At the border between the Nation of Sacrifice and the Beastman tribe of Aira stood a massive wall that pierced the clouds.
Inside the wall was human territory; beyond it lay a dead, desolate wasteland.
Thousands of years of war had scarred the plains outside the wall. The once-fertile land had been burned and trampled so many times that no trace of life remained. Countless corpses had piled up over the ages, filling the soil with a stench so thick it never faded.
This cursed expanse was known as the Bloodstained Plains, and the colossal wall beside it—the one that stretched across two great empires—was called the Gordian Wall of Despair, humanity's last eastern line of defense.
Most simply called it the Great Wall of Watchers.
Today, like every day, the wall was under siege.
From beyond the horizon, endless waves of beastmen swarmed toward it, screaming as they charged.
Their weapons were crude, their armor little more than rags, and they had no siege engines. Against the towering wall, they seemed impossibly small.
Yet after countless millennia of assaults, even the outer surface of the wall had been worn down—pitted with uncountable tiny holes and cracks.
The beastmen used these footholds to climb, one after another, clawing their way upward.
Most never made it halfway before falling to their deaths, their bodies swallowed by the endless tide below.
But the next wave always followed, climbing over the fallen without hesitation.
In many places, mountains of corpses had formed, packed so tightly that new beastmen could climb them like steps to reach higher.
Whenever the piles grew too high, the defenders atop the wall would toss down fire spells or burning torches.
At first, the flames would ignite the corpses—but the piles were so dense that air could not flow between them. The fires at the top would burn out before the ones below could catch.
Some beastmen would even charge through the flames, their burning bodies adding to the heap.
And so the corpse mountains grew higher and higher, until the beastmen could leap directly onto the battlements.
When that happened, brutal melee would erupt along the wall.
Even though the armies stationed here represented the combined might of humanity's three greatest empires, the pressure never lessened.
Beastmen were endless. Humans were not.
Every so often, the defenders would falter.
When the line broke, it fell to the transcendents—the powerful few who stood above mortals—to charge forward, slaughter the invading beastmen, and reclaim the wall.
Klaus was one of those transcendents.
Ordinary battles were handled by regular soldiers and low-tier transcendents. But when chaos consumed the battlefield, the higher-rank ones—third and fourth-tier fighters—were called in.
Klaus was a Fourth-Tier Earth Knight, one of the strongest defenders stationed here.
That meant his job was mostly to watch from the towers and step in only if disaster struck.
"Another peaceful day,"
he murmured, gazing down at the raging battle below and the endless sea of beastmen beyond.
In truth, he was grateful to be "only" an Earth Knight.
After all, Earth Knights had the lowest death rate among the wall's defenders.
The same could not be said for the Sky Knights, who fought above.
Klaus looked upward.
The sky was alive with flashes of magic—violent surges of elemental energy and thunderous explosions that outshone even the chaos below.
That was where the Fifth-Tier transcendents fought.
Because their destructive power was too great, the high-tier battles were forced to take place in the air.
Earth Knights like Klaus, who couldn't fly, could only watch from below.
"Let's hope winter comes early this year,"
Klaus sighed, yawning as he pulled a small flask from his coat and took a sip.
The liquor burned pleasantly in his throat, warding off the bite of the autumn wind.
"Just three more months and I can retire. With the merits I've earned, I should be able to buy myself a decent title.
Maybe I'll move to the capital... no, too competitive. Perhaps I'll settle back home instead."
He yawned again. Twelve-hour shifts left him perpetually tired, even if he barely had to fight.
"Half an hour more, then shift change,"
he muttered, trying to comfort himself.
But then—his pupils shrank.
He saw something that should not exist here.
A girl was descending from the sky.
She was small—a silver-gray-haired loli.
Her long hair was tied into twin ponytails with two strips of beast sinew.
A strip of white bandage wrapped tightly around her flat chest, and a fur pelt hung loosely from her waist as a short skirt, slipping just enough to reveal her tanned, toned skin.
Her body was compact yet athletic—firm thighs, strong arms, smooth muscle lines that did nothing to diminish her beauty.
The curve of her slim waist, her subtle abs gleaming under the sunset's light, gave her an almost dangerous allure.
But Klaus felt no attraction—only a primal, all-consuming terror that clawed through every nerve in his body.
"T-The Silvermoon Princess... the Fanged Howl of Blood!"
The girl's ears twitched.
"Fanged Howl of Blood?" she repeated softly, lifting her gaze toward the tower.
Her crimson eyes locked onto Klaus.
"You humans never learn, do you?"
She floated higher, her voice like a blade of ice. There was no emotion in her eyes—only cold disdain.
"To think a swarm of insects dares give my father, the Wolf King, such an ugly name.
Who gave you that courage?"
As she spoke, waves of deathly energy erupted across the battlefield, coiling around her like a living storm. Within the miasma, Klaus could see the faint shapes of wailing spirits, clawing and shrieking in agony.
Then, from above, a furious shout split the sky:
"Nikki! You dare—!"
But the gray-haired girl—Nikki—only smiled, baring a small, sharp fang.
She ignored the voice entirely.
Behind her, the swirling death energy formed a massive, intricate magic circle.
"Supreme War Magic—Death Battle: No Escape."