passed.

Then—

A hand clamped around his throat.

Bones cracked.

Flesh gave way beneath monstrous strength.

The Greg’s eyes bulged as he clawed at the iron grip crushing his airway.

His legs kicked uselessly, his body convulsing in a frantic bid for survival.

"You ran?" Movok’s voice was as cold as the steel of his blade.

The chief tried to speak, his lips parting, but only a strangled gasp escaped.

His vision blurred, his strength fading.

Movok sneered.

"Instead of dying on that battlefield… you retreated?"

"Please forgive me!"

Greg begged.

"Pathetic!"

With a disgusted grunt, Movok tossed him aside.

The barbarian crashed onto the hard ground, coughing violently, clutching at his bruised throat as he wheezed for air.

But Movok had already turned away, his mind made up.

He strode toward his throne of stone, his boots crunching over dried blood and shattered bone.

His fingers reached for his weapon—a greatsword, nearly twice the size of a man.

Its blade, blackened from years of slaughter, was chipped and worn, yet it gleamed with a deadly sharpness.

The moment his fingers curled around the hilt, the air itself thickened.

A wave of pure, suffocating bloodlust rolled through the camp.

Warriors froze, their instincts screaming at them to flee, to bow, to kneel before the presence of something far greater than themselves.

Movok rested the massive sword against his shoulder, his expression dark.

"I’ll handle it myself."

And as he took his first step—

The very forest trembled.

----

The night was eerily silent.

The fortress, still bearing the scars of the last battle, loomed under the cold embrace of darkness.

The stone walls, cracked and weathered, stood as silent witnesses to the bloodshed that had taken place not long ago.

Moonlight bathed the ramparts in a pale glow, casting long, twisting shadows that stretched like grasping fingers over the weary defenders.

Steven sat weakly against a wooden beam, his breath slow, his body aching from the aftereffects of his power.

The pain throbbed in his limbs, a constant reminder of the cost of battle.

Around him, the air was thick with sorrow, the weight of lost comrades pressing down on every soul.

But the silence did not last long.

A voice—sharp, cold, laced with fury—shattered the night.

"Humans! Come out!"

The sound echoed through the fortress, rolling through the stone corridors and shaking the very marrow of those who heard it.

A chill ran through every spine.

Then—

Bong! Bong! Bong!

The alarm bells rang, their frantic tolling piercing the night like desperate cries for help.

Soldiers scrambled onto the walls, their hands trembling as they reached for weapons, eyes darting toward the open field beyond the gates.

And then—they saw him.

He stood at the forefront of the battlefield, far ahead of his monstrous horde.

The moon’s silver light draped over his towering form, illuminating the jagged ridges of his scaly, armor-like skin.

His greatsword—blackened and stained with fresh blood—was impaled into the earth before him, a silent promise of violence.

His yellow, reptilian eyes burned with unfiltered hatred.

They swept over the fortress, filled with a rage so raw it was almost tangible.

"Come here and face me."

His voice rumbled like distant thunder, deep and menacing, carrying an undeniable promise of destruction.

Behind him, a vast horde of creatures stood waiting—gnarled beasts with gleaming fangs, hulking brutes whose eyes gleamed with hunger.

But none moved.

Because this was different.

Movok wasn’t here to lead an invasion.

He was here for battle. For blood.

For revenge.

A duel.

And everyone atop the walls knew it.

A wave of unease rippled through the defenders.

Some tightened their grips on their weapons, others exchanged hesitant glances, but none spoke.

Fear slithered into their hearts—because Movok was not just any enemy.

He was one of the Demon King’s greatest warriors.

A name that carried death.

Then, from the tense silence—

"Everyone stay here. I'll face him."

Marquis Hector stepped forward.

His expression was unreadable, his voice calm but firm.

The soldiers snapped their heads toward him, some in disbelief, others in silent understanding.

No one argued. No one protested.

Because they knew.

This was not a battle where numbers mattered.

It was a clash between titans.

Asael clenched his fists, his divine aura flickering like a struggling flame.

His breath hitched in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs.

"But—!"

"Please!" Hector’s voice cut through the night, steady yet heavy. "Listen to my words. If you want to defeat the Demon King… then you need to be alive."

Silence.

The soldiers looked down, their jaws clenched in frustration, in helplessness.

Even Asael, who wanted nothing more than to stand beside him, could only lower his head, his fingers curling into his palms.

Finally—the gates groaned open.

Marquis Hector stepped forward, his silver armor reflecting the moonlight like liquid metal.

His bloodstained spear rested firmly in his grip, steady despite the weight of the battle that awaited him.

Each step he took was slow, deliberate, the sound of his boots crunching against the dirt echoing across the still night.

The moment he passed through the gates, Movok’s piercing gaze locked onto him.

The air grew heavy, charged with an invisible force.

The earth beneath them seemed to tremble, as if recoiling from the power that both warriors radiated.

They stopped, mere feet apart.

Face to face.

One, the Wall of the North, a man who had stood against the tides of darkness for decades, his presence a beacon of hope for his people.

The other, the Demon King’s Sword, a monster whose strength had shattered kingdoms, a harbinger of death in the name of vengeance.

Their breaths came slow, measured.

The wind carried the scent of iron, blood, and the lingering smoke of past battles.

Movok let out a low growl, his greatsword resting against his massive shoulder, his fingers curling around the hilt like a predator waiting to pounce.

"So… you’re Marquis Hector?"

His voice was eerily calm, yet behind it lurked a hunger for battle, for retribution.

Hector’s grip on his spear tightened, his knuckles turning white.

His gaze did not waver.

"And you’re Movok?"

There was no fear in his voice.

Only resolve, steady and unshaken.

For a moment, the world held its breath.

Nothing moved.

Nothing stirred.

The battlefield was a frozen canvas of tension, every soldier, every beast watching in breathless anticipation.

Then—

A single drop of blood from Movok’s sword slid from the blade’s edge, falling silently to the earth.

And in the next instant—

The night exploded into battle.