The tension in the corridor was palpable as the Infernal Legion regrouped after their grueling battle. The air still sizzled with residual heat, the acrid stench of scorched metal thick in their lungs. Radborn leaned heavily on his staff, his face pale and drawn, sweat dripping from his brow. Marek surveyed what was left of his strike force. There weren’t many left, but they were still standing—for now.
“Was that it, then?” Aine muttered, her voice hoarse from exertion. “No more drones, no more turrets, no snipers. It’s over, finally.”
“Not yet,” Radborn rasped, shaking his head wearily. “We still have to kill the Dungeon Master. And I’d wager he has a last few tricks up his sleeve.”
Marek stared toward the blast doors ahead, his sword resting on his shoulder, he agreed with Radborn's wary thoughts, but there was nothing he could think of to change that. He had barely taken a step forward when a slow, deliberate clapping echoed down the corridor. The sound bounced off the walls, each clap sharper than the last.
From the shadows ahead, figures emerged. Their armor was crude and irregular, adorned with jagged spikes, thick fur hides, and shimmering runic etchings on their chest plates that seemed to pulse faintly with a dark purple, baleful energy. Their weapons—axes, cleavers, bardiches—looked more like tools of slaughter or tree felling than crafted arms of war. At their head was Jorrik, his towering form draped in a cloak stitched from strange hides, a plated chest gleaming under the dim lights. The skull of a nightstalker served as a pauldron on one shoulder, its hollow sockets staring forward with spite. His pale face twisted into a sneer as he stepped forward, his eyes glinting with malevolent glee.
“Well, well,” Jorrik drawled, his voice a gravelly rumble. “The Infernal Legion, I believe. Or… what’s left of it.” He gestured mockingly to a scorched corpse. “You look like you’ve just won a hard-fought victory. I’m not a fan of that myself. I prefer things quick and easy… just like this will be.”
Aine bristled, flames flickering at her fingertips, but Marek held up a hand, silencing her. He stepped forward, meeting Jorrik's gaze without flinching.
“A lapdog sent to save the Dungeon Master?” Marek’s voice was calm but edged with steel. “Or just a scavenger, looking to pick over the scraps?”
Jorrik's grin widened. “Lapdog? Scavenger? No, Legionnaire. I’m the executioner. I’m here to finish you off and then this dungeon and claim it for myself. But I must admit,” he added with a mock bow, “you saved me some effort. You’ve done quite the job thinning out the defenses. How considerate.”
“You talk a lot for someone about to get burned alive,” Aine snapped, stepping up beside Marek. Her flames roared higher now, casting flickering shadows across the corridor.
Jorrik's warband chuckled darkly, a guttural chorus of malice. One of the warriors, a hulking brute with a jagged axe, stepped forward, leering at Aine.
“Burned alive, eh?” the brute growled. “Bold words from a girl who looks like she’s about to collapse. Go on lass, spit fire.”
Aine’s flames flared hotter, but Marek’s sharp glare held her back.
“This is where it ends,” Jorrik said, his tone turning cold. “Your men are spent. Your healer can barely stand. And you?” He pointed his axe at Marek. “You’re just another dead commander, playing his final moves on a beaten board.”
Marek didn’t flinch. Instead, he raised his sword and stepped forward, his soldiers rallying behind him. “If you think we’ll roll over for you, you’re dumber than you look.”
Jorrik's grin turned predatory. “Oh, I don’t want you to roll over. I want you to fight bitterly, to struggle, then despair, and finally… die.” He raised his axe high, then swung it forward. “Warriors, your prey! Your hunt!”
With a roar, Jorrik's warband surged forward. “Form up!” Marek barked, raising his shield. The last Legion tankers moved into position beside him, battered but disciplined. Axes and blades rang against shields, the Darklanders’ feral aggression hammering into the disciplined formation.
Aine’s flames roared to life as she hurled fireballs into the charging enemies, incinerating a berserker mid-stride. A skirmisher, a line behind the berserkers, darted past the flames, his hooked blade slashing toward her throat, but she sidestepped it in time and retaliated with a burst of searing flame from point-blank distance at his chest. The man screamed as the flames burned through his chest and engulfed him, his weapons clattering to the ground as he fell backward, burning alive.
Nearby, Radborn planted his staff into the ground, chanting desperately. A shimmering barrier of light erupted around the Legion’s side, deflecting incoming strikes and redirecting the flankers. But his magic was faltering under the relentless assault. “I can’t hold this much longer!” he shouted, his voice strained.
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From the rear of the Darklanders, Vaidvėlis appeared, his robes shifting faintly as though stirred by an unseen force. The mage raised his staff high, dark energy coalescing at its tip. He turned to the archers in his ranks, muttering an incantation that transformed their arrows into black projectiles that radiated a shadowy aura, pulsing and writhing like living darkness. “Fire,” he commanded, his voice echoing unnaturally.
The shadowed arrows pierced through Radborn’s barrier like it was paper, striking several Legion soldiers. One tanker fell to his knees, clutching at a black, smoking wound as the cursed magic spread through his veins, blinding his sight and causing agonizing pain.
Marek yelled out. "Radborn! Heal him!" His voice cutting through the din. Radborn, pale and trembling, rushed to the fallen tanker, his hands glowing with restorative magic as the cursed wound slowly began to mend. The tanker, though still hurting, regained his vision promptly and rejoined the line as fast as he could.
Then one of the berserkers, a hulking brute clad in piecemeal armor adorned with bones, hurled himself at the Legion’s frontline. His great axe came down with a thunderous crash, hacking deep into the shield of one of Marek’s tanks and crushing the man’s arm beneath the handle. The berserker roared, a guttural sound that echoed through the corridor, and raised his weapon for a killing strike. But Marek’s blade plunged into his chest, the tip bursting out through the other side with a wet crunch. The berserker froze, his eyes wide with shock as blood bubbled from his lips. With a furious grunt, Marek twisted his sword and yanked it free, sending the hulking brute toppling backward in a lifeless heap, his axe clattering to the ground beside him.
The tanker got up and switched his damaged shield to his other arm, though he could not keep his mace equipped anymore.
As the battle raged, a Darklander assassin flanked his way behind the battle line, his dagger gleaming with poisoned intent. He made a daring lunge at Radborn, his blade aimed for the healer’s heart. Radborn staggered back, his staff raised in a futile attempt to block the attack.
Before the dagger could strike, however, a searing column of fire consumed the assassin mid-lunge. A second Infernal Legion fire mage, his hands wreathed in flame, had intervened just in time. The assassin let out a strangled cry as the fire incinerated him.
Skǫrner now entered the fray, making use of the disorientation, his twin hookblades a mystical blur as though obscured by fluid. One Legion tanker tried to intercept him but was disarmed and gutted in a single movement. Skǫrner’s eyes locked on Aine, who was barely avoiding arrows flying by. With a burst of speed, he closed the distance. Aine managed to deflect the main blade of the strike with her staff, but the hook cut deep into her shoulder, just missing her chest. But before she could even scream in pain, the other blade hooked into her side, sending her sprawling to the ground in pain.
Marek threw a blade toward Skǫrner in a desperate bid to save his comrade. Skǫrner parried it and jumped back, his grin widening. “You’re too late, commander,” he sneered, twisting his blade towards his mouth for a taste of the blood. "She was a spicy one."
Radborn had been avoiding arrows and the thrusts of a Darklander spearman trying to get through the shieldwall. The jagged spear tips came close, forcing the healer to step back defensively only to almost fall into the dangerous area of another spearman in the rear flank, sweat dripping down his face from both exertion and maintaining the vital healing spells. The spearmen had efficiently synced up with a berserker, keeping the tanker occupied, and pressed forward with relentless aggression, his weapon flashing dangerously close to the healer’s torso again and again.
The battle lines began to fold inward against the Legion’s flanks. Darklander warriors surged forward, their brutal tactics driving the remaining Legionnaires into a tighter defensive cluster. The air was thick with the sounds of clashing steel and agonized cries as the Darklanders encroached. The walls seemed to close in, trapping the Legion in an ever-tightening noose.
From a distance in the shadows, Shade’s hand darted to his belt, retrieving a throwing dagger glistening with an oily, dark sheen. With practiced precision, he threw the dagger. It cut through the air, silent and deadly, embedding itself deep into Radborn's back. The healer gasped, his chant breaking as pain rippled through his body. Staggering forward, he collapsed to his knees, clutching at the weapon as dark energy from the blade began to seep into him.
Radborn’s knees buckled as the cursed energy of the dagger took hold. The faint glow of armor reinforcing spells became fainter and dissolved into the oppressive darkness of the corridor. Despair rippled through the Legion as their best healer and support unit fell, the balance of the battle now being hopelessly against them.
Jorrik saw his opening, his grin widening in predatory delight. He charged forward, his warband following in chaotic harmony, bloodlust in their eyes.
Marek's gold-plated shield, once a symbol of strength, specialized in doubling the effects of reinforcing magic, buckled under the relentless onslaught. The intricate etchings along its surface, gleaming with once-proud luster, began to dent and crack as the fury of the Darklanders bore down. Each strike, each brutal swing, hammered at the shield's integrity until it could no longer hold.
With a final resounding clang, Jorrik’s delivered the final blow. The shield buckled inward, cracking inwards as the force of the massive war axe split the golden surface and cut into the hand that had held it so tightly for the entirety of the battle.
Staggered by the weight of the attack and the pain he stumbled backwards. His shield arm now damaged and exposed, was now a liability and his golden relic was gone.
Jorrik wasted no time. With a snarl, he closed the gap between them and fearlessly stretched out his arm to catch Marek's sword.
Marek had done a reflexive slash and although it cut into his hand deep and blood stained the blade, his grip tightened around the weapon, pulling Marek closer, forcing him into a vulnerable position.
“This is where you die, commander.” Jorrik stated coldly, his heavy axe now held upwards with one arm, glinting darkly under the dim lights, rose high above Marek’s head. Jorrik swung his axe down, the sheer weight of the weapon making it come down with a strong force. As Marek’s shield lay shattered, his defense utterly gone, there was nothing left to stop Jorrik’s final, devastating blow.