Chapter 0044: The Gathering Storm
Inside the newly restored hall—still rough stone but alive with banners and flickering torchlight—Raiden sat at the head of a round table, surrounded by his most trusted.
Vaeryx, her armor still dusted with the ruins of the temple.
Roran, a fresh scar across his cheek but fiercer than ever.
Arden, the battle-mage, blue sigils glowing faintly on his skin.
General Thane, the grizzled veteran who had sworn allegiance after seeing Raiden's duel against Na'therion.
Maps were spread across the table—villages, forests, mountains—and enemy banners marked in blood-red ink.
Vaeryx pointed at the southern border.
"The Obsidian Empire moves. Fast. Scouts say their vanguard will reach our lands within weeks."
"Not just them," Roran added grimly.
"Several minor lords from the east. They see us as a threat... or an opportunity."
Raiden leaned back, eyes cold with thought.
The dream of a new kingdom had lit a fire—but it had also drawn every wolf from the shadows.
"We don't have the numbers to match the Obsidian Empire head-on," General Thane said bluntly.
"They'll crush us if we fight them in open fields."
Arden nodded, tapping a spot on the map.
"But the terrain favors us. Narrow passes. Deep forests. If we fight smart, we can bleed them dry before they even see our walls."
Raiden stood.
"No more running. No more hiding."
He looked at each of them in turn.
"We will not be a kingdom of cowards. We will fight—but we will fight like Stormwalkers."
Lightning cracked outside, as if the very world heard his oath.
"We strike first."
The Stormwalkers moved like a living storm.
Blacksmiths worked day and night forging weapons marked with storm sigils.
Scouts rode hard through the wildlands, mapping every inch of terrain for ambushes.
Mages weaved wards into the walls of the stronghold, defenses that would burn any invader who dared breach them.
Raiden himself led the training grounds—teaching farmers to wield spears, hunters to fire volleys, and even children to run messages through secret paths.
Hope and fear pulsed through the air.
Everyone knew: the days ahead would decide everything.
But far away, unseen by mortal eyes, a darker gathering began.
In the obsidian halls of the Empire, Emperor Varkos knelt before a being clothed in shadows—an ancient power long forgotten by the world.
"The Bloodborn rises," the shadow hissed.
"Tear him from the earth before he can root himself. Or lose everything."
Emperor Varkos smiled coldly, standing.
"I will bring Raiden Stormbreaker's head to your feet."
And behind him, thousands of soldiers clad in black steel began their march toward Raiden's newborn kingdom.
Dawn crept slowly over the mist-covered hills.
At the outer edges of Raiden's claimed territory, the Stormwalkers waited in silence.
Spearmen formed tight lines. Archers readied arrows dipped in oil. Hidden mages whispered spells into the earth.
Raiden rode along the front lines atop his black warhorse, Stormrider. His presence was like a bolt of electricity, sharpening the nerves of every man and woman there.
Vaeryx rode beside him, her sword glinting with fresh enchantments.
"You feel it too, don't you?" she asked, scanning the horizon.
Raiden nodded.
The storm was coming.
And they would meet it head-on.
Through the morning mist, the first wave of the Obsidian Empire appeared—armored knights mounted on skeletal warhorses, banners black as pitch.
Behind them, rank after rank of foot soldiers stretched as far as the eye could see.
General Thane, standing atop the battlements, muttered a curse.
"That's not a scouting party. That's an execution force."
Raiden drew his blade slowly. Lightning crackled along its edge.
"We'll make them regret underestimating a storm."
With a blast of horns, the enemy charged.
Raiden's voice rang out like thunder:
"Loose!"
Hundreds of flaming arrows arced into the sky, falling like a fiery rain into the charging soldiers. Screams filled the air as the first ranks collapsed in chaos.
From the woods, hidden Stormwalker squads burst forth—ambushing flanks, setting traps, toppling trees to crush armored columns.
Raiden led a cavalry strike straight into the heart of the invaders, lightning dancing around him.
The battlefield became a swirling tempest of fire, steel, and fury.
Among the enemy lines, a massive figure emerged—an Obsidian Champion clad in spiked armor, wielding a hammer as large as a wagon wheel.
He roared a challenge, charging straight for Raiden.
Raiden spurred Stormrider forward to meet him.
Their clash shook the ground.
The Champion swung his hammer with the force of a collapsing mountain, but Raiden twisted aside, delivering rapid slashes that sparked against the black armor.
Still, the Champion was relentless, each blow pushing Raiden closer to the cliff's edge.
With a final feint, Raiden lured the Champion into overextending—then drove his sword between the plates of the giant's armor.
The Champion stumbled, roared—and fell.
The enemy's morale broke at the sight.
By nightfall, the field was theirs.
The first blood had been drawn—and it had been the Empire's.
Stormwalkers stood bloodied but victorious, cheering Raiden's name.
Yet as Raiden surveyed the fallen soldiers, he knew this was only the beginning.
Vaeryx approached, wiping blood from her cheek.
"We won," she said, but there was a question in her voice.
Raiden looked to the south, where dark clouds gathered—not natural ones, but conjured by dark forces.
"No," Raiden said.
"We survived the first strike. Now... the real storm begins."
The field was quiet now.
Crows circled above charred bodies, and a heavy silence hung over the scorched earth. The Stormwalkers moved like ghosts among the wreckage—gathering their wounded, burying the dead, and salvaging what they could from the Empire's fallen.
Raiden stood at the ridge overlooking the battlefield, the wind tugging at his torn cloak. His victory was undeniable—but so was the price. Good men and women had fallen, and the Empire was far from finished.
Vaeryx approached from behind, her armor scratched and bloodied, her expression unreadable.
"They pulled back," she said. "But they didn't flee."
"They never intended to win today," Raiden replied. "This was a test."
"A distraction?" she asked.
Raiden's eyes narrowed.
"No. A message."
That night, under a moonless sky, darkness moved within the kingdom.
A patrol went silent near the southern border.
A village reported vanishing livestock and villagers screaming about shadows with teeth.
And in the inner keep, a Stormwalker mage named Halen—trusted, loyal—suddenly collapsed during a spellcasting session, his body cold and black-veined, his last words a whispered phrase in a tongue no one recognized.
Arden, the high mage, examined the corpse with grim eyes.
"This isn't a curse," he said. "This is a signature. Someone marked him before the battle."
Vaeryx frowned. "Marked for what?"
Arden's voice was low. "For activation. He was a weapon waiting to be triggered."
Far to the south, deep within the blackstone citadel of the Obsidian Empire, Emperor Varkos knelt before a veiled figure wreathed in crimson mist. This was The Whisperer—an ancient entity bound in secret to the royal bloodline, whose very words could fracture minds.
"The Bloodborn's forces grow," Varkos said. "We bled, but not enough."
The Whisperer tilted its head.
"Let him win battles. It will make his fall more exquisite."
"Send in the Wyrm Priests. Break the land. Unmoor his people from their roots. Fear will do what swords could not."
The Emperor bowed.
And in the dungeons below, something ancient began to stir—a creature forged from black flame and forgotten gods.
In the stronghold, Raiden gathered the council.
"We have enemies inside our walls," he said. "The Empire's war is no longer just steel and fire. They're sending rot. Whispers. Corruption."
Roran, newly scarred and fiercer than ever, slammed his fist on the table. "Then we flush them out. Now."
Vaeryx shook her head. "No. We let them move. Let them think we're blind."
Raiden nodded. "And when they strike... we'll have our knives at their backs."
That night, guided by Arden and two trusted mages, Raiden and Vaeryx descended into the forgotten catacombs beneath the capital—an ancient labyrinth sealed since the days of the First Flame.
There, they found it: strange runes scrawled in blood across stone. Circles of black ash. Bones not from any creature they recognized.
Vaeryx drew her blade. "This isn't cult work."
Arden's voice dropped.
"No. This is Oblivion-born sorcery."
Raiden stood at the edge of the ritual circle, eyes burning with cold resolve.
"They're not just trying to kill me. They're trying to unmake what we're building."
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(To be Continue...)