While below the massacre spread like a bloodstain upon the earth, above, in the sky darkened by mist and smoke, another equally violent battle unfolded.
The sky was a chaos of wings, claws, and lightning.
In the midst of that whirlwind of death, one figure stood out above all others. The Black Steel Raven — the summon that Ash had unleashed moments before plunging into his own madness — moved among the low clouds like a nightmare made of metal and dark feathers.
The creature was imposing. Standing five meters tall from head to claws, the raven dominated the aerial battlefield like a winged warlord. Its body was clad in black metal that gleamed with oily reflections under the faint light of torches and the skills burning on the ground. It was not a living being, not truly. It was a construct of the spell, an echo of something Ash had defeated and claimed as his own. But at that moment, soaring over the battlefield, it seemed more real than any creature of flesh and bone.
Its legs, sheathed in the same black metal, ended in claws as long as sharpened blades. Each claw measured nearly half a meter in length, curving downward in a shape specifically designed to tear, to pierce, to destroy. The claws opened and closed with a metallic sound reminiscent of swords being sharpened.
And before it, five fallen beasts awaited.
The Lugals — the messengers of the spire, as some sleepers who had survived previous encounters called them — were abominations roughly two meters tall, though their wingspan was much greater. Their appearance was disturbingly beautiful if one ignored the horror of their details. They resembled griffins from some forgotten legend, but distorted by the corruption of the spell. Their color was pale, almost sickly, like flesh that had never seen sunlight. Their slender, streamlined bodies seemed made for speed, for cutting through the air like blades.
But the most disturbing thing was the multiple legs protruding from their chests.
Not two, not four. At least six or eight additional limbs sprouted from each messenger's torso, writhing like blind worms, each ending in a smaller but equally lethal claw. These accessory legs allowed them to cling to their prey while flying, or to defend themselves from attacks from impossible angles. Their wings were made of white flesh and feathers, a grotesque combination of the organic and what might have been beautiful if it weren't so terribly wrong.
Five of them surrounded the Steel Raven.
But the raven showed no fear. It couldn't. It was a summon, a magical construct without emotions beyond those Ash imprinted upon it. And at that moment, the only emotion Ash had was fury.
The battle began.
The first messenger launched itself at him with a piercing shriek that cut through the air like a needle. Its multiple legs reached forward, seeking to latch onto the raven, while its beak — sharp and cruel — aimed directly at its opponent's metallic eyes.
The Steel Raven did not retreat.
Instead, it surged forward with a speed that contradicted its size. Its wings spread fully, beating the air with such force that they created a gust of wind so intense that the other four messengers had to struggle to maintain course. The raven's claws opened and, in a movement so fast it was barely visible, caught the first messenger by the torso.
The metal blades pierced the pale flesh without resistance.
The messenger shrieked, writhing violently, its additional legs scratching at the raven's metal in a desperate attempt to break free. But the Steel Raven was built for war. Its metal plates resisted the scratches, and its claws closed with the force of a hydraulic press.
The messenger's body split in two.
The upper half fell toward the ground, spinning uncontrollably, while the lower half remained trapped in the raven's claws for a moment longer before being tossed with disdain toward the other messengers.
One of them couldn't dodge the macabre projectile. The impact unbalanced it, making it stagger in the air, and that was all the mistake the Steel Raven needed.
A second beast fell.
The raven swooped down on the disoriented messenger like a hawk on defenseless prey. This time it didn't use its claws. It opened its beak — another weapon, another instrument of death — and drove it into the creature's head. The metal beak pierced skull and brain in a single motion, and when the raven withdrew its head, the messenger plummeted toward the ground, dead before impact.
Two abominations eliminated in less than a minute.
The three remaining messengers instinctively scattered, their hunter instincts suddenly recognizing that they were not the predators in this equation. But the Steel Raven didn't give them time to regroup.
It spread its wings and from the tips of each metal feather, sparks began to emerge. The sparks grew, intensified, became full lightning bolts that jumped from one feather to another, charging the raven's body with visibly blue electricity.
Lightning.
The raven hurled the first lightning bolts at the nearest messenger. The bolts crossed the air in fractions of a second, too fast for any flying creature to dodge. They struck the messenger in the chest, in the wings, in the multiple legs sprouting from its torso.
The abomination convulsed violently, its muscles contracted by the electricity, its feathers burning. It shrieked, a horrible sound mixing pain and surprise, and began to fall. But the Steel Raven didn't wait for it to hit the ground. It was already turning toward the fourth messenger.
More lightning.
These struck the creature in one of its wings, burning white flesh and feathers down to the bone. The messenger lost its balance, spinning uncontrollably, but managed to maintain altitude with a violent flapping of its remaining wing. It wasn't enough. It wouldn't be.
The raven lunged at it, claws extended, and this time there was no resistance. The metal blades pierced the messenger's chest, piercing lungs and heart, and when the raven spread its claws outward, the abomination's body opened like a macabre flower.
Four of five.
The last messenger, witnessing the death of its companions, made a decision few abominations ever made. It fled.
It beat its wings desperately, ascending toward the higher clouds, seeking to escape the metal demon that had massacred its brothers in minutes. But the Steel Raven was not made to let prey escape.
The lightning that struck the fifth messenger was the brightest of all. It lit up the sky like a second sun, momentarily blinding the sleepers fighting on the ground. The messenger fell like a stone, its body charred, its feathers reduced to ashes that floated in the wind like black snow.
The Steel Raven hovered in the air, surrounded by the remains of its enemies. Its wings still crackled with residual electricity. Its claws dripped black blood. Its beak, slightly open, seemed to smile.
But the battle in the sky was not over.
Below, beyond where the raven could clearly see, other flying abominations descended toward the battlefield. They were smaller than the messengers, less powerful, but far more numerous. A cloud of winged creatures, a hundred or perhaps two hundred, swirled above the defensive lines of the sleepers, seeking weak points, seeking to fall upon the wounded and those who had strayed from their groups.
They never reached the ground.
A network of steel threads awaited them.
From strategic positions around the camp, sleepers specialized in control and trap skills had deployed a network almost invisible in the literal sense. The threads were fine as hairs, nearly impossible to see in the gloom, but stronger than any normal steel rope. They stretched between tents, between formations, creating a barrier that no flyer looked for because one rarely looks up when death comes from the front.
The first wave of flying abominations crashed into the net.
The threads cut wings, severed limbs, trapped entire bodies in an invisible steel prison. The shrieks of the trapped creatures rose above the battlefield, mingling with the roars of the ground monsters and the screams of the sleepers.
But the net was not static. The sleepers controlling it could move the threads, adjust tensions, create new barriers in real time. The abominations that managed to avoid one section of threads encountered another. Those that cut one thread discovered ten more behind it.
It was a silent massacre, orderly, almost clinical.
The winged creatures fell by the dozens, their bodies cut to pieces by the invisible threads. Their wings detached and floated in the air for a moment before joining their owners on the ground. Their throats opened on their own as they flew, blood spraying like black rain upon the combatants below.