The Burning Town of Ozamian
The night was a sea of fire and smoke. Flames tore through the peaceful town of Ozamian, destroying homes, streets, and lives. Thick black smoke rose into the sky, blotting out the stars. The streets were littered with bodies—knights, villagers, even children—lying still, their faces frozen in terror.
In the middle of it all stood a young boy. Artreus. He was shaking, his small body covered in soot, his eyes wide with fear. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. The chaos around him felt like a dream—a nightmare he couldn't wake up from.
The air was filled with the sounds of cracking wood and collapsing buildings, but to Artreus, it was all muffled, like he was trapped underwater.
"Life is full of sorrow and despair."
A voice rang out in his head. It wasn't his own, but it was there, deep and heavy, echoing like a distant drum.
"We walk through life blind, never knowing when the darkness will take us."
Artreus' chest felt tight. He wanted to scream, to cry, to wake up. But all he could do was stand there, frozen in the middle of the burning street, tears mixing with the soot on his face.
"Some people carry a heavier burden—one they can't run from. You can't escape your blood, boy. There's always a price to pay."
The voice was sharp, each word cutting deeper. Artreus looked around, desperate for someone—anyone—to tell him this wasn't real. But all he saw were flames, ashes, and death.
And then, from the fire, a shadow emerged.
A massive figure stepped forward, wreathed in darkness that seemed to pull the flames closer. His eyes burned like cold fire, bright and unforgiving. Abaddon, the Great Demon King.
"You're alone now, child," the demon said, his voice low and cold, each word carrying the weight of thunder. He stepped closer, towering over Artreus. "Son of Azrael."
The name struck Artreus like a hammer. His legs wobbled, but he couldn't run. His body wouldn't listen. He was too scared, too shocked to do anything but stare.
"Your bloodline has doomed you," Abaddon continued. "Your brother, your people... no one can save you from what's coming."
The demon's words were like daggers, sharp and final. The flames roared higher around them, but they seemed to bend toward Abaddon, as if even the fire feared him.
"The sins of the father always find the son," Abaddon growled, his burning gaze fixed on Artreus. He raised an arm, motioning to the burning town around them. "Look at this destruction. This is your inheritance. This is your destiny."
Artreus opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. His legs felt like stone. His chest felt like it would explode. He wanted to run, to fight, to wake up—but he couldn't. He was frozen, a powerless boy standing in front of a monster.
The demon stepped closer, his shadow swallowing the boy. The town burned, the flames screaming louder and louder.
And then, everything went black.
The War at the Demon King's Castle
The battlefield was chaos.
Far in the distance, the towering spires of the Demon King's castle loomed under a blood-red sky, its jagged walls wreathed in shadow and flame. All around, the war raged with unrelenting fury. Demons and their allies—the dark orcs—clashed against the armies of light, a force united under the banners of Camelot, Elenora, and the dwarven halls. Knights in Shining armor fought side by side with elven archers and stout dwarves, their battle cries cutting through the din of clashing steel and monstrous roars.
Above the battlefield, flying beasts circled, their massive wings beating against the air. One swooped low, opening its maw to unleash a torrent of flame that scorched the earth below, scattering knights and elves alike. The ground trembled under the relentless assault of war machines, the fireballs from catapults exploding in fiery bursts that tore through hordes of demons and packs of hellhounds. But for every demon that fell, another took its place, rising from the seemingly endless abyss.
At the forefront of the charge stood Tristan, a knight of the Round Table, his polished armor smeared with blood and soot. He raised his sword high, his voice booming above the chaos.
"Forward, Knights! With the elves of Elenora and the strength of the dwarves, we can win this war!" His voice grew louder, carried by the hope that burned in his chest. "For Camelot!"
The knights, elves, and dwarves roared in unison, rallying under his command. The tide of light surged forward, pushing back the demon hordes. But just as their momentum built, the ground shook violently, and a deafening explosion erupted from the rear of their formation.
A group of demon sorcerers stood at the edge of the battlefield, their guttural chants twisting the air around them. Their glowing demon eyes burned with unholy power as they unleashed torrents of dark magic. Bolts of fire and lightning tore through the knights' ranks, striking down rows of warriors. Despite the carnage, the armies of light held their ground, their shields raised and their resolve unwavering.
From the backline of the demon forces, a towering figure stepped forward—a demon general, his crimson armor gleaming like molten metal. His voice, guttural and ancient, barked commands at the sorcerers.
"K'rezz vah'therak! Summon the Devourers!"
The earth trembled again, this time with a sinister rhythm. Panic rippled through the ranks of dwarves and elves as the ground beneath their feet began to crack and shift. Suddenly, the earth exploded, sending dirt and bodies flying into the air. From the gaping hole emerged a monstrous worm, its massive body covered in jagged, spiked armor. Its gaping maw, lined with rows of razor-sharp teeth, let out a bone-chilling screech before it lunged into the armies of light.
Tristan gritted his teeth as he watched multiple worms burst from the ground, tearing through the battlefield. "Tsk," he hissed under his breath. "We're losing ground."
From behind him, an aged voice rang out. Merlin, the legendary wizard, stepped forward, his staff glowing with a swirling blue light.
"Tristan!" Merlin shouted, his voice carrying both command and urgency. "We must deal with the sorcerers. Their magic is keeping the demon army strong. Take down their offensive spells, and we'll have a chance."
Tristan nodded. "Gareth!" he called, his voice sharp and urgent.
A bulky knight with a massive shield stepped forward, his expression grim but determined. "On it," Gareth replied, already moving toward the rear lines where the sorcerers chanted.
"What about the ground-shakers?" Tristan asked, pointing his sword toward the massive worms wreaking havoc on their forces.
Before Merlin could answer, a streak of light tore through the battlefield. A knight, moving faster than any eye could follow, charged toward one of the monstrous worms. His sword pulsed with brilliant mana, each swing cutting through the air like a thunderclap.
Sir Lancelot.
In one smooth motion, Lancelot leaped high into the air, his mana-infused blade glowing brighter with each moment. He came down hard, his sword slicing clean through the worm's armored hide. The creature let out a wet, gurgling scream as it collapsed to the ground, twitching before going still. Lancelot landed gracefully, already moving toward the next worm.
Knights and elves nearby stared in awe.
"Sir Lancelot…" one whispered.
Lancelot turned to the soldiers, his voice steady and commanding. "Today, we end the forces of evil. For the future generations of Camelot. For peace in this world." His gaze swept across the battlefield. "King Arthur fights for us inside the castle. We will fight for him out here. For Camelot!"
The knights erupted into a battle cry, their voices echoing across the field as they charged forward with renewed strength.
But then, a deafening crack split the air. The ground shook violently once more as the castle in the distance began to crumble. Massive chunks of stone fell, and a surge of icy, spiked magic shot into the sky, piercing through the dark clouds above.
Lancelot turned toward the castle, his face grim. His sword, still glowing with mana, hummed in his hand.
"It's begun," he muttered.
The war outside raged on, but deep within the Demon King's castle, King Arthur faced his ultimate enemy—Azazel, the Demon King.
Arthur vs. Azazel
The battlefield was eerily silent compared to the chaos outside. Deep within the crumbling Demon King's castle, King Arthur faced his ultimate foe—Azazel, the Demon King.
Their movements were a blur, too fast for mortal eyes to follow. Only the deafening echoes of clashing steel and bursts of magic gave any indication of their fierce struggle. The stone walls around them trembled with each strike, cracks spreading across the ancient architecture.
Azazel leapt back, his pale, sharp features illuminated by the dark energy swirling around him. His two curled horns gleamed ominously, and his long, black cloak billowed with the force of his power. Dark magic pulsed at his fingertips, raw and chaotic.
"You're as impressive as they say," Azazel sneered, his deep voice carrying a mocking tone. "The chosen hero of the world. The only one who could match my speed and strength. Son of Azrael."
Arthur stood firm, his white armor gleaming despite the grime of battle. His red cape swayed gently behind him, and the holy sword Excalibur in his hand glowed with a brilliant blue light. Through the visor of his helmet, his eyes burned with determination.
"This ends here, Azazel," Arthur said, his voice calm but resolute. "I won't let you harm another innocent. Your reign of terror stops now."
Azazel grinned, revealing sharp, wicked teeth. "Bold words for a man standing before his death," he said, his voice dripping with malice. "When I'm done with you, I'll burn the light of this world to ash. Your kingdom, your friends, everyone you love—they'll all fall."
Arthur's grip on Excalibur tightened. "Not while I stand. I'll protect them all. That's my destiny."
Azazel's grin widened, his eyes glowing with dark energy. "Let this be your final stand then, Arthur Reigns!"
With a guttural roar, Azazel unleashed a torrent of dark magic. The swirling blast ripped through the air, destroying everything in its path. Arthur dodged effortlessly, his movements smooth and precise. Rolling back, he planted his hand firmly on the ground, summoning a surge of ice magic. Massive spikes erupted from the earth, racing toward Azazel like a wave.
The Demon King barely flinched. With a furious shout, he exploded the ice around him, shards scattering harmlessly. He raised a dark, ominous sword, its edges dripping with shadow. In an instant, he charged at Arthur, their blades colliding with a deafening clash. Sparks flew as Excalibur met the dark blade, the force of their strikes shaking the very foundation of the castle.
Azazel snarled, summoning a surge of power to blast Arthur off his feet. The knight was hurled into the ceiling, stone crumbling around him as he fell to the ground. Dust and rubble buried him momentarily.
Hovering above the chaos, Azazel raised his blade high, dark magic surging through it like a storm. "This ends now, Arthur!" he roared, his voice echoing through the ruins.
From beneath the stones, Arthur stirred. Slowly, he rose, his body battered but his resolve unshaken. Excalibur glowed brighter, responding to its master's unyielding will.
With a burst of energy, Arthur charged forward. The two clashed again, their final blows carrying the weight of their kingdoms. Azazel's blade surged with darkness, but Excalibur's holy light burned brighter, overpowering the shadow.
Arthur roared as he delivered his final strike—a brilliant slash that tore through the Demon King's defenses. Azazel stumbled, his body glowing with cracks of light as the dark magic sustaining him began to fade. He collapsed to his knees, his sword slipping from his grasp.
Arthur approached cautiously, Excalibur still at the ready. Azazel looked up at him, blood dripping from his mouth. His lips curled into a faint, eerie smile.
"You've done it, Son of Azrael," Azazel rasped, his voice weaker now. "You've defeated me."
Arthur stared down at the fallen king, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. "It's over," he said firmly. "Your terror ends here."
Azazel chuckled, a low, hollow sound. "Over? No… this is far from over." His glowing eyes flickered as he leaned closer. "Don't celebrate yet, King of Camelot. This is only the beginning. There are more… more of us… waiting."
Arthur's grip tightened on his sword. "What are you talking about?"
Azazel's smile widened, twisted and unnerving. "The gods will fall. He will rise again… Lord Abaddon. The prophecy is far from over." He coughed, blood staining his dark robes. "Save your brother… if you can."
With those final, cryptic words, Azazel's body crumbled into ash, carried away by an unnatural wind. His last smile lingered in Arthur's mind, chilling him more than any blade or spell ever could.
Arthur stood in the silent ruins, Excalibur still glowing faintly in his hand. The echoes of battle outside reminded him that the fight was not truly over.
But his brother… what did Azazel mean?
Arthur's eyes narrowed as he turned toward the exit.
The Glimpse of Shadows
The throne room was a wasteland of ruin. Broken stone pillars loomed in the shadows, jagged and crumbling. The once-grand hall was silent, save for the occasional drip of water echoing in the distance.
In the center of the room, a man sat slumped on the shattered throne. His head hung low, his forehead bleeding, the crimson trail cutting down his pale face. A drop of blood slipped from his limp right hand, splattering onto the floor below. His breathing was faint, almost nonexistent.
Before him, a woman with unnaturally pale skin stood. Her smile was sharp and wicked, her laughter cutting through the stillness like a blade. She tilted her head as she watched him, her eyes glinting with cruel amusement.
A Sudden Awakening
Eight-year-old Artreus Reigns jolted awake, his small body tense with fear. His chest rose and fell rapidly as his mind scrambled to make sense of what he had just seen.
He blinked, the bright sunlight filtering through the leaves above him coming into focus. He was lying under a large tree, its wide branches shielding him from the full force of the summer sun. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves, carrying the scent of wildflowers across the open field.
Artreus sat up, his tiny hands gripping the grass beneath him. He rubbed his eyes, shaking his head as if trying to push the dream—the nightmare—out of his mind.
A soft, playful voice broke the stillness.
"Trouble sleeping?"
Startled, Artreus turned to his right. There, sitting beside him, was Rafaela Reiss, a nine-year-old girl with bright eyes and a kind, mischievous smile. Her short golden hair gleamed in the sunlight, barely brushing her shoulders, and she wore a simple white dress that swayed gently in the breeze. Sitting cross-legged under the tree, she rested her chin on her hands, her curious gaze fixed on him.
Artreus hesitated before answering. "…Rafaela."
She tilted her head, her smile widening. "Looks like you had a nightmare, Artie. Something scary?" Her tone was light, but her eyes held concern.
He looked at her, then at the endless green field stretching out beyond the tree. The sky was clear, the sun warm on his skin. It was a peaceful, perfect day—so different from what he had seen in his dream.
"I…" He paused, his small hands clenching. "It was nothing."
Rafaela leaned back, her laughter soft and sweet. "If you say so." She stretched her arms above her head, the sunlight catching her golden locks. "But you know, you don't have to keep it all to yourself."
Artreus looked down at the grass beneath him, the warmth of the moment slowly easing the tension in his chest. He didn't know what the dream meant—or if it even meant anything at all—but here, under the tree, with Rafaela's smile beside him, it didn't feel as scary anymore.
In the distance, the field stretched endlessly, bathed in sunlight. The leaves above them rustled gently, whispering secrets only they could hear.