Chapter 199
Daniel's chest heaved as the air around him shimmered with the fading echoes of plasma light. The sky was a fractured mirror of fire and smoke, the once-floating garrison now a field of ruin, its colossal frame split open, burning as it sank into the cracked plains below. For a brief, trembling instant, silence fell. Then the Rift screamed. he was too exhausted to move, he cant leave and enter his void space, it was the most reasonable action but they might perceive its as he was escaping. so Daniel can only wait until his chaos engine replenish his mana and convert all of it as pure chaos energy.
" I need time, a few minutes will will do.."
A sound that was not sound, but the tearing of reality itself, echoed through the wasteland. The rift expanded like a second sun being born from the carcass of the battlefield, spilling black light that warped everything it touched. Daniel felt it before he saw it,an ancient, malignant pulse that vibrated in the marrow of his bones. He staggered forward, ready to burn what little life he had left to seal it,until Melgil caught him by the arm and wrenched him back.
"Enough!" Melgil's voice cracked like thunder. "You'll die, Daniel! "
"You've done all you can, let the others fight beside you. You're not meant to carry this alone!"
Daniel's body trembled as the power in his veins dissipated . His aura could not lashed out like a living storm, and scorch the ground beneath them, he was forcing his mana to come out even if his mana engine was over heated already,he and melgil had the largest mana capacity among all the warrior their but facing infernal demons were a single demon has a power of 20 thousand each its going to be suicide/
"If I don't, this world burns, Melgil!" he shouted. "Do you understand what's coming through that Rift?"
Melgil didn't answer with words. He stepped closer and wrapped his arms around him, holding Daniel still. The embrace was firm, desperate, almost human. "You can't save it by dying for it," Melgil whispered. "You save it by living ,by leading. Trust them. Trust us."
Daniel's rage collapsed into silence. His knees gave way. The weight of exhaustion, failure, and fury drove him down until he was kneeling before the Third Gate, the wind howling around them. Melgil stayed beside him, holding him steady as the sky turned the color of blood.
Then it happened.
The Rift ,now fully open, spilled its children into the mortal world. Demons poured forth like an endless tide, their silhouettes black against the infernal glow. From half a mile away, they looked like ants swarming from a vast and living wound, but even at this distance, the formation was unmistakable. These were not mindless beasts—they moved with terrifying coordination, forming ranks, unfurling banners woven from the skin of slain gods, rallying beneath the call of something ancient and cruel.
And at their head stood Thrakir, the Twisted One.
He emerged slowly from the Rift, towering above his army. His body was an abomination of motion, bones shifting and realigning with wet cracks, flesh flowing like molten tar over jagged muscle. His limbs bent at angles that defied anatomy, every movement both graceful and grotesque. From his back sprouted spines like the ribs of a colossal beast, each one glowing faintly with abyssal runes that pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Thrakir's presence alone made the air thicken and hum, a resonance of power so dense that even the earth beneath him cracked. His mana radiated outward like a collapsing star—fifty thousand units of raw, unrestrained power, enough to make even veteran warlocks fall to their knees in dread. He was no mere brute of the underworld; he was a lord in all but name, a predator born from the Abyss itself, forged in the fires of endless conquest.
And yet, even amid his magnificence, his fury was palpable. His burning eyes swept the battlefield, taking in the corpses of his would-be soldiers, the ash of thousands of lesser demons reduced to dust by Daniel's assault. His claws flexed, each motion sharp enough to rend through steel. This invasion was supposed to be the birth of his dominion over the mortal realm; instead, it had begun with humiliation and loss. His army's charred remains stained the ground where his victory should have begun.
The Twisted One's mouth opened in a snarl that became a voice, low, guttural, a sound that made the sky itself recoil.
"Mortals…" he hissed. "You've taken what is mine."
Melgil and Daniel sat together in the red light of the abyss, their silhouettes small against the growing tide. Daniel clenched his fists, his teeth grinding as self-loathing churned inside him. This was his failure. He'd miscalculated. He'd let the Rift open.
But before the guilt could drown him, Melgil's hand gripped his shoulder, steady, grounding. "Don't lose yourself now," he said quietly. "He's here… but so are we."
Daniel lifted his gaze toward Thrakir, the towering horror framed by his legions and the burning Rift. His fury was not for Melgil anymore, it was for himself, for the weakness that let this happen. The storm within him had not died. It only waited.
And when he rose again, the air trembled with promise. The real war was about to begin.
The ground beneath Daniel's feet still trembled from the distant rumble of Thrakir's army. Smoke and ash spiraled into the crimson sky, and the air shimmered with residual plasma energy from his earlier attacks. He could feel the pulse of the Rift growing stronger, each second it remained open, more of the Abyss leaked into the mortal plane. He rose slowly, his body heavy with exhaustion yet his eyes cold, focused, and sharp as tempered steel.
"Enough waiting," Daniel said, his voice calm but resonant, cutting through the chaos like a blade through mist. "Summon them."
At once, three circles of light flared before him—runes spiraling in perfect geometric precision, forming gateways that glowed with different hues: one the deep azure of storm light, one a burning crimson streaked with gold, and one void-black rimmed with silver lightning. From each gate stepped a figure, kneeling instantly before their lord.
Vaelith, the Commander of Shadows, her armor was sleek, dark, and segmented like a serpent's scales, her twin blades strapped across her back still faintly dripping with demon ichor. Nyxiel, the Silent Witch—robes of dark violet fluttered around her, her eyes faintly glowing with the calm focus of an immortal scholar. The faint hum of runes hovered around her wrists like orbiting moons. And Kitsune, the Blade Dancer,a fox-eared warrior cloaked in scarlet light, nine tails flowing behind her like living fire, her aura bright and alive with kinetic energy.
All three knelt before Daniel, heads bowed low, their loyalty absolute. "We are here, my lord," Vaelith said, voice steady despite the chaos around them. "Awaiting your command."
Melgil, standing a few paces away, placed her sword into the ground and bowed her head as well. Her voice trembled only slightly. "Command us, Daniel. The Third Gate stands ready."
Daniel looked upon them,his retainers, his shield, his family bound not by blood but by battle. His aura pulsed once, faintly violet under the dying sun. "Then hear my command," he said, his voice deep, the authority of kings and killers in every syllable. "Open your gates. Summon your legions. We march to war."
The retainers moved instantly.
Vaelith slammed her palm into the ground, and the earth split open with a roar. A massive transfer gate erupted before the Third Gate of Karion, a ring of black lightning and violet flame. From within, a sound rose, a thousand armored feet marching in unison. The Black Legion began to emerge. Their armor reflected no light; their helms were faceless, their formation flawless. Each step was synchronized, shaking the air like the heartbeat of a giant.
Next, Nyxiel raised her staff, and the air around her rippled with light. The second gate blossomed like a violet sun, releasing an army of spellcasters, sentinels, and battle constructs, arcane sigils glowing across their armor, each soldier linked by invisible threads of mana. Their banners, woven from shimmering runic cloth, bore the mark of the Ecliptic Order, her personal battalion of battle mages and rune knights.
Then came Kitsune. With a grin, she spun her blades in a dazzling arc and plunged them into the soil. A fiery burst followed, and a gate of molten gold opened wide. From it poured the Crimson Fang, her clan of agile, feral warriors, each one bearing the insignia of the Fox God on their shoulders. Their eyes burned like embers, and their weapons sang with hunger.
Lastly, Melgil lifted her hand toward the heavens. The air bent around her as her own gate opened, a vast, blinding white portal edged with holy fire. From its depths marched an army clad in silver and scarlet, the Daughters of War, the Veyrra Clan,war maidens who fought with grace and fury alike. At their head rode Lady Veyrra herself, her silver armor polished to a mirror's gleam, her gaze unwavering as she looked upon Daniel. She halted before him, bowed her head slightly, and said with pride, "My lord, my daughters are yours to command."
Then came the thunder of hooves.
From the fourth gate, a new banner unfurled—the sigil of a crimson lion. A host of knights rode forth, armor gleaming beneath the twilight, their discipline unbroken even as the world itself seemed to unravel. At their lead was a man of iron posture and ageless eyes, Duke Aereth Rothchester, Daniel's father. His presence was commanding, his aura restrained yet immense, the kind of strength that built empires and buried gods. He dismounted before Daniel, placed his hand over his heart, and bowed his head low.
"My son," he said solemnly, "your command is my oath. The Rothchester silver Knights stand ready."
Daniel nodded, though his expression remained unreadable. His gaze shifted beyond them, toward the burning horizon. The four gates stood open now, columns of light connecting realms and armies alike. The combined forces of the Rothchester line, the Black Legion, the Ecliptic Order, the Crimson , and the Veyrra Clan stood assembled before him, a living wall of blades, shields, and faith.
Only one host was missing. The Warforge, the armored division of steel and soul, and with them, the Duchess, Daniel's mother. Her arrival would tip the balance entirely.
As Daniel surveyed his gathered forces, the Rift across the plains shimmered like a living scar, spilling endless darkness. Beyond it, Thrakir's army moved with impossible order, each demon rank an echo of war's perfection.
Daniel's jaw tightened. "The enemy stands before the Third Gate," he said quietly, his voice carrying over the gathered legions. "If they cross this line, the city of Karion falls. There will be no retreat. No mercy. No failure."
He raised his hand, and violet light flared from his palm, igniting the air around him. "We end this tonight."
The air itself trembled. The sky above the Third Gate of Karion was no longer blue, no longer even a sky, it had become a wounded veil of molten light and crawling shadow. The Rift burned in the distance, half a mile away, a colossal wound in the world spilling nightmares by the thousand. The land beneath it was blackened and molten, the corpses of lesser demons still smoldering, their ashes caught in the rising heat like dark snow. Against that endless tide of chaos, Daniel stood upon the last stronghold of humanity, and the last hope of the realm.
Behind him, the world answered his call.
The four transfer gates still blazed in the air, pillars of light and power that dwarfed the walls of Karion. Through them marched his vassals' armies in perfect, unbroken rhythm: the Black Legion, silent and unrelenting, armor darker than night, eyes glowing faintly beneath their helms; the Ecliptic Order, Nyxiel's mages, moving like a tide of arcane light, their runes pulsing in elegant synchronization; the Crimson Fang, Kitsune's war dancers, their blades flashing like streaks of dawnfire; and the Daughters of War, Melgil's Veyrra clan, radiating divine fury in silver and crimson.
The Rothchester Knights soon filled the ranks beside them, steel-born sons and daughters of the empire, banners of the crimson lion fluttering against the ash-stained wind. At their head, Duke Aereth Rothchester dismounted and raised his blade in silent salute to his son, his expression neither pride nor sorrow but grim readiness.
And then, more gates opened.
From the west, where the faint glimmer of forest light met the ash clouds, came the soldiers of Álfheim. Their armor was smooth silver laced with vines and roots that pulsed with life energy; their spears shimmered with runic veins. The Knights of Álfheim moved as if the wind guided them—elegant, deliberate, and impossibly fast. They took their positions along the left flank, their captain bowing once toward Daniel before lowering his helm. Not a word passed between them, yet their intent was unmistakable.
Moments later, from the eastern road, the banners of mortal guilds appeared, each representing a different kind of defiance.
The East Lazarus Guild, armored in silver-gold, marched at the front, known across the continent for their resilience and iron will. The White Devil Guild followed, their members clad in white combat robes and black sashes, the faint outline of angelic wings etched into their shoulders—a group feared for their brutal efficiency and disregard for mercy.And the High Strategy Guild, the smallest but sharpest of the three, brought siege engineers, tacticians, and spell artillery specialists who immediately began establishing forward bastions and defensive channels across the plains.
Three guilds, once divided by pride and purpose—now stood shoulder to shoulder beneath the burning horizon. 310 men and women, united not by allegiance or creed, but by the sheer gravity of what stood before them.
They did not speak. They did not cheer.
They simply felt it, the weight of Daniel's presence, the calm fury radiating from him, the sheer gravitational pull of a leader who bore both destruction and salvation in equal measure. His aura rippled through the ranks like a heartbeat, steady and resolute.
And for the first time, every soul on that field shared one purpose.
To hunt.To kill.To destroy the abominations that had crawled out of the Abyss to poison their world.
The ground quaked as the combined forces of man, elf, and myth stood together—an army of tens of thousands now facing the infernal legions spilling from the Rift. The sound that rose from them was not a mere war cry, it was a declaration, a promise carved into the fabric of existence.
The roar of the united host thundered across the wasteland, shaking mountains and scattering clouds. It rolled across the horizon like a divine storm, its echo carrying all the rage, defiance, and hope that remained in the world.
Even the Rift itself seemed to shudder, its dark light flickering under the sheer force of mortal will.
For the first time since the dawn of the invasion, the demons were not the hunters.They were the hunted.
And Daniel Rothchester, standing at the heart of that storm, lifted his hand, violet aura flaring like a second sun, and whispered, barely loud enough for Melgil and his retainers to hear:
"Today we reclaim our honor and secure our future. Bring every hurt, your frustration, your anger, your grief,and let them harden into steel. "
"Those monsters came to steal our lives; they will find only our wrath. We do not fight because we must survive alone, but because we refuse to let fear write our story. "
"Stand fast, strike true, and hunt with every ounce of your heart. today, we hunt, and we will not stop until the last of them falls."
The armies answered not with words but with motion, raising their weapons, shields, and banners high.
Thousands of hearts, one purpose , and then Daniel reached deeper than any general should. He planted his feet, closed his eyes, and let the violet core within him whisper to the law of the Towers. With a motion that felt like folding the sky, he activated Domain Authority (Tower Override). Instantaneously the air hummed and the world around him shifted: distant warding sigils dimmed as if someone had drawn a curtain over them, the city's glyph-net stuttered and went quiet, and the little, inevitable chimes of judicial notice , the soft, cold voice of the Tower that always labeled deeds as lawful or criminal , fell mute within a sweeping radius of nearly three miles.
Soldiers felt it first as a weight lifting from their shoulders, as if invisible shackles had been unclasped; Beside him, Melgil's hand tightened once on his arm , relief, fear, solidarity folded into a single grip , and the three retainers straightened, faces hardening into resolve because the rules that had once hemmed them in were gone for the moment.
To their enemies, it was a fracture in the world's order: the Tower's protective net, the thing that had always made war a thing of permits and penalties, now blinked out like a dying star. To Daniel and his host it was freedom , terrifying and absolute ,the authority to strike, to break, to save without the slow knife of bureaucracy waiting to condemn them afterward.
He knew the override was not a gift but a gamble; powers like this drew eyes and debts that could be repaid in ways worse than death. Still, as he opened his mouth and let his command roll out across the ranks, his voice found a new edge , unbound, unavoidable , and thousand throats answered, not because the law told them they could, but because the man before them had given them the right to.
So many faces, scarred, hardened, resolute, stood in formation beneath the blood-lit sky. Rows upon rows of warriors stretched beyond the horizon, every heartbeat syncing to the same thunderous rhythm that echoed through the field. Each company had its own banner, and before every banner stood its commander, their presence like a living sigil of power and discipline.
At the front, three figures radiated unmatched authority: Vaelith, the tactician whose voice could still storms; Nyxiel, the shadow-weaver whose calm gaze hid a thousand silent kills; and Kitsune, the fiery vanguard whose laughter was a promise of destruction. Their armies waited behind them, weapons trembling not from fear, but from the hunger to prove themselves worthy of the coming war. These were no mindless soldiers they were creations of will, molded by the three vassal retainers themselves, forged into a force that sought conquest not for chaos, but for peace.
They believed peace was not granted, it was taken, wrestled from the jaws of those who dared threaten it. To them, victory was not ambition but necessity; to live free, they must win every war that sought to steal their freedom.
On the western flank stood the Veyrra, a tribe of towering, bronze-skinned warriors born from agony and tempered by endless battles. Their bodies were canvases of scars; their eyes gleamed with a predator's faith. They followed only strength, and they had found it in Melgil, the Hammer Queen. To them, she was not just commander, but divine proof that power could rule with honor. They knelt for no one else but Daniel, for if Melgil was the Queen of War, then Daniel was the King who gave war meaning.
And then, like a wall of silver light, the Rothchester Silver Knights stood ready. One hundred and fifty strong, armored in mirror-bright plate etched with prayers against corruption. They were born of oath and tradition, trained to crush the wicked and defend the innocent from all who would trample them. Their discipline was absolute; their conviction unbreakable.
At their head rode the youngest of the Rothchester siblings, a man whose legend whispered through battlefields like cold wind through iron graves. His enemies called him the Silver Reaper, a noble gentleman in bearing but a beast in combat. Calm eyes, refined voice, yet every motion hid the storm that had drowned kingdoms. The mountains themselves remembered his wrath; valleys bore his name carved in blood and honor.
His blade rested lightly at his side, the faint reflection of firelight tracing its silver edge. The Duke's gaze swept the horizon where the rift glowed like a wound in the sky, then lifted toward Daniel's banner, fluttering proudly amid the gathering storm. His voice, calm yet resonant with iron conviction, cut through the din of clashing steel and roaring beasts.
"Today… we carve our oaths into history."
The wind carried his words, weaving them into the hearts of every soldier who stood beneath that sky. As his warhorse snorted and pawed the scorched ground, the Silver Reaper of Rothchester turned his gaze toward his son. Beneath the chaos of the battlefield, there was a rare softness in his tone, a father speaking not to a commander, but to his own blood.
"Daniel," Aereth said, tightening his reins, "we will buy you time to recover. Join the hunt as soon as you can."
Daniel rose slightly, his aura flickering like a dying star reigniting, and bowed his head. "Please, Father" he began, but before he could finish, Aereth's lips curved into a confident, almost teasing smile.
"I will leave the ugly tall beast for you to hunt."
For a fleeting heartbeat, the two shared a silent understanding—a bond that needed no words, forged not only by blood, but by shared wars, shared scars, and the same relentless fire that burned in their veins. Then Aereth turned his horse with a sharp pull of the reins, silver cloak flaring behind him like a banner of light.
"Knights! With me!"
The Silver Reaper spurred his mount forward, leading the charge once more into the seething mass of infernal flesh. The ground trembled under the thunder of hooves, and the sky erupted as their lances met the first wave of demons.
Behind them, Daniel exhaled slowly, gripping his chest where his mana core pulsed violently. His father's voice still echoed in his mind, a promise and a challenge. The faintest smile touched his lips as he whispered, almost to himself,
"Then I'll make sure that beast remembers my name."
Beneath the burning crimson skies of Karion, the world itself seemed to hold its breath. The earth trembled, not from fear, but from anticipation, as the combined host of mortals, heroes, and legends formed a living wall before the city's Third Gate. Daniel stood at its center, the Domain Authority still pulsing from his being, his presence warping the Tower's judgment, bending law and divinity alike. The air shimmered with his aura, an invisible crown of dominion that silenced even the whispers of gods. Around him, his forces waited for his word, faces carved by conviction and illuminated by the hellfire that grew brighter on the horizon.
Then, the horizon moved.
Nearly two thousand infernal demons, twisted horrors of black sinew and molten bone, surged from the rift like a flood of nightmares. Their howls rolled across the fields like thunder. The ground cracked under their charge, and the air stank of burning flesh and sulfur. The battle had begun.
A single voice broke through the chaos, Duke Aereth Rothchester, the Silver Reaper, raising his gleaming longsword high. "Knights of the East—ride and cleanse!" His warhorse roared as he charged, one hundred and fifty Silver Knights following in perfect unison. Their polished armor reflected the infernal light like mirrors of salvation. When they struck, it was like a silver tidal wave colliding with the black sea. Spears shattered bone; war hammers crushed skulls. Aereth's blade sang, each swing severing two, sometimes three demons at once. He moved with cold precision elegant, merciless, unstoppable.
At his flank rode Commander Eldric Marrow, his 190 Álfheim Holy Knights blazing like dawn incarnate. Golden runes flared along their lances, and when they struck, radiant explosions scattered across the battlefield. Eldric himself wielded a twin-bladed glaive, its edges glowing with divine inscription. "For Álfheim! For Light Eternal!" he cried, cutting through demonic ranks as if through smoke. Behind them, Sir Maurel Favian directed the garrison and foot soldiers, his command voice cutting through the roar of battle as he fortified the center line, forming barriers of holy steel and light.
Then, like a living storm of white fire, Melgil Veara Gehinnom, the White Queen, advanced with her Daughters of War, the Veyrra clan. Seventy towering women, their bronze skin painted in runes and blood, followed her into the slaughter. Melgil's great hammer, Heavensunder, struck the ground, sending shockwaves that threw demons into the air like rag dolls. Her warriors roared in unison, their movements fierce and rhythmic, like a war dance born of centuries of vengeance. Every strike, every scream, was both prayer and promise.
To the east, Vaelith the Black Serpent unleashed his tribal horde, 250 warriors from a dozen clans. Drums thundered, horns bellowed, and war paint glistened under the flame-light. His serpent-blade shimmered black and violet, each strike leaving behind a trail of venomous mist that dissolved demons where they stood. He fought with the grace of a dancer and the fury of a beast, his laughter cutting through the chaos.
Above them, the skies split open with silver light, Nyxiel the Silver Thread descended with her avian legion. A hundred winged warriors dove from the clouds, their feathers metallic, their wings cutting through the air like blades. They rained spears and enchanted bolts down upon the infernal horde. Nyxiel herself wove threads of light midair, trapping whole clusters of demons in radiant webs before detonating them in cascading bursts.
From the shadows below, Kitsune, the Nine Flames, and her hundred assassins erupted from hidden gates. Cloaked in flickering foxfire, they struck unseen, daggers through throats, blades through hearts, vanishing before the corpses hit the dirt. Kitsune's tails blazed with orange fury, every motion a living inferno. She whispered spells under her breath, and from the ground, nine pillars of flame erupted, turning whole demon ranks into smoldering ash.
And then came the United Guilds.
From the west, Addison Lazarus led the East Lazarus Guild, her silver-streaked hair whipping behind her like a war banner. She moved with terrifying calm, every step measured, every strike perfect. Her Dragonbane Strike split the air, carving through a twelve-foot horned demon as if it were paper. Her War Mother's Aura rippled outward, steadying trembling hands and igniting courage in the faint-hearted. Her allies' blows struck truer, their fear forgotten. When she entered Death's Patience, time itself seemed to still, the demons slowed, their movements predictable, their deaths inevitable.
Beside her, Alexsei Sokolov, the crippled ranker, stood firm upon his rune-sealed wheelchair, commanding War Golems that rose like titans from the dust. Their fists crushed infernal flesh into pulp; their glowing cores pulsed with lightning and steel. Natasha, his sister, fired enchanted crossbow bolts, weaving ice and water spells that froze entire demon packs in their tracks. Shards of ice rained down, each one a death sentence.
The High Strategy Guild, led by Mary Kaye Lazarus, fortified the flank. Her shovel glowed with earthen runes as she slammed it into the ground, raising a wall of jagged stone to intercept charging beasts. Cody Lazarus unleashed shockwave bursts that split the ground, tossing demons into the air for Jacob Lazarus to finish with molten magma strikes.
In the rear lines, Oliver's poison darts found their marks; Farrah's vines lashed out, dragging demons screaming into constricting roots. Rainey's swarm of insects blotted out the sky, devouring everything in their path. Sabine, in her tiger-humanoid form, tore through the lines with primal grace. Noah, with skin of steel, became a walking fortress, breaking horns and limbs with his bare hands.
The White Devil Guild fought beside them like a disciplined machine. Borislav's poison clouds, Mikhaylov's paralysis curse, and Natasha's frost storms blended into a deadly symphony. Healers like Tamara and Trix worked in perfect rhythm, light circling their hands as they pulled warriors back from death. Aleksandrova's arrows lit the sky, while Irinushka's magic musket exploded with thunderous precision.
And among them all, Bonnie Lazarus bent gravity itself, sending demons crashing into the ground or floating helplessly into Nyxiel's aerial kill-zone. Emma's scans revealed weaknesses, and Maggie's wind blades capitalized on every flaw. Brie's telepathy unified the ranks when orders were lost in the chaos, her voice linking minds into a single network of clarity and fury.
Daniel sat behind them all, cross-legged, hands glowing faintly blue as he drew in the scattered energy of the Tower. His breath was steady, though blood dripped from his nose. Around him, the Domain hummed, every inch of land under his control. He watched his people—their unity, their courage, their fury, and whispered to himself, "This is what we protect… this is what they'll never take."
The battlefield became a symphony of light and shadow, of divine flame and demonic wails. The sky cracked with thunder as thousands clashed, the infernal tide against mortal will. And for every demon that fell, the armies of Karion roared louder, shaking the dying heavens themselves.
The Battle at Karion's open flat lands had begun, and the world would remember it as the day mortals defied the abyss itself.
The charge became a furnace of sound and motion, steel screaming, infernal howls, and the rhythm of a thousand hearts beating like war-drums, and within it a hundred small epics unfolded, each a bright, short-lived star.
Romaldo, who had bulked himself into an unstoppable juggernaut, bellowed as he shouldered aside a tide of black-sinew fiends; for a minute he was a mountain, hulking limbs smashing demons into dust to clear a path for retreating archers, but when the minute ended his inflated flesh collapsed like a spent bellows, he toppled atop a clutch of slain enemies, a grin of blood and triumph on his face as his breath stilled, his final act having bought enough time for a dozen comrades to live.
Radinka's axe sang like thunder as she cleaved through a pair of horned brutes that had pinned a line; she turned to face a third, met its charge with a warrior's laugh, and with a spinning, earthshaking swing shattered its skull and then sank to one knee, fingers digging in the mud as she watched her banner across the field and let the light go.
Kuzmina, shifting claws and teeth into a nightmare wolf to rout a block of charging fiends, leapt atop a towering abomination and tore its throat out with a feral howl, when the beast's last convulsions fell silent she crumpled, the beast-form seeping from her like mist, dying human and proud amid the slain.
Nataliya the sword-woman held a breach in the shield-wall until the last moment: she parried, drove her blade through a demon's breast to pin it against the gate's buttress, and with her arms trembling from the strain, pushed the steel through one final time; when the enemy slid off, she slumped forward onto her sword, a small, fierce smile carved into her face.
Aleksandrova, standing on a ruined turret, picked the one perfect opening and loosed arrow after arrow into the throat of the demon captain stalking the plain; her last shot split the enemy's eye and it dropped like a felled banner, she slumped back, the quiver empty, eyes bright with the knowledge that the monstrous leader would march no more.
Borislav laced a killing cloud of toxin across a choke-point; the venom blossomed into a green, reeking bloom that felled dozens and fouled the air, and as the poison burned him from the inside he straightened, spat once, and watched the horde collapse beneath his spell like wheat under scythe. Mikhaylov froze in the center of a demon ring, radiating paralysis through rune and shout; his hands cracked with effort as muscle after muscle locked in the enemy ranks, and when his heart gave out he fell forward with a satisfied chuckle, having locked an entire flank long enough for the knights to finish the job.
Tamara, the healer, walked into the worst of it bearing hands of light, she pulled the dying from the mud, sealed lungs and mended bone with a soft, fierce incantation; when the demons overwhelmed her, she kept her palms open until the last breath left her wards, the men she'd saved staggering back to the line because of the final warmth of her magic. Mariya's curse-threads snaked through a demon cohort, binding them to turn on each other; as the hex ate through her life-force she smiled at the chaos she'd sown, collapsing amid thrashing, cursed corpses that fought one another until none remained.
Fedorova summoned a hurricane that flayed wings and stripped flesh from charging beasts; she stood atop a broken standard as the wind tore her robes to tatters and, bruised by the storm she birthed, fell with a laugh, knowing the gale's teeth had shredded an entire vanguard.
Irinushka reloaded her magic-musket with fingers that shook and fired line after line of explosive rounds into a black chariot of demons; the chariot exploded in a blossoming of ash and light, fragments raining outward, she lifted a hand in salute as she toppled, her last shot having rid the field of a monstrous engine of war.
Zalie moved through the ranks with vials and salves, stitching wounds open to pull fallen fighters back into the fray; when she was struck down, the potions she had hurled landed in brave hands that kept fighting, and those lives were her monument.
Moyra's sand constructs rose as walls and crushing fingers that swallowed demons whole; a tidal collapse buried her alive as the last sand golem sealed a breach, and the ground held its breath over her as if in reverence. Liss, with a single touch, froze a charging elite for a heartbeat, enough for a comrade to drive a spear through its eye, and then a spear found her flank; she went down with the strange, satisfied calm of someone who had cheated death long enough to save another
. Enan spawned flawless clones that fought like a dozen soldiers; when the mana well in his chest ran dry the copies dissolved into light and he fell, smiling at the sight of his last illusion punching a demon leader into ruin.
Lack's summoned wolves tore the enemy ranks to shreds until a pack of larger fiends swallowed him; his wolves howled and fought on for minutes that turned into hours for the survivors who owed their lives to his summoning.
Matt rained a hundred arrows to blanket a demon charge; when his bowstring finally snapped he punched a demon through the throat and collapsed, limbs slack, having turned the tide of a flank with nothing but resolve and missile-blood.
Tamil's smoke curtains hid retreating squads, and when the black tide overran her position she vanished into the haze she made, the enemy coughing and stumbling into ambush, her sacrifice buying entire companies time to re-form. Irric's illusions bewildered a host of demons into striking one another; a hundred phantom armies danced and kept them from the gates until a real blade took the illusionist's chest, he died grinning at the sheer, final audacity of his trick.
Viden took to the sky on transient wings, diving to ferry wounded out of the killzone; a spear took him mid-flight and he fell, but not before his last lift cast three comrades over the parapet to safety. Jarth sprouted extra arms and stacked the bodies of three charging brutes to make a ramp for retreating spearmen, then his limbs stilled as the mana drain finished him; the spearmen lived because of his wild and generous gift.
Rayna's ice-arsenal froze a demonic battering ram solid, and though the frozen weight crushed her as it shattered, the gate it struck never moved. Karia breathed a gout of flame that carved a path through a circle of devils; she collapsed, scorched and singing, after her flamethrower-mouth had stopped a siege engine from turning toward the city. Leroy and the shield-weavers, Tyler, Peter, Roberta, Mallory, formed a living phalanx, their barriers splintering as hordes slammed into them; one by one they fell, shields splintered like old wood, but each death was a measured, sacrificial step that saved squadrons behind them.
Elise, Tasha, London, Kara, Trix. the healers, gave their strength until their lights winked out, their last songs rising like prayers as they patched a hundred wounds. Kevin, Myrtle, Madison, Ginger hurled elemental might into the crush until their bodies could no longer stand the backlash; they died with elemental splendor glossing their last visions. Errol's stamina aura burned itself thin to keep a charging unit upright; the men he fortified fought on because his light dimmed last.
The mid-rank mages, Kenneth, Margot, Lee, Blanche, Terence, fell in a ring of counter-magic, trading their lives for a corridor of silence that allowed reinforcements to funnel through. Irinushka's final musket blast, fired into a demon beast's maw, shut down the creature and took her with it, a sacrificial shot that stopped a hammer of destruction dead.
Random names, Bafon and Jyn and Jabor and Xior and Ryenne, died as steel met shadow, each with a small, private ending: a laugh, a hiss of pain, a plea, or the quiet click of a life snuffed while a comrade dragged their body back to the line. In every place where a body fell, there was an enemy felled beneath or beside them; every death was purchase, soul for soul, life for life, and as the tide rolled back in staccato waves the survivors felt both the ache of loss and the fierce satisfaction that each fallen had bought the lives of dozens.
Daniel, meditating and drawing the Tower's stray mana inward, felt each flicker of that sacrifice as if a string inside him had been plucked; the cost was immense, the field littered with the brave, but their deaths were not the last page, they were the fulcrum upon which the victory might yet pivot.
The plains before the Third Gate of Karion had become a sea of flame and shadow. Screams, steel, and the unholy roar of demonkind blended into one endless storm. At the forefront of that chaos stood the Hundred Holy Knights of Álfheim, their silver-and-white banners tattered but unbowed, each one shining faintly with runes of sanctified light. The air around them shimmered with the blessings of the Moonlit Covenant, a final enchantment given by their High Priest before they left their homeland.
They fought not for glory, but for remembrance.
Ser Edric Varnell, the first to fall, stood his ground against a horned brute twice his height. The demon's blade split his chest open, yet before his knees gave way, Edric thrust his own sword upward through the monster's jaw, impaling its skull. As blood poured from his mouth, he whispered, "Álfheim stands… still."
Beside him, Ser Roneth Halward charged into the infernal tide, his halberd carving red arcs through the smoke. Dozens of demons fell before him, their bodies burning to ash. But when claws tore into his back, he turned, laughing through the pain, and pulled the creature close, impaling both himself and his foe upon his own weapon.
Ser Kael Thandor fell shielding two wounded squires. He lifted his shield against a fire blast meant for them. The runes melted, his armor fused to his skin, but the squires survived, and before Kael's final breath left him, he smiled faintly, content that he had fulfilled his oath.
Ser Orwyn Dareth fought on his knees, one leg crushed, cutting at the ankles of every demon that dared approach. His last words were a curse to the dark and a prayer to the light.
From the female order, Ser Elyra Dawnveil led a charge that split a demon line clean through the middle. Her spear of holy crystal burned like a comet as she pierced through six infernals in one breath. But when their corpses collapsed, a greater demon impaled her through the chest. Still, Elyra smiled and whispered, "You will never reach him…" before detonating her spear in a burst of radiant flame that erased everything around her.
Ser Valenne Arclight raised her shield over her fallen sisters, reciting the sacred prayer of the Dawn Choir. A rain of infernal arrows blackened the sky. Her armor shattered. Her body fell. Yet her last prayer created a light dome, protecting the wounded for precious seconds longer.
Ser Nyelle Asterin met her end high above the battlefield. Wings of blessed mana carried her through the ash-streaked sky as she rained javelins down on the horde. A winged demon caught her by the throat midflight and tore her wings apart, but she dragged it with her into the flames below, screaming, "Fall with me!"
Ser Darius Maenor and Ser Cendric Halvyr fought back to back, their swords cutting in rhythm like clockwork. When they were finally surrounded, Cendric grinned and said, "At least the song ends with us." They triggered their runeblades together, two bursts of silver light wiping out their encirclement, leaving behind nothing but ash and melted steel.
Ser Myria Thorncrest, her golden hair stained red, fell kneeling as she tended to her wounded horse. She pressed her forehead to its neck, whispering, "We ride again, in the next dawn."
Ser Torrin Graveshield stood atop a mound of corpses, bleeding from a dozen wounds. His broken sword was half a blade, yet he used it to gut another demon soldier before finally collapsing, his armor sinking into the mud.
Even Ser Malric Dorne, the youngest of their order, managed to impale a greater demon through its eye before its tail crushed him into the earth. His brothers would later say his death cry sounded like a battle horn.
Ser Garan Vestry and Ser Theon Arvale guarded the flanks until the very end, their shields forming an unbreakable wall until flames devoured them both.
And then there was Ser Phaedra Triswyn, last of the line. Her voice carried across the battlefield—singing the Hymn of Twilight as she charged into the enemy's core, her blade cutting through the demonic general who commanded the vanguard. Her light burned out as she fell, but the shockwave from her strike drove back hundreds, giving the allied army time to regroup.
When the dust began to settle, only thirty knights of Álfheim remained standing. Their armor was dented, their banners soaked in black blood, their hands trembling—but their eyes still burned with defiance. Around them lay the fallen, holy runes glowing faintly on their broken blades.
And though the horns of the Abyss still howled, even the demons paused for a heartbeat, staring at the carnage wrought by a hundred mortals who had refused to yield.
The wind carried a final whisper from the field,"Tell the holy Maiden , we did not kneel."
The light of Álfheim flickered… but did not fade.
The battlefield was no longer earth — it was a storm of flame, ash, and rage. The Knights of Álfheim had fallen, and where their light faded, another rose , crimson and furious. The Lazarus Guild emerged from the haze, each member a warrior born from the old wars of the East, their guild name whispered in reverence and fear across kingdoms.
The ground trembled under their steps.The air warped from their fury.And from the wreckage of broken armor and blood, vengeance ignited.
Charlotte Lazarus, leader of the East Lazarus Guild, stood at the forefront — her twin blades flickering with fire and molten light. Tears and soot streaked her face as she stared at the bodies of the fallen knights. Her flames danced higher with each heartbeat until her swords looked like they were carved from the sun itself. "No mercy," she whispered, voice trembling, "not this time."
She lunged forward, her movements a blur of steel and light. A dozen infernal demons surged toward her, claws raised , but her fire answered with a roar. She spun, slicing through the air, and each swing became a trail of burning crescents. Demons split apart mid-charge, their bodies turning to molten chunks that hissed as they hit the ground. One greater demon tried to catch her blade, laughing — but her dagger ignited in her other hand, and she drove it through his heart, twisting until the flame erupted outward, burning a crater through his chest.
Sabine Lazarus, her sister, roared , not in grief, but in wrath. Her body shifted mid-stride, bones cracking, muscle stretching, claws replacing fingers. In seconds, the woman was gone , replaced by a humanoid tiger, a beast of muscle and fury wrapped in blazing aura. She leapt into the demon ranks, moving faster than eyes could follow. Every slash tore through armor, every roar sent shockwaves that threw lesser demons aside like leaves in a storm.
When a horned brute struck her with a flaming mace, Sabine caught it with her bare claws and crushed it. Then she grabbed the demon's face, lifting it high before slamming it into the earth with a roar that shook the ground. Her golden eyes glowed through the smoke, wild and burning, as she shouted, "For every one that falls , a thousand of you will die!"
Jacob Lazarus, the vice leader, stood still , molten veins glowing beneath his skin. His hands bled magma, dripping fire with every motion. With a word, the ground beneath him cracked open, and waves of molten rock surged outward like a living tide. Demons screamed as they sank into the liquid inferno. He swung his staff and summoned a magma whip, slicing through a winged fiend midair before turning his fury to a colossal infernal beast.He thrust both hands forward, magma bursting from the ground to form a massive hand that gripped the demon's throat. The beast clawed at the molten fist, shrieking as Jacob shouted, "Back to the pit!" The lava hand crushed until bone and flesh exploded into ash.
Oliver Lazarus, the hunter, moved through the chaos like smoke. Poison darts gleamed between his fingers as he aimed with mechanical calm. Each dart found its mark — in throats, eyes, wings. Where his toxins struck, demons fell convulsing, black ichor spilling from their mouths. He flipped backward, firing a barrage into a demon's open wound, watching it dissolve from the inside.
From behind, his sister Farrah raised her arms, vines bursting from the ground in a storm of emerald light. Roots thick as spears impaled three demons, lifting them screaming into the air before snapping shut like jaws. "You wanted to taste life," she hissed, tightening her grip, "then choke on it!" Her vines spread across the battlefield, forming walls that protected the wounded and trapped enemies in living prisons.
Above them, the sky darkened as Rainey Lazarus lifted her hand. A swarm of insects, black and gleaming like shards of night, erupted from her summoning circle. They filled the sky, a living storm of wings and stingers. "Feast!" she commanded. The swarm descended like a wave, devouring eyes, flesh, and even bone. Where her army passed, only silence followed.
Noah Lazarus charged next, his skin turning to metal , a living statue of iron and fury. His fists shattered demon skulls like glass. A sword that would have pierced through armor barely scratched his chest. He lifted a fallen pillar and swung it like a hammer, crushing ten demons in one blow.
Behind him, Bonnie Lazarus extended her hand, her eyes glowing purple. Gravity bent around her as she forced a dozen demons to their knees , their bodies too heavy to move, their wings crushed against the dirt. "Struggle," she said coldly, "and feel what true weight means." Then she reversed the pull , sending their bodies flying upward, exploding midair like stars.
Emma Lazarus, calm and analytical amid chaos, scanned the battlefield with her glowing eyes. "Target weaknesses — third rib, lower abdomen, unprotected joints!" she shouted telepathically to the others. Her guild moved like a machine, every strike aimed with precision.
Beside her, Maggie Lazarus slashed her hands through the air, summoning wind blades that shrieked like banshees, slicing through wings and necks. The air itself obeyed her rage, cutting the battlefield into ribbons.
Sophia Lazarus, standing beside Maggie, drew her bow, her arrows wreathed in flame. Every shot lit the night sky, bursting into explosions that rained embers across the ranks. "We are not done yet!" she cried, firing faster than eyes could follow.
And through the chaos came Brie, the telepath. Her voice reached every Lazarus fighter, clear and unwavering inside their minds: "Hold the line. Do not falter. For every scream , remember why we fight."
Her voice became the heartbeat of the guild, steady and warm amidst the carnage.
Not far from them, Mary Kaye Lazarus, leader of the High Strategy Guild, slammed her shovel into the ground , runes flaring across its metal. "Earth, rise!" she commanded. The ground split, sending jagged pillars of stone into demon ranks. With a single swing, she crushed a demon's skull like clay, her aura glowing gold with each movement.
Beside her, Cody Lazarus lifted both arms, shouting, "Clear the field!" A massive shockwave burst from him, a wall of kinetic force that vaporized the first demon line and sent the rest flying.
The earth shook.The sky burned.And through it all , the Lazarus Guild fought like gods wearing mortal skin.
Each member fought knowing death was near , but if they were to fall, they would do so with fire in their hands and vengeance in their hearts.
And when the dust settled, the ground was littered with demon corpses, their black blood steaming, the air glowing red from Charlotte's still-burning blades.
She looked toward the Rift , toward Thrakir , and whispered,"This world will not burn for you."