The cacophonous din of battle reigned on the fields of Locksley, a gruesome symphony woven by clashing blades, shrieking monsters, and the anguished cries of the fallen. Tristan, drenched in the blood of the goblins he'd just dispatched, took a moment to survey the battlefield. His sword was slick with their lifeblood, a morbid testament to his prowess in combat.

In the aftermath of their cryptic encounter with the lady in green at the city plaza, Tristan and his handpicked warriors had advanced into the heart of Locksley. Strategically positioned atop a steep incline, the inner city afforded them a commanding vantage against the relentless flood of monstrous invaders. The formidable ring of stone walls that ensconced it provided a stalwart bastion against the monstrous onslaught.

The bastion walls of Locksley were ablaze with kinetic action. The air buzzed with the whistling of arrows as they cleaved the night sky, their lethal flight paths ending in the bodies of encroaching beasts. Knights, clad in battered armor, fought with valorous tenacity against the goblins audacious enough to breach their bulwark.

But among the valiant fighters, one figure stood out, both in vigor and power. An old man, surprisingly spry and vital, was tearing through overgrown cats and sickly-looking goblins. The sword Tristan had previously gifted him was glowing with a magical blue hue, each swing of it was a death sentence for any creature unfortunate enough to be within its reach. His finesse was lacking, yet the raw might that he possessed rendered such subtlety unnecessary. As Tristan watched him, a pang of jealously snaked its way into his heart.

Sir Robert's prowess is nothing short of awe-inspiring, I can’t help but envy his miraculous growth abilities. He is faster and stronger than me even though he is sixty years my senior.

Yet, within this undercurrent of envy, a torrent of gratitude and respect drowned out these negative whispers. Robert had been an unwavering pillar of strength by their side, matching the relentless rhythm of battle stroke for stroke. A more steadfast ally Tristan could hardly imagine.

Looking away from the chaos of the front lines, the inner city buzzed with a different kind of intensity. Rescue squads darted in and out of the gates, bearing the wounded guards into the city's heart where physicians stood ready. Arrows were in high demand, and young boys, brave despite their tender age, were kept busy distributing them. Meanwhile, the women, resilient and unyielding, brought pots of steaming stew and soup to the weary defenders.

A voice sliced through Tristan's thoughts, abruptly yanking him back to the present. “Food supplies are dwindling, Tristan. The estimates are preliminary, but it seems we have enough to last ten days at most. And that's only if everyone restricts themselves to one meal per day."

"That's too little," Tristan responded, his brows knitting together. "Is that counting your family? They should have substantial reserves."

Oswald exhaled deeply, his head shaking in denial. “The Stronghearts have been summoned by my father. They've barricaded themselves inside the manor, citing 'The Heir's Protection Act' as their justification.”

Tristan’s mouth hung open, disbelief clouding his face. “But… You’re the heir. Who are they attempting to protect?!”

“Father is mad at me about that,” Oswald replied with a shrug. “And it's not just my family. The Bloodworths and the Callfields have also severed contact with the outside world. They said that they had already accomplished their noble duties by giving us half their guards.”

“Unbelievable!” Tristan's anger flared, his thumb clamped between his teeth. “Do they not understand the situation we’re in? Monsters are ravaging the city, for the love of all gods, and they continue their power plays?!”

“I don’t think they’ve seen the situation enough to understand it.” Oswald conjectured, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “They’ve been hiding in their manors for the whole day.”

Gathering his composure, Tristan steered the conversation in a new direction. “Let's leave them be for now. Have you been in touch with the merchant alliance?”

“Half of them are dead, and the majority of the remaining are too terrified to engage in discussions. They are convinced the end of the world is nigh, and our efforts are futile.” Oswald's face contorted with distaste, but he then offered a sliver of hope amidst the despair. “However, one did express a willingness to negotiate.”

"Thank the gods," Tristan exhaled, shaking his head. “Who is it?”

“The head of the alliance, Jasmine,” Oswald responded, a glimmer of a smile crossing his features. “She didn't represent the alliance when she spoke to me, but only herself. Half of her goods are stranded on the outskirts of the city and are irretrievable, but the remaining half is here. She has a stockpile of spices, vegetables, and an assortment of fresh and dried fruits. With careful rationing, it could extend our supplies for another week - two at most."

"That's promising," Tristan's eyes widened momentarily in surprise, before he composed himself. “And what is her asking price?”

“A seat at the table,” Oswald replied, his tone sardonic. “I informed her that I would convey the proposition to you, but asked her not to hold her breath. The nobles will undoubtedly oppose her inclusion.”

“I'll grant her that seat,” Tristan decisively countered, leaving Oswald visibly surprised. “If she's prepared to rise to the occasion, I'm willing to reward her handsomely. I'm confident my father would support this decision too, given the nobles' lackluster response to the crisis.”

“You're in for a fierce struggle. Perhaps even more formidable than the one we're currently engaged in,” Oswald commented with a sigh. “On another note, what should we do with her mercenaries? By law, we have the right to commandeer them.”

“Let them be,” Tristan shook his head. “They're the only leverage she has to prevent us from outright seizing her reserves. I prefer to allow her to retain this advantage, as a gesture of good faith. If she's to have a seat at the table, then it's crucial to nurture a healthy relationship from the outset. And there's no sense in shattering that trust over a mere twenty or so mercenaries.”

Oswald paused, taking a moment to fully absorb Tristan's words, before shrugging and chuckling, “You have a knack for finding wisdom in the oddest of situations.”

“I suppose that's just part of my charm,” Tristan responded with a shared chuckle.

Their banter was abruptly cut short by an urgent call from outside. “General Henry! Open the gates!”

The gates creaked open, allowing nearly a hundred refugees to pour into the inner city. Fear and exhaustion were deeply etched onto their faces. As the guards ushered these beleaguered souls towards temporary shelter, Oswald shook his head. “Forget about that ten-day estimate. We're looking at eight.”

A laugh threatened to escape Tristan, but he swallowed it back, recognizing the inappropriateness of the moment. Oswald certainly had a knack for injecting humor at the least expected times.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Beyond the weary refugees, Tristan caught sight of the Iron Vanguard, astride their magnificent white steeds. They were seasoned warriors, their legends preceding even Tristan's birth. Each held a gaze that told tales of countless battles and hard-fought victories.

However, the man at the helm of this elite unit wore an incongruously cheerful expression. General Henry sported a warm smile that belied the grimness of their circumstances. His kindly visage, coupled with his advanced age, would have given the impression of a benign old man, if not for Tristan's knowledge of the truth beneath the facade.

"Your Grace! You're a sight for sore eyes," General Henry bellowed, his laughter reverberating through the air as he dismounted and advanced towards Tristan and Oswald. "What on earth happened here? This place is starting to resemble a refugee camp."

At the general's jest, Oswald laughed while Tristan simply shook his head. "It's a sign of the times, I'm afraid," the prince commented.

"A sign indeed!" Henry guffawed, his gaze drifting beyond the inner city walls. "Who would've thought it wouldn't be the Thulaskar or those Sundawn devils that would be our undoing, but rather some monsters straight out of folklore."

He then looked at Oswald and said, “And look at you, young man. You’re doing your ancestors proud! I want to see the day when you ascend to the head of your family and restore its former glory."

“I yearn for such a day myself, Sir Henry,” Oswald humbly replied.

The general barked a hearty laugh, clapping Oswald on the shoulder. "You've come a long way."

Watching the older man dominate the atmosphere, Tristan queried, "You were with my father, weren't you, Sir Henry? Have you two parted ways?"

"We have indeed," the general confirmed, nodding. "He ventured west while I tackled the north. He's likely still engaged in the rescue of civilians."

"It seems to be in his nature, he can't sit idle," Tristan responded with a rueful laugh. "Though his presence would be beneficial here as well."

"The nobles are proving to be a thorn in your side, your Grace?" The general inquired, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

Tristan responded with a frustrated tilt of his head, "Well, they're certainly not making things easy."

"Is that so?" General Henry laughed heartily. “Then you should count your blessings, your grace. That is more than one could hope for.”

Observing General Henry's buoyant demeanor, Tristan found himself caught up in the infectious wave of optimism.

Seeing the young prince's spirits lift, Henry nodded approvingly. “Well then, why don’t we go somewhere private to have a proper meeting? I’m sure you have much to tell me.”

"Absolutely, Sir Henry," Tristan assented, his gaze wandering over to Robert who was resting with the other guards. "But there's someone I'd like you to meet first."

Before Henry could voice a query, Tristan approached the old man, extending an invitation for him to join the upcoming meeting.

Tristan, having extended the invitation to Robert, proceeded to introduce him to General Henry. "Sir Robert has provided us with invaluable insights, many of which have proven essential and will continue to guide us," he explained. A warm smile touched his lips as he turned to Robert. "He also represents our hope against these fiendish creatures."

"That's high praise from the prince himself," Henry admitted, taken aback. "I'm intrigued as well."

The four of them made their way to Tristan's nearby manor for the meeting. As they approached the main building, Robert trailed behind the group, still reeling from the sudden turn of events. While Tristan and General Henry delved into tales of yore, Oswald gave them space, opting instead to engage Robert in conversation.

"Mister," the young knight initiated, curiosity coloring his tone, "could you elaborate on this 'level up' concept again? You mentioned it enhanced your strength, and I've witnessed that change myself. But how does it work?"

Tristan picked up on their conversation from the front and found his interest piqued. He glanced at the General, their gazes met, followed by mutual chuckles as they realized their shared curiosity. Both were eager to hear Robert's explanation.

In response to Oswald's query, Robert delved into his understanding of the surreal events that had unfolded since the onset of the apocalypse. He explained the notion of experience points, describing how eliminating monsters augmented them, leading to these so-called 'level ups'. Each level up allowed for points to be distributed among four primary stats. He was able to grasp the roles of strength, agility, and constitution; however, the concept of 'mana' remained elusive. As he allocated points into the first three stats, his physique had surpassed its former limits, achieving a state of fitness unprecedented in his six decades of life.

Their conversation continued as they climbed the manor's grand staircase and entered Tristan's strategic planning room. Dominating the space was a vast table, atop which rested a meticulous map of Locksley and its surrounding regions, speckled with a myriad of tokens and markers.

"Let's start from the beginning," Tristan suggested as he sank into his chair, his gaze fixed on Robert. "Sir, would you kindly recount the events that occurred at the plaza?"

Robert gave a nod of affirmation and embarked on his narrative, "Me and my grandson Roo, we were sitting out in the plaza, looking for a bit of fresh air and a nice view of the moon. This group of people shows up, led by this green-clad lady. We exchanged a few words with them, but I can't shake the sense that something's off about her. Before long, all hell broke loose."

He paused to draw a deep breath before continuing, "Amid all that chaos, me and little Roo, we were scared out of our wits. I reached out to one of them giant statues that popped up in the plaza, and that's when I got these...strange powers you've been seeing. Meanwhile, that gang was up to no good. I didn't like the look the lady shot me, so I grabbed my grandson and ran. You know the rest."

Tristan listened intently, acknowledging Robert's account with a nod before subtly gesturing for Oswald to proceed.

Rising from his chair, Oswald spoke, "The woman, named Nalia, doesn't possess a surname. She's what you'd call the queen of the underworld. Anything unsavory—slave trading, assassinations, small-time thefts, robberies—she and her lot are behind it all."

"Aha, so it's Nalia causing all the ruckus," Henry acknowledged, his brow furrowing in thought. "Then she must've known about this apocalyptic scenario in advance. I’ve never seen her face in public, and I looked for a long time. It's unlikely she'd be casually strolling and chatting in the plaza."

Upon hearing Henry's assessment, Oswald nodded in agreement, sinking back into his seat. "Her subsequent actions affirm this suspicion. Ever since this calamity commenced, she's been amassing followers at an alarming rate. It's as though anyone who encounters her becomes instantly enamored. Man or woman, young or old—anyone who crosses paths with her ends up joining her murderous ranks. According to the latest reports from my scouts, they number over two thousand."

"Two thousand?" General Henry's eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Are you sure of your numbers? I know that she has a way with words, but I don’t think even the king could convince so many to join so fast.”

“Unfortunately, it seem that she is not only using her tongue to attract her followers, Sir Henry,” Oswald shook his head. "She penetrates large districts that haven't been devastated by the monsters yet, eliminates the threats, rescues the inhabitants, and seemingly convinces all of them to join her ranks. She's been replicating this tactic throughout the day."

After a moment of quiet contemplation, General Henry voiced his skepticism. "Even if we accept she has managed to amass such a crowd using some mind-control magic, they remain ordinary civilians. Wandering around the city without the shelter of their homes is just asking to be killed."

"Nalia has monopolized the statues," Tristan clarified, shaking his head. "Those are what bestowed Sir Robert with his abilities, and they're what empowers her followers as well. Do not regard those two thousand as mere civilians. Think of them as knights with power and magic to match those creatures outside. Moreover, as per my sources, they are not only as formidable as the monsters, they also display similar savagery. There's an unmistakable undercurrent of madness among them."

Henry sat in shock for a few seconds before he exhaled deeply. "By the gods… How on earth are we supposed to counter such a threat? If she continues to amass her forces, she'll have the city under her thumb in no time."

"That is indeed a significant problem," Tristan acknowledged gravely. Silence enveloped the room as they grappled with the enormity of their predicament.

"If only she would vacate the plaza for a few hours," Oswald mused. "We could take our men there and experience these magical abilities firsthand."

His words were cut short by a knock at the door. Rising from his seat, Oswald opened the door to find a kneeling knight. After closing the door behind him, he engaged in a brief exchange with the knight before exclaiming, "You must be joking?"

He reentered the room moments later, his face a blend of disbelief and elation. "The plaza is vacant. Nalia and her troops have moved!"