Sir Andreas Drakemoor took command of the crumbling defense with the practiced efficiency of a man who had fought in a dozen border wars. His voice cut through the chaos like a blade, sharp and unwavering.
"Third company, reinforce the eastern wall! Archers to the ramparts—focus your volleys on their siege engines!" He moved through the courtyard with purposeful strides, his presence alone steadying the panicked defenders. "You men, get those barricades up! We hold this position or we die here!"
The Aurianites assault was unlike anything they had faced before. Wave after wave of enemy soldiers crashed against the fortress walls, their battle cries echoing across the valley.
They roared as they charged. "This is our moment! Today we break them!"
The response came from their rear ranks. "The fortress falls or we all die!"
Andreas gritted his teeth as he spotted movement on the horizon—dust clouds that could only mean one thing. "Reinforcements," he muttered, his grip tightening on his sword hilt. "They're bringing everything they have."
The situation was deteriorating rapidly. His men were starting to get overwhelmed by an enemy force that seemed to have doubled in size. But Andreas had not earned his title through caution.
He drew his sword, and immediately the air around him began to shimmer.
buzzz!
Aura—the manifestation of a warrior's will made manifest, the power that separated true masters from mere soldiers. It flowed through him like liquid fire, strengthening his muscles, sharpening his reflexes, transforming him from mortal man into a superhuman.
The blade in his hands erupted with brilliant white light—FLASH!
—WHOOOM!—
With a single, devastating slash, Andreas unleashed a crescent of pure energy that carved through the Aurianites front lines like wheat before the scythe—SIZZLE! CRACK! Dozens of men simply ceased to exist, their bodies reduced to ash and memory in the face of such overwhelming power.
"HOLD THE LINE!" he roared, his voice now carrying the supernatural force of his aura. Without hesitation, he leaped from the ramparts, landing among the enemy soldiers with the impact of a falling star.
—CRASH! BOOM!
This was the true terror of a Swordmaster.
In a world where common soldiers were bound by the limitations of flesh and steel, Swordmasters transcended such mundane constraints. Aura transformed them into forces of nature—faster than arrows, stronger than siege engines, more destructive than a dozen mages combined. Their bodies became weapons capable of shattering stone with bare hands, their senses expanded beyond mortal comprehension, their endurance seemingly limitless.
Andreas carved through the Aurianites ranks like a death incarnate. Each swing of his blade sent waves of energy that cut through armor as if it were paper. Enemy soldiers fled before him, and those too slow to retreat found themselves facing a glowing avatar of destruction.
The Aurianites, however, had not come unprepared.
"Mages!" their commander screamed in his native tongue. "Focus everything on the Swordmaster!"
Fireball ! Icicle lances ! Thunderbolt !
Bolts of fire and ice began raining down on Andreas's position.
—WHOOSH! CRACK! SIZZLE!
Lightning crackled across the battlefield—BZZZZT! CRACKLE!—
The concentrated magical assault would have reduced any normal warrior to cinders, but Andreas merely found it... annoying.
His aura flared brighter, deflecting the worst of the spells while he continued his methodical slaughter. Flames parted around him like water, ice shards shattered against his energy field, and lightning earthed itself harmlessly against his supernatural defenses.
The battlefield had become his domain. Wherever he walked, Aurianites died. Wherever his sword pointed, their lines broke. He was a one-man army, a force of nature made flesh, and for a moment it seemed as though he might single-handedly turn the tide of the entire battle.
Then the fortress cannons fired. All of them. At once.
Directly at him.
BOOOOOM! CRASH!
The coordinated barrage came without warning—massive iron balls trailing fire and smoke, launched from the very walls he had been defending moments before. The thunderous roar of the cannon fire was deafening, but not as shocking as the realization that struck him even as he threw himself aside.
His own men were firing at him.
The cannonball's explosion sent him crashing into a pile of rubble, he didn't protect his back with aura properly as he thought the enemies were all facing him. His aura flickered as pain lanced through his body, and for the first time in years, Sir Andreas Drakemoor tasted his own blood.
Before he could fully process what had happened, figures emerged from the chaos around him—not Aurianites, but men wearing the colors of the fortress garrison. They moved with mechanical precision, their eyes vacant and distant, but their hands were firm as they grabbed his arms and legs.
"What—" Andreas struggled against their grip, confusion warring with trained instinct. "Release me! What madness is this?"
"Are you betraying the kingdom?" he roared at the soldiers holding him down. "Have you lost your minds?"
That was when the arrow came.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl as the projectile flew—whizzzz!
It flew through the air with deadly precision, weaving between the bodies of fighting men, past the clash of steel—clang! clash!—and the burst of spells—crackle! whoosh!—threading through the chaos of battle like it had been guided by fate itself.
The arrowhead was dark with some viscous coating that gleamed wetly in the afternoon sun. It spun lazily through the air, its white feathers bright against the bloody war scene. Only when it was a meter close to his face did Andreas notice the projectile.
He tried to move, but the soldiers holding him down were using their own bodies as anchors. The arrow continued its inexorable approach, growing larger and larger in his vision until—
It grazed his left cheek as he slightly turned his head.
The cut was shallow, barely more than a scratch, but the effect was immediate and devastating. Fire erupted along his nerve endings as the poison—for it was most definitely poison—began its work. His aura flickered and dimmed as foreign chemicals raced through his bloodstream, carrying numbness and weakness in their wake.
"TREACHERY!" Andreas bellowed, his voice carrying such fury that several of the men holding him actually flinched. Rage filled him like molten steel, burning away confusion and doubt. His aura blazed back to life, brighter and more violent than before, and the soldiers restraining him found themselves holding onto a force of nature in its death throes.
He broke free with explosive violence—CRACK! SNAP!— his enhanced strength shattering bones and sending bodies flying—THUD! CRASH! The men who had dared lay hands on a Swordmaster paid for their audacity with their lives, and as he cut them down Andreas wasn't aware of movements in his peripheral vision.
Shadows.
Two figures in dark clothing, moving through the battlefield with purpose and coordination that spoke of careful planning. They moved quickly between the fighting men like ghosts, and wherever they passed, more of his own soldiers turned against him.
One of the figures—slender, quick, definitely female—ran between a group of fortress defenders, her blade flashing as she cut shallow wounds across their arms and shoulders. The steel gleamed wet and red, but not just with blood. Whatever she was coating that weapon with, it was having an immediate effect on anyone it touched.
[Skill Absolute Dominion is in effect. ]
The second figure followed in her wake, his lips moving as he ran. In the chaos of the battlefield, it was hard to make sense of what he was saying, his words were obviously not directed at everybody. But he made sure at least the ones who were struck by his partner could hear.
[Controlled units : 67]
"Kill Sir Andreas."
One of the wounded soldiers immediately turned, his eyes becoming glassy and unfocused, and charged at Andreas with suicidal determination.
[Controlled units : 68]
"Restrain the swordmaster at the cost of your life."
Another man, bleeding from a fresh cut on his arm, threw himself at Andreas's legs with no regard for his own safety.
[Controlled units : 69]
"Focus on injuring the Swordmaster's right ankle."
[Controlled units : 70]
"Obstruct Sir Andreas's vision of the ballistas."
[Controlled units : 71]
"Drive the Swordmaster toward the north side."
Each command was delivered with cold precision, and each was obeyed without question by men who moments before had been loyal soldiers of the border. Andreas found himself facing not just the Aurianites army, but his own men turned against him by some form of dark magic.
The poison in his system was spreading, making his movements sluggish and his vision blur at the edges. He poured more aura into his body, using the supernatural energy to burn away the toxins, but it was a losing battle. Every moment he spent fighting the poison was aura he couldn't use for combat, and his reserves were not infinite.
The Aurianites, sensing their opportunity, pressed their attack with renewed vigor. Their mages concentrated their spells on him while their infantry formed a tightening circle, cutting off his escape routes. They understood, as any competent military force would, that the Swordmaster was the keystone of the entire defense. Remove him, and the fortress would fall within hours.
They chanted as they closed in. "The demon falls! Victory is ours!"
(Who planned this? Did it start since the walls were breached?) Andreas's thoughts surged even as his body battled on instinct.
(The First Prince? Ambitious enough. Ruthless enough. But he has nothing to gain from helping Aurianis.
The Third? Less likely. But his supporters always did favor unconventional solutions.
Or is this something else? Aurianis, maybe? Some deeper scheme masked as conquest?)
His vision blurred. (Damn it... getting slower. Every swing feels heavier.
The poison's working faster than I thought.
My aura's faltering. Can't hold this pace for long.
I need answers—)
He ducked a blow, barely. (—before this kills me first.)
The questions swirled through his mind even as his sword carved through enemy flesh. His movements were becoming more labored, his strikes less precise. The poison was winning its war against his aura, and he could feel his strength slipping away with each passing moment.
Half an hour passed in a blur of blood and steel.
Andreas fought like a man possessed, his blade weaving patterns of death through the ranks of his enemies. But for every soldier he killed, be it Aurianites or Umbrasian, two more seemed to take their place. For every possessed soldier he cut down, another appeared to hamper his movements or obstruct his vision.
(Why won't they stop coming?)
Andreas moved on instinct now—blade flashing, boots sliding through blood-soaked stone—but the tide didn't slow.
His arms ached. His grip was slipping.
(How many have I cut down? Hundreds? A thousand? I lost the count.)
He parried, barely. The clang of steel was starting to sound distant, like it echoed from underwater.
(They're not just soldiers. They're not... right. Eyes too blank. Movements are too stiff.)
Another slash, another corpse. But the press tightened. The corridor narrowed.He felt something clawing inside his chest—not claws of steel, but of fear.
(What if this isn't just a battle? What if this is the end?
I wasn't supposed to die here. Not like this. Not like a trapped animal, drowning in blood and ghosts.)
A sword scraped his ribs. He didn't even feel it at first. Just warm wetness, and the sudden sway of balance.
(I have to move. Have to keep moving. Can't stop. Can't think. Just swing. Swing until the end.)
The two shadowy figures continued their work, circling the battlefield like vultures, ensuring that the pressure on him never relented and that their mind-controlled pawns remained focused on their task.
His aura was running low. The brilliant glow that had surrounded him at the battle's beginning had dimmed to a barely visible shimmer. His sword, which had once blazed like a star, now flickered weakly. The poison had spread throughout his system despite his efforts to burn it away, and every movement sent fresh waves of numbness through his limbs.
(I'm going to die here,) he realized with crystalline clarity. (I'm going to die, and I don't even know who's responsible.)
But Sir Andreas Drakemoor had not survived years of warfare by accepting defeat gracefully.
With a final surge of will, he gathered the last bits of his aura and exploded outward in all directions—BOOOOM! The blast of energy sent friend and foe alike tumbling backwardncreating a momentary gap in the encirclement that had been slowly crushing him.
He ran.
It went against every instinct he possessed, violated every oath he had sworn, but tactical retreat was sometimes the only path to eventual victory. He crashed through the thinning ranks of Aurianites, his fading aura just barely enough to keep him ahead of pursuit, and stumbled toward the treeline that marked the edge of the battlefield.
Behind him, he could hear the sounds of victory cries of the Aurianites. The fortress was lost. The border was broken. And somewhere in the chaos he was left behind.
The forest embraced him with cool shadows and relative silence. He collapsed against the trunk of an ancient oak, his chest panting as he struggled to draw breath. The poison had reached his heart now, and each beat sent fresh fire through his veins. His vision was blurring, darkness creeping in from the edges like a tide.
As consciousness began to slip away from him, he heard footsteps approaching through the underbrush.
Two figures emerged from the trees— the shadowy pair who had orchestrated his downfall. Even up close, it was hard for him to draw their silhouettes. A woman with green hair and the lean build of a trained assassin. And beside her...
A young man he would directly recognize if he could see him.
"Damn," the young man said, his voice carrying the casual tone of someone discussing the weather.
"I didn't mean to kill him, just weaken him enough to make him manageable. But I wasn't entirely sure how much a Swordmaster could take." He tilted his head, studying Andreas with academic interest. "Still, not a bad reference point for future encounters."
"In normal conditions, an aura user would be untouchable because they can coat themselves with aura and block damage. I believe his last outburst was the last drop of his aura." Elena indicated.
He turned to his companion with the same nonchalant air. "Elena, you wouldn't happen to have an antidote on you, would you? It would be rather inconvenient if he died before I could properly—"
Darkness claimed Sir Andreas Drakemoor before he could hear the rest of the conversation.
Three days later, the news reached the capital like wildfire through dry grass.
The Aurianis Kingdom had broken through the eastern border fortress of Eisenwall after a siege that lasted barely two hours. They had swept aside the kingdom's defenses with unprecedented efficiency, leaving nothing but smoke and ruin in their wake. The fortress that had stood unconquered for over a century of the Umbrasia kingdom lay in rubble, its garrison dead or scattered to the winds.
Sir Andreas Drakemoor, Knight of the Second Prince and one of the kingdom's most formidable Swordmasters, deserted the Battlefield and is now wanted for high treason. The bastard prince, Elias Mortis Blackheart, and all his servants were claimed by the flames of Eisenwall; their remains charred beyond recognition.
The Aurianites were marching inland, their war banners streaming in the wind as they advanced toward the heartland. Behind them, the eastern provinces burned with the raging flames of conquest, painting the horizon in shades of orange and red.
In the halls of power, princes and nobles began to whisper of betrayal and treason. But none suspected that their greatest enemy was not the foreign army at their gates, but the forgotten bastard prince who had supposedly died in exile.
The game had changed. The players had shifted.
And somewhere in the chaos of a burning world, an emperor who had once conquered continents was beginning to reclaim his throne.