It came without warning—a tremor so immense it shook the very foundations of the kingdom. At first, the people of Eldarath thought it was an earthquake, the kind foretold by the old seers. But then, from beyond the horizon, a shadow loomed, stretching across the crimson dusk like the hand of a god.

A deep, guttural rumble echoed through the land, not of the earth, but of something far more ancient and malevolent. A titan emerged from the forested hills, its gargantuan form piercing the sky. Its skin was like cracked stone, glowing faintly with molten veins of fire, and its eyes burned with an eerie, golden light that seemed to pierce straight into the soul.

Villages were crushed beneath its colossal feet as it strode forward, each step causing the ground to shatter and quake. Rivers turned to steam at its touch, and the air grew thick with the stench of sulfur and ash. The titan let out a roar that split the heavens, a sound so powerful it sent shockwaves rippling through the kingdom, toppling towers and shattering castle walls.

And as the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving the world in darkness, one question burned in the hearts of all who witnessed the nightmare: was this a punishment from the gods—or the beginning of something far worse?

...

From my perch in the shattered remnants of the library tower, I could see it all unfold. The titan's roar still echoed in my ears, its colossal shadow casting the land in darkness. But it wasn't over. I thought the ground splitting and the heavens trembling was the worst it could get. I was wrong.

In the distance, a rift tore itself open in the air, a jagged, spiraling wound in reality. The portal glowed with an otherworldly crimson light, pulsating like a beating heart. From its depths, they came—horrors from the darkest legends, the kind even the oldest tomes dared only to whisper about.

The first to emerge were grotesque hounds, their blackened flesh writhing with fiery veins and jaws filled with rows of jagged teeth. They leapt from the portal, snarling and howling, their eyes glowing with unholy malice. Behind them came twisted humanoid figures, their limbs elongated, their clawed hands gripping weapons forged from black iron. Their faces were monstrous, their mouths filled with fangs, their skin marked by glowing runes that pulsed like the portal itself.

Wings beat against the sky as fiends with leathery appendages took flight, their screeches cutting through the chaos below. Some carried spears dripping with green flame, while others rained arrows tipped with shadows that consumed whatever they struck.

I clutched the edge of the crumbling window, my hands trembling, my heart hammering against my ribs. I'd read about demons in the old texts, written by scholars long dead, but none of those descriptions did justice to the sheer terror of seeing them in the flesh.

They poured out in an unending tide, a legion of nightmares that moved as one, their battle cries shaking the very air. The army below—knights, mages, even peasants who'd taken up arms—tried to hold their ground, but they were overwhelmed almost instantly. The demons were merciless, cutting through flesh and armor with horrifying ease.

I wanted to look away, but I couldn't. My eyes were drawn to the portal, to the figure stepping through last. It was massive, though dwarfed by the titan in the distance. Its form was shrouded in shadows, but its horns curled like a crown, and its eyes glowed with a malevolent intelligence. A general.

And in that moment, I understood. This wasn't just an invasion. It was a conquest. The titan was the herald, the portal the gateway, and these demons—their army.

I stumbled back from the window, gripping the satchel at my side. Inside were the few books I'd managed to save before the library fell. Somewhere in these pages, there had to be something—anything—that could help.

Because if there wasn't, this world was doomed.

....

5 years later.

"It's been five years since then, huh, Richard?" Cleave, my old friend—perhaps the first true friend I ever had—said with a weary tone. His eyes were sunken, the result of countless sleepless nights, and his face was drawn with the strain of time and trouble. He looked at me, a faint, almost imperceptible smile flickering across his lips. It was so subtle, it almost seemed like an illusion. But who could blame him? In times like these, when the world was collapsing around us, who could truly find joy? Who could smile, let alone show any hint of happiness, when survival itself had become a daily battle?

Anyone who could still find joy or hope in these times, I would consider either completely mad or so far detached from reality that I'd assume them already dead. "Five long years," I said, my voice flat, my face showing no trace of emotion. "Yet with everything that's happened in between, it feels like it's only been one." My words were matter-of-fact, but they carried a weight of resignation. Anyone who overheard would likely think I had long since given up on life, just from the tone alone. And maybe I have. Maybe we all have. It's hard to tell when the days blur together in a never-ending haze of survival. But none of us speak it out loud, not anymore. We don't dare admit it, not to each other, because doing so might be the final blow to what little hope or spirit we have left. The truth is, we're all just holding on, pretending that we're still fighting for something, when deep down, we know we're already lost.

Cleave gazed up at the stars, his eyes lost in their distant light. With a dramatic sigh, he lowered his head and sank down onto a fallen log, the remnants of a tree no doubt toppled by the chaos sweeping across the land. "One last mission," he muttered, his voice heavy with weariness, "One last fight to end all of this." He spread his arms wide, as if trying to encompass the entire world in his gesture, a silent display of the destruction surrounding us.

But then his shoulders slumped, and his voice faltered. "But what's the point? What then?" He turned his gaze to me, his eyes searching, as if he expected me to provide the answers he no longer believed were there. "Let's say we win..." His words trailed off, but the sadness in his voice was unmistakable. "Winning isn't going to bring back everything we've lost. All that everyone has lost," he added, a hollow look in his eyes. It was a pain I couldn't deny, a reality too bitter to escape.

"No, it will not," I replied, my voice flat and devoid of emotion, my face as expressionless as it had been before. I held his gaze for a moment before continuing, my words deliberate. "But it will relieve us of the pain we've carried all this time. It will bring justice, vengeance, and..." I hesitated, the weight of the word settling heavily on my chest. "...Revenge." As I spoke, my right hand, almost without my notice, slowly formed into a tight fist, the knuckles white as I gripped it harder.

"Richard, Cleave!" A voice called out from behind us, sharp and clear. It was Claire, my other friend, and without a doubt the strongest person I knew. "Tomorrow will be daunting," she continued, her tone steady but carrying an edge of concern. "I hope both of you rest well tonight, for the big day ahead."

She slowly approached, her armor catching the moonlight with each step, the soft clinking and clacking of her boots echoing off the hard ground. As she drew closer, her gaze shifted to the horizon, and she added, "Many people are hoping, praying for victory... at least one victory." There was a quiet weight to her words, a sense that the entire fate of those we fought for rested on the next day.

"Heh," I scoffed, a quiet chuckle escaping my lips as I cast a knowing look at Claire. "After countless losses, I highly doubt we'll win even one." The weight of the words lingered between us, the reality of our struggles pressing down like an unspoken truth.

Claire crossed her arms, a smirk dancing on her lips as she looked at me with a mix of challenge and amusement. "For a scholar, you aren't very optimistic," she said quickly, her tone light but cutting. "It wasn't too long ago that optimism flowed through your veins, especially when it came to learning something new or uncovering some hidden truth." She raised an eyebrow, her gaze sharp and teasing, as if daring me to argue or prove her wrong. Her words stung, but I couldn't help but feel a twinge of familiarity in them—a reminder of how much things had changed over time.

"It's been five years since then. The scholar I once was is no more," I said, my voice carrying the weight of time and change. For the first time in a long while, a slight smile tugged at the corner of my lips, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving me just as hollow as before.

"Back then, I had thought of mages and warriors as nothing more than barbarians who took pleasure in fighting," I continued, pausing for a moment as a faint chuckle escaped me. "But now, well, things are different." I let the words settle for a moment, the irony sinking in. "I have no choice but to believe in them, trust them, and try to understand them—all because, in the end, I am one of them now."

The admission felt foreign, uncomfortable, but it was the truth. My life had changed in ways I couldn't deny, and the path I walked now was far from the one I'd envisioned in the pages of old tomes and dusty scrolls.

Claire regarded me quietly for a moment, her expression softening, though the fire in her eyes never wavered. "You may not be the same scholar you once were, Richard, but you're something far greater now." Her voice was resolute, unwavering. "You've seen the world fall apart, and yet you stand. You've learned to fight, to lead, to survive—and to inspire."

She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a murmur meant only for me and Cleave. "Don't forget that without you, many of us wouldn't be here. You might not see it, but you've become the kind of person you used to admire in those ancient tales. The kind of person who can change the tide."

I didn't know how to respond. Her words struck something deep within me, a part of myself I thought had long since withered and died. Cleave, ever the pragmatist, broke the silence with a wry laugh. "She's not wrong, you know. As much as you brood and sulk, there's no denying you're the one we've all been looking to these past few years." He gestured vaguely at the horizon, where the faint glow of campfires lit the darkness. "Hell, half the people out there wouldn't even have picked up a sword if not for you."

"I didn't ask for that," I said, my voice sharper than I intended. "I didn't ask to lead anyone. I'm just... surviving, like the rest of you."

Claire tilted her head, her gaze unwavering. "And yet, they follow you. Why do you think that is, Richard?"

I opened my mouth to argue, but no words came. She had a point, though I couldn't bring myself to acknowledge it aloud. Instead, I turned my eyes to the horizon, where the faint glow of dawn began to creep into the sky. The sight stirred something within me—a faint, flickering ember of determination.

"Tomorrow," I said, more to myself than to them, "we end this. One way or another."

Cleave clapped me on the back, his grip firm but reassuring. "That's the spirit. Just don't get yourself killed before I can buy you a drink to celebrate."

Claire smirked, though her expression carried a note of gravity. "No one's dying tomorrow. Not if I have anything to say about it."

The three of us stood there in silence for a while, watching as the first rays of sunlight kissed the charred earth. It was a fragile kind of peace, one that could shatter at any moment. But for now, it was enough.

"Get some rest," Claire said finally, her voice softer now. "You'll need it." With that, she turned and strode back toward the camp, her figure framed by the rising sun.

Cleave lingered a moment longer, his gaze shifting between me and the horizon.

"She's right, you know," he said quietly. "We might be broken, battered, and bloody, but we're still here. And as long as we're still here, there's a chance." He gave me a small, lopsided grin before following Claire back to camp.

Alone now, I remained at the edge of the clearing, staring out at the distant ruins of what once was and the battlefield that awaited us. My hand brushed against the satchel at my side, the familiar weight of the ancient tomes within grounding me. Somewhere in those pages, there had to be an answer—a way to turn the tide, to end the nightmare that had consumed our world.

The wind stirred, carrying with it the faint echoes of battle cries and the scent of ash. Tomorrow, the world would either find salvation—or succumb to oblivion. And I, whether I wanted to or not, would play a part in deciding which.