The acrid stench of smoke and battle clung to my nostrils, sharp and unrelenting. Sweat was an old companion, its salty tang second nature by now as it bristled the air like the lesser aroma of a sea breeze. Blood, too, had long since lost its novelty—whether spilled during sparring with my students or shed by the battalion of Holy Knights under my command. The iron tang that joined the scent was less inviting, but not wholly unexpected from where I stood.
But this smoke was different. Rising from the burning ramparts in the distance, it draped the battlefield like a funeral shroud, blurring the silhouettes of warriors caught in a fragile lull between bouts of carnage.
Smoke. It wasn’t always so grim. Once, I cherished the scent curling up from a campfire after a day’s march or the satisfying crackle of wood succumbing to the flames on a soft summer evening. That aroma had always meant safety and camaraderie, a promise of rest earned after hours of grueling training or an expedition into the northeast valley. Familiar. Comforting. Unmistakable.
This was not that smoke.
This was acrid, vile, a mixture of overcooked meat and sulfur, a sickening cocktail that churned my stomach. It was the smoke of burning flesh—comrades and foes nearly reduced to ash in the same funeral pyre. A choking miasma that clung to the throat, it spoke of death, not rest. Certainly not the kind I’d welcome.
The sprawling scene before me was nothing short of a bloodbath. I leaned against the battered stone edge atop the castle’s front gate, my fingers tightening over the weathered ledge. Old bandages covered hastily dressed wounds I hadn’t yet found the time—or strength—to heal. As I peered out, the carnage beyond stretched into the horizon, each detail more grisly than the last.
This battlefield– this freshly paved graveyard… there were no words to fully capture its horrors.
Beyond the gate lay The Queen’s Path, a grand bridge that once symbolized unity and love. It connected the royal castle to the eastern district of the capital: the noble’s enclave, which gradually tapered into the bustling merchant district. Decades ago, before the bridge’s construction, a noble girl would sneak across the river’s scattered stones to visit the castle. The River Mistura below whispered her secrets, but it couldn’t keep them.
Through a secluded entrance, she’d slip inside to spend her nights with the young crowned prince. Together, they shared tales—hers of the city’s lively streets, his of the castle’s somber halls. To him, she was a fairy from another world, spreading whimsy and joy. His love for her became legend, so fierce that he fought his own parents, the king and queen, to make her his bride. Their story lived on, etched into history as the bridge itself, a testament to their bond.
But now… it was nearly destroyed.
Through the latest bout of battle, the bridge had been blown half apart, smoldering in its own wreckage and threatening to collapse into the River Mistura below. Once a marvel of engineering and a landmark of my travels, it was now torn asunder—a masterpiece defaced by fire and death. Like a painting ripped in half, its edges were scorched, bearing the scars of agony and destruction.
But it wasn’t the bridge itself that held my attention. It was the bodies. Hundreds of them, scattered like grotesque decorations on the battlefield. Allies and foes alike lay lifeless, twisted into unnatural poses as though death had arranged them with an artistic cruelty. Some were sprawled on their backs, broken spears impaling their chests, shattered swords discarded at their sides. All joined the reaper’s canvas.
Others were worse off. Ripped into pieces like broken dolls, soldiers had their upper and lower halves separated in brutal testament to the strength of their enemy. Spines and sinew lay exposed, mocking the clean brutality of a blade. No, this wasn’t the work of a sword. These soldiers weren’t cleaved apart; they were ripped limb from limb, like toys ruined in the jealous hands of a child.
The larger demons, the ones we called Ogers, hadn’t even bothered with combat against some of them. To these monsters, the battle was no contest. They had simply grabbed their victims by the arms or legs and pulled until flesh and bone gave way. What remained of their handiwork now littered the ground, a grim reminder of the power we faced.
The enemy’s corpses were just as numerous, scattered among the carnage like grotesque splashes of red and black on a macabre display. The Ogers made up most of their fallen. Towering humanoid demons, they stood over two meters tall and nearly as wide, their bodies built of nothing but slabs of muscle encased in dark, crudely bolted iron armor. Sculpted flesh barely contained beneath their grotesque plating, they were beasts of war.
If not for their savagery, I might have admired their strength, perhaps even found their forms handsome—provided they kept their heads under bags. Some wielded weapons—spears, swords, and axes—each as crude and unrefined as their makers. Many of the blades were chipped or outright broken, a testament to the ferocity of the recent clash.
Yet, for these brutes, precision and craftsmanship were meaningless. Where we humans prized masterfully forged weapons meant to endure countless battles, Ogers relied purely on raw, uninhibited power. Their tools didn’t need to last; they only needed to kill. If a weapon broke before its wielder died, it mattered little. The Ogers would simply grab another—be it a comrade’s spear, a dying soldier’s sword, or even a shattered piece of debris—and keep going.
Sometimes, they didn’t bother with weapons at all. Their bare hands were enough, as evidenced by the dismembered bodies scattered across the battlefield. The sheer savagery of their methods set my nerves on edge.
A hundred Ogers had charged headlong into our defenses during the last wave. A hundred mindless brutes, devoid of strategy, their only thought to kill anything that wasn’t one of their own. They didn’t even pause to consider tactics, charging in with nothing but sheer force.
Fools. Dangerous, brutal fools. And yet, for all their stupidity, they left devastation in their wake.
I grimaced, the weight of realization pressing heavily on my chest. The civilians in the district beyond the bridge—the merchants, the peasants—they didn’t have the luxury of escape like the nobles who fled to the castle at the first sign of trouble. For them, survival meant staying put, barricading themselves with whatever they could find, even as war surged around them.
I didn’t know what the Ogers did to the people they captured. Death was a certainty, but how it came was another matter entirely. Did they butcher them like livestock, turning humans into some grotesque delicacy? Or did they have baser, more vile intentions? The thought of what might happen to the women—the horror of it—sent a sickening chill through me. No. I couldn’t dwell on that now.
I’ll grieve for the dead and the broken later. For now, I had to fight for the living.
I had routed enemy armies. I had stymied invasions. I was a god-blessed hero of our kingdom, adorned with accolades that each could write its own spin-off legend . This ground beneath me wasn’t just another battlefield—it was my stage. I didn’t come here to stand idle like some brooding gargoyle, a silent observer to this waking ruin.
I came here to fight. I came here to win.
“Lord Adrian,” a voice beside me called softly. “The Holy Knights are positioned and awaiting your command.”
I reached for the silver-adorned helmet resting near the ledge and fit it firmly over my head. My dark brown hair, disheveled from this gods-forsaken mess, was swept neatly into place beneath the snug weight of my warrior’s crown. Cramped as it felt, the closeness brought an odd sense of comfort—if only for the protection it offered against a stray arrow from a lurking sniper.
I turned toward the speaker and found myself staring at a radiant suit of silver armor, polished to a mirror-like sheen that seemed to catch and amplify every glint of light. It bore intricate engravings of celestial patterns and symbols, the craftsmanship screaming reverence and duty. The young face peering out from beneath the helm carried a striking mixture of innocence and hardship—youth touched by the unforgiving hand of war, yet not entirely dimmed by it.
A jagged tear gaped along the left side of his helmet, a stark souvenir from a recent encounter with an ax. The scar it left danced from his forehead to his cheek, an unkind reminder of how close he’d come to losing his life. And yet his eyes—deep brown and brimming with reckless excitement—belied any fear. This fool had nearly lost his head and was already itching for more.
I suppressed a sigh, placing my hand over his face and channeling a surge of mana. The Holy Knight flinched slightly as the magic flowed, his expression shifting to mild irritation as the open wound sealed into a clean scar.
“Uh, sir? We’re ready to fight,” he said, undeterred.
“Like hell you are,” I replied, my voice curt. “You show up looking like a piece of sliced ham and expect me to believe my battalion is ready for war? Stand still.”
My hand might have rested on his face with the gentleness of a father’s touch, but I was dangerously close to swinging my gauntlet and giving him a proper smack. Holy Knights were meant to be the squires of Paladins, armed with divine power to protect, heal, and fight. That included healing themselves. Yet here was this moron, standing before me like a stubborn brute too dense to use the gifts bestowed upon him. I grumbled inwardly as the young knight, undeterred by my own aggravation, stood with his hands on his hips, his stance dripping with insubordination.
The knight and I fell into silence as I finished healing him, though his stance—a wide-legged posture with hands firmly on his hips—bothered me to no end. Stubborn as ever, he stood there like a petulant teenager being scolded by his father. I sighed, exasperated.
This one was the runt of the group, the class clown. I had poured countless hours into training him, using myself as an example, yet he never quite absorbed the lessons. Still, there was potential buried under that cocky grin and impulsive nature.
“I’m trying my best, sir,” he said at last, breaking the silence. “You know I’m at my best when I’ve got my sword in my hands.”
“I know, boy. I know,” I replied, my tone softening. “But you still need to take care of yourself. We’re the shining light of His Majesty and Her Highness. When we step forward—”
“We do so to leave a path for others to follow. I get it,” he interrupted, a bit too eagerly. “I’ve got all the scriptures memorized, sir. I’ll say the prayer before I start lopping off demon heads.”
“Oh? Which one?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “The rite of passage or the rite of justice?”
It wasn’t an idle question. The demons that spilled forth from the rift to the far North were bloodthirsty invaders, yes, but they weren’t mindless. They spoke in guttural tones, roared in fury during battle, and even cried out in pain as they fell. Could they find penance in death? The thought lingered as I waited for his answer.
He pursed his lips, then said with a gleam of determination in his eyes, “I’ll recite the rite of protection. My comrades and I are fighting to protect the castle and the kingdom. It’s the perfect oath for this battle.”
“Aye, that’s a fine choice,” I said, a faint smile tugging at my lips. “Go on, then. Gather with the others and tell them to shake off the dust. We’ve a victory to claim.”
“Yes, sir!” he said, his voice bursting with enthusiasm. The itch for battle was clear in his steps as he turned toward the stairs leading to the gate below. But just as he reached the first step, he paused, glancing back at me with aching curiosity.
“Lord Adrian… what rite will you swear to for this fight?”
I suppressed a sigh, his question catching me off guard. “The rite of patience, if you keep wasting my time. Now go!” I barked, pointing sharply toward the gathering troops.
He scowled but said nothing, rushing off with the same eagerness he’d shown before. Once he was out of earshot, I let out a deep breath, steadying myself. In truth, I would be taking the rite of protection for this battle. It was the only vow that felt right.
Adjusting my ocean-blue scarf—the small cape that draped over my armor’s bindings—I turned toward my waiting knights. My steps were heavy, not from the weight of my armor but from the prayer I carried in my heart.
“Your Majesty, Princess,” I whispered under my breath, “grant my wish. Make it out of this night alive. Make it safe.”
I am Adrian Legend. Perhaps you’ve heard my name before, though if you’re reading this tale, then maybe not. I’m 28 years old—though I stopped keeping track the day I could drink the temple’s wine without reprimand. For over a decade, I’ve commanded the Holy Knights, succeeding my master, who passed on from old age.
My rise to leadership was cemented the day I drew the legendary greatsword, Chandrabolg. A colossal weapon forged of mithril and imbued with sacred magic, its two-meter blade seemed almost impossible to wield. When it rested in the pedestal at the northern shrine—a place dedicated to the balance of nature—most men needed to stand on a chair just to grip its hilt.
But I held it. Through years of training and unshakable resolve, I proved myself worthy. The blade, the title, the responsibility—they all became mine. Becoming something beyond a Master-Class Paladin, the highest rank among my order, I earned the title of Hero-Class from His Majesty.
Now, Chandrabolg and I are the kingdom’s last line of defense. My Holy Knights and I are the final hope to reclaim the capital from the abyssal tide that threatens to consume it.
“Fall in line! Lord Adrian approaches to address us!” a Holy Knight’s voice rang out as my heavy boots echoed on the wooden stairs. Thump. Thump. Thump. The rhythmic clink of chains securing my armor accompanied each step, like the steady percussion of a war march.
As I reached the courtyard, the knights assembled in perfect formation, their movements crisp and disciplined. I took my place at the center, my gaze sweeping over them.
Some were seasoned Paladins, their hands steady as they gripped maces or holy relics. Others were younger—novice knights wielding spears and swords honed through years of training. Among them were those already bloodied from battle, their armor bearing the scars of combat. A limp here, a scar there—testaments to the trials they’d faced.
But they were still standing. They were still alive.
“I will protect them,” I vowed silently. These knights were more than soldiers; they were my brothers and sisters in arms. We would fight as one. We would claim victory together.
Beyond our formation, I could see hundreds of castle knights and guards standing at attention from the castle’s rafters. Their posture was tense, their expressions far from confident. They didn’t look to me with respect but with desperation, as though staring at death itself. If we fell, they would be next to face the butcher’s block. I couldn’t blame them for wanting to run, their hearts wavering in the shadow of what was to come.
Farther still, my eyes caught movement on one of the castle’s inner balconies. Figures stood shrouded in smoke and distance—spectators, no doubt. Perhaps nobles eager to witness history in the making, or even the king and queen themselves. It was impossible to say, but their presence, however faint, added weight to the moment.
If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
“We don’t know their numbers,” I began, turning to face the towering iron-wrought gate ahead, the bridge stretching beyond it. My voice cut through the tension like a blade. “It simply means we’ll struggle to count how many we’ve defeated when we win.”
A cheer erupted from the Holy Knights, crisp and unified, their faith unwavering. The castle guards joined in hesitantly, their muffled voices an afterthought against the certainty of my knights.
“I caught a good look at their commander,” I began, letting my tone dip into mock disdain. “Big brute of a thing. Ugly as sin. I’m starting to think they rank up based on how hard they are to look at.”
A few novice knights chuckled nervously, the strain of battle easing for just a moment.
“But once my sword finds his knees and then his neck, he won’t be so big anymore,” I continued, smirking. “In fact, I think his skull will make a fine addition to the tapestry at my favorite tavern.”
“Aye, and we’ll drink from it, too!” an older Paladin called out, his gravelly voice laced with humor.
“You’ll be on your back moaning from a hangover before you finish the first sip, you old fool!” another knight shot back, earning a round of laughs.
“When we finish this fight and drive them out,” I interrupted, raising my voice to reclaim their focus, “I’ll be pulling out the wine from the deepest cellar to toast our victory.”
“You can’t mean the Sacred Louvinere, Lord Adrian?” Samuelle, one of the senior knights, asked in surprise. “It hasn’t been touched since you drew Chandrabolg!”
“The very same,” I confirmed with a grin. “Just as we drank when I drew the sword, we’ll drink when I bury it between the eyes of that hideous bastard.”
My words echoed across the courtyard, drawing a thunderous roar of approval from the Holy Knights. Even the castle guards, emboldened by the declaration, raised their weapons in solidarity.
“We’ll make sure they rue the day they dared set foot in our kingdom!” a female Holy Knight declared, drawing her sword with a flourish, her stance resolute and fierce.
“We’ll show them the full weight of justice when we send them flying off that bridge!” another knight added, raising his shield as if to punctuate his point.
“Gyahaha, who’s going to keep count? I want to know how many I take down!” a grizzled knight bellowed, his laughter rumbling like distant thunder.
The banter rolled on, their voices rising with anticipation and determination. Their shouts and cheers reverberated off my armor, filling the air with a palpable energy that seeped into my very bones.
Yet, even as their spirits lifted, a cold truth lingered in my mind. Most of them would likely die here, their lives sacrificed in the name of honor and kingdom.
As true as it felt, though, I had to make sure that didn’t happen. I had to be strong enough to change our fate.
Gripping Chandrabolg tightly, I raised the blade high, its gleaming hilt resting against my chest. The sudden gesture silenced them, their chatter fading as if snuffed out by the weight of the moment. They knew this pose. The Paladins mirrored it, their hands steady as they prepared their oaths.
The faint clink of armor and leather broke the stillness as each knight bowed their heads in solemn prayer. Tradition dictated that we gaze into our swords’ reflections, drawing resolve from the warped images staring back at us. But I never followed that custom.
I didn’t need to, or perhaps I couldn’t. Instead, I envisioned the battle ahead—the chaos, the bloodshed, the unrelenting will it would take to emerge victorious.
Closing my eyes, I channeled mana through my body, feeling its surge as it flowed into Chandrabolg. The greatsword glowed with an otherworldly light, its aura spreading outward like a ripple across a still pond. Scratches healed. Bruises faded. The fears etched into my knights’ faces softened, replaced by quiet resolve.
The murmurs of prayer grew steadily, like a swelling tide, but the time for quiet reflection had passed. Drawing every ounce of strength into my voice, I bellowed, “Open the gates, and witness our triumph, my King and Queen! My Princess!”
Lowering Chandrabolg to my core, my grip firm and unwavering, I braced myself as the massive iron gate groaned to life. Its gears churned and creaked, a sound that felt both ancient and unrelenting, as the barrier began to rise. My heart pounded in time with its ascent, the weight of destiny pressing heavy on my chest.
As the gate reached its peak, I stepped forward, the haze of smoke and the stench of blood inviting me to its deathly dance floor. Behind me, the synchronized echo of my comrades’ boots rang out—a resounding war drum, heralding our arrival.
We crossed onto the bridge, each step deliberate, every movement steeped in purpose. The iron gate groaned shut behind us, slamming with finality. There would be no retreat, no surrender. It would not rise again—not for cowards, and certainly not for defeat.
Our march continued, slow but resolute. The Paladins moved ahead, clearing paths through the rubble, their sharp eyes scanning for traps or hidden enemies. Behind them, the Holy Knights followed, their discipline unwavering as they stepped into the void of smoke and ruin, poised for battle on a moment’s notice.
And then we heard it. The invitation into the gaping maw of hell itself.
The sound began as a faint tremor beneath our feet, subtle enough that only the loose stone pebbles at our boots noticed it first. But the vibration grew, resonating through the earth like the pained groan of the world itself.
Then came the pitch, low and guttural, rising steadily until it roared like an enraged deity, whose single command was to destroy. It was a declaration of devastation that could travel for miles, and it pierced through the thick haze of smoke that cloaked the other side of the bridge.
A horn. A massive one, its cry a deafening herald of death. As the smoke began to thin, we saw it—the monstrous instrument, some three meters long. Its body, crafted from rotted oak, was reinforced with spiked iron bands and adorned with trophies of human skulls. The grotesque relic hung heavy in the hands of its wielder, who stood towering at the other end of the bridge.
The horn’s bellow lingered for a moment before tapering off, its echoes haunting the air like the dying wail of a dragon. And then, as if emerging from the echoes themselves, the commander stepped into view.
He was colossal, nearly ten meters tall, encased head to toe in golden armor that gleamed with an unsettling light. His helmet, brutal and imposing, bore massive tusks jutting from the sides of its mouth guard. From beneath the helm flowed a mane of gray fur, cascading down his broad shoulders like a lion’s crown, adding to his savage majesty.
The creature’s hands—and feet, if they could even be called that—were more akin to great paws, with their jagged claws protruding from them gouging deep into the stone beneath them with each subtle shift. In its free paw, it gripped a club of unimaginable size, the weapon’s bulk rivaling that of a castle turret. Even at rest, the club seemed to radiate menace, its surface scarred and dented from battles past. One swing of that monstrosity could obliterate the bridge, the front gate, or even the castle entrance.
I grimaced, unwilling to linger on the thought of what it would mean if that weapon made contact with me—or anyone, for that matter.
But as the smoke continued to clear, my attention shifted. The towering commander was a terrifying sight, yes, but he was merely the figurehead of something far more foreboding.
Beyond him stretched a sea of demons and monsters, their ranks an endless tide. The entire opposing wall was packed with them, writhing and shifting like the gears of some nightmarish machine. Thousands upon thousands flooded the region ahead, their movements precise and coordinated, their collective menace suffocating.
Archers and artillery nested in the rafters, their dark forms clinging to the shadows like spiders in a web. Above them, winged creatures circled, their twisted silhouettes stark against the smoke-filled sky.
A dozen or so beasts flanked the commander—dogs? Wolves? No, something worse. I squinted through the haze, my stomach sinking as I drank their details in. They had two heads, each more hideous than the other, their matted fur hanging in filthy clumps. These mangy creatures were nearly the size of the brown bears I’d seen in the forests to the north, but their presence was far more sinister.
One of them could pose a serious challenge to even my most seasoned Paladins. A dozen? They would tear through our ranks like paper unless we coordinated perfectly.
They stood unnervingly still, leaning over the edge of the far gate. Their mouths hung open, slack-jawed, revealing rows of crooked, yellowed teeth dripping with black ichor. The viscous fluid sizzled as it hit the stone beneath them, leaving pockmarks in the surface. Their raspy breaths filled the air with a guttural, choking rhythm, and their eyes—two pairs on each head—scanned the battlefield with ravenous intent.
These beasts weren’t just waiting. They were hungry. They were preparing for a hunt, and they looked certainly ready to dig in.
Were we ready?
I glanced at my compatriots, their reactions a silent reflection of their thoughts. Some stood with mouths agape, their eyes darting nervously across the sea of enemies. Others clenched their jaws, brows furrowed as they calculated the impossible odds. A few, mostly the veterans, bore a different expression—a quiet, almost serene acceptance that this might well be their final stand.
A wry smile tugged at my lips as I pieced it together. They were cycling through the stages of accepting death. Denial lingered in some, anger burned in others, but acceptance had already settled in the eyes of the seasoned fighters. What struck me most, though, was the absence of bargaining. None of them faltered, none of them dared to flee. Not with so much at stake.
I half expected one among us to rip off their armor and leap into the river below, seeking escape and another chance at life. But no one did. Perhaps I was the only fool to entertain such a thought.
Then again, I wasn’t the only fool here.
We were all fools, every last one of us. Fools ready to fight. And that was precisely what made us dangerous. The odds were staggering—two hundred demons and monsters for every knight in our ranks. Insurmountable, by any rational measure.
But if we triumphed here, our legend would echo through history, enduring long after our bones had turned to dust.
“We will be the ones to decide this war,” I said, my voice firm and unyielding.
“Aye, as long as we’re not the ones stuck cleaning up the mess afterward,” Samuelle muttered, his graying beard twitching as he scratched his chin thoughtfully. His eyes lingered on the massive hounds by the demon commander’s side. “Those mutts are trouble. Barricades might slow the Ogers, but those beasts will leap right over them—and over us too, I reckon.”
“If they come close, the polearm knights will gut them midair,” Clara, one of the Holy Knights, interjected. She jabbed her elbow into the side of her halberd-wielding comrade with a sly grin. “We’ll toss them over the ledge and let the river sort them out. Bet the fish will get their fill once the blood spills. And the crocs? They’ll smell it from the delta and come crawling for seconds.”
“Assuming the damn things don’t skewer themselves on the rocks below first,” another knight quipped, his tone as dry as his patience. “Wouldn’t mind seeing them end up like shish kebabs, honestly.” He let out a low scoff, clearly more eager to get this fight over with than to trade banter. Yet, like the rest of us, he was ready.
They were all ready.
“Alright, Holy Knights,” I called, stepping forward, “we’re moving in Spearhead Formation on me. Polearms to the front. Paladins directly behind. I want shield bearers on each flank and guarding the rear.” My gaze shifted to the few Paladins clutching Holy Scriptures, their faces calm but alert. “Casters, form the center as planned. Be prepared to cure serious wounds and raise divine barriers to intercept the heavy blows. When I call for the divine pillars, I want you ready to strike with everything you’ve got.”
The casters nodded in unison, their focus sharp as the knights began shuffling into position.
Joseph scowled as he moved into position, his expression as worn and rugged as the decades of battles etched into his face. A Master-Class Paladin, Joseph stood at the pinnacle of what most Holy Knights could achieve. Starting at Novice-Class, progressing through Adept-Class, and finally reaching Elite-Class, many Holy Knights lived and died without ever climbing higher. Those who attuned to a Holy Relic were elevated to the rank of Paladin, entering the realms of Saint-Class, Veteran-Class, and, rarely, Master-Class.
Joseph had achieved that rank years before I was even born. A seasoned warrior and unwavering leader, he embodied the ideals I had once strived toward as a fresh-faced Veteran-Class knight. Drawing Chandrabolg had secured my rise beyond the standard hierarchy. As a Hero-Class Paladin, the highest rank in our kingdom, I was the eighth Hero of my order—the only one alive today.
The Hero-Class was singular, granted only to the chosen bearer of a legendary artifact. Chandrabolg, the greatsword of the first Paladin, was such an artifact. The First Hero was said to have tamed the elemental titans that roamed this valley during an era of chaos and strife. Together with other great warriors, they carved out a haven in this hostile land, building the foundation of our kingdom.
The Hero’s name had been forgotten, but their blade remained—a testament to their legacy. Chandrabolg had chosen me, and now it was my responsibility to wield its power to protect what they had built.
I raised the sword, its tip pointing directly at the demon commander, who loomed beyond the gate. His gaze locked onto mine, a burning appraisal behind his snarling visage.
I practically shriveled as his glare landed onto me, but after my invoking display, I had naturally incurred his wrathful leer. Of course he’s going to look at me. Dressed as I was, with a blade of legend in my hands, I wasn’t exactly camouflaged. But that was the point. If I could hold his attention, my knights would have the chance to cut through the horde. I might die as easily as any other man in this battle, but I had the tools—and the resolve—to ensure that didn’t happen.
The Lion-Oger commander’s voice boomed across the bridge, his massive paw lifting to point at me directly. “YOU. YOU ARE HERO, YES?”
His guttural words rumbled like thunder, each syllable laced with menace. A bead of sweat ran down my face as I steadied my grip on Chandrabolg.
“Yeah, I’m the hero,” I shouted back, my voice firm. “Hero-Class Paladin of the Holy Knights, eighth Hero of my Order. I am Adrian Legend, your opponent in this decisive battle. Prepare to rot in the hell hole you crawled from, foul demon!”
I wasn’t sure my words carried over the din of the battlefield, but the commander seemed to understand the gist. His mouth twisted into a toothy grin, and he scratched the side of his helmet with a claw.
“GOOD, GOOD. HERO, MEET MAKER.”
His words were broken but clear. His intent was not to threaten but to declare.
For a moment, I was amused. A moron, I thought. I loved fighting giant morons. They made for great spectacles with minimal risk.
But then his free paw shot skyward, and I realized I had misunderstood his words.
I had assumed he was referring to sending me to meet my maker, to face the gods I served.
Instead, he was calling on his own.
The clouds above parted, and the heavens themselves unveiled a tempestuous tapestry of disorder.
A floating castle descended, suspended on a colossal chunk of earth and twisted metal. The structure was more cathedral than fortress, its black marble walls riddled with bizarre, curved architecture. Stained red windows climbed hundreds of meters, glowing like bloodstained eyes. Obelisks jutted outward at random angles, their pointed ends crooked and uneven. In its entirety, it looked like a volcanic eruption frozen mid-apocalypse and sculpted into a massive monument of its sickly beauty.
Golden bells hung in hollowed-out towers, their chimes discordant and unnatural. The sound reverberated in reverse, an eerie echo that defied the natural flow of time.
As if the sight wasn’t horrifying enough, gray, ragged wings—tattered like ancient burial shrouds—labored to support the structure’s descent. Each grotesque flap sent tremors through the rotting membranes, the sound a sickening mix of wet parchment tearing and brittle bones snapping. The decayed wings strained under the weight, shedding fragments of withered flesh and sinew that spiraled downward like morbid confetti, marking the sky with their ghastly defiance of gravity.
And then I saw them: tentacles, grotesque and pulsating, writhing through the air with a sickening sentience, like serpents fresh from the depths of some primordial nightmare. They slithered downward with a grotesque purpose, their glistening surfaces coated in a viscous, oily sheen that reflected the dim light like molten obsidian. Each one was as thick as a house, their undulating movements disgustingly fluid yet unnervingly powerful, leaving me nauseous with every convulsion as they anchored the cathedral’s weight to the earth below.
“Glory be,” a knight murmured, his voice trembling. “We’re not just facing the invasion. We’re stopping them from paving a fresh layer of hell!”
The commander’s gaze returned to me, his voice cutting through the growing fear. “HERO. HUMANS. SUBMIT, AND DIE.”
His words weren’t a threat. They were an order, one that reverberated through our very bones.
I whispered my answer in prayer.
“Fallen faithful to the kingdom, I beseech you. Let your soul flourish in justice and carry your will to battle once more. Your heart is weary, and the travels to the great beyond will be difficult, but in the precious time of afterlife awaiting, I grant you a chance to carry your sacred duties to fruition. SACRED GUARDIANS!”
Mana surged through me, pooling into Chandrabolg. Brilliant hues erupted from the blade, scattering rays of light that swept across the battlefield. The bodies of fallen knights stirred, their spirits rising in radiant gold.
Apparitions of those who had given their lives moments before now stood beside us, bolstering our numbers. They were not as strong as they were in life, but their presence was enough to reignite the courage that had begun to falter.
The Holy Knights swallowed their fear, their chins lowering in determination. Paladins took deep breaths, assuming their fighting stances. We were ready.
“CHAAAARGE!”
The word tore from my lungs, and with it, the dam broke. We surged forward as one, Holy Knights and Sacred Guardians alike, meeting the abyssal tide head-on.