The battlefield was a maelstrom of chaos, the Sovereign locked in a titanic struggle with the Herald. The monstrous figure of the Herald, its form constantly shifting, loomed against the Dungeon’s champion. Each clash of their blows sent shockwaves rippling through the air, and the ground beneath them cracked and groaned as though in pain.
Out of the swirling smoke, the figure Jack had seen emerged. His presence commanded attention, exuding an aura that made the tumult of the battle seem to pause for just a moment, as if the world itself had recognized something far more significant than the violence unfolding. Jack froze, his mind racing as he tried to make sense of the figure before him. Was this a friend, or was this yet another force to be reckoned with? The figure was unmistakably a Ramkin, a race Jack had encountered before, but there was something distinct about him. Unlike the brutish, over-muscled warriors Jack had fought in the past, with their crude armor and heavy, oversized weapons, this Ramkin carried himself with an air of quiet dignity.
His horns, a sweeping, elegant curve of bone, curled from his head like the branches of a grand oak tree. His fur, a rich chestnut brown, covered his arms and neck, giving him a wild yet regal appearance. But it was his eyes that drew Jack’s attention the most. His gaze was calm and measured, glowing faintly with an inner light that seemed to radiate a quiet authority, the kind of power that came not from force, but from an undeniable presence. It was as though the very air around the Ramkin shifted, as if the atmosphere itself responded to his power.
His coat was a deep crimson, a stark contrast to the destruction surrounding them. The fabric, despite the chaos of the battle, remained pristine, unscathed by the explosions of magic or the shattered rocks that littered the battlefield. Golden runes were embroidered into the fabric, shimmering with an ethereal glow that suggested an immense well of power. They radiated an aura of restrained strength, the kind of power that was not for show, but for the protection of something far greater. His every movement was fluid, deliberate—like water flowing through a narrow channel, steady and unwavering, never hurried, but always purposeful. It was as if the very ground beneath him steadied itself with each step he took, finding balance in the presence of this figure.
“Who is that?” Jack muttered under his breath, his voice tight with disbelief. His grip tightened on his spear, instinctively preparing for whatever was to come. He had to figure out if this newcomer was friend or foe, and quickly. The battle raged on, but this figure, this Ramkin, had brought with him a new sense of uncertainty. Jack's instincts screamed at him, unsure whether to trust this enigmatic figure or prepare for betrayal. But in the midst of the chaos, the figure moved with an undeniable calm, a calm that set him apart from everything else in this hellish moment.
Lyla, who had been concentrating on weaving protective wards to shield their position, spared a quick glance at the figure. Her eyes widened in surprise, but there was also a flicker of something else in her expression—relief. She was usually the one with the answers, but this time, she appeared as unsettled as Jack. “I don’t know,” she replied, her voice wavering slightly. “But… he’s something else.” It was a rare moment of uncertainty from Lyla, a moment that only deepened Jack’s confusion.
The figure spoke, his voice deep and resonant, cutting through the cacophony of the battle like a bell ringing in the distance. His words were clear and carried a weight that seemed to command the very air itself. “You must hold the Herald!” His voice was authoritative, the command ringing out with such force that it cut through the chaos and reached the very core of those who heard it. It was like the tolling of a bell—pure, clear, and impossible to ignore.
Jack’s head snapped towards him, his instincts screaming as his thoughts scrambled to make sense of the situation. His heart pounded in his chest, the clash of magic and steel around him fading into a dull roar as he focused on the new arrival. His grip on his spear tightened, and despite the tremor in his legs, he stepped forward, determined to get some answers. “Who are you?” Jack demanded, his voice shaky but determined, his grip on his weapon betraying the underlying fear gnawing at his resolve. “What are you doing here?”
The Ramkin inclined his head slightly, a regal gesture that spoke volumes without arrogance, and met Jack’s gaze with a calm, unwavering stare. “I am Erydan,” he replied, his tone smooth and confident. “I am the Avatar of this Dungeon. The one who gave you the Incursion quest. The one who turned the undead to fight with you rather than against you.” His words were heavy with meaning, and yet they held no trace of boastfulness. Erydan spoke as though the truth of his existence was self-evident, as though Jack should already know who he was.
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Lyla’s eyes widened in recognition, her hands still moving as she wove spells of protection, but her attention was clearly diverted. “The Dungeon Avatar?” she murmured in awe, her voice carrying a tremor of disbelief. “You’re real?” The words barely left her mouth before she was back to work, sending a hail of thorns toward the Herald, which continued its relentless assault, seemingly indifferent to the attack. The sound of the magic crashing against the Herald’s form was drowned out by the roar of the battlefield, but Lyla’s shock was unmistakable.
Jack frowned deeply. He had no idea what a Dungeon Avatar was, but judging by Lyla’s reaction, Erydan was no ordinary being. He was something worth paying attention to. “Great,” Jack muttered, his voice laced with sarcasm as he shifted his weight, his sword still at the ready. “So, what’s the plan? You expect us to kill that thing?” He jerked his head toward the Herald, whose monstrous form surged forward again to clash with the Sovereign. The two titanic beings were locked in a struggle of unimaginable force, their bodies colliding with such intensity that the very fabric of reality seemed to tremble with each impact.
Erydan’s expression remained calm, unflinching in the face of Jack’s sharp tone. “You cannot kill the Herald,” he said, his voice steady, unshaken by the violence surrounding them. “Its essence is bound to the rift it created. As long as it remained on its side, the rift cannot be closed. But now that it is on this side, if you can force it back through the rift, I can seal it.”
Jack sidestepped a surge of purple energy that carved a deep gouge into the ground where he had been standing just moments before. He turned his head quickly, his eyes narrowing as the realization sank in. “Seal it?” His voice was filled with skepticism, yet there was a thread of hope woven into it. “And what happens to the Herald then?”
Erydan’s golden eyes flickered with an urgency that was only barely contained. “It will be banished,” he said, the words spoken with the weight of finality. “Severed from this plane. We will be safe—at least for a time.” There was a hint of something more beneath his calm demeanor, something that Jack couldn't quite place. “But the rift must be closed. If it remains open, it will continue to grow, consuming the Dungeon entirely. And it won’t stop there.”
The ground beneath their feet trembled once more as Cael dashed past, narrowly avoiding a shower of debris falling from the sky. His voice rang out, desperate but practical. “And what about us? We’re just supposed to keep this thing busy?” His words were edged with disbelief, but there was no denying the grim determination in his tone.
“You are not alone,” Erydan replied, his gaze shifting to the Sovereign, whose skeletal form stood towering over the battlefield, a dark, imposing figure locked in combat with the Herald. The two figures clashed again, and Jack could see that the Sovereign’s staff was glowing with dark energy, each strike more focused, more deliberate than the last. “The Dungeon’s defenses are with you. I am feeding the Sovereign all the power I can spare. But you must push the Herald back. Only then can I act.” Erydan’s eyes glowed with a faint, internal light as he spoke, his hands held out in a manner that seemed to channel his own energy into the Sovereign.
Lyra’s jaw clenched as she fortified their position with a wall of vines that seemed to grow from the very ground itself, twisting and wrapping in a protective barrier. The magic shimmered faintly in the dim light, like fireflies dancing in the twilight. “We’ve fought this far,” she said, her voice firm and resolute. “What’s a little more?” Her words were not just a rallying cry—they were a statement of intent, a declaration that they would not back down.
Jack’s expression hardened, determination flooding his veins like a surge of adrenaline. “Fine. Just tell us what to do.” His voice was quiet but filled with resolve, the fear from earlier now buried beneath a layer of sheer will. They would fight. They had no other choice.
Erydan nodded, his calm demeanor never wavering. “Strike with everything you have,” he instructed. “Force it to retreat. I will guide the Sovereign to create an opening. When the time comes, you must press the advantage.” His words were precise, measured, as if he had seen countless battles unfold before him and knew exactly what needed to be done.
The ground trembled again as the Herald lashed out, its form shifting with terrifying speed. One of its limbs collided with a broken pillar, sending shards of stone flying in all directions. Jack’s eyes were fixed on the Herald’s every movement, watching as it fought with an unnatural, alien fury. He raised his spear, deflecting a chunk of debris that flew toward him, his muscles straining against the weight of his weapon. It wasn’t just about survival now. It was about driving this monstrous entity back.