The City of Kilmrat was an ominous testament to human resilience, perched perilously close to the Demon King's lands. It had never been a stronghold but rather a precarious bastion, a symbol of defiance on the edge of annihilation. Its walls, ancient and weathered, had withstood countless raids but now trembled under the weight of a storm unlike any before.
Armin Maelkath, the City Lord, stood at the forefront of this impending catastrophe. His violet eyes darted across the battlefield, his mind racing through the desperate calculations of a man forced into a corner. Kilmrat, for all its vulnerabilities, had been entrusted to him by the High Sovereign—a testament to his prowess as an eight-star wielder. But standing here now, staring into the abyss of his enemy, Armin felt every crack in his façade of confidence.
The walls of Kilmrat, reinforced by generations of magic and sweat, were still intact, though they groaned ominously under the pressure of the forces gathering outside. Yet Armin knew the walls were only delaying the inevitable.
His gaze fell on the figure standing amidst the gathered forces of darkness. Lillian.
The Daughter of the Demon King.
She was a vision of menace and grace, her jet-black hair flowing like a shroud and her crimson eyes burning with an intensity that made even the most battle-hardened soldiers avert their gaze. She stood still, almost serene, while her presence radiated unrelenting malice. Around her, the air seemed thicker, as though the world itself recoiled from her existence.
Even at this distance, Armin could feel it: the overwhelming, suffocating weight of her mana. He had faced many threats before—beasts, marauders, even Ascendant-rank rebels—but this was different. This wasn't just power. It was a declaration. A promise of destruction.
His mouth felt dry, and his thoughts spiraled. 'What am I supposed to do against this?' He had reached the apex of what his mana stars allowed, forming the eighth star that marked him as a City Lord. But here, in the face of that power, he felt like a novice wielding a child's toy.
"Hold the line," he barked at the soldiers around him, his voice carrying a steadiness he didn't feel. "Prepare the defensive arrays!"
His words were met with hurried nods and the fumbling activation of runes etched into the walls. The soldiers scrambled, their faces pale but determined. Armin knew the defensive arrays wouldn't last long, not against her, but every second counted.
Lillian began to move.
She didn't rush. She didn't need to. Each step was measured, deliberate, as if the battle was already won and she was merely walking to collect her prize. The soldiers on the walls visibly recoiled as her presence grew nearer.
Then, she stopped. Her crimson gaze swept over the walls, her expression one of mild disdain, as though the city were an inconvenience rather than a challenge.
And then she struck.
Her fist, small and deceptively delicate, slammed into the barrier. The entire wall shuddered under the impact, and for a moment, the arrays blazed brightly, holding firm. Armin felt a flicker of hope—brief, foolish hope.
But the second punch shattered it. The arrays, painstakingly etched over decades, disintegrated under the sheer force of her blow. The wall cracked like brittle stone, and with a third punch, it crumbled entirely.
Lillian didn't bother scaling the walls like a tactician or infiltrator might. No, she tore them apart with raw, unrelenting strength.
Dust and debris filled the air as Armin stared in horror. His soldiers hesitated, their lines faltering as they saw the impossible. Lillian stood amidst the wreckage, her crimson eyes locking onto Armin with a predatory gleam.
"Well," she said, her voice smooth and cold, carrying over the battlefield like a death knell. "Shall we begin?"
Armin gritted his teeth, summoning every ounce of his resolve. The battle hadn't been lost yet, but the weight of it now rested entirely on his shoulders.
"Prepare the second line!" he commanded, stepping forward and summoning his mana. The eight stars within him burned brightly, their light casting long shadows against the encroaching darkness.
Lillian's smirk deepened, her crimson eyes narrowing as the chaos surged behind her. Her forces were an unrelenting tide of death, a macabre orchestra of shrieks, snarls, and the clash of steel.
Among them, a giant loomed—Deathblade. The hulking warrior clad in jagged black armor moved with a precision that belied his massive frame. His greatsword glinted wickedly under the faint sunlight, a testament to countless lives it had ended. He marched with the assured gait of someone who had never been bested.
Armin's heart sank at the sight. 'Deathblade,' he thought grimly, recognizing the unmistakable figure. His name had become a legend of terror, whispered among soldiers like a bad omen. Even at his best, Armin had barely managed to survive their last encounter, and now, surrounded by chaos, the thought of facing him again was a nightmare come alive.
'How can I stop this?' Armin's thoughts swirled as Deathblade raised his weapon. He readied himself, channeling the last reserves of his mana stars, when a deafening boom shattered the battlefield.
Deathblade, the titan, was hurled backward as though swatted by an unseen force. His colossal frame crashed into the ground, skidding to a halt in a plume of dust and debris.
The battlefield stilled, the tide momentarily arrested as every eye turned to the source of the impact.
A man stood where Deathblade had been, white hair catching the wind like silver threads, violet eyes glinting with unspoken power. His posture was casual, almost languid, as if he'd simply strolled onto the battlefield.
Armin's breath caught. Relief surged through him for a fleeting moment. Reinforcements! his mind screamed. But then he felt it—that subtle, alien hum in the man's mana signature, the undeniable strangeness of someone not of this world.
He wasn't from Kilmrat. Nor was he an ally.
Armin's relief soured into confusion as he took in the stranger's aura. It was sharp, potent, and focused, brimming with a refined energy that seemed to put Armin's own mana to shame. He blinked, assessing, calculating.
'In terms of raw mana, we're evenly matched,' Armin concluded. But as the man's violet eyes surveyed the battlefield with an almost detached curiosity, Armin realized the truth: this was someone who had honed their strength beyond mere mana quantity and quality.
Deathblade roared, regaining his footing with a furious shake of his massive frame. The ground trembled as he charged, his greatsword carving through the air with terrifying precision. The man didn't flinch. With fluid grace, he sidestepped the blow and retaliated with a punch that cracked like thunder. Deathblade staggered, and for the first time, Armin saw doubt flicker across the titan's face.
The stranger moved like a storm—controlled yet relentless. His strikes were not just precise; they carried an overwhelming force that belied their simplicity. Every punch landed with the weight of a battering ram, and Deathblade was visibly faltering.
'He's stronger. No question,' Armin realized, his pride bruised but his hope rekindled. Seeing an opening, he summoned his mana and lunged forward, joining the fray. Together, they pushed Deathblade to the brink, their combined assault a flurry of blades, fists, and mana-infused strikes.
It was teamwork born of necessity, not camaraderie, but it worked. Deathblade fell, his body crumpling like a toppled monument. The air was thick with tension as Armin turned to his unlikely ally, his mind racing with questions.
Before he could speak, a new voice rang out, cutting through the silence like a blade.
"Having fun?"
The words were a honeyed taunt, drawing Armin's gaze toward the source. Lillian stood there, her crimson eyes gleaming with amusement. She moved with an unsettling calm, her steps deliberate and measured. Her lips curved into a mockery of a smile as she raised her hand.
Armin's breath hitched as a fist, faster than his eyes could track, shot toward him. In that instant, he felt it—death's cold embrace.
But it never came.
The blow stopped short, diverted by an unseen force. Armin stumbled backward, blinking in shock, and found himself standing intact a few paces away.
Lillian's gaze shifted to the white-haired man, who now stood between her and Armin, his violet eyes fixed on her with a mixture of curiosity and challenge.
"Oh?" Lillian's voice dripped with intrigue. "And who might you be, stepping into my little game?"
The man smiled faintly, clapping his hands together. The sound reverberated with a strange resonance, and astral energy erupted around him, coiling and dancing like serpents. It pooled in his fists, forming ethereal gauntlets that radiated a sharp, unyielding aura.
"Ren Kagu," he replied, his tone as calm as the eye of a storm. His gaze didn't waver as he inclined his head slightly, a gesture that was almost courteous. "A pleasure to meet you."
Lillian's smile widened, her crimson eyes narrowing as she readied herself. The battlefield seemed to hold its breath, the tension crackling like an unstruck match.
Armin, still reeling from his near-death experience, watched in awe and trepidation. Ren Kagu was no ally, yet he was clearly no enemy either—not yet. For now, he was a wild card, one that might tip the balance in ways Armin could barely fathom.
The stage was set. And the game had only just begun.