Count Aumale's frustration was palpable, even from my vantage point. I had severed his supply lines days ago, turning the siege of Duskvale into a slow, grinding battle of attrition. He couldn't sustain this forever. Desperation would force his hand—sooner rather than later.
I stood atop a hill overlooking the battlefield, my gaze steady as I surveyed the unfolding chaos. The dim light caught the strands of gray in my hair, though I hardly noticed. My focus was on predicting Aumale's next move. Every detail, every possibility, unraveled in my mind like threads on a loom.
"He's desperate," I murmured, turning to Galen and Arnold, who stood at my side. My voice was calm, but firm. "With his supply lines cut, Aumale will throw everything he has at Duskvale. This is his final push."
Down below, I watched as Count Velrois' mages struggled to repel the relentless siege. Fiery boulders smashed into the fortress walls, arrows blackened the sky, and the air grew thick with smoke and screams. Defensive spells faltered under the unrelenting pressure. The cracks were forming—it was only a matter of time.
"Aumale's not holding back anymore," I continued, my tone grim but unwavering. "The wall won't hold for long."
As if on cue, a thunderous crash echoed across the battlefield. I watched as a section of Duskvale's eastern wall crumbled, the debris scattering like leaves in a storm. Aumale's army roared with triumph, surging forward to exploit the breach. Their cheers rang hollow to me; they had no idea what awaited them.
The mages retreated further into the fortress, and I smirked as the invaders encountered…
Nothing.
No defenders. No resistance. Just an eerie, empty silence. Confusion rippled through their ranks, whispers of disbelief spreading like wildfire. They'd walked straight into my web.
"Initiating phase one," I said sharply as I activated the explosive runes embedded within the fortress walls.
Seconds later, a series of fiery eruptions tore through the invading army. The screams of Aumale's soldiers filled the air as chaos consumed them. I allowed myself a small, cold smile. Luring them in and obliterating them with precision—this was my art, honed over years of online gaming.
"That should rattle them," I muttered to myself. "Now for phase two. Arnold," I called, turning to my shadowy steward.
"The diversion is critical. Use the Phantom's Embrace to slip through their lines. Sabotage their siege engines, then take out a few key officers near the breach. Keep them guessing. Make them paranoid."
He inclined his head and did not say a word.
"Galen," I continued, my gaze shifting to my brash but loyal vassal. "Once Arnold has them in disarray, you lead the second wave. Create chaos. Make them believe they're under attack from all sides. Use Titan's Might to shatter their morale. Strike hard, strike fast."
Galen's grin widened, his excitement barely contained.
"About time. Consider it done, my lord."
"And you, my lord?" Arnold's voice drifted from the shadows, barely audible.
I glanced toward the heart of the battlefield, where Count Aumale stood like a grim statue, his massive Drakarion Blade resting against his shoulder. Flames danced along its edge, casting flickering light on his imposing form. Around him, his officers barked orders, struggling to contain the growing disorder.
"I'll deal with Aumale personally," I said, my voice steel. "But not yet. First, we keep them off-balance."
Minutes later, the battlefield erupted into chaos. Arnold's precision was flawless. Siege engines burst into flames, and the bodies of key officers were left as grim reminders of his silent efficiency. The enemy's cohesion unraveled, fear spreading like a disease.
Then Galen struck. With a deafening roar, he charged into the fray, Titan's Might cleaving through ranks of soldiers. Each swing of his colossal blade sent shockwaves rippling through the battlefield, scattering formations like leaves in a gale.
"Come on, you cowards!" Galen bellowed, his voice a thunderclap over the din. "Is this all the mighty Aumale can muster? Fight me if you dare!"
From my vantage point, I allowed myself a faint smile. The plan was unfolding perfectly. The enemy was fractured, their morale in tatters, their focus divided.
Now, it was my turn.
Descending toward the battlefield, I activated the Aetherium Band, lifting a cluster of discarded weapons with a flick of my wrist. I sent them hurtling toward the enemy, amplifying the illusion of an attack from multiple fronts. The stage was set. The final act awaited.
As the diversion reached its peak, my artifacts glowed faintly with power—the Heart of Elysium pulsing with protective energy, the Aetherblade humming with raw potential.
I took a deep breath, my eyes scanning the battlefield one last time before giving the command that would change the course of the war.
"It's time!" I declared, my voice cutting through the din of battle like a knife.
I activated the Celestial Vault, and a shimmering portal opened behind me. From it, Count Velrois' army poured forth—fifteen thousand strong, along with a mix of one thousand two hundred thirty-eight mercenaries and Eisenhart soldiers. Their battle cries echoed through the air as they charged towards the unsuspecting enemy.
The soldiers, briefed and prepared before they entered the timeless void of the ring, knew exactly what to do. They surged forward, a wave of steel and determination, striking at Aumale's forces from behind.
I issued a series of commands, my voice amplified by a small communication artifact I had obtained from the ancient ruins.
"Infantry, form a shield wall and push forward! Cavalry, flank and harass their lines! Archers, rain death from above! Mages, use offensive spells!"
The army moved as one, a testament to my strategic brilliance and the countless hours spent planning and preparing. Aumale's forces, already reeling from the chaos sown by Arnold and Galen, struggled to react to the sudden onslaught.
I leapt into the fray, the Aetherblade a blur of shimmering energy in my hand. With each strike, I felled enemies with spectral slashes, the blade's aether energy cutting through armor and flesh alike. I moved with the grace and precision of a dancer, my knowledge of Shinkendo and Kali, a Filipino martial arts, guiding my every step.
Nearby, Galen fought with wild abandon, laughing manically as he swung Titan's Might, the immense blade crushing foes with each powerful strike.
"You're a sight to behold, my lord!" he roared, his voice a taunting boom. "Let's show them the might of Eisenhart!"
Arnold, his form flickering in and out of visibility, darted through the enemy ranks, the Phantom's Embrace daggers striking silently and deadly. Officers fell, their commands dying on their lips as chaos consumed Aumale's army. He moved like a phantom through the chaos, the Phantom's Embrace allowing him to phase through walls and obstacles effortlessly. Every step he took was calculated, every action deliberate. The enemy forces were in disarray, focused on Galen's thunderous rampage. It was the perfect opportunity to strike at the heart of their command.
Arnold's new target: Lorcan, Count Aumale's trusted mage and strategist. Renowned for his ability to cast spells without incantations, Lorcan was a formidable opponent. His mastery over the Scepter of Arcanis, an artifact bestowed upon him by the Holy Empire of Thaloria, allowed him to cast without the need for incantations, making him a threat too dangerous to leave unchecked. Arnold was unaware of this.
From my vantage point, I watched as Arnold honed in on Lorcan near a cluster of tents surrounded by heavily armed guards. The mage stood at the center, his Scepter of Arcanis glowing faintly as he barked orders to stabilize the crumbling front lines.
Arnold whispered to himself, "No room for error."
He phased through the enemy ranks, his presence undetected. The Phantom's Embrace allowed him to bypass the guards effortlessly. Emerging from the shadows, he stood a mere ten paces behind Lorcan.
He moved in for the kill, daggers gleaming with lethal intent.
But Lorcan turned sharply, his piercing gaze locking onto Arnold.
"Did you really think I wouldn't notice you, steward?" Lorcan's voice was calm, almost amused.
With a wave of the Scepter of Arcanis, Lorcan unleashed a torrent of fire. Arnold phased through it, the flames licking harmlessly at the edges of his intangible form. He reappeared behind Lorcan, slashing with precision aimed at the mage's neck.
Lorcan twisted, the runes on the scepter glowing as a shield of pure energy erupted between them. The force of the barrier sent Arnold skidding backward, his boots carving grooves into the dirt.
"You're good," Lorcan said, smirking. "But not good enough."
Arnold didn't reply. He darted forward, his movements a blur. Each strike with his twin daggers aimed for vital points, but Lorcan's magical shields and counterattacks kept him at bay. Arnold had to constantly phase in and out, dodging bursts of lightning and shards of ice that Lorcan summoned with terrifying speed.
From my vantage point, I could see Arnold's dilemma. He's too fast, too reactive. Arnold needed to break his focus.
Switching tactics, Arnold hurled one of his daggers. Lorcan deflected it with ease, but it was a feint. Arnold phased through the mage's barrier, appearing directly in front of him.
This close, I could see the faint sheen of sweat on Lorcan's brow, the flicker of strain in his eyes. He was pushing himself to maintain the upper hand.
Arnold slashed again, forcing Lorcan to backpedal. But the mage's lips curled into a smirk as he uttered a single word: "Lux."
A blinding flash of light erupted from the Scepter of Arcanis, momentarily disorienting Arnold. Lorcan didn't waste the opportunity. With a sweep of his hand, he summoned a wave of telekinetic force that slammed Arnold into a nearby boulder.
"You've underestimated me," Lorcan said, stepping closer. "But don't worry. I'll make your death quick."
Arnold groaned, his vision swimming. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, but he forced himself to stand. His grip on his remaining dagger tightened as he assessed the situation.
Think, Arnold. He's stronger than you in direct combat, but even the strongest have weaknesses.
Lorcan raised his scepter, preparing a finishing spell. Arnold's eyes darted to the mage's feet. The ground beneath him was littered with scattered debris from the earlier chaos—small stones, shards of broken weapons.
An idea formed.
As Lorcan unleashed a bolt of lightning, Arnold phased through it, reappearing to the mage's left. In a swift motion, he kicked up a cloud of debris, blinding Lorcan for a fraction of a second.
That was all the time Arnold needed. He lunged forward, his dagger aimed for Lorcan's heart.
But Lorcan twisted at the last moment, the blade grazing his side instead. With a roar of anger, he swung the Scepter of Arcanis like a club, catching Arnold across the ribs and sending him sprawling.
Arnold coughed, struggling to rise. Lorcan loomed over him, blood seeping from the wound in his side but his confidence unshaken.
"Impressive," Lorcan admitted. "But this is where it ends."
As he raised the scepter for a final blow, Arnold's free hand shot forward. Hidden within his palm was a small vial of poison, one he had prepared for just such an occasion. He shattered it against Lorcan's chest, the liquid seeping into the mage's robes.
Lorcan staggered back, his face contorting in shock.
"You—what have you done?"
Arnold forced a grim smile.
"Even the strongest fall when they don't see the blade coming."
The poison worked quickly, sapping Lorcan's strength. The mage dropped to one knee, the glow of the Scepter of Arcanis dimming.
I watched as Arnold stood, wiping the blood from his mouth.
"You're good," he said, his tone flat. "But not good enough."
With a final thrust of his dagger, Arnold ended it.
---
Meanwhile, Galen strode through the battlefield, his massive sword swinging in devastating arcs, leaving nothing but wreckage in its wake. Draven's orders had been simple: cause havoc, disrupt the enemy, and sow fear. He had done just that, carving through soldiers and war machines like a force of nature. The enemy's formation was in tatters, their morale teetering on the edge of collapse.
As he paused to catch his breath, wiping blood from his face, a figure emerged from the chaos. The familiar armor gleamed under the pale light, and the sight brought a smirk to Galen's lips.
"Well, if it isn't Fausto," Galen said, his voice carrying over the din of battle. "Still licking your wounds from the last time? Or did you crawl back here for another beating?"
Fausto stepped forward, his expression a mask of cold fury. "You talk too much, brute," he snarled. "But this time will be different."
Galen's eyes narrowed as he took in the two artifacts Fausto now carried. The Stormrider, a legendary blade crackling with arcs of lightning, hung at his side, its power undeniable. Around Fausto's neck was something new: the Amulet of the Berserker's Rage. The relic glowed with an ominous red light, radiating raw, primal energy.
"You've been busy," Galen remarked, gesturing at the amulet. "I'll give you this much—you look the part of a desperate man."
Fausto didn't reply. He grasped the Stormrider, the blade humming with power, and activated the amulet. The glow intensified, and a palpable wave of energy rippled through the air. Fausto's muscles bulged, his eyes gleaming with an almost feral intensity. His movements became faster, sharper, more aggressive.
When he spoke again, his voice was guttural, edged with primal fury. "You'll regret underestimating me."
Fausto lunged, closing the distance between them in the blink of an eye. His Stormrider struck with the force of a thunderclap, the blade crackling as it met Galen's massive sword. The impact sent a shockwave rippling through the battlefield, forcing both men back.
Galen grinned, undeterred. "Now this is more like it!"
The two clashed again and again, their blades ringing out like a deadly symphony. Galen fought with brute strength and skill honed over countless battles, his strikes heavy and relentless. But Fausto was different this time—faster, stronger, and seemingly tireless.
The berserk state granted by the Amulet of the Berserker's Rage turned Fausto into a whirlwind of destruction. He attacked with unrelenting ferocity, his blows coming from every angle, each one faster and harder than the last.
Galen struggled to keep up, his massive frame and slower movements leaving him at a disadvantage. Every time he managed to block or counter, Fausto was already launching another attack, exploiting even the smallest openings with terrifying precision.
"You've gotten better," Galen admitted, breathing hard. He swung his sword in a wide arc, forcing Fausto to back off momentarily. "But don't think I'm out of tricks just yet."
Fausto didn't respond. Instead, he unleashed the Primal Roar skill of the amulet, a deafening sound that reverberated across the battlefield. The ground seemed to tremble beneath their feet, and Galen felt a momentary flicker of unease.
"Cute trick," Galen growled, shaking off the effects. But the roar had done its job, disrupting his focus just enough for Fausto to press his advantage.
Lightning crackled as the Stormrider carved through the air, forcing Galen onto the defensive. He tried to parry, but Fausto's berserk-enhanced strength overwhelmed him. The strike sent Galen stumbling, his sword slipping from his grasp.
Fausto stood over him, his breathing heavy but controlled. The glow of the amulet cast his face in an eerie red light, his expression triumphant.
"This is where it ends," Fausto said, raising the Stormrider for the killing blow.
But Galen wasn't finished yet. Gritting his teeth, he rolled to the side, grabbing a fallen weapon from a nearby soldier. It wasn't his trusted sword, but it would have to do.
As Fausto's blade came down, Galen channeled his mana into the sword and deflected it with a desperate swing, sparks flying from the clash of metal. He surged to his feet, adrenaline and sheer will driving him forward.
"You'll have to try harder than that!" Galen roared, his voice echoing across the battlefield.
---
The battlefield was chaos incarnate—a symphony of clashing steel, shouts, and the dull roar of war machines. From my vantage point, I watched as Galen tore through the enemy ranks like a storm, his massive sword wreaking havoc with every swing. His orders had been clear: disrupt, destroy, and demoralize—and by the looks of it, he was overachieving.
But I wasn't here to marvel at Galen's handiwork. My eyes were scanning the chaos for one man—Count Aumale. The fortress walls that once loomed over the battlefield were now crumbling ruins, the result of our meticulously planned assault. His forces were in disarray, their lines shattered, yet the man himself remained unaccounted for.
And then I saw him.
At the heart of the battlefield, Aumale stood like a relic of a bygone age—his armor battered but his posture unwavering. Even now, surrounded by ruin, the man exuded defiance. As I approached, weaving through the wreckage and stray blows, his eyes found mine.
"So, you've come to face me at last," he said, his voice calm despite the storm around us. "I'll grant you this much, boy—you've inherited your father's audacity."
I tightened my grip on the Aetherblade. The hum of its energy was a steady reassurance in my hands. "And you'll pay for what you did to him."
Aumale smirked, raising the Drakarion Blade, its crimson glow radiating heat.
"Revenge, is it? Very well. Let's see if you've inherited his skill too."
I didn't reply. Words wouldn't change the outcome of this fight. With a burst of speed, I lunged forward, the Aetherblade slicing through the air. Our weapons met in an explosion of energy and fire, the clash sending a shockwave across the battlefield.
Aumale's strikes were heavy and unrelenting, each swing of his blade trailing waves of scorching heat. I dodged, parried, and countered, my mind working as fast as my body to analyze his patterns. He was strong—too strong to face head-on—but strength alone wasn't enough to win a fight like this.
"Is that all you've got?" I taunted, sidestepping a particularly wild swing.
His eyes burned with fury. "You dare mock me?!"
Good. I needed him angry. Anger made people predictable.
He came at me again, his movements more reckless now, and I seized the opportunity. Activating the Aetherium Band, I flung debris at him with telekinetic force, breaking his rhythm. When he retaliated with a devastating Inferno Slash, I activated the Heart of Elysium, its protective barrier absorbing the attack and converting the energy into a surge of vitality.
"You're wasting your strength," I said, my voice calm. "The more you struggle, the easier you make this for me."
He roared in frustration, flames erupting around him as he activated the Ember Veil skill. The heat was suffocating, and the fiery barrier made approaching him nearly impossible.
I stepped back, assessing my options. "Arnold, now!" I shouted, my voice cutting through the chaos.
From the shadows, Arnold, having just finished his fight with Lorcan, appeared, his Phantom's Embrace daggers gleaming with deadly intent. He moved like a ghost, slipping past Aumale's fiery defenses using Wraithwalk. A precise strike to Aumale's side caused him to falter, and before the Count could retaliate, Arnold vanished back into the shadows.
The distraction was enough. I surged forward, channeling every ounce of aether into the Aetherblade. Its spectral energy crackled as I struck, the blade moving with a speed and precision that left Aumale no room to recover.
He tried to block with the Drakarion Blade, but the Aetherblade sliced through his defenses, delivering a decisive blow. Blood spilled as Aumale staggered back, his breaths ragged.
"This… isn't over," he gasped, his voice barely audible.
I stepped closer, my blade poised for the final strike. My voice was cold, unyielding. "Oh, it's over."
With one swift motion, I ended it. The Aetherblade cleaved through the Drakarion Blade and into Aumale, his reign of terror brought to a definitive close.
As his body crumpled to the ground, a strange silence fell over the battlefield. For a moment, all I could hear was the hum of the Aetherblade and my own labored breathing. The vengeance I had sought for so long was finally mine.
But as I stood there, surrounded by the remnants of a shattered army and the weight of my own choices, I realized this war was far from over.
And neither was my fight.
---
The fight raged on Galen's side, but it was clear that Fausto had the upper hand. The power of the Amulet of the Berserker's Rage, combined with the Stormrider, was too much for even Galen to overcome. His movements grew slower, his strikes less precise.
Finally, Fausto landed a devastating blow, the force of the strike sending Galen crashing to the ground. He lay there, gasping for air, blood trickling from a gash on his forehead.
Fausto loomed over him, victorious. "Any last words?" he asked, his tone mocking.
Galen chuckled weakly, wiping blood from his mouth. "Yeah. Draven always has a backup plan."