The new headquarters of the Valkary was a fortress carved from the abyss itself.
It stood far from the Royal Capital, isolated from the rest of the empire, surrounded by dead land and jagged mountains. A monolith of black stone, its towering spires clawed at the sky like the remains of a fallen god.
Chains lined the entrance, rattling with the wind, their metal covered in old, rusted stains. The torches burned low, casting jagged shadows across the walls, as if something inside was moving. Watching. Waiting.
This wasn't a base.
It was a tomb for the living.
As the Valkary stepped inside, the weight of their new reality settled over them.
The doors closed behind them with a deep, final boom.
---
In the center of the fortress stood a massive war table, covered in maps, blood-red markers, and old battle plans.
Standing beside it—Lucan.
And next to him, waiting with his ever-present, unreadable smirk—Commander Malakai Voss of Squad Two.
Lucan spoke first. "From now on, you take orders from Malakai."
Silence.
Then—an immediate shift.
Modred's crimson eyes darkened.
Xeraniel's smirk faded, his violet gaze sharpening.
"This is a joke, right?" Xeraniel's voice was low, dangerous.
"We take orders from no one," Modred added, his tone cold as death.
The room felt heavier.
Then—Malakai moved.
---
One step.
That was all it took.
A wave of crushing, suffocating pressure erupted from Malakai's body.
The torches dimmed. The very air twisted.
Modred's muscles locked. His breath caught in his throat.
Xeraniel's body tensed involuntarily, his blood screaming at him to move—but he couldn't.
Fenrick felt his legs tremble for the first time in years.
Even Dante's fingers twitched, his instincts roaring at him to run.
This wasn't just mana.
It was something deeper.
Something terrifying.
Malakai's smirk widened. "Do you understand now?"
No one responded.
Because they couldn't.
Then—the pressure vanished.
The room returned to normal.
Lucan's expression remained unreadable. "The invasion begins in one month. Prepare yourselves."
---
They were led into a ritual chamber deep beneath the fortress.
The walls were lined with chains and old, forgotten symbols, their meaning long erased by time. A stone altar stood in the center, its surface carved with ancient markings.
A masked figure stepped forward, holding a needle etched with blackened runes.
"The mark of the Valkary," Lucan said. "Your power—bound to ink. A reminder that you are no longer men. You are executioners."
One by one, they stepped forward.
The moment the needle touched their skin—the pain was indescribable.
The ink didn't just sit on the surface. It sank deep, etching into their very being due to its pulsing power coming from the black ichor of a beast.
Each of them bore a different mark.
Modred: A skull with demon horns, inked along his arm, with black, cursed patterns branching across his chest like roots of an ancient evil.
Xeraniel: A twisted skull with hollow, infinite eyes, surrounded by distorted black lines that spread across his arms and chest, resembling warped gravity.
Fenrick: A cracked, fanged skull across his fists, with jagged black lines running up his forearms, the embodiment of relentless strength.
Dante: A grinning, electric skull carved down his spine, with black lightning-like veins stretching outward like fractures in reality.
Arthur: A half-shattered knight's skull over his heart, its deep black fractures resembling a blade shattered in battle but never broken.
Each mark was final. Permanent.
A brand of war.
Modred clenched his fists as his demon-horned skull burned into his skin.
And somewhere, deep inside him, a voice stirred.
"Now we're getting somewhere."
---
That night, the barracks were silent.
Most had left to begin their preparations.
But Dante remained.
Modred found him sitting alone in the war room, his fingers absently tracing the scarred edge of his blade.
"You're brooding," Modred said flatly.
Dante chuckled, shaking his head. "You call it brooding. I call it remembering."
A pause.
Then—he spoke.
"My family was of low nobility. Not powerful, but we had a name." His tone was calm, emotionless.
Modred listened.
"They came at night."
His grip on his sword tightened.
"The Erebus creatures."
And then, he described them.
The Erebus were not simply monsters.
They were aberrations—things that should not exist.
Standing at over twenty feet tall, their hulking forms were a grotesque fusion of troll, demon, and giant, stitched together by something far more sinister than mere flesh.
Their skin was blackened like charred stone, cracked with deep veins of pulsing red, as if their very bodies were filled with molten blood. Their muscles bulged unnaturally, their grotesque limbs twisting in ways that defied human anatomy.
Their faces were an unholy mockery of sentience—a gaping maw lined with jagged, asymmetrical fangs, wide enough to tear through an armored knight in a single bite. Some had multiple eyes, glowing dimly like dying embers, while others had hollow sockets, as if their very existence was devoid of reason or purpose.
Their arms were too long, their clawed fingers dragging against the ground as they walked, each step shaking the very earth beneath them. Their spines jutted out in uneven, serrated ridges, and massive, deformed horns curled from their skulls, adding to their demonic appearance.
They did not simply roar or scream.
They howled—a distorted, nightmarish wail that echoed through the battlefield like the cries of the damned. A sound that stripped men of their will to fight, leaving only terror.
They did not kill for survival.
They killed for the sake of destruction itself.
And worst of all… they never stopped.
No matter how many were slain, no matter how many were burned or broken, they always came back.
Because the Erebus were not just monsters.
They were the embodiment of annihilation.
Dante exhaled. "I was twelve. I woke up to the sound of my father screaming."
His voice was flat. Empty.
"I heard everything."
Modred said nothing.
Dante smirked. "But at least now, I get to kill things like them."
Modred studied him.
Then—he stood up.
"You're not the only one with something to kill."
Dante chuckled. "Yeah. I figured."
---
THE COUNTDOWN BEGINS
The month of preparation had begun.
Their bodies had been marked.
Their roles had been set.
Their enemies had been chosen.
And when the time came—Astria would burn its first kingdom to the ground.