A cold wind blew across the valley like the breath of an ancient ice giant.

Snow fell heavily on the ground, attempting to conceal the crimson snow that blanketed the ground.

The ominous presence of the otherworldly Tear prevailed all over the valley and its eerie gravity distorted everything in its proximity.

The swirling darkness and dark purple energy in the Tear's maw rippled as it gazed like a colossal eye at the carnage before it.

The imposing mountains that enclosed the valley echoed with a cacophony of unsettling sounds

The clang of metals as weapons clashed, the roar of flames, the crackling of lightning, the rumbling of the earth and shattering rocks, and the flowing of water.

But interwoven with these bustle of strands are far more sinister sounds.

The cracking and breaking of bones, the tearing of flesh from the body, the splatter of blood as it watered the ground and further enhanced the crimson of the snow.

And then there are the screams.

Screams of agony and horror.

Screams of despair at the loss of precious bonds shattered by gruesome deaths.

Unholy screams of undead abominations as they rampaged against the living.

And finally, the screams of defiance and bravery that united individuals against a single enemy.

All of these sounds together formed a horrifying and morbid orchestra as Deathwalkers and clashed violently in a vicious battle.

A battle for their lives against the daemons, a vast wave of death and devastation enshrouded in a haunting silence.

Explosions of darkness ripped through the heavy snowfall as daemons fell to the savage and desperate blades of many Deathwalkers.

Crimson pillars of smoke wailed and flew in circles as wraiths tried to find their victims only to dissipate when no one dared to approach them.

Numerous blue bonfires raged on the crimson ground as those unfortunate enough to be turned into wraiths were burned alive by their grieving comrades.

Severed limbs flew in the air and littered the battlefield. Heads rolled and bodies fell as the daemons killed Deathwalkers with gruesome precision.

A truly horrifying spectacle that is nothing short of a living nightmare.

Amidst this macabre display of death and more death, a young man cowered behind a blood-soaked boulder attempting to drown out the agonizing screams echoing in his ears and calm his trembling body.

About sixteen years old with messy hair, fear reflected in trembling eyes. His new Deathwalker uniform was splattered with blood.

The blood of the others with him just moments before the daemons descended on their Unit.

"Oh Incarni," he whimpered as he clamped his hands over his ears, a desperate and futile attempt to drown the screams.

'This can't be happening. This is not what I imagined to be," he thought.

He was a swordsman from a powerful family. He became a Deathwalker willingly to prove himself to be seen as an heir more worthy than his older sister.

He thought that the daemons were like any other ardor beings.

Heck, he even saw them as an abnormal type of ardimals.

Like actual demons from the stories.

He never expected them to be so...nightmarish.

The Newbie Unit he was a part of was thrown into disarray in mere minutes. The entire Unit was scattered despite the Captain's best efforts.

Many were dead, either brutally killed by the daemons or burned alive by the Deathwalkers when they turned into wraiths.

The only reason he survived this far was due to the combat skills and discipline he learned from the knights of his family.

But even those felt meaningless when faced with the sheer power of the daemons.

Indeed the weakest one is D-ranked but each hit from one of them contains the full power associated with that rank.

And there was no discipline or formation with the Deathwalkers. The daemons would decimate whatever military formations that could be put together.

And so the Deathwalkers fought like animals, putting down one daemon after another. If they lose their arms, they will use their teeth to fight.

The young newbie found himself ill-prepared for the horrors that unfolded, a battle that resembled hell itself.

He felt a thud before him and his eyes lowered to a truly blood-chilling sight.

A Deathwalker in his twenties stared up at the young man, the lower part of his torso cleanly sliced away and blood flowed from the gaping hole.

Before he could utter a sound, blood gurgled out his mouth, and the light faded from his eyes.

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

As the young man stared at the dead man in shock, a shadow loomed over him.

"Shit!" he swore and jumped away as the boulder got pulverized into smaller rocks a second later.

He quickly readied his sword and channeled ardor into his body. He even activated his strand to face the malevolent force before him.

The wind whistled around him as he activated Aeris and his eyes glowed, both with power and a determination to destroy the daemon facing him.

Only for it to fizzle out when he laid eyes on his adversary.

The imposing daemon loomed over him at a towering fourteen feet in height and in its hands, it held a giant war axe with a blade of his size.

The young man's body began to tremble under the aura released by the faceless being staring right at him.

"Ah...ah," his voice quivered. The many ardimals he faced before are nothing compared to this thing.

The daemon tilted its head and raised its axe, ready to strike down on the young man. He couldn't move a single muscle as the deadly edge of the giant war axe filled his vision.

"Hiek!" He closed his eyes and waited for his inevitable bloody end.

But it didn't happen.

"Seriously. What is it with you guys tilting your heads at us? Are you that curious about humans or how they look after shoving an axe into their brains?"

A young male voice filled with confidence and power drawled before him.

He opened his eyes and was immediately blinded.

So white!

The figure standing between him and the daemon's axe was clad in pure white clothes that blended with the heavy snowfall.

It is as if he is looking at a ghost!

He blinked again and realized it was a young man of his age.

"You alright?" the young man clad in white glanced back and asked.

The newbie was astounded by the beauty of his savior.

Bright crimson eyes that glittered like rubies and messy hair the color of pure snow that perfectly blended with his beautiful face which gave off a slight feminine allure.

His Deathwalker uniform was completely white with red accents. He wore a turtleneck instead of a t-shirt and his boots were white with red accents like the rest of his attire.

This variation of the uniform fit snugly on his slim frame which looked rugged and delicate at the same time.

Truly a beauty among men.

But the biggest surprise was yet to come.

The newbie's eyes wandered upward and they widened in shock.

The massive war axe of the daemon, stained by the blood of numerous Deathwalkers was completely held back by the hand of the crimson-eyed boy.

A single drop of blood flowed out of his palm but instead of staining the pristine white sleeve of his half jacket, it kept on flowing down his arm.

"One moment please," he said with an enchanting smile.

The blood flowing on his arm halted and floated off his sleeve.

It suddenly expanded and swirled rapidly to form a lance. In the blink of an eye, it shot forward and ripped a hole through the chest of the daemon.

The blow was so powerful that it launched the now donut daemon into the air where it exploded into a ball of darkness.

A wailing trail of crimson smoke erupted out of the darkness and went straight for the boy.

The newbie shouted. "Watch out!"

His savior will become a wraith!

But what happened next would shock him to the core.

The crimson smoke touched the body of the crimson-eyed young man and immediately exploded into a cloud of red powder with a wail of despair.

"Ugh. I hate it when they do that!" the crimson-eyed young man exclaimed angrily and brushed off the powder from his jacket and turtleneck.

The newbie gaped at him in absolute shock.

Not only did this guy stop an attack from a daemon but he effortlessly destroyed it. He even stopped the wraith that tried to possess him.

And to think, they were of the same age.

"Is this what you call a genius?" the newbie wondered aloud.

"What?" the young man queried, his crimson eyes gleaming like rubies, while blood swirled in a loop above his back.

Eyes that glittered like rubies and a Haema user.

The newbie had heard of this person.

The one who attacked the heirs of three Axial Duchies during a royal party and subsequently dispatched to the north as punishment.

The one mocked in noble circles and infamously called the Failed Prince.

"No way," the newbie breathed. "Mordred Pendragon? You're alive?"

Mordred frowned. "What kind of a question is that? Of course, I am alive! Oh, and you're welcome."

"Ah! I'm sorry! Thank you for saving me, Your Highness!" the newbie exclaimed and bowed his head.

The young Pendragon narrowed his eyes and the newbie felt like his entire being was being scrutinized.

He felt like his soul lay exposed before those crimson eyes and a powerful presence enveloped him.

He instinctively knew it. There is no longer the Failed Prince.

The feeble prince had been devoured by the formidable force standing before him, the serpent that was Mordred Pendragon.

"You're a noble. Aren't you?" The High Prince's voice, smooth as honey yet underlaid with regal power, resonated, causing an involuntary flinch from the newbie.

Those crimson eyes continued to hold him in an unyielding grip, and it made him shudder.

'So this is a High Prince,' he thought and nodded. "Yes, your Highness. I am Timothy Vale hailing from the Baskerville Duchy!"

"Baskerville huh? Interesting."

Mordred nodded. "Pleasure to meet you, Tim. Rule number one of fighting in Blood Valley. Do not let your guard down."

Timothy tilted his head and asked. "What do you mean, Your Highness?"

The young Pendragon sighed. "Behind you."

Suddenly alarmed, the young man turned around to see a seven-foot-tall daemon looking down at him.

"Oh," was the only thing that came out of his mouth before he was cleaved in half by the daemon's sword.

Mordred sighed as the daemon stepped over the bloody halves of Timothy Vale and turned its head toward him.

Two other daemons appeared on both sides of him, each standing at twelve feet tall, wielding a halberd and a greatsword.

Both of them immediately swung their weapons at the young Deathwalker, aiming to kill him.

But the weapons were abruptly halted by six long tentacles of blood with barbed tips.

"I was starting to like that guy. Why did you have to kill him?" Mordred grumbled and looked from one daemon to another.

"Two C-ranks and one beginner A-rank. This will be a bit tricky," he noted.

Mordred's lips curled into a maniacal grin and his crimson eyes glowed.

"You guys are so fucking dead."