Tyrosh, The Purple Palace, The Inspection Room
"Kill him! Charge!" Boom—!
Amidst the frenzied, desperate screams of the Tyroshi regulars, Jon unleashed another burst of "Hellfire." A massive pillar of dark crimson flame erupted, completely engulfing the vanguard as they rounded the corner of the corridor.
Under the searing, supernatural heat, those caught in the center didn't just burn; they became human torches. The fire fed on the fat of their bodies, flaring brighter and hotter until the masonry itself seemed to weep.
Jon watched the burning figures stumble and fall over the battlements, shaking his head with a cold, hollow pity. It was a massacre with no tactical purpose, a waste of life that changed nothing. Yet, the enemy commander—safe behind his wall of men—refused to yield. He simply sent the next wave, and the next, flooding the narrow space with more meat for the pyre.
"Hellfire" was a high-tier fire spell from the System, famous for its lingering, area-denial properties. Saeraes Moss seemed to believe he could simply "drain" Jon's mana by throwing bodies at him until his spirit broke. But as long as Jon held the Inspection Room, the Tyroshi were trapped behind their own iron gates, unable to reach the undead laborers turning the winches in the Control Room.
Under Jon's spells and his obsidian bow, the Tyroshi paid for every inch in blood. Even as another of his Giant Poison Spiders perished in the chaos, Jon knew his primary mission remained unchanged: hold the bottleneck until the main Allied army breached the Palace gates.
The architecture of the Purple Palace, with its narrow "V-shaped" kill zones, allowed Jon to perform a feat usually reserved for the legends of the Age of Heroes—one man holding back the tide of an entire empire.
The Siege of the Soul
"Keep moving! The fire is fading!" Saeraes Moss's voice boomed from the center of the phalanx.
Thwip—Clang!
Jon locked onto the source of the voice and loosed an arrow with the force of a scorpion bolt. However, a flash of red steel intercepted the shaft. The Red Lion, the mercenary knight, spun his spear with such predatory speed that it created a shield of shadows, shattering Jon's iron arrow into splinters.
The knight wasn't merely showing off; he had learned from their last exchange. He knew that Jon's "arrows" were often infused with energy; if he simply blocked them, the shards could still maim. He now focused entirely on Saeraes's protection, neutralizing every sniper shot Jon directed at the commander.
He's using a relic-tier weapon, Jon noted, his eyes narrowing. That spear shouldn't be able to withstand my draw weight.
"The sorcerer is out of breath! Forward! In the name of the Three-Headed God!"
Seeing the Hellfire pillar vanish, the Tyroshi soldiers surged with a renewed, suicidal fervor. In the lore of the Maesters, magic was a rare, ritualistic thing—clumsy and slow. They didn't believe in "battle mages." They believed dragons were just animals, and sorcerers were just men with clever tricks.
Click.
As the soldiers charged, one man's boot depressed a section of the floor.
BOOM!
A pillar of Purple Fire erupted from the stones. Unlike the Hellfire, this magic was colder, more insidious. The flesh of the soldiers caught in the blast began to rot and putrefy instantly, while the side of their bodies not touched by the flames remained eerily pristine. The trap lasted only ten seconds, but the psychological toll was immense.
The Tyroshi hesitated. They began pushing slaves forward, using them as human shields to trigger the traps. After ten men were sacrificed to clear the path, the regulars surged again, only to hit an invisible, solid wall of air.
The soldiers in the front were crushed against the Invisible Stone Wall, while the momentum of the rear ranks pushed them forward, causing several men to be squeezed off the edge of the ten-meter-high rampart. They fell to the courtyard below with a wet, final crunch.
Saeraes Moss watched the carnage with a sinking heart. His pride was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating desperation.
"Sandy! Get the men! Bring the Fire Oil! All of it!" Moss hissed to an aide.
The Inspection Room was built of stone, designed to be fireproof from the outside, but Moss wasn't trying to burn the building down. He was trying to create a literal lake of fire in the corridor to halt the Allied army's advance once the gates opened. He needed to buy time for the Magisters to flee. If the leadership escaped, Tyrosh could be reclaimed. If they died here, the city was truly lost.
Moss moved with extreme caution, trying to keep his oil-carriers hidden from Jon's sight. He knew the "White Wolf" had a supernatural awareness—as if he had eyes in the sky.
He was right.
Through the eyes of owls, rats, and stray cats prowling the Palace rafters, Jon's Dragon Lord perspective granted him a 360-degree tactical map of the battle. He saw the glint of the oak barrels. He saw the carriers sneaking through the shadows.
Jon drew his bow, his eyes glowing with a faint, predatory light.
Thwip.Squelch.
An arrow punched through a carrier's eye socket, dropping him instantly before he could even let out a breath.
Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.
Jon methodically picked off the oil squads, his shots bypassing every attempted cover.
Wait, Jon thought, focusing his vision on the latest group of carriers. Those aren't soldiers. They aren't wearing the Silver Deer sigil. Are those...?
"Now!" Saeraes Moss screamed from the heart of the crowd, his voice cracked with strain. "Throw the oil! Ignite the breach!"