The battlefield stretched across the floodplains like a broken canvas of fire, mud, and steel. What had once been fertile farmland was now a sea of churned earth, its soil blackened by the trampling of thousands of claws. Smoke curled from scattered pyres where fallen beasts had been burned, mixing with the stench of blood, sweat, and wet earth. The cries of the wounded carried above the din, mingling with the clang of weapons and the guttural roars of monsters pressing against the human line.
The rain had not stopped for two days. It fell in sheets now, drumming against helmets, running down armor, and soaking through boots until the earth became a sucking mire that clung to every step. Each soldier carried the weight of sodden clothes, exhaustion, and fear. And yet they stood — shoulder to shoulder, shields braced, pikes ready — as wave after wave of beasts hurled themselves against the wall of men.
Zed stood near the vanguard, his robes long since cast aside. In their place, he wore fitted black leathers reinforced at the joints with hardened beast hide, light enough to allow his movement, yet durable enough to turn aside claws. His Shadow Staff rested in his grip, its surface slick with rain and blood, its segments ready to shift at a moment's command. His boots were caked with mud up to the shin, and the faint crimson glow of runes pulsed beneath his skin — hidden, but waiting.
The first clash of the day came with the sound of thunder. A pack of horned boars — each the size of a horse, tusks curved like scythes — broke from the treeline in a mad charge. Their hooves pounded against the wet ground, sending tremors through the ranks. Soldiers lowered their spears in practiced unity, shields locking into a jagged wall.
"Brace!" came the cry.
The impact was catastrophic. Spears pierced hides, shattering under the force of muscle and bone. Men were thrown back as beasts rammed through, snapping pikes like twigs. Mud sprayed high as tusks gored into shields. One soldier screamed as a tusk drove through his thigh, dragging him into the muck. Blood mixed with the rain in a river that pooled at their feet.
Zed moved like a shadow through the chaos. He leapt aside as a boar lunged, his staff flicking downward to strike its skull. The beast's head caved inward with a sickening crunch, its body skidding lifeless into the muck. Another came at his side, and Zed spun, Shadowfoot carrying him just out of reach. His staff lengthened mid-spin, slamming through the beast's spine and pinning it to the earth. In a heartbeat, three more fell, their roars silenced by swift, surgical blows.
Around him, soldiers watched in disbelief. Where their blades struggled against hide, Zed's strikes tore through with ruthless precision. He fought not as a boy of their clan, but as something else — a honed predator among prey.
The line wavered, then steadied as commanders bellowed orders. "Hold formation! Close the gaps!" Men dragged the fallen back, their shields battered, their hands trembling yet unbroken. Behind them, healers rushed through the muck — women in pale linen tunics tied with crimson sashes, carrying baskets of bandages and herbs. One knelt by a wounded man, her hands slick with blood as she pressed cloth against the gaping wound. Her dark hair was tied back hastily, strands plastered to her cheeks by rain. Her lips moved in steady incantation, trying to still his breath as another soldier shielded her with his body, sword drawn against prowling beasts.
The tide did not relent. From the mist came the guttural howls of wolves, dozens of them, their fur bristling, eyes burning red. They darted through the mire with supernatural speed, leaping over fallen corpses to sink fangs into unguarded throats. Men fell screaming, dragged into the mud as blood fountained from torn flesh.
"Archers!" The command rang out, and a line of bowmen loosed. Arrows streaked into the downpour, some vanishing uselessly, but many finding their mark. Wolves yelped and tumbled, bodies twitching. Still more came, their teeth snapping, their breath steaming in the cold rain.
Zed's Vampire burst into being with a surge of dark energy. Its figure rose tall and regal, crimson eyes blazing in the storm. With a shriek that pierced the clamor, it dissolved into a swarm of bats, scattering through the air. Soldiers flinched, but the fear turned to awe as the bats swirled around the wolves, biting, clawing, disorienting them before merging once more into the pale, fanged figure. It tore into the pack with speed unmatched, ripping through flesh, teleporting from one strike to the next in a blur of red and black.
Men rallied at the sight. Their voices rose above the storm. "For the Latian clan!" someone roared, and others echoed, voices ragged but fierce. Morale surged as they watched Zed and his beast carve through the tide as if the monsters were no more than stalks of wheat.
The battle became a blur of motion. Blades flashed, shields splintered, mud sucked at legs until men fell and were trampled by claw and hoof. The rain turned the plain into a graveyard of half-buried corpses, beast and human alike. The air stank of iron and rot.
Zed moved ceaselessly, his breath steady despite the carnage. Every motion of his staff was deliberate, precise — a parry that snapped a beast's jaw, a sweep that crushed legs, a thrust that silenced snarls. His leathers clung to him, drenched and dark, but his movements remained fluid, almost effortless. Where others faltered, he pressed forward.
And still, the beasts came. Larger now. A hulking bear, its fur matted with scars, barreled into the flank. Men scattered as claws like scythes tore through armor. A squad closed in, spears jabbing, but the bear batted them aside, breaking bones with casual swipes.
Zed advanced. Mud sucked at his boots, blood splattered across his chest, but his gaze never wavered. His staff shortened in his grip, becoming twin batons. He blurred forward, dodging under a swing that would have split him in half. His strikes hammered into the bear's ribs, a dozen blows in the space of a heartbeat, bones snapping under the relentless assault. The beast roared, lunged, jaws wide — and met only the void as Zed vanished, reappearing at its flank with Void Fangs lashing. The bear collapsed in silence, its bulk shaking the ground.
For a moment, there was stillness. The soldiers gaped at him, drenched and gasping, their weapons trembling in their hands. They had seen valor before. They had seen heroes stand their ground. But this was different. This was something beyond mortal — a boy standing as if born of the storm itself, fighting with a calm that cut deeper than any blade.
And then the horns sounded. A low, mournful call carried over the field. The signal of the next wave.
From the treeline came a sound that turned stomachs cold — the thunder of countless hooves, the guttural cries of predators hungry for blood. The beast tide had only begun.
Zed tightened his grip on the staff, his jaw set. Around him, the men looked to him, not his father, not the other captains. Their eyes searched his face for certainty, for strength. And he gave it, standing tall in the mud, blood dripping from his weapon.
"Hold," he said, his voice steady despite the chaos. "We stand. No beast passes here."
The soldiers raised their voices with his, a roar that rose above the storm. For the first time, they did not see the young master as a boy. They saw him as a shield — their shield.
And so the blood-soaked plain of mud became their altar, and the storm their witness, as men and monsters clashed again and again, locked in the savage embrace of survival.