Souit’s mind raced, calculating, recalculating as every mental Skill a Great General possessed ran beyond their limits. Minutes, perhaps only seconds, remained before the last of his defences crumbled beneath the onslaught. Each scenario played out in his mind—each one worse than the last, each one ending in blood and death.

To his right, Captain Kettle’s formation had disintegrated beneath the pressure of the attack from the corrupted mountain men. A small knot of survivors stood ankle-deep in the river's shallows, their swords clashing with the snarling creatures as black water churned around their legs. Their attackers came on in waves, muscle and bone spasming grotesquely, their twisted faces split with grins too wide for their once-human mouths. Their attacks were raw, brutal, nothing but rage and hunger and the will of the Dark God driving them forward. There was no hesitation, no fear, only the relentless grind of bodies crashing against failing shields and armour.

The men of the King’s Army fought as they had been trained, but training was crumbling in the face of relentless horror. The clash of metal against flesh filled the air, along with the wet sound of blades cleaving through bone, the groan of splintering shields, and the gasps of dying men.

Kettle’s chest heaved with exhaustion as he forced his shield up again, supporting the weight of Drult at his side as best as he could. Black blood smeared his face, drying in thick, crusted streaks. His sword arm was a column of fire, each swing slower than the last, but still, he fought. Still, he swung.

“Steady!” His voice felt hollow to his own ears, drowned under the din of battle. His eyes darted toward the riverbank, where the last of the refugees were dragging themselves through the water. Too slow. Goddess, too slow.

The battlefield had transformed into a slaughterhouse under the attentions of the MyrkrÞræll. The damned creatures moved like liquid, slipping between the dying and the living with casual ease, disembowelling men with the flick of a shadowed arm. Kettle heard a slick crack next to him as one of his soldiers screamed—a scream that ended as quickly as it began. The man’s ribs had been torn apart, his innards slithering out into the mud, still warm, still pulsing with the last vestiges of life. The MyrkrÞræll barely noticed as it discarded the body like offal, turning its eyeless gaze on the next victim.

Kettle’s grip tightened around his sword as he thrust it forward, the blade scraping across the creature’s oily, shifting form. The MyrkrÞræll tilted its faceless head, its movements lazy, mocking. Then it lashed out, a wave of darkness wrapping around Kettle’s forearm. Cold, sharper than any winter, seeped through his armour, biting into his skin like a frostbite setting in an instant. Kettle yanked his arm free, snarling, and drove his boot into the creature’s chest, but it barely moved. A ripple of shadow flickered across its form, and before Kettle could react, it struck again.

The blow hit him with bone-shattering force, and Kettle was flung backwards, crashing into the mud. The breath left his lungs in a sharp, agonizing burst. He struggled to rise, vision blurred, the world tilting dangerously around him. For a moment, all he saw was shadow and flame, his mind spinning.

Further back, Major Degralk and his pikemen were locked in their own desperate struggle. Their pikes thrust forward in tight formation, stabbing at the twisted creatures that advanced from all sides, but it was like trying to hold back the tide. The soldiers’ hands were slick with blood, slipping on their weapons, the sticky warmth coating their skin. Degralk’s voice was a constant roar, calling out commands that barely held his men together.

One of the pikemen to Degralk’s right screamed as a MyrkrÞræll flowed over his weapon, wrapping itself around his neck like a noose. The soldier’s head jerked to the side with a sickening crunch, his spine snapping like dry wood. Degralk cursed under his breath, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack his teeth. He lunged forward, snatching up the fallen man’s weapon. His Skill surged through him, a flicker of blue energy running down the pike's length as he swung it in a wide arc, slicing through the air and forcing the creatures back—if only for a moment.

“We need more time!” Degralk shouted, his voice raw, though he was no longer sure what they were fighting for. Time? Time for what?

Souit observed it all from his vantage point; his hand clenched around the pommel of his sword. His breath came in steady, measured rhythms, but his mind was in turmoil. The mana pulsed through him in thick waves, filling him, burning him. His vision blurred at the edges as he channelled more and more energy into the only Skill that might save them.

Would the Lords of Misrule bet on him this time? He could almost hear their dice rattling in his skull. How long had it been since he last heard that sound? Too long.

He hoped they were watching.

The foresight of his Great General Class had carried them this far, but no amount of tactical brilliance could predict this. The battlefield was a roiling mass of bodies and shadows, the MyrkrÞræll growing stronger with every second. Souit’s options narrowed to one. His vision, bloodshot and strained, lifted to the sky.

he whispered, as though the words themselves might break the seal he had placed on this Skill so long ago.

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The clouds above twisted, darkening from bruised purple to a stark, festering red. But this was no storm. It was a summoning, a calling, the herald of something far worse than the monsters that stalked the battlefield. The power coiled at the edges of Souit’s consciousness, heavy and cold. The ground beneath his feet seemed to tremble, vibrating with anticipation, as though the earth itself recoiled from what was about to be unleashed.

Souit’s hands shook as he pulled in more mana, more than a man without his Class should have been able to withstand. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a hammer driving spikes of pain into his skull. His breath came in shallow, ragged bursts, and still, the Skill demanded more. It would take time—perhaps more time than he had. But there was no turning back now.

“Kettle!” Souit’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade. “You need to hold them!”

Kettle, barely able to stand, glanced back over his shoulder. “We’re trying, sir, but—”

“Hold them!” Souit barked again, his voice laced with desperation and command. Kettle gave a grim nod and turned back to the nightmare before him, his sword rising one more time to meet the shadows.

The refugees were now across, but the soldiers were dying faster than they could retreat. Taelsin, his face ashen, staggered back toward the river’s edge. His sword flickered with the remnants of , the light waning as his mana reserves dwindled to nothing. His other two Skills failed at the same time, and the impact on the well-being of those around him showed immediately. Legs shook with exhaustion, yet still, the men of the King's Army stood. Taelsin glanced up at the sky, at the swirling storm of red and black - a tunnel of air connecting it to the Great General. His stomach twisted into knots: what was Souit doing?

And he was not the only person who noticed. The MyrkrÞræll themselves paused. Indeed, every last one of the creatures on the battlefield froze in place, their faceless heads tilting toward Souit in unison. They could feel it too. The gathering storm. The end.

One of the monsters—a towering shadow that had been tearing through the rear flank—let out a wail, a sound that split the air like glass shattering. With that, all of the MyrkrÞræll surged forward in a final, desperate assault, their forms twisting and writhing as they hurtled toward Souit, toward the doom they sensed he was about to unleash.

“Protect the General!” Degralk’s voice was hoarse, barely audible. The few remaining soldiers—those still standing, still able to hold a weapon—staggered to form a line between Souit and the advancing horde. Their faces were pale, their hands trembling, but they stood. They stood because there was no other option.

Souit’s vision blurred, the world narrowing to a single point of focus. The Skill surged within him, clawing at his mind, his soul, demanding release. His arms trembled, the pain unbearable, the pressure building to a crescendo. He had only seconds left.

And then, with a final, agonizing breath, Souit released .

The sky tore open.

A rift of fire and shadow spiralled downward, a vortex of destruction that smashed into the battlefield with the force of a divine hammer. The MyrkrÞræll shrieked, their forms disintegrating in the blaze. The ground cracked open, molten earth bubbling up in fiery geysers that consumed everything in their path. Mountain men, MyrkrÞræll, and even some of his own soldiers were caught in the inferno, their screams lost in the roar of divine flames.

The vortex expanded, a maelstrom of fire and shadow that arced outward from Souit’s position, engulfing the battlefield in a searing, howling blaze. The earth groaned beneath the weight of the spell, splitting apart as cracks formed, belching molten rock.

Souit stood at the centre of it all, his body trembling with the effort it had taken to unleash such destruction. His vision was a blur of red and black, his legs threatening to give out beneath him. As it had, the last time he had made use of this Skill, the power of tore through him, ripping at the edges of his sanity, but he held on, gritting his teeth against the agony. The MyrkrÞræll shrieked as the fire consumed them, their shadowy forms breaking apart, dissolving into ash that was swept away by the raging wind.

Cattle, barely conscious, forced himself to his knees, his eyes wide as he watched the hellfire spread. Men screamed as they were caught in the blast, their bodies igniting in an instant, their armour melting into their flesh. The corrupted mountain men howled as the fire ripped through them, their grotesque bodies unable to withstand the heat. One by one, they fell, their limbs curling into themselves as they were consumed.

Degralk, panting and bloodied, stood at the edge of the inferno, his pike held loosely in his hand. His men—what remained of them—had retreated, pulling back from the expanding flames. The MyrkrÞræll were no longer advancing; they were no longer anything. The fire had done its work, purging the battlefield of the Dark God’s monstrosities.

But at what cost?

Souit collapsed to his knees, his strength finally gone. The Skill had taken everything from him—his mana, his energy, his very life force. He had known it would come to this. The price of was not a light one. He could feel his heart slowing, each beat weaker than the last. His vision darkened at the edges, the world around him fading to black.

In the distance, the last of the refugees were pulling themselves onto the far bank of the river, their faces pale, their bodies soaked but intact. They had made it.

Kettle forced himself to his feet, stumbling forward through the smoking wreckage. His legs felt like lead, but he kept moving, his eyes fixed on Souit. The Great General knelt in the middle of the devastation, his head bowed, his hands still clenched around the hilt of his sword.

“Sir!” Kettle called out, his voice raw from smoke and blood.

There was no response.

Kettle staggered closer, his heart pounding in his chest. The air was thick with ash, making it hard to breathe. He dropped to his knees beside Souit, reaching out to shake him. Souit’s body slumped forward, but his eyes flickered open—barely.

“It is...done,” Souit rasped, his voice barely a whisper. “They will not...follow.”

Kettle nodded, swallowing hard as he looked around at the ruined battlefield. “You did it, sir. You saved them.”

Souit’s lips twitched in something like a smile and then he was gone.