Months had passed since the gods had called forth the first crusade—months the Duchy used to reinforce its walls, train its soldiers, and prepare its people for what was coming. Men and women from every corner of the world had gathered under a single oath: to destroy the man whose arrival, foretold by the Divine Oracle, would mark the end of humanity. For weeks, the temples had sent emissaries, blessed the soldiers, and conducted rites of purification; the training grounds had become sanctuaries of sacrifice, where iron and faith were forged in the same fire. The crusade was not merely a war—it was a divine mandate, and every soul that marched carried the certainty that death was honorable if offered in the will of the gods.
The horizon turned white and gold.
Alejandro Marchen stepped forward, separating himself from the mass of the army, watching as the Faithful advanced with a precision that hovered between the military and the sacred. Every banner, embroidered with runes and symbols of the gods, swayed in rhythm with the chants, and every soldier marched with faith etched into muscle and bone. A chill ran down Alejandro's spine—pride in the strength humanity could muster… and fear, a cold, unyielding fear that would not fade until the darkness was defeated.
On the far side of the army, Emily moved with measured, hesitant steps, each one heavy as though she carried the weight of the world. Her armor caught the torchlight, as if trying to hold onto a hope she herself was no longer certain she felt. But her face betrayed the truth: accumulated exhaustion, sleepless nights, and the strain of not knowing how to fulfill what duty demanded of her. Every movement, every breath, was controlled and contained, like someone hiding a secret capable of changing everything. She knew the crusade could not be stopped, and yet, deep within her chest, every step toward the darkness felt like an act of betrayal against what she loved.
When the army entered the Duchy's territory, darkness enveloped them like a heavy shroud, swallowing all light. Soon, they could not even see their own hands. A priest of the Temple of Fire stepped forward, lighting torches and raising his voice above the thunder of drums and chants:
"Do not fear! The gods are with us!"
The words struck deep into Alejandro's heart. For a moment, he felt they did not merely address him as a soldier, but as the chosen one—the protector destined to face the coming darkness. He clenched his teeth. For the first time since his family's death, he felt the divine fire at his side—not only as a promise of power, but as a reminder of his duty. Yet beneath his armor, beneath the certainty of his role as protector, something darker stirred: vengeance. Every muscle in his body remembered the pain of losing his parents, the helplessness of watching them vanish beneath the hand of the Douglas family.
A tremor ran through the ground as the first soldiers crossed the Duchy's boundary. But soon the advance halted—the darkness was so dense they could see nothing. The heroes were forced to gather and coordinate. Emily raised a hand, and a halo of light spread over the nearest soldiers. The darkness seemed to recoil just enough for the heroes to push forward.
The first clash was about to begin.
The silence was more threatening than any battle cry; it was the proof of everything the Faithful and the heroes had built. The wind carried the scents of gunpowder, mana, and faith, mingled with a strange smell of damp earth and shadow that Alejandro had never known before. Every step deeper into the Duchy felt like a challenge: leaves cracked beneath their feet, the trees seemed to watch them, and in the dimness of the forest, the magic of the night gathered—lurking, waiting, ready to devour the light.