Part 1
The army of Sei advanced slowly, a dark mass devouring the horizon like an inevitable tide. In front of them, Balliard waited with barely two thousand soldiers, lined up stiffly before the walls of Arkenfel.
Behind the general, Junya Mori sat casually on a crate, bow in hand, wearing that same expression of indifference that always seemed to whisper: "None of this matters to me."
Balliard had already decided on his plan. He would throw his men forward as cannon fodder and look for an opening to escape once the tide turned.
He was a veteran, a strategist hardened by years of war, and he knew the numbers were stacked against him.
What he could not comprehend was something else entirely: why in the world were demons and the undead marching against Arkenfel? None of it made any sense by military logic.
"Comrades!" His voice rang out, firm, as if he still believed in the illusion himself. "Today I don't speak to you as your general… but as a fellow citizen."
The soldiers listened closely. Deep down, every one of them knew they were already condemned.
"Whatever the outcome of this battle… it is an honor to die by your side."
A roar of cheers swept through the ranks. The men clung to those words like shipwrecked sailors to a floating plank. Morale, though fragile, flickered to life for an instant.
From the rear, Junya let slip a faint, ironic smile. A minimal gesture.
A reminder that the speech was nothing more than the prelude to a judgment already passed.
Then Sei's voice rolled across the plain, seeping into every street of the city.
"Citizens of Arkenfel…" His tone was glacial. "Rejoice before the power of the Void."
A strange hush rippled through the enemy lines, as if even the wind itself had stopped to listen.
"I regret that you did not surrender in time," he went on, extending a hand toward the walls. "You had your chance, but you squandered it… what a pity."
A snap of his fingers.
From the shadows burst undead hounds, charging the defenses with slavering jaws and eyes of smoldering flame.
"Infantry, advance!" roared Balliard, raising his sword high. "Dragon Paladins, aerial strike! Fix your target on the leader!"
The dragons' wings beat with fury as the mounted cavalry soared into the sky, descending on Sei like a storm of steel and scales.
But the "Strategist of Darkness" merely looked up, impassive.
The dragons dove in formation, torrents of flame lighting the battlefield in burning orange hues. Their riders lowered lances infused with sacred light, confident the combined assault would crush the invader.
Sei did not move.
His eyes flashed with a violet gleam.
A circle of dark energy spread beneath his feet, rising as an invisible dome.
Sacred fire slammed against the barrier and vanished, swallowed whole without even ash to mark its passing. The lances clanged off as though striking solid steel.
"Predictable errors…" he murmured, his voice carrying with mathematical calm.
He raised a single finger toward the sky.
The dragons froze midair, suspended like insects trapped in amber. Their wings thrashed desperately, but they could neither advance nor retreat.
The soldiers on the ground looked on in horror.
Sei had no need to shout. No need to step forward. With a mere flick of his hand, he bent the very fabric of space itself.
"Let their sacrifice be an example," he said serenely, closing his fist.
In an instant, the dragons were wrenched downward like meteors ripped from the heavens. They slammed into the earth with a cataclysmic impact, splitting the ground and erupting in pillars of dust and blood.
The riders had no chance to scream.
For a few heartbeats, silence reigned over the field. Then Sei slowly turned his face toward the city walls.
"Keep advancing," he ordered, with the calm finality of an executioner who has carried out the sentence a thousand times. "Leave not a single stone standing."
And it was in that instant Balliard understood the difference.
The man before him was not a general. Nor a demon.
He was something far worse.
The thunder of the dragons crashing down had been the signal. Like a dark tide, the forces of the Void surged against Balliard's lines.
The first to arrive were the zombie hounds. They hurled themselves at shields with such violence that they splintered wood and bone alike.
The soldiers countered with spears and swords, piercing bodies that were already dead. But every hound that fell only rose again—more twisted, more ravenous, their maws dripping with fresh blood.
"Hold the line! Shields up!" a captain shouted, fighting to stem the collapse.
Screams erupted all around him. Men dragged to the ground, torn apart alive amidst the swarm of beasts. The crunch of bones and wails of agony fused into a dreadful chorus that sank deep into the hearts of even the bravest.
From atop the walls, the archers rained volley after volley, but it was useless.
The arrows struck true, only to sink into a black film that warped the metal and devoured it like acid. The creatures marched on, unstoppable.
"They don't break! They're… impossible to kill!" cried a soldier—just before a colossal foot crushed him flat.
Above, pillars of mist coiled and gave birth to new horrors: specters wrapped in chains, hurling themselves upon the paladins. A single touch corroded their armor, tore the breath from their lungs.
Balliard's men fought bravely, but it was a losing war. Every strike from the Void was final. Every human counterattack, meaningless.
From atop a rise, Sei watched it all, unflinching. His hands moved in smooth gestures, like a conductor guiding an orchestra. And with each movement, an enemy formation fell.
"Infantry, first line: advance three steps. Second line: collapse the right flank."
"Confirmed," replied his heralds over the intercoms.
The discipline of his forces was flawless. No chaos. No hesitation. Only obedience.
To the eyes of Arkenfel's soldiers, this wasn't a battle. It was a massacre.
And at the center of it stood Balliard, sword raised, straining to keep the morale of his men alive. But deep down, he knew he was losing them—one by one—to an enemy numbers and faith could not defeat.
The ground was drenched in blood and smoke. Screams blended with the roars of beasts. The army of Arkenfel crumbled like a wall corroded by death.
Balliard clenched his teeth. He could not let it end like this.
Not in front of his men.
Not with his absent son still unaccounted for.
"Paladins, with me!" he roared, raising his sword to the sky.
A golden aura burst forth around him, blazing like a newborn sun. Ancient runes ignited along his blade, and the very air trembled under its power.
"Supreme Technique… Lion's Standard!"
The aura surged outward like wildfire, sweeping away the creatures of the Void nearby. Many zombies and hounds were reduced to ash. Human soldiers cried out with a final breath of hope.
Even Sei, from his vantage, inclined his head slightly.
"Impressive. But… pointless."
Balliard knew it too. That strike would not change the outcome. It would only buy a few minutes.
"Retreat!" he roared, his voice raw. "Cover my escape!"
His most loyal soldiers hurled themselves forward, ready to die for their general. Balliard, wreathed in his golden aura, carved a path through the mist with crushing blows, forcing his way to the rear.
Men screamed, the lines collapsed, but he did not stop. He knew that if he wanted to preserve even a fragment of what remained, he had to survive.
From behind, Junya watched with that same insulting calm, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.
Run, Balliard. Run as far as you want. You already know who's waiting for you at the end.
And so, as the walls of Arkenfel drowned in the colors of the Void, the general fled toward the final stage of his defeat.