The battlefield reeked of blood and fear. The opposing commander strode through the carnage, his spiked boots grinding over the faces of the fallen. He didn't glance down—why would he? They were beneath him in every sense, their lives meaningless except as stepping stones to his glory.
His armor, though ornate, was deliberately defaced—scratches etched into gold filigree, dark stains of dried blood splattered across intricate engravings. It wasn't wear from battle; it was a statement. He wore the filth like a badge of honor as if to proclaim that the blood of his enemies was more precious than any treasure.
A soldier, barely alive, clawed at his boot, sputtering through the mud. "Mercy," the man croaked, his voice trembling.
The commander paused, tilting his head as if considering the plea. "Mercy?" he repeated, his tone mocking. "Let me teach you something about mercy."
With a swift motion, he slammed his axe down, not to kill, but to sever the soldier's hand at the wrist. The man screamed, writhing in agony, but the commander only grinned. "There," he said, crouching down. "Now you'll die slowly. That's mercy. You get to feel every second of your worthless life slipping away."
His soldiers watched in silence, none daring to speak against him. They knew better. The last man who questioned his methods had been flayed alive and left hanging from the battlements of their camp—a warning to anyone who might entertain ideas of rebellion.
The commander stood, his gaze sweeping across the field. He spotted a child—no older than twelve—huddled beneath a shattered cart. He must have been part of a traveling caravan, selling items to the fortress. The boy clutched a wooden sword, shaking uncontrollably. With a sneer, the commander approached, his steps slow and deliberate.
"How unfortunate!" he proclaimed loudly, ensuring his men heard every word. "Children? Are they so desperate?"
He kicked the cart aside, exposing the boy to the storm. The child whimpered, clutching his mock weapon tighter. The commander's expression twisted into something crueler than a smile, and he reached down, plucking the wooden sword from the boy's hands.
"Here," he said, tossing the sword back to him. "Go on. Defend yourself. Show me what you've got."
The boy tried to swing, but the commander barely moved, letting the feeble strike glance off his armor. He laughed, a deep, guttural sound that carried over the rain.
"Pathetic," he spat. "Just like your people."
A young knight staggered forward, his battered armor barely holding together under the weight of countless blows. Blood trickled down his forehead, mixing with the rain as it dripped into his piercing, determined eyes. His shield was gone, his helmet discarded, and his left arm hung limp at his side, but his right hand still clutched his longsword with a grip that trembled not from fear, but from sheer exhaustion.
"Enough!" he shouted, his voice hoarse yet unwavering. He stepped between the boy and the towering commander, planting his feet firmly in the mud. "You will not harm him. Not while I still draw breath."
The commander raised an eyebrow, his grotesque grin widening into something almost amused. "And who are you?" he sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. "Another insect come to be crushed under my boot?"
The knight ignored the taunt, lifting his sword despite the pain that shot through his arm. "I am Sir Kaelen of Brightspire," he declared, his voice rising with newfound strength. "A sworn protector of the innocent. And today, even if it costs me my life, I will stop you!"
Rain lashed against his battered form, but Kaelen stood tall, his sword aimed directly at the commander's heart. He glanced back at the terrified child, offering a fleeting smile filled with reassurance. Then he turned his attention back to the towering figure before him, his resolve burning brighter than the storm.
"You fight with cruelty," Kaelen continued, his words cutting through the storm as he took a cautious step forward. "You think it makes you strong. But strength is not found in fear or bloodlust—it is found in sacrifice, in fighting for something greater than yourself!"
The commander rolled his eyes, feigning a yawn. "Spare me your speeches, boy. You're already dead. You just don't know it yet."
Kaelen ignored the insult, raising his sword high as his voice rang out with defiance. "I will show you that even in death, there is honor! Even in despair, there is hope! And even against monsters like you—"
Before Kaelen could finish, the commander moved. It was a blur of black steel and absolute precision. His enormous sword cleaved downward, its jagged edge cutting through Kaelen's chestplate and torso as if it were parchment. Blood sprayed into the rain, the crimson streaks painting the battlefield in brutal clarity.
Kaelen's eyes widened in shock, his words caught in his throat as his sword clattered to the ground. His body collapsed in two pieces, the life draining from his determined gaze even as it lingered on the boy he had tried to save.
The child sobbed uncontrollably, shaking as he crawled backward in the mud. The commander turned his gaze back to him, the grin now replaced with a sneer of contempt.
"See that?" the commander said, his voice cold and callous as he kicked Kaelen's severed torso aside. "That's what happens to heroes. Remember it well, boy… well, for a few seconds that is."
Without warning, he grabbed the boy by the throat, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. The child kicked and struggled, his small hands clawing at the commander's iron grip.
"This," he growled, squeezing tighter, "is the glory of Nessi."
The boy's neck snapped with a sickening crunch. The commander tossed the lifeless body into the mud, his expression unchanging, as if he'd merely discarded a piece of trash.
His soldiers roared with approval, though many of their eyes betrayed unease. But the commander didn't care. Their fear, their disgust—it fed him. He thrived on it.
"Onward!" he bellowed, pointing his bloodied axe toward the fortress in the distance. "We'll burn their walls, gut their leaders, and feast in their halls! Leave none alive! Make them remember this day as the day they learned true despair! GLORY TO THE KINGDOM OF NESSIGOLOPT!"
…
The storm raged, battering the fortress with relentless sheets of rain. Lightning clawed across the sky, its jagged streaks illuminating the jagged cliffs that framed the stronghold like prison bars. The wind howled, threading through the narrow passageway below, carrying the cries of soldiers and the metallic stench of blood to the Colonel's nostrils.
He leaned against the parapet, fists clenched tight. His chainmail gloves bit into his palms, but he welcomed the pain—it was something real, something he could control. Below, the battlefield churned like a restless sea. Bodies littered the ground, their blood soaking the earth. The outer wall held for now, but cracks were forming, not just in stone, but in resolve.
"My first command..." His thoughts came fragmented, erratic, like the storm battering his mind. "This is my chance to prove them wrong. I have to. For them. For me. But what if... What if I can't?"
"Colonel!" A voice cut through the storm, sharp and desperate. A young knight stumbled toward him, rain streaming down his pristine armor. "What do we do now? They're pressing on the southern flank—"
"Then hold it!" the Colonel barked, his voice raw, almost feral. He turned to face the man, towering over him. The knight shrank back slightly. "Do your job and hold it!"
The knight hesitated, a flicker of fear crossing his face. The Colonel felt a pang of guilt but shoved it aside. There was no time for doubt—not his, not anyone's.
"Sir..." Another voice, calmer, cut in. The elf advisor stepped forward, his fur coat soaked but his expression steady. The golden ring in his eye pulsed faintly as he surveyed the battlefield. "The pincer attack hasn't returned. Enemy numbers have grown. Four hundred nineteen to our three hundred thirteen. You need to act."
"I know!" The Colonel slammed a fist against the parapet, his voice cracking under the strain. "Why aren't they here? What the hell is going on? Everything is in our favor—"
"Sir." The elf interrupted, his gaze narrowing. "Calm yourself."
The Colonel froze, the reprimand biting deeper than he expected. He drew a shuddering breath and scanned the battlefield again. Something felt wrong, a gnawing unease in his chest. His sharp gaze flicked from soldier to soldier, lingering on the shadows pooling between them. Was it paranoia? Or—
A hush fell over the wall, as sudden and sharp as a blade. Even the storm seemed to falter, the wind shifting its howl to a low moan. The Colonel's skin prickled, a chill running down his spine despite the heat of his blood. He turned slowly, following the gazes of the soldiers around him.
A figure emerged from the stairwell, silver hair plastered to her face, her soaked armor rusting and tarnished. The rain glinted off her pale skin like frost on steel. Her eyes burned, not with fury, but with something colder.
"Lieutenant Ophelia?" The elf advisor's voice trembled, breaking the spell. "You—"
"I'm not dead," she interrupted, her voice cutting through the storm like a dagger. She stepped onto the parapet, facing the Colonel. Her blood-red eyes locked onto his, unblinking, unyielding.
"Give me the Supreme Command," she ordered simply, her voice devoid of emotion. It wasn't a request.
The Colonel took an involuntary step back, his towering frame suddenly feeling small. The storm seemed to gather around her, bending to her presence, her will. His instincts screamed at him to comply, to surrender the burden she demanded. Yet, his pride held him firm, just barely.
"You're overstepping," he said, his voice low, trembling.
"Am I?" she asked, tilting her head. Her gaze flicked over him, dismissive. "Or are you blind to the traitor in your midst?"
The words hit like a hammer. Gasps rippled through the soldiers. The Colonel's blood turned cold, the weight of her accusation pulling at his chest. The storm surged again, lightning illuminating her silhouette as she turned to address the wall.
"LOOK AT WHAT LIES BEFORE US!" she roared, her voice cutting through the chaos like thunder. "LOOK AT THE BODIES—OUR BROTHERS, OUR SISTERS, OUR FRIENDS—LEFT IN THE MUD, THEIR BLOOD SEEPING INTO THIS CURSED EARTH! THEY DID NOT FALL FOR GLORY OR GOLD! THEY FELL FOR THE PEOPLE WITHIN THESE WALLS, THE FAMILIES WE LOVE, THE INNOCENT LIVES WE SWORE TO DEFEND!"
Her eyes blazed as she turned her gaze on the soldiers who watched her in awe and fear. "THE ENEMY THINKS THEY'VE BEATEN US, THAT WE'RE WEAK, THAT THEY'VE CORNERED US LIKE RATS. THEY WANT TO SHATTER THIS STRONGHOLD, TO TEAR DOWN EVERYTHING WE HOLD DEAR! WILL YOU LET THEM?!"
A roar rose up from the soldiers, small at first but growing louder as her words reignited the fight in their eyes.
"WE ARE MORE THAN THIS WALL, MORE THAN THIS STONE AND MORTAR!" she shouted, her voice rising to a fevered pitch. "WE ARE A FORCE! A FORCE OF BLOOD, STEEL, AND FIRE! WE ARE THE SHIELD THAT STANDS AGAINST THE DARKNESS, AND WE WILL SHOW THEM THAT WE WILL NOT BREAK—THAT EVEN IF WE DIE, WE WILL HAUNT THIS GROUND, OUR SPIRITS DEFENDING THIS LAND LONG AFTER OUR LAST BREATH IS TAKEN!"
The storm raged on around her, lightning flashing as if even the heavens were moved by her defiance.
"AND TO YOU WHO DOUBT, WHO FEEL YOUR SPIRIT WAVER!" she snarled, casting a steely glance at those faltering under the weight of fear, "LET THIS MOMENT SEAR INTO YOUR HEART. KNOW THAT YOU FOUGHT FOR MORE THAN GLORY! YOU FOUGHT FOR THE LIVING, FOR A FUTURE THAT WE CAN STILL CLAIM! YOU FOUGHT SO THE SUN WILL RISE TOMORROW AND OUR ENEMIES WILL KNOW TRUE FEAR WHEN THEY SEE WHAT WE LEAVE BEHIND!"
Her arms stretched wide, her voice a thunderclap over the walls, "FIGHT WITH ME! FIGHT WITH EVERYTHING YOU HAVE LEFT! AND EVEN IF WE DIE, LET THE GROUND REMEMBER US! LET THE ENEMY SEE THAT OUR SPIRITS WILL NEVER BOW!"
The silence following her words was thick, the kind of silence that pressed down on the soldiers like a suffocating shroud. It was not the absence of sound but the pregnant stillness before an inevitable storm, an auditory weight laden with doubt, desperation, and the flickering ember of defiance.
Then, something shifted. One by one, the soldiers' gazes hardened, their eyes igniting with a fierce resolve. Her call to arms did not merely bind their spirits—it demanded the rebirth of their courage from the ashes of despair. The howling wind seemed to carry the whispers of ancient voices, their spectral cries entwined with the rain as if the spirits of the fallen were rallying with them.
The rain, cold and relentless, felt less like a storm and more like a trial, a divine baptism before the reckoning. Each drop that struck their skin seemed to burn away their doubts, leaving behind only raw, unyielding purpose.
Ophelia stood unwavering on the fortress wall, her battered and bloodied armor an effigy of resilience. Her hair whipped wildly around her, its silver strands catching the dim, fractured light like threads of divine fire. The storm around her seemed to bend, the winds swirling not against but around her, draping her in an invisible mantle of power.
"F-Fine…" The colonel's voice broke the tension, trembling as he stumbled back. His hands, clutching his sword hilt, were slick with rain and sweat, and his face paled as he realized he had unconsciously retreated to the wall's edge. His voice cracked as he took in a deep breath and proclaimed, "I, THE FOUR-HUNDRED-FIFTY-SIXTH COLONEL OF THE HOLY EMPIRE, ACKNOWLEDGE YOU, OPHELIA VON AUBESSEC, AS TEMPORARY WIELDER OF THE HOLY POWER—SUPREME COMMAND! MAY THE HOLY GODDESS SHINE UPON YOU!"
As his words rang out, a blinding radiance erupted from his chest, the light piercing the dark storm like a divine spear. The soldiers flinched, some shielding their eyes, as the column of light tore upward, splitting the churning clouds above. Thunder seemed to recoil in silence, leaving the battlefield suspended in an almost unholy calm.
The beam lingered at the storm's zenith, where it pulsed once—a heart of light beating defiantly against the heavens. Then, it crashed back down, striking Ophelia with a force that shook the wall beneath her feet.
She gasped, her body arching as the divine energy poured into her. The light consumed her, wrapping her in a radiant cloak that seemed to blur the line between mortal and myth. Her drenched, blood-streaked armor gleamed like polished silver, her eyes blazing with an intensity that seemed to pierce through time itself.
The soldiers gasped as they saw her shadow stretch, merging with the colossal silhouette of a figure behind her. This ethereal guardian, outlined in celestial gold, loomed protectively, its faceless helm glowing faintly with malevolent power. The soldiers could not help but shudder, unsure whether it was the blessing of their Holy Goddess or something far darker.
And then, Ophelia moved.
"NOW!" Her arms spread wide as if embracing her soldiers and the fate they were about to face. "SOLDIERS OF THE HOLY EMPIRE! HEED MY CALL!"