As they crested the hill, their breaths hitched at the grim scene below. Dark plumes of smoke rose in thick, curling spirals above the treeline, winding ominously into the clear sky like scars. Fires flickered in patches across the village, their glow casting an unsettling orange hue over the landscape. Beneath the crackling flames, the distant shouts of villagers mixed with the unmistakable clang of steel—a brutal symphony of chaos.
They dropped low to the ground, watching with narrowed eyes as the full horror of the raid came into view. Marauders moved with ruthless efficiency, storming through the streets and smashing down doors, scattering what few villagers remained as they looted and destroyed. And at their head, a towering figure commanded the scene with terrifying authority: a massive orc, wielding a brutal, jagged axe almost as large as he was. His muscular form dwarfed his lackeys, his thick arms rippling with raw power as he bellowed commands, his voice a thunderous roar that cut through the noise like a battle horn. A thick, shadowy aura cloaked him, swirling like smoke and pressing heavily against the air around him. The darkness seemed to pulse, shifting and curling as if alive, casting an ominous veil that radiated raw, unrestrained power. It clung to him, dense and suffocating, obscuring his form in a way that made him appear both larger and more menacing, like a silhouette born from pure night.
The little slime covered its beady black eyes with tiny, jelly-like hands—though “covered” was a stretch, given that its hands were just as transparent as the rest of its body. The attempt was endearing; its fingers wobbled, and its whole form quivered like jelly, but it was clear the creature was trying its best to hide from the gruesome sight.
Lorian’s expression grew tense as he flipped through the weathered pages, his eyes catching on a grim passage. “They’re Orcs… cursed by the Magician,” he muttered, his voice carrying a sombre weight. “They’re the undead—bound to wreak havoc for eternity, unable to find rest.”
A chill settled over the group as the reality sank in, the peaceful forest around them feeling eerily quiet. Caelus clenched his fists, his gaze steeling with renewed determination as he looked around at his team.
“Alright,” he murmured, his voice like iron. “We’re not just facing bandits. Let’s stay sharp and protect those villagers. Whatever curse they’re under, we’re breaking it here.”
Caelus’s gaze hardened, his usual wariness giving way to a fierce resolve. "Alright," he whispered, his voice low but steely, a spark of determination lighting his eyes. He glanced around at his team, their expressions reflecting the same readiness. "Let’s move. Focus on saving the villagers."
The team nodded, weapons and spells at the ready, their movements swift and purposeful as they descended into the chaos below, each of them prepared to face whatever dark forces lay ahead. The little slime bounced gleefully, landing with a soft plop into Lorian’s sling bag, nestling comfortably among his scrolls and potions. It jiggled with excitement, adjusting itself like it had found the cosiest spot in the world.
The champions readied themselves, each gripping their weapons a little tighter, the weight of their mission settling over them like a mantle.
The group quickly fell into action, each moving with the intensity and focus of warriors long accustomed to the chaos of battle. Riven vanished into the shadows, her form melting into darkness as she slipped behind enemy lines with lethal grace. Her eyes were as cold as her resolve, poisonous blades flashing in swift, silent arcs. Each strike was precise—a hand over a mouth, a dagger plunged into a vulnerable spot—leaving her targets to crumple wordlessly. The remaining marauders barely registered her presence, only the flicker of movement as one by one, their allies fell without a sound.
The minions, while numerous and relentless, proved to be far less formidable than their master. Their health bars, shorter and a dimmer shade of red, hovered shakily above their malformed forms, flickering with each movement. It didn’t take much to bring them down—a single, well-placed spell or a precise stab was enough to shatter their fragile vitality, causing their health bars to drain rapidly into nothingness.
Despite their weakness, their sheer numbers and frenzied aggression made them a constant threat, swarming like a tide of shadows that sought to overwhelm through persistence alone.
On the other side of the battlefield, Magnus raised his staff, and the earth itself answered his call. Thick, knotted vines erupted from the ground, twisting and coiling around the legs of nearby bandits. The vines were relentless, winding up to immobilise arms and weapons as the marauders struggled, their limbs bound tighter with every movement. They hacked frantically at the encroaching vines, curses filling the air, but the plants were relentless, reacting to Magnus’s will with a force that overwhelmed their desperate attempts to break free.
Amid the chaos, Elira launched herself into the heart of the village, her massive shield held high. With fierce, decisive movements, she placed herself between the attackers and the defenceless villagers, her shield absorbing the brutal impacts of axes and swords. Each strike that met her shield sent a reverberation through the air, but she stood firm, deflecting blows and pushing forward like an unstoppable force. One marauder tried to rush her from the side, hoping to slip past her guard, but she met him with a swift counter, shoving him backward before sweeping her shield in a powerful arc that knocked him to the ground.
Meanwhile, Lorian sprinted toward a small group of injured villagers, his spellbook open in one hand as he chanted softly. A gentle white light cascaded from his hands, bathing the wounded in a warm, healing glow that knit their wounds and eased their pain. The villagers, some still trembling with fear, looked up at him with awe and gratitude, their expressions softening as their injuries faded. Seraph moved swiftly and calmly, her presence a reassuring anchor for the frightened villagers. She directed them with a steady hand, her voice firm yet soothing as she pointed toward safe paths away from the chaos.
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Guiding an elderly couple, Darius shielded them with his wings, deflecting stray debris that fell as the fight raged on nearby. His focus never wavered, even as frightened children clung to his arm, looking up at him with wide, terrified eyes.
Darius crouched down, offering them a smile, "You’re going to be alright. Just keep moving, stay close to me." With a final, encouraging nod, he rose and continued his careful march, leading the villagers through the maze of rubble and away from the encroaching danger.
At the centre of the chaos, Caelus felt a familiar surge of power as he activated Bloody Fury. Energy rippled through him, heightening his senses and lending a brutal strength to every movement. His gaze locked onto a group of marauders ensnared by Magnus’s vines, their struggles making them easy targets. He surged forward, his sword slicing through the air with deadly precision. The marauders barely had time to react before he cut them down, each swing of his blade met with gasps of pain and terror. One orc tried to bring his axe down in a desperate attempt to free himself, but Caelus was faster, sidestepping the blow and driving his sword deep into the orc’s side. The orc’s bellow was cut short as Caelus yanked his blade free, blood spattering the ground as he moved on to the next target.
Caelus felt as though something powerful had taken over, guiding his every move. Despite having never wielded a blade in his former life, his body moved with a precision and strength that startled him. Each swing, each shift of his stance, felt instinctive—like his muscles had known these motions for centuries. The weight of the sword, the resistance of the enemy’s strikes, even the fluidity of his footwork—all of it flowed through him as if etched deep within his bones.
He didn’t know whether it was a remnant of Vorrath’s memories or some latent power he’d inherited in this new life, but he couldn’t deny the strange thrill of it. Every move felt right, as though he were piecing together an ancient, forgotten part of himself.
The clash was a well-rehearsed symphony of skill and strength, each champion moving in sync, their abilities flowing together as if choreographed. Vines twisted and held enemies in place while blades flashed, shields deflected, and spells mended. For a moment, it felt as if victory was within reach.
Then a roar ripped through the air, deep and furious, stopping them in their tracks. The ground shook under their feet as an enormous figure strode into the heart of the village. It was the Bandit Lord, but not just any marauder—he towered nearly twice the height of his minions, his hulking frame an ominous shadow that swallowed the light around him. The dark armour he wore clung tightly to muscles that bulged with every movement, and his skin was thick and scarred, hinting at countless battles fought and survived. Malice burned in his eyes like twin embers, casting an eerie glow as he scanned the champions with a savage grin.
The creature, in stark contrast to its frail minions, loomed with an overwhelming presence that was reflected in its health bar—a massive, pulsing line of crimson stretching ominously across the upper portion of their vision, labelled ‘The Bandit Lord’. It was at least twenty, no—thirty times larger than the health bars of the minions, its glow surging with every thunderous movement it made. Each section of the bar seemed to hum with raw, dark energy, almost daring them to chip away at its seemingly insurmountable vitality.
In one powerful motion, the orc raised his weapon high—a brutal, jagged axe that looked more like a clever designed to rip rather than cut. The rusted metal gleamed menacingly in the sunlight as he brought it down, slamming it into the ground. A shockwave rippled outward, cracks splintering the earth and radiating from where the axe had landed. The very air vibrated with the force, dust and debris rising in a heavy cloud. Caelus staggered, his stance faltering for a heartbeat as he tried to hold his ground. The sheer power of that strike was unlike anything he’d ever felt.
“Champions of Helia!” the orc thundered, his growling voice thick with disdain. “You think you can stop me? Fools, all of you!”
Caelus swallowed, his heart pounding. The Bandit Lord exuded raw, primal strength, and even as Caelus tried to steady himself, he felt a chill creep up his spine. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, and a bead of sweat traced down his brow. There was no room for hesitation, not here, not now. A part of him felt that this fight might not be one they could win.
But something deeper within him, a spark of defiance he didn’t know he had, ignited as the Bandit Lord charged. Caelus set his jaw, adjusting his grip on his sword and planting his feet firmly, feeling the surge of Bloody Fury course through his veins. The familiar heat of power rose in him, sharpening his senses and clearing his mind. His fear morphed into focus, his dread into something fierce and unyielding.
The Bandit Lord lunged, bringing his massive axe down in a wide, lethal arc. Caelus threw himself to the side, rolling across the ground as the blade struck just inches from where he’d been, cleaving the earth open. He scrambled back to his feet, barely catching his breath before the orc was on him again, swinging with terrifying speed for something his size.
Caelus blocked, his arms vibrating painfully from the impact. Every blow felt like striking a mountain. He knew he couldn’t keep this up alone. “Magnus!” he shouted, barely dodging another brutal swing. “I need some help here!”
Magnus responded, summoning thick vines that snaked up from the ground, winding around the Bandit Lord’s ankles and tightening with a strength only nature could wield. The orc growled, tearing at the vines, but it bought Caelus a precious moment to regain his footing. He nodded in thanks to Magnus, raising his sword and launching himself at the Bandit Lord with renewed determination.
The orc turned on him, his eyes flashing with fury. “You think a bit of greenery will hold me?” he sneered, ripping a vine free and throwing it aside as he swung his axe once more. Caelus ducked, using the distraction to slash at the bandit lord’s exposed side, activating Dark Edge, feeling his blade connect, though it barely penetrated the thick hide.
“Stay down already!” the orc bellowed, his voice a guttural snarl that echoed through the chaos. The massive axe in his hands swung through the air, a blur of sharpened steel aimed straight at Caelus.
Caelus’s pulse thundered in his ears, each beat fueled by Bloody Fury—raw, uncontrollable power that surged through his veins. His body moved on instinct, reacting faster than thought, but his focus was split. The battlefield swirled around him like a storm, a haze of grunts, clashing metal, and the shrieks of battle. His foot slipped on the slick ground, and for a fleeting second, the world seemed to tilt.
A sharp, disorienting lurch twisted in his gut as he lost his balance. The rush of panic came too late, and before he could regain control, his foot caught a rock, sending him sprawling backwards. His arms flailed, trying to find purchase in the air, but it was useless.
The last thing Caelus heard was Seraph’s desperate, high-pitched scream, slicing through the fog of his mind. It echoed in his head, a warning, a plea—