The wind that morning was stiflingly strange, carrying none of the usual dawn breezes, but rather something heavy—oppressive. It was as if the forest itself was holding its breath. The army of Uruk slithered like an iron serpent through the tangled trees, led by King Karis Krios, the immortal-blooded knight, riding at the front on his armored black steed. He scanned the path in silence, his senses drawn tight like a honed blade.
"The forest is too quiet..." murmured one of the commanders beside him. Karis said nothing. He knew. This silence was unnatural. No birds, no rustling leaves... as if someone had murdered life in this place.
Then came the whistle.
Not the whistle of wind, but the whistle of death.
Arrows rained down.
From between trees, from high above in the branches, from holes hidden beneath moss and roots. Dozens, hundreds, thousands of arrows poured down upon the front lines of Uruk's army, tearing through flesh like furious meteors. Screams of death erupted, metal clanged against chaos, and panic laced the air like poison.
"Ambush!" a commander shouted.
But the word came too late. A quarter of the army fell within the first few minutes.
Karis did not move. His eyes ignited with a quiet savagery, and he gave a single command:
"Form the shield circle. Elephants to the front. Bring me the greatsword."
The cavalry surged forward, shields aligning into a protective shell around what remained of the army. At the heart of it, Karis dismounted, drawing forth his massive sword—rumored to be forged from a meteorite's heart.
Then he charged.
Like a comet, he hurtled toward the trees.
The trees exploded.
Out from them came soldiers of the Kingdom of Ashur, blades laced with venom, moving like ghosts of the forest. Their plan was clear: assassinate Karis. Cut off the head.
But they forgot who the head was.
In a blink, Karis was among them.
With a single blow, he split a man from shoulder to hip, blood fountaining around him. He stepped on the corpse and spun, his sword becoming a storm of steel. Three fell. Then seven. Then nineteen.
He wasn't fighting. He was dancing. And the dance was madness.
"He's not human..." whispered one of Ashur's soldiers—moments before his skull caved in beneath the king's fist.
Elsewhere, Uruk's army struggled to regain footing. Commanders shouted, horns blared, hooves pounded the earth, soldiers advanced and fell back, again and again.
The enemy was well-organized. Well-trained. They knew the forest like their own skin. They struck, vanished, and struck again.
But the tide had turned.
From the depths of the rear lines, Uruk's elite soldiers emerged. They wore dark armor emblazoned with the insignia of the Kingdom of Uruk across their chests—men forged in the torture pits of Kaliris, where pain tempered steel and broke weakness.
They entered the battle like a living shadow—merciless, unyielding, silent.
Within twenty minutes, the battle shifted.
Karis was now drenched in blood—some his own, most not.
A wound bled from his shoulder, and an arrow was buried in his side. But his gaze never wavered.
He spotted the Ashur ambush commander attempting to flee westward atop a grey horse.
Calmly, Karis turned his blade, then hurled it like a spear.
It pierced the man's chest, lifting him off the saddle. For a moment, time itself froze.
Then the sword fell to the ground... and with it, so did the battle.
What remained of Ashur's fighters scattered like hounds without a master.
But Karis raised his hand and spoke, his voice low and absolute:
"Do not let them flee. Our blood will not be spilled in vain."
The surviving soldiers surged forward, with broken teeth and burning hearts, and ended what remained.
None were spared.
When all fell silent, the sun had tilted westward, and the forest floor had turned into a swamp of blood and ash. The whispers of the dead seemed to ride the wind.
Karis stood amidst the corpses, breathing slowly, as though he bore the cost of victory upon his shoulders.
One of the commanders limped toward him between the fallen.
"Your Majesty… a quarter of our forces are gone."
Karis said nothing. He stared into the horizon, his violet eyes cold—seeing something beyond the rising smoke.
Then he whispered:
"Burn this forest... We shall never pass through it again."