In the crimson blood red moons light.
The surviving assassins, battered and bloodied, froze. Fear gripped them, but in the same breath, relief poured into their voices.
"Commander…!" one of them gasped, half-collapsing to his knees.
"The Death Lord…!" another cried.
"Glory to the League! Glory to the Devil!"
Their chants grew louder, desperate, almost worshipful, as if his very presence was enough to part death's shadow from their throats.
The old man lifted a hand. With a lazy sweep of his fingers, hundreds of flaming skeletons shattered. Their bones cracked like brittle ice, fire extinguished instantly. Where they had once stood, only smoking ash fell to the snow.
His voice, gravelly yet deep as thunder, rolled across the battlefield:
"You dare bring bones and fire against me? Pathetic."
The skeletons swarmed again, reforming from shards of bone and scraps of flame. Their hollow jaws clattered like war drums, their empty sockets glowing with vengeance. But the Death Lord did not flinch.
He simply laughed and inhaled.
The flames clinging to the skeletons bent toward him, streams of fire dragged into his chest like moths to a lantern. The snow hissed and melted in wide circles around his boots. Skeletons shrieked noiselessly as the fire within them was ripped away, leaving their bones to crumble lifeless into dust.
The assassins, emboldened by the sight, raised their weapons and shouted:
"Glory to the Lord of Death Flame!"
"Glory to the League!"
The Death Lord's body swelled with each breath of fire he consumed. His muscles bulged beneath the armored plates, his veins glowing molten gold beneath the pale skin. His height doubled, then tripled, until he stood as a titan, towering above even the ruined castle walls.
Snowstorms broke around his shoulders like waves against cliffs. His hood fell back, revealing a face lined not with age, but with scars — deep, jagged cuts that told of decades of battle. His teeth ground together, and when he spoke again, his voice boomed like avalanches falling.
"Pathetic. Bones, fire, and empty defiance?"
With one step, the ground quaked. With another, skeletons exploded beneath his heel, shards of charred bone flying like shrapnel.
The assassins roared in unison:
"Glory to the Death Lord! Glory to the League! Glory to the Devil!"
The titan bent low, scooping up a cluster of skeletons in his massive hand. With casual disdain, he crushed them until their bones shrieked into powder. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he hurled the remains into the sky, scattering them like ash on the wind.
He tilted his head back, his molten eyes glaring at the storm above. His voice rose in challenge:
"Why won't you come down and fight me yourself, coward? Hiding behind bones, hiding behind fire — come face me! Show me the true master of this army!"
Silence followed, thick and heavy. The assassins shuffled, some trembling, some whispering among themselves. Then — the heavens split.
From the clouds above, crimson light pierced the blizzard. Thunder cracked, and a comet of fire descended. The ground shook violently as it struck, snow and stone blasting outward in a ring.
When the smoke cleared, another figure stood before the Death Lord.
It was not human.
The being's entire form was sculpted of crimson flames and molten lava, his body rippling with heat like a living furnace. His armor shimmered with embedded gems, each glowing with trapped magma. In his right hand he carried a colossal hammer, its head glowing white-hot, edges jagged like volcanic rock.
The assassins fell silent. Even the Death Lord paused, narrowing his molten eyes.
The flaming figure's voice reverberated like a forge, molten and commanding:
"Are you the one who dared attempt to assassinate Master Om?"
The Death Lord barked a laugh, so loud and mocking it echoed across the snowy mountains.
"So, the weak little nation hides a beast after all. I was wondering if anyone worth killing would show himself."
He licked his lips with a serpent's hunger. "Did Narad send you? That pitiful insect?"
The flaming warrior did not flinch. He rested the massive hammer on his shoulder, tilting his head slightly, voice firm and unwavering:
"I am the Third Commander of the Death God Yama's Army, a messenger of death, one of the Punishers of Yam-Lok. I have come to claim your soul. For your crimes against my Lord, judgment will be delivered."
The Death Lord's grin widened, fangs glistening.
"I will taste your flames, insect."
But before his words faded into the wind, the flaming warrior vanished.
In the next instant, he reappeared behind the titan. A thunderous explosion ripped through the battlefield.
A gaping hole appeared in the Death Lord's chest. Fire and blood burst outward, staining the snow crimson and black. Behind him, the once-proud castle exploded into rubble, consumed in a storm of flames.
The Death Lord staggered, molten ichor spilling like rivers from the wound. His organs slipped out, grotesque and steaming in the cold air, raining down like macabre snowflakes. The assassins screamed in horror, disbelief written in their eyes.
"No… impossible…"
"The Death Lord cannot fall…!"
The titan roared in agony, shaking the mountains with his fury. Yet the flaming warrior was relentless. With a brutal slash of his clawed hand, he tore open the titan's chest. Plunging deep, he wrenched free the Death Lord's heart — still beating, still aflame.
Blood erupted like a fountain, splattering across the snow in thick, steaming waves.
The assassins fell silent, their cries dying on their tongues. Terror replaced worship.
The flaming warrior held the heart aloft, its fire struggling, flickering weakly against his grasp. His molten eyes glowed brighter as his voice boomed:
"For your sins, your soul is condemned. This land will be cleansed of your corruption."
The Death Lord's massive body toppled, crashing to the earth like a fallen mountain. Snow erupted into the sky, burying corpses and shattered bones.
Yet even as silence fell, the battlefield stirred. The destroyed skeletons began to move. Cracked skulls rolled, broken ribs crawled across the snow, fragments of bone stitching together in eerie unity.
The flaming commander turned to them, his hammer raised. His command was absolute:
"Clean this place."
At once, the skeletons — rose anew, flames reignited in their hollow eyes. With renewed fury, they surged toward the assassins.
The assassins, once hundreds strong, now stood trembling, broken weapons shaking in their hands.
"No… no, this can't…"
"We can't fight them, not without the Commander!"
"Run! RUN!"
But there was nowhere to run.
The snowy battlefield erupted once more into screams, fire, and blood.