High atop the upper floors of Balisarda Sumernor castle, the ruthless conqueror Balisarda Sumernor observed with a chilling detachment as his enemies struggled against the relentless onslaught of his overwhelming power. His cold, calculating eyes conveyed a sinister determination, foretelling the demise that awaited those who dared oppose him. Unfazed, he stood ready to unleash even more devastating attacks, intent on defeating the military and sending an unmistakable message to anyone contemplating defiance.
The air was thick with chaos as swords rained from the sky, each possessing a unique and destructive power that overwhelmed the military forces below. Seeing eighty thousand swords descend was awe-inspiring, a force few could withstand. Bolstered by his amplified power, Balisarda Sumernor emerged as an actual sword master, a formidable adversary for anyone in his way.
Soldiers on the battlefield scrambled desperately for cover as panic and confusion spread through their once-disciplined ranks. The sheer number of swords made it nearly impossible for the military to counter the supernatural onslaught. The cacophony of metal cutting through the air filled the battlefield, the speed and precision of the blades rendering the defence futile.
Jabari, a leader among the beleaguered troops, watched in horror as the relentless storm of swords claimed the lives of his comrades. Shouting commands to find cover, he sought refuge near a cluster of trees, desperately attempting to formulate a plan to counter the overwhelming attack.
The piercing sound of metal cutting through the wind grew louder as the supernatural onslaught continued. Amidst the chaos, Jabari's attention was drawn to a fallen young soldier, her lifeless form lying prone on the bloodstained ground. Kneeling beside her, he felt the weight of loss as her image began to fade into the shadows, a casualty of the devastating assault.
As Jabari mourned the fallen soldier, a sudden quake shook the ground, and the sky erupted in an intense, blinding light. The storm of swords persisted, leaving a gruesome tableau of shredded bodies in its wake. The air reeked of death and blood as the military, overwhelmed by the horrific scene, scattered in disarray.
Maintaining composure despite the chaos, Jabari directed his surviving troops to seek refuge in the tents. Urging them to run for their lives, he witnessed a wounded soldier, his body torn and bloodied, imploring others to escape; however, they refused to leave him.
Around the battered soldier, his companions frantically tried to lift him, their hands slipping on his bloodied uniform. Each moment stretched into eternity as his wounds began to glow with an intense, blinding blue light. His eyes rolled back, turning a haunting, milky white. A low rumble resonated from deep within his chest, growing louder until it became an overwhelming roar.
Suddenly, his chest erupted in a cataclysmic explosion of blue light. The air around them seemed to ripple and distort as the light pulsed outward. From the explosion's epicentre, where his heart once beat, a wind funnel began to form. It started as a mere wisp, a thin thread of air spinning rapidly. Within seconds, the thread thickened, expanding into a raging vortex.
The tornado surged upward, its base anchored in the soldier's chest cavity. The force of the wind ripped apart his body, tearing him limb from limb. The gore was horrifying to behold, but the sight was nothing compared to the sound of the vortex. It was deafening, a piercing cacophony of screams and groans. It sounded like a thousand souls being tortured and tormented.
As the tornado grew in size and strength, it drew in the surrounding air, creating a vacuum. This, combined with the vortex's suction force, sent everyone within the blast radius flying. The tornado drew their bodies into its voracious maw, shredding them to pieces as it consumed them.
Panic ignited within the ranks as the tornado roared rapidly beyond comprehension. Soldiers scrambled in all directions, their uniforms flapping wildly in the ferocious winds. Each one was a figure of chaos, struggling against nature's wrath.
A thirty-seven-year-old soldier, his face a mask of terror, felt his heart pounding against his ribcage. He could barely hear his thoughts over the deafening roar. "Run, just run," his mind screamed, overriding all other instincts. His once-sturdy boots now felt like lead weights as he sprinted across the uneven hill, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Sweat and grime streaked his face, mingling with tears he hadn't realized he'd shed. Every step felt like it could be his last, with the ground shifting beneath him as if trying to pull him back into the maelstrom.
A twenty-eight-year-old soldier, his wiry frame illuminated by flashes of lightning, looked back just once, his eyes wide with horror. The sight of his comrades being torn apart etched itself into his mind, a nightmare that would never fade. "God help us," he muttered, clutching at the sword strapped to his side as if it could anchor him to reality. Usually neatly cropped, his dark hair was now a tangled mess whipped by the wind. His uniform, torn and muddy, flapped violently as he struggled to keep his footing, each step a desperate lunge towards safety.
A thirty-one-year-old soldier, a burly man with a thick beard, roared commands that were swallowed by the tornado's howl. "Move, damn it! Move!" His voice, usually so authoritative, was tinged with a primal fear. His thoughts raced, calculating the safest route down the hill, though every path seemed equally doomed. He grabbed a younger soldier by the arm, practically dragging the younger man frozen. The older soldier's muscles strained against the gale, his veins standing against his skin like cords ready to snap. The weight of his duty to protect his men bore down on him, even as the tornado threatened to obliterate them all.
A twenty-five-year-old soldier, his youthful face pale as a ghost, stumbled along beside the older man. His helmet had been torn away, revealing short-cropped hair now on end. He could feel the pull of the tornado behind him, like a monstrous hand grasping at his back. His mind was a whirl of fragmented prayers and half-formed thoughts, none of which made sense in the chaos. "Please, someone help," he whispered, his voice lost to the storm. His fatigues were torn, and blood from a gash on his arm mingled with the dirt and sweat that coated his skin. Each step felt like it could be his last, the ground beneath him trembling as if it shared in his terror.
As they fled, the tornado's roar pursued them, a relentless predator. Each soldier was a portrait of desperation and fear, their thoughts a chaotic blend of survival instincts and the haunting images of the carnage behind them. The hill, usually a place of strategic advantage, had become a death trap. The once-solid earth seemed fragile, ready to give way beneath their feet at any moment. They ran from the storm and the memories that would haunt them forever, each step a desperate bid for a future that seemed increasingly uncertain.
The swirling winds grew stronger as the men fled, like the howl of a monstrous beast determined to destroy them. They ran as fast as they could, though their footsteps felt like slogging through mud, each stride bringing them closer to the precipice. Ahead of them, a fallen tree blocked their path. Without hesitation, they leapt over the obstacle, stumbling through the dense foliage desperately trying to escape.
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And then, just as suddenly as the storm had appeared, it was gone. The roar of the tornado receded as the men rushed into the safety of their tents, panting and drenched in a layer of sweat. For a moment, the world was still, the eerie calm interrupted only by the sounds of their ragged breathing. Then, the silence shattered as screams and anguish pierced the air.
It seemed as if the storm had taken the lives of everyone outside the tents when it struck. As the men emerged, their faces twisted in terror, their eyes filled with tears that streamed down their cheeks. Bloodstained, their clothes ripped, they looked like broken dolls that had been thrown to the ground and then stepped on by a careless child.
There was a stillness in the air as the men looked around, trying to make sense of what had happened. "Where are the others?" "Where's our commanding officer?" "What happened to our friends?" These were just a few desperate questions that begged to be answered.
A tremor surged through the men as they processed the implications of the loss. With each step they took, the world seemed to fall further out of balance, leaving them in an endless void.
From the chaos, one soldier emerged with a limp and a gaping wound in his side, his breathing ragged and laboured. He collapsed onto the ground and let out a bloodcurdling scream, his wailing voice carrying across the field. The other soldiers stared at him, frozen in their tracks, unsure how to proceed.
The men looked around, each trying to find the words to express their shock. Some began crying as they surveyed the carnage left by the storm, their hearts breaking as they witnessed the bodies of their fallen comrades. Others stared with blank eyes, their minds unable to process what they saw. Still, others seemed to be holding back the grief and despair that threatened to overwhelm them, their faces etched with unyielding resolve.
As the men gazed at the corpses of their companions, they noticed a tiny flame flickering in the distance. With great effort, the injured soldier reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter and some matches. He flicked open the lighter, his fingers trembling with fear and exhaustion, and struck the match against the striker. A small flame flared up, illuminating the soldier's face with a warm glow.
With a sudden jolt, the soldier threw the lighter onto the ground and stomped on it, extinguishing the flame. Trembling, he sat on the ground and pulled a knife from his boot. Staring down at it, he saw the reflection of the flame flickering in its polished blade.
"What is this?" he asked, his voice a whisper that betrayed his uncertainty.
"I don't know. I've never seen anything like this before." Another soldier stepped forward, his face contorted in confusion and disbelief.
"Swords are falling from somewhere, murdering us" The soldier's voice shook, his eyes wide with terror. "This is madness! I don't understand what's happening. This can't be real."
"How can you say that? It's obvious that we're in a real battle," said another.
"Yes, but how did those swords come out of nowhere like that?"
"Maybe there are more enemies out there. Maybe there are more soldiers, just like us."
"Yeah, maybe... but still, I don't know how it could happen like that. Those swords didn't appear out of thin air."
As Chris slowly stirred from his slumber, the world around him seemed to materialize in a symphony of sounds. The gentle rustle of canvas tents, the distant murmur of voices, and the soft shuffling of feet intermingled in the pre-dawn air, creating a cacophony that enveloped him. Yet, the sharp edge of urgency in the soldiers' voices pierced through the haze of sleep like a relentless gust of wind tearing through the tranquillity of a calm night. Their words, carried on the wind, swirled around Chris, filling his ears with urgency and anticipation. Each whispered command and hurried exchange seemed to howl into his consciousness, jolting him awake with a sense of imminent action.
Chris slowly sat up, his breath filling his ears as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His mouth felt dry, and his limbs were stiff as if he had been lying on a stone for hours. A sudden wave of dizziness hit him, and he took a deep breath to steady himself. His eyes fixed on the canvas floor, and he stared at it momentarily, waiting for the room to stop spinning.
As the spinning sensation receded, the sounds of the camp returned, a symphony of voices and footsteps that ground him in the present. The world seemed to fall into place, the chaos of dreams receding and the sounds of reality returning. Now clear and alert, his mind processed the voices and footsteps around him, trying to make sense of the clamour.
"Chris, you're finally awake. We need your help." Chris looked up to see a soldier standing before him, a young man in his early twenties with short, dark hair and a concerned expression on his face.
"What's going on? How long was I asleep?" Chris asked, his voice raspy with sleep. He tried to rise, but his muscles screamed in protest, and he collapsed back onto his makeshift bed.
"You were asleep for about twenty minutes. I'm sorry; I know you were tired, but we need your help."
"What happened? What's going on?" Chris's thoughts raced as he tried to piece together the events.
"We don't know what's happening out there," he began, his voice trembling with fear and confusion. "People are dying, and it's like nothing we've ever seen. Swords are appearing out of thin air, and then they flash blue. It's terrifying. The moment they flash, they release some unique attack that kills anyone stabbed by one."
He paused, his eyes wide with horror as he recalled the scene. "The people in this tent... they were outside when it happened. They were attacked by a whirlwind summoned from one of those swords. It was like a nightmare. The whirlwind sucked up most of the soldiers who were behind us. We barely made it into this tent in time."
His voice cracked, and he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "There are still soldiers out there, fighting for their lives, getting killed by these swords. It's chaos. Pure chaos. And we have no idea how to stop it." His eyes filled with a mix of helplessness and determination, reflecting their dire situation.
"What about Jabari?" Chris asked, his voice shaking with concern.
"Jabari is up there," he replied, pointing towards the top of the hill.
"What? What's he doing up there?" Chris demanded, his eyes wide with confusion.
"I don't know," he said, his voice trailing.
"Why is he up there? Did something happen to him?" asked Chris.
"I don't know. He has been up there this whole time, even before the sword started killing people," the soldier replied
"What? What sword? Where did they come from?" Chris asked
"None of us knows, Chris", the soldier explained, his voice trembling with fear. "It just appeared out of nowhere, raining down on everyone below it."
"if I remember correctly, Jolvuthiz was outside before I slept. Hasn't he helped at all?" Chris asked confused
"No, Jolvuthiz has just been staring at the sky, excited about something. I'm not sure what's gotten into him."
"what the hell is Jolvuthiz thinking?" Chris asked, his mind racing.
"I'm not sure, but you should check it out. He knows something. Maybe he can explain what's happening."
"yeah, you're right. I better check it out," Chris replied as he rose.
"What should I do?" asked the soldier
"Just stay here and stay safe. Okay, I'll figure out what's happening and get back to you."
"Okay, thanks, Chris," the soldier replied.
As Chris rose from his bed, he felt the rush of blood in his ears, a sudden surge of adrenaline filling him with a sense of purpose. Then, after checking himself for any last-minute items he needed, he left the tent to become frozen in place.
Chris's eyes widened as he took in the utter devastation surrounding him. The battlefield was strewn with the bodies of fallen soldiers, their forms twisted and broken, painting a grim picture of the violence that had erupted. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, and the incessant clanging of swords filled his ears, each strike resonating like a death knell. Confusion clouded his mind, mingling with growing frustration as he tried to make sense of the nightmare that had swallowed him whole.
Amid the chaos, Chris's gaze locked onto a figure standing ten meters away. It was Jabari, seemingly untouched by the surrounding carnage, his posture calm and composed. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Chris began to move toward him, his steps heavy and deliberate, each echoing with the weight of the tragedy unfolding around him. The swords, wielded by unseen hands, fell relentlessly, their shadows casting eerie patterns on the blood-soaked ground. As Chris approached, the world around him blurred into a haze of chaos and destruction, with only the figure of Jabari remaining clear and in focus, a lone beacon amid the storm.
On the crest of the hill, on the far right, stood a figure towering at six feet. His form was a bizarre amalgamation: one side was cloaked in a swirling, dark energy that seemed as natural as flesh, while the other remained human, albeit firmly built. His gaze was fixed toward the heavens, a cynical smile on his lips, his wide eyes drinking in the spectacle above. Around his waist, a sword lay sheathed, adding to the enigmatic aura surrounding him.
In a voice that carried both amusement and a hint of disdain, Jolvuthiz spoke, his words cutting through the chaos below. "Ignorance is truly a blessing," he mused aloud, watching the frantic scene unfolding around him. "They scurry in confusion, unaware of the source of these swords raining down upon them." A low chuckle escaped him, filled with amusement and a touch of superiority. "If only they bothered to look up," he continued, his tone mocking yet tinged with a strange wisdom. "Then they might understand the true nature of this chaos."