A bald man, clad in thick armor, swung his lance over his shoulder, overseeing the battle from atop a 60-meter-tall wall. Archers crowded the wall walk, their sweat-soaked foreheads furrowed in concentration as they unleashed a relentless volley of arrows.
Below, demons swarmed, filling the space, the clash of their weapons against the defensive forces resounding through the air. The stench of blood assaulted his nostrils, yet amidst hours of fighting, he scarcely registered it.
"Fetch me a bow," he commanded a member of the Storm Temple.
Returning with the bow, Ragnar seized it and aimed at a Demon centurion mounted on a fearsome steed. This centurion's whip had claimed the lives of a hundred of his guild members—a staggering loss to a single man.
Cristian's words echoed in his mind as he drew the bowstring. "Die, you bastard!" Ragnar cursed, releasing the arrow.
