In the grand halls of the royal palace, the atmosphere was thick with tension as King David VII and his generals received the harrowing news of the destruction of Palin. Faces that once held confidence now betrayed signs of shock and fear, as the weight of the dire situation settled upon them.
King David, usually a symbol of authority and composure, was visibly shaken. His eyes widened in disbelief, and his hands trembled as he clutched the arms of his throne. His pale face tells everything he feels. The generals, standing in a somber formation, exchanged glances filled with concern and uncertainty.
One of the generals, a seasoned strategist named Sir Reginald, stepped forward to deliver the grim report. His voice, usually steady, wavered as he spoke, "Your Majesty, we regret to inform you that the city of Palin has been utterly decimated. Zeral, as he calls himself, led a devastating onslaught that left no stone standing, only few soldiers managed to escape."
The king's eyes narrowed, a mix of anger and fear flickering within. "How is this possible? Palin was one of our strongest bastions! What manner of force could obliterate it so swiftly?"
Sir Reginald, choosing his words carefully, continued, "The monsters accompanying him seemed powerful, but the truth is even more harrowing. Zeral, with unreal power, single-handedly brought about the collapse of the entire city. The very foundations crumbled under his onslaught. Many have perished, and the survivors report a force that surpasses anything we've witnessed before."
The king, struggling to maintain his composure, turned to his other generals. "What do we know of this Zeral? How did he become such a threat? And what is his goal?"
General Erik, a seasoned military leader with a reputation for resilience, spoke next. "Your Majesty, it seems Zeral is not the same man we once knew as Adomas If your conclusion regarding the identity of this mysterious silver-skinned man was correct. He has transformed into a formidable adversary, and his motives are unclear. His actions suggest a desire for revenge and a willingness to annihilate everything in his path."
The king, his fingers clenching the arms of his throne with a force that betrayed his inner turmoil, muttered, "Revenge? Against us? What have we done to incur such wrath?" The weight of impending doom bore down on him, casting a shadow of deep despair across his countenance.
As the generals exchanged uneasy glances, Sir Reginald added, "We suspect that the destruction of Batrak years ago may have triggered this vendetta. Zeralizion's actions are fueled by an intense rage, and he seems determined to bring about the end of humanity."
One seasoned general, fueled by a sense of urgency and a determination to defend the realm, stepped forward with a bold suggestion.
"My liege, we cannot cower within the walls of the capital. We must gather our entire army outside and face this threat head-on. If this silver-skinned menace is as powerful as they say, we need to marshal all our forces and employ every resource at our disposal."
The king, contemplating the dire situation, nodded in agreement. "Very well. Prepare the army. We shall make our stand outside the capital. And I hope everyone in north is retreated to here by now."
As the generals hurriedly organized their forces, the same experienced strategist proposed another desperate measure.
"Your Majesty, we possess the ancient weapon, the Hellfire, crafted by the druids during the old Hundred Years War against us. It is a fire that surpasses all others—a relentless blaze that can burn for an eternity. But now we use it to defend ourselves against the monsters, and it proved devastating. Now, it is our best weapon against this silver-skinned threat. It burns the monsters, consumes them, and water cannot extinguish its infernal flames. It is the fire from hell itself."
The king, though burdened with the weight of his kingdom's impending doom, saw a glimmer of hope in this desperate measure. "Prepare the Hellfire. If this Zeral truly brings hell upon us, we shall answer with our own inferno."
Despite the mounting fear and opposition from his generals, King David, his eyes reflecting a mix of determination and despair, stood his ground. "If our armies, our defenses, and even the Hellfire cannot stand against this monstrous threat, then I shall face him myself. It is my duty as king to protect our people."
The generals, alarmed and anxious, tried to dissuade the king from such a perilous course. "Your Majesty, this is too dangerous. We cannot let you go alone. We must find another way, a safer approach."
However, the king's resolve remained unyielding. "No, my decision is final. I will go and talk to this Zeral. Perhaps reason can prevail where force cannot. I understand the risks, but as your king, I must face this threat head-on. That is an order."
The generals, though uneasy with the king's decision, bowed in acknowledgment, knowing that their duty was to follow his commands, even if it meant confronting an unimaginable peril.
As Zeral marched southward, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake, the once-thriving cities of the north now lay in ruins. The streets, once bustling with life, were eerily silent, except for the chilling echoes of Zeral's footsteps on the desolate cobblestone roads. His silver skin shimmered in the moonlight, a ghastly reflection of the merciless fate he brought upon these lands.
In each city he entered, the scenario repeated itself – panic and chaos ensued as terrified citizens, realizing the impending doom, desperately fled for their lives. Zeral, however, showed no mercy. His cold, unfeeling eyes scanned the streets as he unleashed his lethal power upon anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path.
Houses were reduced to rubble, their roofs collapsing under the force of Zeral's devastating attacks. Flames consumed everything in their path, transforming once-vibrant neighborhoods into apocalyptic landscapes. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burning wood, mingled with the scent of charred flesh.
Zeral moved with ruthless efficiency, striking down any human who failed to escape in time. His blade danced through the air like a deadly symphony, leaving a trail of blood and despair. The few who managed to flee watched in horror from a distance, their homes now mere smoldering remnants of the lives they once knew.
As Zeral pressed forward, the north was plunged into a state of disarray. Refugees, carrying whatever belongings they could salvage, sought safety in the southern regions, spreading tales of the unstoppable force laying waste to their homes. The once-proud cities of the north now stood as grim testaments to the merciless wrath of Zeral, the harbinger of destruction.
As Zeral continued his relentless march southward, the monsters who followed in his wake took on a sinister role. In each devastated city, they scoured the ruins, seeking survivors among the rubble. Their ominous presence struck terror into the hearts of those who thought they had escaped Zeral's fury.
The monsters moved with precise coordination, rounding up the remaining humans like cattle. The wails of the captured heard through the desolate streets as they were herded towards a predetermined location. These unfortunate souls were now pawns in Hirvan's grand design, unwittingly playing a part in the monstrous plan unfolding.
As the monsters collected the survivors, they kept a watchful eye on Zeral's destructive path. The scenes of destruction and death only fueled the survivors' desperation. Their captors showed no sympathy, pushing them forward with harsh gestures and guttural growls.
The monsters, with a mix of excitement and dread, transported the prisoners to the cavernous depths where Hirvan awaited. The cave, now a hub of monstrous activity, had become the epicenter of a dark ritual that promised transformation and power.
In the heart of this cavern, Hirvan, draped in shadows, eagerly awaited the arrival of the survivors. His eyes glowed with an unholy fervor as the first batch of captives was brought before him. The air inside the cave thickened with an grim energy, signaling the beginning of Hirvan's malevolent plan to reshape the world in his image.
As Zeral left each city in ruins, the monsters worked diligently to ensure that the remnants of humanity were delivered to their lord. Hirvan's vision for a new world, dominated by holy beings and devoid of human influence, began to take shape – one captured survivor at a time.
The once proud and bustling city of Anotrya now stood shrouded in an air of impending doom. The remaining soldiers, hardened by countless battles against monsters, gathered before the formidable walls of the capital. They took their positions, their armor glinting in the dim light as they readied themselves for the approaching storm.
The atmosphere within the city was tense, and fear clung to the air like a suffocating fog. The citizens who had not fled were barricaded in their homes, whispering prayers and clutching loved ones close. The soldiers, usually a symbol of protection and order, now harbored a palpable sense of trepidation.
A hushed murmur swept through the ranks as the soldiers caught sight of a lone figure approaching in the distance. It was Zeral, the silver-skinned beast and god of destruction, walking steadily toward the capital. The soldiers exchanged nervous glances, their hands gripping weapons with a mix of determination and fear.
The commanding officers barked orders, trying to bolster the soldiers' resolve. Torches flickered, casting long shadows on the stone walls, creating an peculiar backdrop to the unfolding drama. The soldiers shifted uncomfortably, casting wary glances at one another, silently questioning their ability to stand against the approaching menace.
As Zeral drew nearer, the soldiers could see the malevolent gleam in his eyes, the silver skin reflecting the ambient light like a specter of death. The anticipation among the soldiers escalated, and a collective shiver ran down their spines. The courage that had fueled them in battles against monsters wavered in the face of this unparalleled threat.
Despite their disciplined training, an unsettling fear took hold, making the soldiers question their readiness to confront the embodiment of destruction. Zeral's fierce presence seemed to mock their efforts, and uncertainty gripped the once-stalwart defenders of Anotrya.
The stage was set for a showdown between the remnants of humanity and the relentless force that was Zeral. The fate of Anotrya hung in the balance as the soldiers steeled themselves for the inevitable clash that would determine the city's destiny.
The initial wave of soldiers charged towards Zeral with a cacophony of hooves pounding the ground. Horses snorted and whinnied, their riders brandishing weapons with cold determination. The air crackled with tension as the first line of Anotryan soldiers closed in on the silver-skinned menace.
Zeral, however, remained an unyielding figure in the face of their assault. The soldiers on horseback rode toward him with a synchronized rush, their weapons raised high. The first strike came as a barrage of blows, swords and spears aimed at Zeral's imposing figure. Metal clanged against his silver skin, creating a symphony of clashes.
But Zeral pressed forward, his gait unwavering, as if the blows had little impact. The soldiers, their faces etched with disbelief, continued their relentless assault, each strike fueled by desperation. It was as though they were attacking an impervious force, their efforts futile against the enigmatic foe.
With a sudden, almost casual movement, Zeral retaliated. His bare hands moved like a blur, grabbing horses by their manes and soldiers by their armor. The ground shook beneath the chaos, and the once-coordinated attack dissolved into a chaotic struggle for survival.
Zeral's silver hands, an extension of his unstoppable force, rendered armor useless as he crushed soldiers with ease. The horses, once powerful and majestic, fell to the ground under his relentless grip. His sword danced through the air, thrown with deadly accuracy, finding its mark in the hearts of those unfortunate enough to be in its path.
It was a macabre ballet, Zeral effortlessly dispatching his foes with a chilling efficiency. The soldiers, caught in a vortex of terror, could only watch in horror as their comrades fell to the implacable wrath of the silver-skinned specter. The once-pristine battlefield was now stained with blood, a testament to the futility of their attempts to halt Zeral's advance.
As Zeral continued his relentless march, the surviving soldiers recoiled in terror, realizing they faced an adversary beyond the scope of their understanding. The chilling echo of their failed assault lingered in the air, a haunting prelude to the grim fate that awaited Anotrya.
The realization of their helplessness spurred the generals to a desperate decision. Amidst the chaos, orders bellowed from the higher echelons of the army, the generals screaming in unison for the deployment of their ultimate weapon—the hellfire. Panicked archers swiftly moved, receiving potions from their commanders containing the mysterious hellfire elements created by druids.
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In a frenzied ballet, the archers dipped their arrows into the potion, the strangely concoction transforming them into deadly instruments of destruction. Each arrow held the essence of hellfire, a force feared even by monsters. The archers, guided by the desperate commands of their superiors, aimed their fiery arsenal at their upcoming nemesis.
As Zeral continued his relentless advance, the sky above him darkened with the impending onslaught. Thousands of arrows, ablaze with the otherworldly hellfire, blotted out the sun. The air crackled with energy as the archers unleashed this lethal storm of fire upon the indomitable figure below.
The hellfire arrows fell like fiery comets, leaving trails of incandescent sparks in their wake. The descent was both beautiful and terrifying, an infernal ballet of doom heralding the potential end of an era. The roars of the flames echoed in the air, a symphony of destruction conducted by the unseen hands of desperation.
Zeral, standing amidst the encroaching chaos, looked up at the descending hellfire storm. His silver eyes reflected the ominous glow, the twisted smile on his lips revealing a peculiar acceptance of the impending onslaught. The hellfire, with a voracious hunger, sought to consume everything in its path—a torrent of ethereal flames born from ancient animosities.
The descent of the hellfire arrows resembled a thunderstorm of fire, a malevolent force determined to consume everything in its path. The very atmosphere quivered with the devilish glow of impending doom. Zeral, sensing the infernal tempest descending upon him, came to a halt, gazing skyward with a peculiar mix of anticipation and resignation.
As the fiery arrows closed in, the air seemed to vibrate with the unholy fervor of their approach. The radiant glow intensified, casting an insanely radiant upon Zeral's stoic form. It was a surreal spectacle, a dance of fire and shadow, as the arrows homed in on their target—a silver beast figure standing at the heart of the inferno, awaiting the embrace of the hellfire storm.
His silver eyes observed as the arrows rained down, leaving trails of fire in their wake. The fog of war ignited above him, turning the heavens into an hell. As the first arrows neared, Zeral threw his sword aside, arms outstretched, and closed his eyes, as if welcoming the fiery embrace of the hellfire.
"I beg you to burn me and end this," he uttered, a twisted smile playing on his lips. The once-failed hellfire, now unleashed in a torrential downpour, was an instrument of both destruction and a perverse salvation, seeking to fulfill Zeral's desperate plea for an end to his torment. The scene unfolded like a surreal dance of death, a terrifying beauty in the face of annihilation.
The hellfire, upon impact, wrought a nightmarish spectacle upon the battlefield. The moment the arrows met the ground, an explosive conflagration erupted, birthing a firestorm that seemed to devour everything in its path. The flames roared with an insatiable hunger, dancing upon the corpses of fallen soldiers and transforming the once serene landscape into a canvas of infernal chaos.
The bodies of the fallen soldiers became macabre effigies, ensnared in the clutches of the hellfire. The flames licked at their lifeless forms, morphing them into grotesque shapes as charred remains began to crumble under the relentless heat. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burning flesh, a vile perfume of agony that pervaded the battlefield.
The ground itself seemed to quake under the intensity of the firestorm, creating an otherworldly display of desolation. The hellfire raged like an elemental force from the abyss, leaving naught but scorched earth and spectral tendrils of smoke in its wake.
Soldiers, witnessing this infernal spectacle, stood frozen in a twisted anticipation. Their eyes reflected both horror and hope, an unsettling mix of dread and longing. The firestorm, a manifestation of their desperation, painted an agonizing tapestry of suffering that transcended the boundaries of mortal comprehension.
Yet, amidst the searing chaos, Zeral stood untouched, the flames avoiding his form like a malevolent force recognizing a kindred spirit. The soldiers' anticipation lingered in the air—a collective yearning for the embodiment of their fears to succumb to the merciless flames. Little did they know that, within this crucible of hellfire, the true nature of Zeral's resilience would be revealed.
The hellfire, upon impact, wrought a nightmarish spectacle upon the battlefield. The moment the arrows met the ground, an explosive conflagration erupted, birthing a firestorm that seemed to devour everything in its path. The flames roared with an insatiable hunger, dancing upon the corpses of fallen soldiers and transforming the once serene landscape into a canvas of infernal chaos.
The bodies of the fallen soldiers became horrifying effigies, ensnared in the clutches of the hellfire. The flames licked at their lifeless forms, morphing them into grotesque shapes as charred remains began to crumble under the relentless heat. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burning flesh, a vile perfume of agony that pervaded the battlefield.
The ground itself seemed to quake under the intensity of the firestorm, creating an otherworldly display of desolation. The hellfire raged like an elemental force from the abyss, leaving naught but scorched earth and spectral tendrils of smoke in its wake.
Soldiers, witnessing this hellish spectacle, stood frozen in a twisted anticipation. Their eyes reflected both horror and hope, an unsettling mix of dread and longing. The firestorm, a manifestation of their desperation, painted an agonizing tapestry of suffering that transcended the boundaries of mortal comprehension.
Yet, amidst the searing chaos, Zeral stood untouched, the flames avoiding his form like a malevolent force recognizing a kindred spirit. The soldiers' anticipation lingered in the air—a collective yearning for the embodiment of their fears to succumb to the merciless flames. Little did they know that, within this crucible of hellfire, the true nature of Zeral's resilience would be revealed.
As the hellfire began to wane, a hushed relief swept across the ranks of the Antoryan soldiers thinking Zeral is killed there. After few moments their faces contorted by fear now twisted into expressions of disbelief and awe, thinking they had witnessed the end of the silver-skinned menace. Yet, that fleeting sense of relief soon transmuted into pure terror as an unfathomable sight unfolded before their eyes.
From the dissipating flames, emerging like a harbinger of nightmares, was Zeral. A silhouette blackened by the pure fire, a specter walking unhindered through the remnants of the hellfire. The soldiers stood frozen, eyes widened in sheer horror, witnessing an entity that defied the laws of their understanding.
As Zeral emerged from the dissipating hellfire, the soldiers, gripped by an amalgamation of fear and disbelief, were left in stunned silence. Their faces painted a canvas of horror, wide-eyed and mouths agape, they stood frozen like statues witnessing an impossible apparition.
Some soldiers, unable to comprehend the unearthly resilience displayed by Zeral, began to mutter prayers with trembling lips. The rhythmic cadence of desperate pleas for salvation resonated in the air, as if the very utterance of divine words could shield them from the looming malevolence before them.
A few courageous souls attempted to rally their comrades, shouting orders to regroup and ready for another assault. However, their voices faltered, and their rallying cries wavered in the face of the surreal and overwhelming presence that Zeral exuded.
Tears welled up in the eyes of some soldiers, not out of grief but as a manifestation of sheer, unbridled fear. The reality of the situation crashed down upon them—their weapons, their numbers, and even the formidable hellfire were inconsequential before this supernatural force.
The battlefield, once filled with the cacophony of war, was now blanketed in a heavy, ominous silence. Soldiers exchanged terrified glances, unable to fathom the implications of Zeral's resilienc
Zeral, his armor still smoldering with embers, strode out of the remnants of the hellfire as if untouched by the flames. With an almost casual nonchalance, he extinguished the lingering fires on his attire, removing the charred remnants of his armor and robe with a single, deliberate motion. His body, untouched by the hellfire's wrath, stood as an indomitable testament to the supernatural resilience that had emerged within him.
A collective gasp hung in the air, a symphony of fear, disbelief, and sheer terror. The soldiers, their faces drained of color, confronted a reality that shattered the boundaries of their understanding—a living nightmare walking among them, untouched by the fires of hell itself.
"Is that all what you got?" Zeral telling the soldiers who witness such scene that they never scene in their lives then he screams "TELL ME!"
In the outrageous ballet of death, Zeral's movements became a grotesque symphony of carnage. His agility defied the laws of nature as he leaped into the air, a shadowy harbinger of doom descending upon the hapless soldiers below. The very air seemed tainted with a malevolent energy as he crashed down with unparalleled force, crushing skulls and tearing limbs in a horrific display of brutality.
Soldiers, caught in the maelstrom of Zeral's wrath, were helpless against the relentless onslaught. Heads were mercilessly crushed under his powerful hands, and bodies were torn asunder with a savage ferocity that transcended the limits of human capability. Limbs flew like morbid confetti, painting the battlefield in a ghastly tapestry of gore.
Zeral, his eyes ablaze with a manic fervor, reveled in the chaos he wrought. The screams of the dying filled in the air, mingling with his taunts to further instill terror in the hearts of those who dared to stand against him. "Come at me!" he bellowed, the very challenge reverberating through the minds of the horrified soldiers.
Those who tried to flee were met with an unrelenting pursuit. Zeral moved with inhuman speed, catching up to the panicked soldiers and dispatching them with ruthless efficiency. Even those who dropped to their knees in prayer found no mercy, as Zeral's relentless rampage spared none.
Amidst the gruesome portrait, Zeral's attention fell upon a familiar face, a commander from a bygone era. With a chilling recognition, he uttered a name from a past life, "Reynold." then he went to him and said "This isn't how you fight."
Gripping the commander's head, he sank his teeth into the helmet, the metal yielding to the monstrous force. The sight was a horrifying blend of feral brutality and remembered animosity.
Soldiers attempting to escape to the safety of the capital's gates faced an onslaught that defied comprehension. Zeral, now a berserk force of annihilation, pursued them with a singular intent—to paint the path to the city in the blood of those who dared oppose him. The once-ordered retreat dissolved into a nightmarish scene of pandemonium and unspeakable horror.
As the remnants of the Anotryan soldiers attempted a desperate retreat, a group defiantly chose to stand their ground, facing the approaching storm of death in the form of Zeral. The air hung heavy with the stench of fear and despair as the soldiers, shaken and demoralized, confronted the indomitable force walking towards them.
Soldiers who stumbled in their haste to escape were met with an even grimmer fate. Zeral, moving like a shadow in the chaos, seized the opportunity to deliver fatal blows. He tore through armor, flesh, and bone, leaving behind a grotesque collage of death.
Some soldiers tried to surrender, dropping to their knees and pleading for mercy. Yet, Zeral's heart had long turned to stone. He spared no one, ending their lives with swift and brutal strokes. The snow beneath his feet transformed into a morbid canvas, stained with the dark hues of human suffering.
In the face of this relentless onslaught, the once-mighty Anotryan soldiers crumbled. Fear replaced their valor, and the ranks that once stood against monsters now scattered like leaves in a violent storm. The onslaught of death continued, each fallen soldier adding to the gruesome tapestry that marked Zeral's path of destruction.
Zeral, his voice carrying across the battlefield like a malicious voice, taunted them with scathing words. "Is this how you fight? Is this how you've been taught?" he sneered, his tone dripping with contempt. "Shame on you! You dare to flee from battle? What happened to the might of Anotryan soldiers?"
His words were a searing indictment of their perceived weakness, a challenge to the very core of their warrior ethos. Anger radiated from Zeral like a palpable force, and the soldiers faced not only the physical threat before them but the wrath of a being scorned by the betrayal of humanity.
"I fought the Silver Sabertooth," he declared with an intensity that cut through the chaos. "I managed to kill him with my men. They didn't flee; they fought. Either they died or they won." The reference to his past exploits served as a stark reminder of the unwavering resolve he once witnessed in the face of adversity, a stark contrast to the scene unfolding before him.
His proclamation sounded like a dark requiem, a haunting reminder of a time when warriors stood steadfast against formidable foes. For Zeral, it was a bitter commentary on the perceived decline of Anotryan soldiers, a condemnation that further fueled his rage. The soldiers, caught between the specter of their own inadequacy and the impending threat, faced an adversary who reveled in exposing the frailty of their resolve.
The battlefield metamorphosed into a grotesque tableau of carnage as Zeral's relentless rampage continued. Torn-up human bodies lay strewn across the once-pristine snow, their limbs scattered haphazardly amidst the remnants of shattered armor and discarded weapons. The landscape, once a symbol of the fierce resistance of Anotryan soldiers, now mirrored the depths of a nightmare.
The crisp snow was no longer a blanket of purity but a canvas tainted with the macabre shades of crimson. A nauseating stench permeated the air, a sickening amalgamation of metallic blood, burnt flesh, and the acrid scent of war. Trails of darkened snow led to mutilated corpses, testaments to the brutality that had unfolded.
Lifeless eyes stared blankly, frozen in a final expression of terror or pain, their souls extinguished in the blink of an eye. Limbs, detached from their owners, lay scattered like morbid trophies, accentuating the sheer brutality of Zeral's assault. The once defiant soldiers, now nothing more than broken and mutilated husks, bore witness to the futility of their resistance.
The remnants of the Anotryan forces who survived Zeral's onslaught trembled, bearing witness to a battlefield that had devolved into a nightmarish tapestry of death. The very essence of humanity lay torn and discarded, a testament to the monstrous wrath that had swept through their ranks.
The abrupt order to stop and retreat reverberated through the ranks of the Anotryan soldiers, cutting through the chaos like a sharp blade. Confusion and fear painted their faces, unsure of the sudden change in command. The source of the command became immediately clear as the voice continued, "This is an order."
As the soldiers hesitated, turning to the source of the directive, their eyes widened in disbelief. Walking amidst the remnants of his retreating army was none other than King David himself. His regal presence did little to conceal the stark fear in his eyes as he approached the unfolding spectacle.
Zeral, too, was caught off guard by the unexpected appearance of the king. The air crackled with tension as the two adversaries locked eyes. The soldiers, stuck in a bewildering moment between the horrors of the battlefield and the surreal sight of their king confronting the vengeful force, waited in breathless anticipation.
The king's decision to intervene, to personally face the brutalizer, hung heavy in the air. It was a decision that carried the weight of the entire kingdom and the lives of those who stood trembling before the advancing menace. As the king walked towards Zeral, a palpable sense of foreboding enveloped the battlefield.
The tension between Zeral and King David reached a boiling point, the air thick with uncertainty and the weight of their shared history. Zeral's eyes bore into the king's, a mixture of anger, resentment, and a profound sense of betrayal.
"Oh, it's you. I didn't expect you to come here," Zeral sneered, his voice dripping with disdain.
King David, maintaining a facade of calm, responded, "I can't believe this is really you, Adomas."
The mention of his old name only fueled Zeral's rage. "That man is gone," he declared, vehemently denying any connection to the hero he once was.
As tension hung in the air, Zeral suddenly mocked the king, a dark grin spreading across his face. "Oh, wait. Shall I kneel for you?" he jeered. The king, remaining stoic, nodded subtly, almost imperceptibly.
In a surprising turn, Zeral complied, dropping to one knee before King David. The soldiers and onlookers watched in stunned silence, their eyes darting between the two figures locked in this bizarre exchange.
However, in a swift and unexpected move, Zeral lunged forward, his hand aiming for the king's face. The atmosphere shifted instantly from one of submissive compliance to explosive violence. The question lingered in the air: Was Zeral about to strike the final blow, bringing an end to the last remnants of humanity?
the end.
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