The caldera was a bowl of ash and stone, an extinct crater veined with black rock and sparse pine roots, hidden between the frost ridges and the broken hills of the north. It was wide enough to fit an army. And Altan let them enter.
Eight legions of the Dazhum marched in.
Their columns moved like clockwork, reformed into formation the moment they cleared the narrow pass from the Misty Grove. The seventh day of the war. The air stank of sulfur and snow. No banners flew, only shields raised—seven human legions formed into tight phalanx squares, one high elven legion split between both flanks, forming mirrored wings of disciplined steel.
They thought it was a trap.
But they could not see it.
Altan had prepared the caldera like a mouth about to close. But this was no mimicry of past battles. It was something born of the ground itself, drawn from the terrain, the enemy's arrogance, and the steady attrition of six brutal days. Not a collapse of the center. But its stand.
He called it the Stone Bowl.
General Erzhen of the Dazhum vanguard was the first to see them.
As his legion emerged from the grove's southern pass and into the caldera's throat, he beheld ranks already formed across the volcanic plain. Shield lines gleamed faintly in the snowlight. Silent. Still. Waiting.
A wall of discipline.
Altan's army had shown itself at last, not in ambush or retreat, but arrayed in open battle. And not scattered bands. An army. Properly formed.
Erzhen clenched his gauntlet. For six days they had chased shadows, lost thousands to fire, beasts, and trickery. Rage surged through his chest, tempered only by the cold wind.
At last, a stand.
He ordered his own ranks to form immediately. The narrow caldera was not ideal, but it was enough. Eight legions could maneuver, if they kept tight formations. He could break the enemy's center. He would. They still had numbers on their side.
Even as the last units passed through the gorge, Erzhen stood firm in his saddle, watching the enemy. No chants. No war drums. Just that silent, unnatural calm.
He felt the air shift.
The ground behind him cracked with a thunderous groan.
He turned.
The gorge collapsed.
A ridge of blackened stone gave way, and with it, the only path of retreat. Snow and ash and earth swallowed his rear guard in a choking roar. Screams vanished beneath the dust. He saw limbs jutting from the avalanche, one standard flickering before being buried whole.
A trap.
His officers shouted. Some soldiers broke ranks. Others stared, pale-faced.
But Erzhen raised his blade high.
"We still have the numbers!" he roared, voice cracking the tension. "Their center is thin! Forward!"
He saw the enemy lines shift. The shield wall advancing.
He pointed forward and screamed the only word left to him.
"CHARGE!"
At the heart of the caldera, 3.5 legions of Stormguard stood in disciplined silence. Shields locked, armor gleaming with the dull gleam of aurichalcum and darksteel. Their helms hid every feature, no faces, no sigils, no voices. From afar, they looked like silent war-golems forged from black stone.
When they moved, it was with total purpose, no hesitation, no waste. Every motion trained, every strike lethal. Their formation did not bend. It breathed. It regrew. With every Dazhum blow, Wen Tu's stormcasters, stationed just behind the front lines, rejuvenated the wounded and strengthened the shield wall.
Wen Tu stood barefoot upon barksteel roots, his war staff Verdance humming with harmonic pulses. Earth and water surged through him, channeled from the Verdant Root Sutra. He wove shields of living bark, redirected kinetic waves, and breathed qi into fallen Stormguard, restoring balance. His Inner Grove domain hummed around him, a radiant stillness amidst the chaos.
To the left and right of the center, two angled wings of Stormguard, 1.25 legions each, formed a shallow crescent. Not a trap. A pressure wall. Waiting for the seal.
But the true jaws were hidden.
High above, clinging to frost and fog on the caldera's broken ridges, 2.5 legions lay in wait. Divided evenly. To the left: Skarnulf berserkers with Bruga at their head, eyes lit with volcanic fury. Virak'tai archers, rangers, and bladefighters, silent as wind. Free Cities soldiers crouched with shields and spears in layered trap formations.
To the right: another legion, mirrored. Hardened fighters under elite Qorjin-Ke scouts, their silent commander Stormwake relaying gesture-signs. All waited. All ready.
Behind each ridge, on the caldera's far slopes, two legions of stormriders waited. One heavy cavalry. One light. Ryoku stood at their center, sword Kensho grounded, armor braced. The Iron Refrain echoed through his stillness. He would not strike first but when he did, it would be final.
And then the throat of the caldera sealed.
As the final Dazhum phalanx passed through the grove's southern mouth, war mages triggered the buried sigils.
The earth groaned.
A quarter-mile of ridge collapsed in a roar. Dust and snow thundered down. Hundreds were buried alive. Screams were swallowed. Limbs jutted from the avalanche like broken tree roots. The entrance vanished.
The caldera had become a tomb.
Still, the Dazhum advanced. Trained reflex made them pivot toward the center, tightening ranks. Spears lowered. High elven wings angled inward.
Altan raised his hand.
The center advanced.
Stormguard lines surged. Their silence struck first, no cry, no chant. Shields crashed into spear points. Spears snapped. Blades screamed.
Blood sprayed across the snow. It steamed and pooled.
The Stormguards did not overextend. Blood flowed. They flowed to the center of the caldera—it became a pool of death, drawing the heart of the Dazhum legions into the killing ground.
Wen Tu's stormcasters pulsed qi into the ground. Thorned roots burst from soil, gripping boots. Bark shields shimmered into form, absorbing arrows and shockwaves. Healing light spun in spirals as wounded Stormguard rose anew.
The Dazhum pushed. Stormguard shattered bones without mercy. One struck a spearbearer's knee, then drove his leaf-shaped saber through the screaming man's mouth. Another broke ribs with a shield edge, then twisted the corpse to block arrows.
To the flanks, the pressure built.
Stormguard wings compressed inward, not collapsing, but driving. The high elves tried to extend their lines, but found themselves flanked. Men screamed as sabers parted spines.
Then the ridges ignited.
Bruga roared from the heights, and his berserkers charged. Flaming hatchets spun. The Pyroclastic Fist struck the caldera floor, magma burst like a geyser. Men caught in the blast were cooked alive, screaming as skin melted from bone.
The Virak'tai loosed arrows in precision volleys. Eyes were pierced. Throats ripped. Arrows punched through helms.
On the right, Stormwake's Qorjin-Ke scouts leapt from shadows. Blades stabbed through armor gaps. Arrows punched into lungs. Free Cities lines swept down, catching fleeing high elves between shield and spear.
The rear twisted in confusion.
Then came the thunder.
Ryoku's cavalry broke from the ridges.
From the rear flanks, stormriders rode, one heavy, one light on each side. Hooves crushed bone. Screams rose. The heavy lancers shattered the Dazhum supply lines. Light riders wove and cut through the chaos.
Ryoku was at the head, Kensho in both hands. Every strike repeated like an echo. One slash. Then another in the same line. His blade moved like a bell's toll. A spine split. A head severed. He did not pause.
A Dazhum warden tried to rally. Bruga hit him like a falling star.
Pyrebite crushed skull and collarbone. The second strike exploded into his chest, sending rib fragments into nearby soldiers.
By mid-day, three phalanxes had collapsed.
The fourth fell when Nyzekh arrived. The Voidwalker made no sound. His twin sabers moved in anti-patterns. One Dazhum line turned to face him, and vanished.
Nyzekh's domain flickered once, then silence. Twenty meters of space erased. The enemy inside it… gone. Even the blood where they stood was gone.
Wen Tu deepened his roots. His Inner Grove spread further. The wounded stood. Qi surged into their limbs. The center held, renewed.
The Stone Bowl closed.
From every angle, the Dazhum broke. Some tried to climb. Virak'tai rangers struck them down. Others fled into corners. Stormcasters raised earth barriers, herding them like animals.
There was no way out. The collapse had sealed the caldera's only mouth with stone, snow, and broken bodies. Any thought of retreat vanished beneath tons of earth. The ridgelines were sheer and held by enemies. The Dazhum were not just trapped, they were buried alive in a bowl with no walls to scale, no sky to call for aid, and no gods to answer.
The caldera stank of burned meat, piss, and rot. Blood soaked the ash until it turned black.
By dusk, eight legions were no longer an army.
They were corpses. Or captives. Or dust.
Altan stood upon the ridge, watching the bowl he had shaped.
He did not smile.
He did not speak.
He merely watched as dusk fell and the bowl overflowed with ruin.
That night, the three-eyed crow and his murder of crows circled the caldera. They descended without fear and feasted. But Altan's soldiers noticed one thing: they only fed on the enemy dead.
The three-eyed crow watched.
He perched on a shard of black stone, above the broken standard of the Dazhum vanguard. Blood pooled beneath him, thick and steaming in the cold. His flock feasted, but he remained still.
He had seen this before.
Not the battle, but the pattern. The shape of endings. The blood glyphs written in corpses, the silent prayers of the dying. This bowl was not a grave. It was a sigil. A mark. A warning.
He turned his head once, slowly, and the world shifted. Smoke bent to his gaze. Ash parted. A soul fluttered on a broken spear, visible only to him.
He blinked his third eye. Lightless and old.
Far below, a soldier still clung to breath, buried beneath three bodies. The crow saw the shape of his death. Not now. Tomorrow.
That was enough.He opened his wings.The others followed.And the sky turned black with wings.
By dawn, the caldera was silent.No banners. No breath.Just snow drifting over broken steel,blood steaming in black soil,and bones half-buried in frost.
The bowl no longer held an army.Only snow, blood… and bones.
When he was full, the three-eyed crow returned to Altan's shoulder.