The night was supposed to be quiet. It was just another evening on watch, another night listening to the wind howl through the city streets before going to sleep in the morning. Tavor had already forgotten how the sun felt, being stuck on night duty and feeling frustrated. There was no way the rebels would attack here… not without first meeting their forces somewhere else. If the city was under siege, it would be already a sign that they were unstoppable enough to get this far. So, it should have been another pointless night, making him stand in his watchtower, bored and unproductive.
“Hm? Wind?” He shivered as his ears suddenly picked up a low, whistling sound. Maybe it was the wind picking up again?
Instead, the world had turned into a nightmare the next moment.
Before he registered what was happening, his ears were filled with screams. Some came from pain, others from sheer, unfiltered terror. The monsters had come first, dropping from the sky like wrathful gods, their impacts shattering the cobblestone roads and reducing homes and fortifications to dust… Including Tavor and his wooden tower, squashed under the heavy feet of the Rook.
Tomas, another regular soldier, clutched his spear, his hands shaking so violently he thought he might drop it. All around him, his unit and its officers were lost in the chaos, breaking their ranks, stumbling over torn-apart bodies, over the burning wreckage, over their own dead comrades. Somewhere, a horn was being blown desperately—an attempt to rally the army outside of the city. It was drowned out by the screech of metal as one of the mechs swiveled its titanic form toward him, and he could only see glowing, crimson eyes staring at him, wanting to devour his soul.
“Run! RUN!” someone shouted, but it was already too late.
A giant metal arm swung forward, holding a sword as big as a house, smashing through their barricade. The force alone sent men flying, crashing into walls, and breaking bones on impact, tearing off limbs and heads of the unfortunate bastards. Tomas barely had time to move before a wave of debris knocked him off his feet. He hit the ground hard, gasping for breath, stuck under stone and gravel. Looking up to the black sky, he could see the end of the world…
And the falling black rain… no… It wasn't rain. They were miniature reapers.
Figures in black armor, their eyes glowing the same, like dying embers, descended from the sky. Despite their bulky forms, they landed lightly on their feet, stopping their fall at the last minute. Half-buried, Tomas watched as their weapons hummed in crackling energy, sending streaks of ice and fire into the chaos, reaping souls as if they were on a grand harvest. Then, one of the massive demons walked past him, breaking through a house, making enough rumble with its heavy feet that he could break himself free and roll out of the way before being crushed.
He crawled backward, dragging himself behind an overturned cart, his breath ragged, his face wet from tears. His spear? Useless. Lost. His training? Forgotten. His will to fight? Shattered. He just wanted to crawl into a hole and wait for it all to end.
This wasn’t a battle. This wasn’t a war. This was an execution, and he didn’t want to die.
Closing his eyes, holding his head between his knees, he no longer looked at the bodies littering the ground as the black-armored warriors advanced through the city streets, methodically catching and killing anyone who held a weapon. Tomas only dared to glance over the cart once when he heard the voice of a man he knew: Sergeant Dren. He was a veteran who had served for over a decade within the Ishillian forces. A survivor of a dozen campaigns to put down rebels and bandits.
His sergeant stood his ground, proud as always, his sword raised, shouting at the advancing specters to face him. He didn't even get to finish his war cry before one of the black-clad figures was upon him, slicing through his armor like it was made of parchment. Blood sprayed into the air, his innards spilling onto the ground with a loud, sloshing sound, and his sergeant crumpled to the ground, motionless. His face still had its enraged expression, shouting his final defiance before his painless, quick death.
Tomas shut his eyes once again, pressing himself against the broken wood of the cart, willing himself to disappear. He heard boots marching past him and felt the heavy presence of their enemy. He held his breath and prayed to all of the gods for a blessing that he would survive the night. Then… he felt something stopping right before him. Squinting, crying as he looked up, he saw a skull-faced nightmare look down at him, his axe shimmering in a cold, icy glow. He expected the beast to kill him… but he only glanced at him one more time before moving on, leaving the unarmed Tomas behind, finding no honor in killing someone who was already broken.
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Veron’s hands were steady as he gripped the controls of his mech. He had trained for this and had dreamed of this moment since pushing through the grueling training to become a Knight of Avalon. And now, finally, he was proving himself, piloting his own machine, the Valiant, taking part in the glory of Avalon.
“Strike team, advance,” came Merlin's voice over the comms. “The core of the spell holding the North back is in this city. I can’t pinpoint it yet, but destroy everything, and it will fail. Show no mercy.”
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“No mercy,” Veron echoed. His heart was pounding with excitement and fervor. He would carry out his mission to the letter, and if they had to destroy everything, he would do so.
With a swift movement, he activated his shoulder-mounted flamethrowers, sending fire over the destroyed barricades, lighting up the night with the color of orange, and dosing Ishillian forces, purifying them of their sins. Below him, enemy soldiers melted away like snow in the spring. Then, with a swivel of his torso, he swung his sword held in its right hand, smashing a group of buildings apart and the people hiding within, along with a blast of energy released, traveling further back. As it tore through it all, the shockwave alone disintegrated a group of archers before they could even raise their bows.
“New guy, on me!” came Yuri’s voice all of a sudden. “Let’s clean up the eastern sector, cover my ass!”
“Yes, ma’am!” Veron responded, pushing his mech forward, answering the call of his Third Empress. His machine moved like an extension of his own body, just as the training said it would, each step filling him with the true power of Avalon. It was exhilarating.
A squad of enemy soldiers had taken position behind a fortified tower, one that the Princess passed by as her target was the encampment behind it. Veron simply smirked, knowing his role in this maneuver. He raised his mech’s right arm, swinging its blade once again. With a single swipe, the top half of the tower was smushed into dust, the screams of those inside snuffed out by the roaring wind following it.
No one could stand against Avalon. No one could stand against his Sovereign’s power and his Knights.
Yet, before his feelings got the better of him, he remembered his training, shaking his head, refocusing amidst the carnage. He was a Knight. He had to control his feelings and thoughts. The honor of being a pilot of a mech meant greater responsibility, and he would prove he was worthy of that title and not just a killer. He took a deep breath, calming his racing heart, and watched as the Princess ripped apart the encampment.
“We will circle around the main castle!” Yuri spoke, guiding Veron. “We will meet with the Lion and the Rook after we do our sweep and assault the castle!”
“Understood!” He answered, following her once again, trampling over burning wreckages, illuminating the machines that would be the nightmare of many Ishillians for centuries to come.
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Major Pion stood atop a rooftop, his arms crossed as he surveyed the battle below. For now, everything was going along as planned. Their mechs had crushed the front lines with ease. Then, the arriving ground forces had dropped as a second encirclement and were now dismantling the city piece by piece, going house by house, street by street. The enemy was broken and scattered; this battle was won the moment it began.
“Those who surrender, for now, leave them be or herd them out of the city. If any resistance is shown, cut them down.”
A chorus of confirmations crackled through his helmet from the captains of different squads assaulting the city. At the same time, he watched as his soldiers moved as if they knew the city’s layout, cutting off escape routes and driving the remaining defenders into tighter spaces, killing those who kept holding onto their weapons. Seeing it go on without a hitch, he shifted his gaze toward the central fortress, where their most dangerous enemy was held up. Barth… He wanted to face a mage of Ishillia. He wanted to kill him… The fact that there was no magic in the air, a retaliation of spells, something they expected… It told him that the fame of Ishillian Mages was nothing. He was a coward and was likely still inside, frozen in fear.
“Team, follow me!” Pion turned toward his own squad. “Squad two and three, join me at the designated coordinate. We’re breaching the castle!”
Within moments, the sky lit up with fire. The first barrage from the Rook, as if it heard Pion’s orders, struck the outer defenses of the main castle, sending the walls and its towers crumbling to the ground. The second wave blasted through the gates itself. The surrounding stone defenses buckled, cracked, and collapsed, opening the way for them.
“Move in!”
His soldiers surged forward without hesitation, Pion leading them from the vanguard position. He wanted to be the first inside to present the head of Barth to his Sovereign.
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Barth stood in the wreckage of his castle, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. Everything around him was destroyed. There was nothing he could do. He needed time to cast any high-level spell, something he did not have. Not to mention the calmness he needed for it nor the resources to do it right now. It was impossible with the chaos around the city. He didn’t understand how they came over, not until he saw the massive airship descending from above, firing its cannons, bombarding the forces camping outside of the city.
It was a monstrous leviathan, something that dwarfed even the Judgement that was stolen by the rebel Empress. Even if he didn’t want to acknowledge it, the only reason they surprised him was because they crossed over his prison wall. That magic was tied to him through an Expert-level formation. It was his extension, part of him. The moment something passed over it, he could identify where and how many, and if they were magical, he could deactivate them with a thought. It should have been complete… it should have been impenetrable. Yet… they simply flew over it.
“Pathetic…” He laughed, standing motionless right in the middle of an invisible formation, the core of the northern prison, as he called it.
He didn’t even react when multiple figures entered the courtyard he was in. No matter who came… he had already accepted defeat.
“You… You think you’ve won?” He finally asked when the steps were so close that he could feel their weight in his chest. Yet, he kept looking upward, watching the Camelot.
There was no response. Only silence. Then, a blade was drawn.
And Barth knew.
It was over.
But what he didn’t know was that a final surprise would cement the shocked expression on his face before his death. He wanted to use the last method his Master taught him. He tried to bring down the whole city with himself… But the moment his magic moved, it suddenly stopped in his veins and dispersed by an intrusive command.
This time, he finally turned towards the intruders, their black figures with skulls for heads and glowing red eyes. There was no explanation why his magic didn’t work. What he only saw was a flash of a sword coated in flames… and then he watched his own body, standing there, headless, while the room was spinning around him.