Hank no longer heard the shouting around him. His gaze lingered on his house, then shifted to his two children. Conflict clouded his eyes—love and duty warring in silence.

  At last, he made his choice. Losing the farm would wound him deeply, but compared to his other holdings, it was a small price to pay. What bound him here was sentiment—the soil where his life’s work had begun. Yet now, sentiment had no place.

  “Mary! Take Arlie and Amira—go to Battersea!” Hank shouted to the nanny.

  “What about you, sir?” she asked, clutching the children, her face pale with fear.

  “I still have to oversee what can be salvaged,” he said firmly, striding toward the barns.

  The officers exchanged weary glances. They understood they could do no more, and withdrew swiftly.

  Bayek.

  When Glenn returned from Kairadrea, he was surprised to find Ravel at home, speaking anxiously with Tia. The boy’s face was ashen with fear.

  The moment Tia saw Glenn, she hurried to him, words tumbling out in a rush. “Mr. Glenn! Young Master Ravel says the demons are invading!”

  “What?” Glenn’s eyes widened. “And who told him that?”

  Before Tia could answer, Ravel hurried forward, pulling her aside. “It’s from the Dudd Town police station! The sheriff told me to warn you—to prepare yourself!”

  Glenn frowned. “So is the invasion here, or in Dudd Town? Speak clearly.”

  Ravel scratched his head helplessly. “Uh... I think... both?”

  Glenn sighed. He knew better than to expect reliable news from this boy. Just as he was about to push past him and find the truth himself, a pigeon fluttered in through the window.

  Instinct halted his step.

  The bird flew straight toward him and landed neatly on his outstretched palm—then burst into a puff of white smoke, leaving a folded letter behind.

  Everyone in the room stared in astonishment.

  Glenn sniffed the envelope. A faint, strange scent clung to the parchment—one he did not recognize.

  He motioned for the others to stand back, then carefully opened it. The handwriting alone told him who had written it—he remembered that firm, slanted script from the old man’s lectures.

  The letter read:

  “Received intelligence that a demonic rift may soon open near Filna. A great swarm of demons could sweep across the surrounding regions. Bayek should remain safe—don’t ask how I know, call it intuition. Dudd Town, however, lies dangerously close. If you can, lend a hand to those in need. If you cannot—or choose not to—that’s fine too. Follow your own will. —Bohr Burns.”

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Glenn set the letter down, brows knitting tightly. This was too sudden.

  Tia picked it up, reading silently. When she finished, shock widened her eyes. “Mr. Glenn... who is Bohr Burns?”

  “The tall old man next door,” Glenn replied absently, lost in thought.

  “Oh, him...” Tia nodded, but before she could speak further, Ravel snatched the letter from her hands.

  A disaster indeed... so the rumors of the Fireborne Worm might be true. But this scale—this is catastrophic. Wait... could that knight I saw in Kairadrea—Rez—be coming here?

  As Glenn’s mind raced, something else streaked through the window—a letter with beating wings.

  He caught it deftly, already guessing its sender. Opening it confirmed his suspicion—it was from Daolf, warning him of the same demonic incursion, urging vigilance.

  “I have to go to Dudd Town,” Glenn said at once, striding for the door. “You’re to stay here—no one leaves, understood?”

  “My parents...” Ravel blurted, his eyes brimming with fear.

  “Yes, the Master and Madam!” Tia added anxiously.

  “They’ll be safe,” Glenn interrupted, his tone certain. “I promise.” He paused at the door, turning slightly. “And call that elven lady back—now.”

  The next moment, he was gone.

  The Wastelands.

  What had begun as a fissure barely a hundred meters long had now widened severalfold. Molten rock churned like boiling oil, spattering from the rift and hissing as it fell.

  The once-green plain was now a wasteland of ash and scorched stone. From its heart came a sound—low, guttural laughter that seemed to claw at the soul itself, echoing across the barren expanse.

  Suddenly, a massive arm, sheathed in magma, thrust upward and gripped the edge of the chasm. Moments later, a demon—four meters tall—heaved itself into the open air.

  It had no mouth, only five pairs of eyes arranged in symmetrical rows across its face. Tattered, flesh-like wings unfurled from its back, scattering molten embers as they spread. Its lower body resembled that of an insect, supported by four jointed limbs that clattered against the ground.

  And it was only the first.

  Within seconds, more emerged—each grotesque and unique, scrambling over one another as they poured from the rift.

  They shrieked and howled, spreading outward but never straying too far. Those at the perimeter arranged themselves deliberately, forming a living ring roughly ten kilometers in diameter.

  Others clambered over them, building layer upon layer until a towering wall of flesh and carapace encircled the rift.

  From within their twisted bodies, molten ichor began to flow, hardening as it cooled—until the wall stood solid as obsidian.

  But it did not end there.

  New waves of demons emerged—massive, bloated monstrosities, towering twenty to thirty meters tall. Each halted at a predetermined point, their forms warping and solidifying into grotesque shapes.

  These were not warriors, but structures—foul dwellings for the higher demons that would soon follow.

  Then came the roar.

  A deafening, world-shaking bellow erupted from within the chasm as a colossal dragon’s claw—skeletal and wreathed in soul-flame—thrust skyward and crashed upon the edge.

  The creature that followed was a horror of bone and fire, its chained limbs and skull bound in blackened iron. It hauled its enormous frame onto the scorched earth, molten fire burning in its hollow chest.

  Upon its back stood a figure clad in infernal armor, his head encased in a heavy helm from which only two blazing eyes shone like living coals.

  In one hand, he gripped the dragon’s chain as a leash; in the other, a greatsword of blackened steel glowing faintly red, as though it still remembered the forge of Hell.

  “Rejoice, fair world above!” the demon knight bellowed, raising his sword high. “Welcome the cleansing flame of our Infernal Legion!”

  Below, countless demons screamed in rapture.

  The bone dragon reared back and exhaled—unleashing a pillar of fire that tore through the heavens.