The battlefield had transformed into a hellscape as the smoke from humans, non-human creatures, and beasts burned to ash, the scent of their flesh filling the surrounding air. Sora and Vael were still busy facing an encirclement from all directions, with the remnants of their unit holding on amidst the enemy forces that had begun to surround them, until the two of them stood back-to-back on ground soaked with the blood of both sides. Sora, who had been trying to open a path through a gap, now faced difficulty each time he tried to slash his sword at the enemy lines that seemed like a wall around them; his movements were sharp but slowing from exhaustion and the relentless siege. Vael's chest heaved as he regulated his breathing in the cramped space, his left arm bleeding but his sword still held upright to fight. In his right hand, he held Commander Thelan's dagger, a gift from a long-fallen brother-in-arms, kept by Thramund and now returned to him as a weapon that was supposed to be given back to a knight of Borreal. Around them, the surviving Elarion soldiers began to cry out in despair and fear as some of them fell one by one. Some tried to hold their lines to stay alive, but they too began to feel extreme fatigue, their muscles beginning to scream as hope slowly faded with each passing second.

  Sora, who had been trying to catch his breath while parrying several enemy attacks, spotted a gap in the enemy ranks. He pointed sharply to inform Vael that they could break through there, where the enemy was flooding their path. Vael understood Sora's meaning and gritted his teeth. “I know! We'll try!”. The two of them began to attack again, opening a path through the encirclement that could have meant death for them and their unit, the two of them trying to unite the battlefield with only their swords.

  On the castle walls, Kaelith, who had no time to rest after finishing off one giant on her own, immediately grabbed the few remaining quivers from her post and tried to fire her arrows again at the remaining giant and two undead dragons that were still breathing fire around her defensive wall, disabling all the ballistae. She shot with pure fury, her fingers trembling from the wounds caused by continuously drawing her bowstring without rest. Her quiver began to empty quickly, and she grabbed the remaining arrows on the wall, firing whatever she could find. Her armor was now cracked and shattered on the left side from a previous dragon fire explosion, and her face was smeared with the giant's blood and ash from the great fires on her defensive wall. The last of the six giants finally showed signs of being overwhelmed, letting out a pained groan it had been holding back as several arrows from Kaelith and her remaining unit pierced its throat. The giant finally fell backward, taking a part of the ruined wall with it, its head and body partially covered by the debris. But still, Kaelith had no time to breathe. She looked up as the undead dragons passed over her wall again, breathing their necrotic fire on every standing section and burning another tower along with the remaining archer unit. Kaelith's archers screamed as their bodies were set ablaze by the dragon fire right beside the still-surviving Kaelith, until their screams were heard no more. Kaelith, seeing this, immediately screamed furiously and shouted an order to the survivors as tears streamed down her face. “TAKE COVER! TAKE COVER!” At the same time, they all ran out of arrows, the ballistae were destroyed, and the towers were in ruins.

  In the war tent, Namien could only stand in frustrated silence as the dragon fire was clearly visible, burning his kingdom's defensive walls. He couldn't give any orders because the situation was worse than he had planned. King Aetheryn sat beside him, unable to move or speak, his face grim, devoid of any hope of turning the tide, let alone winning. But outside the walls, a faint, soft scream began to rumble from the silent clouds above. The sky changed; the clouds rolled and swirled above the battlefield like a maelstrom, forming a blackish-red spiral that tore through the sky high above the still-flying undead dragons.

  Everyone stopped to watch, even looking up to see this phenomenon, which made Namien step quickly out of the command tent, sensing something he knew, but the word 'late' stopped at the tip of his throat to prevent it, his eyes wide and his breath caught. He fell to his knees while staring at the sky, knowing who could do such a thing. “That spell…” he whispered. “No… no, he wouldn’t…” then tears began to flow and fall from his eyes.

  In the forest, Solhen Merach was still kneeling on the ground, blood beginning to come out of its own accord from his mouth as he cast the spell, and his robe began to be soaked with sweat, but he kept speaking, forcing the words to form even as he coughed up blood. The staff in his hand began to crack slowly and fell to the ground, starting to burn with the raw magic of the incantation he chanted. The spiral in the sky opened wider… and from within, a figure began to emerge that made the clouds scream, the sky tremble, and the trees bow in its presence. And then, it emerged fully from the spiral, a massive form with blackish-red wings, its scales shimmering, a figure that flew higher than any giant, and its eyes burned like twin suns. Its name was Bahamuth, a mythical figure from folktales, a dragon with the destructive skill of a god of war. An ancient dragon god summoned only in a person's desperation, known for destroying fields, kingdoms… and even other dragons.

  Bahamuth let out a roar that split the battlefield, announcing its presence. The undead dragons turned as if sensing what had happened and began to move away from Bahamuth as quickly as possible. But Bahamuth turned its gaze to the nearest undead dragon and, in an instant, snatched it from the sky with its giant claws and slammed it to the ground with such force that the earth cracked, creating a massive crater that swallowed the undead dragon and a large portion of the enemy army in the area; the undead dragon's skull was crushed on impact. The battlefield froze at Bahamuth's power. For a moment, hope, once lost, was rekindled in the Elarion forces. Far away in the forest, Solhen, still chanting his spell with his mouth full of his own blood and his hands shaking violently, completed his incantation. He smiled weakly upon hearing Bahamuth's roar before he himself fell to the ground, unconscious, as Bahamuth began its assault with the last of his strength. The tide of battle had turned again to Elarion's side, and this time, it was the decisive moment. The sky now belonged to the God of War, Bahamuth.

  The battlefield thundered beneath the blackened sky as Bahamuth unleashed its fury. Its massive feet slammed into the ground with enough weight to split the earth, and its claws tore apart the remains of the undead dragon it had smashed moments before. Above Bahamuth, the four remaining undead dragons continued to circle, retaliating for their fallen comrade by breathing their necrotic fire at it. Bahamuth stood tall and looked up, ignoring the attacks, its eyes shining brighter. It took a single breath, the air around it distorting with heat and pressure, and then it unleashed its fire. A torrent of destruction erupted from its mouth, a blazing red inferno that shot upwards in a blinding spiral, clashing with the descending undead fire with such tremendous force that the sky above trembled. Two undead dragons were caught mid-flight; their rotting wings instantly turned to ash, and their forms were consumed by Bahamuth's fire before they could even fall to the ground. The two remaining dragons veered away, fleeing from Bahamuth, roaring in despair against the Dragon God of War.

  Below, the Elarion forces watched with wide eyes, their morale blazing with the strength of Bahamuth, who was on their side. They beat their drums and let out a new war cry to ignite their spirits. “For Elarion!!!” Swords were raised, and shields were held tight. The weary and almost hopeless army now charged once more, their defiant shouts piercing the fire and blood, though they were still outnumbered by the enemy forces. Sora and Vael, seeing this, found their moment to turn the tide of the battlefield, and the two of them ran quickly through the chaos, their swords once again slashing through the enemy ranks blocking their path to the enemy commander. Sora cut down every armored goblin, orc, and ogre, his silent, swift slashes stripping them of their armor. As the enemy forces, seeing Elarion's resurgence, began to pull back, Sora's eyes fixed on someone still on horseback, clad in black armor with a horned, black helmet—none other than the enemy commander. Vael, his armor stained with sweat and blood, charged forward, his wide sword and dagger brutally carving a path through the enemy lines. Their combined strength was like a raging storm amidst the enemy forces, capable of destroying half their ranks.

  On the hill, the hunters who had been waiting for the right moment launched their secondary attack, releasing their oil-tipped fire arrows that rained down on the enemy's front and retreating lines. The enemy's small force of less than 1,000 men was able to rise up against the 6,500 before them, and their path opened wide as the enemy lines began to falter under the brutal assault and their newfound, rekindled spirit. The enemy commander sat on his horse, motionless, watching Bahamuth hunt down the last of the undead dragons amidst the chaos he had created.

  Then, the commander in black armor slowly dismounted from his horse and turned to his side where his lieutenant stood, a tall figure in pale iron armor with holes in it, and in the center of his armor was a rusted carving of the Borreal emblem. His skin was rotting and had already damaged a large part of it, and his eyes were sunken. His hand gripped a curved sword given to him by his commander, and the symbol of an oath that was once bound in his chest was no longer there. He was Commander Thelan, raised from his grave, his soul controlled by a commander that was no longer his own. Raised without a soul and now bound by a contract with his commander, he was a living dead.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  On the other side, Vael charged forward with a rage that cut a straight line toward the enemy commander's line, shouting as he fought, every slash filled with anger and the oath of Borreal still bound in his heart. Then, his sword clashed with something hard, as if someone had blocked his attack. He looked up and froze when he recognized the figure who had stopped him. The world seemed to stop for Vael as he saw his face again, but a deep disappointment washed over him. “No, it’s not… possible,” Vael whispered, his eyes wide as he saw Thelan, his brother-in-arms from the kingdom of Borreal, standing before him. This Thelan was not the man he knew; this was not the brother who had stood with him in the ranks of the now-ruined Borreal. Thelan's flesh was grey and his eyes were empty, but his stance and form were unchanged from that day. Vael staggered back, his voice trembling. "Thelan..." but there was no reply from the undead Thelan, only a low growl from his mouth as his blade sought blood. A twisted mockery of the honor bound by an oath of Borreal. Thelan's sword rose, aimed directly at Vael, and for the first time, Vael hesitated to fight back.

  Across the battlefield, Sora, who was clearing a path, saw Vael standing frozen. The true burden of this war was not just blades and dragons, but also memories, bonds, and betrayals a pain Vael was now feeling once again. His past had returned like a ghost, not to stand with him, but to test them. And behind the flames and ash-filled sky, the battlefield clashed between twisted fates. Solhen's escort stood and watched in awe. From their perspective, they saw Bahamuth's immense power bringing devastation to the remaining undead dragons. The earth itself trembled as the undead dragons' wings hit the ground, falling from the sky in a torrent of Bahamuth's fire. The soldiers, tough men who had once resigned themselves to death, now cheered with hope burning in their chests. "The tide of war is turning!" one of them shouted. “By the gods, he did it!” another murmured. But their cheers soon faltered as one of them turned and looked for Solhen in the forest, then shouted in shock. "SOLHEN!". The old wizard and Architect of Silence lay unconscious on the ground, drenched in his own blood, his staff turned to ash beside him.

  Without hesitation, the one who found him screamed for help, and several guards rushed to his side. "Still breathing! But it's weak," one of them said after checking his condition. “Get him to the palace, NOW!” another shouted. They quickly fashioned a stretcher from wood and lifted him, carrying him as fast as they could through the smoke and falling ash, their shouts of victory replaced by an urgent silence.

  On the ruined wall, Kaelith stood amidst the corpses of her archer unit, some crushed by rubble, others burned to a crisp. Her breath was heavy, her bowstring slack, and her fingers bled from constantly drawing the string, but she was still watching the sky where Bahamuth was now hunting the last undead dragon. Around her, only ten archers out of five hundred had survived the assault. The giants that attacked her wall now lay lifeless on the ground. Kaelith finally put her bow on her back and looked at her surviving unit, all wounded and injured. "It's over. You who survived and you who rest forever gave everything you could to defend this wall. Rest now, and let those still standing on the field finish this battle," she said to her remaining unit. Then, with a limp, Kaelith descended the steps of the defensive wall and headed to the command tent where she found Namien sitting silently, staring at the sky with an empty gaze.

  When Kaelith entered the tent, her armor half-charred, shattered, and stained with blood, she saw Namien staring blankly out of the tent. "Namien?" she asked softly, but there was no answer. "Hey, are you not listening to me?" Still no answer. Kaelith stepped closer, but the sound of hurried footsteps broke the silence outside. One of the guards protecting Solhen shouted for people to move aside as a crowd gathered, their faces grim and filled with deep sorrow as they saw Solhen on the stretcher, his beard and clothes stained with blood. Namien, realizing this, shot up from his seat and rushed towards the crowd. "Where is he?" he asked, his voice like a whisper of thunder. When the crowd heard his voice, they parted for him, and Namien saw Solhen lying on the stretcher, covered in blood. Namien pushed past the others, his eyes fixed on Solhen in silence, his breath catching. He stepped forward like a man thrown into a nightmare. "What happened?" he asked the nearest guard but got no answer. Namien grabbed the guard's collar tightly. "WHAT HAPPENED!?" The guard still didn't answer.

  Not long after, a healer arrived, his robes disheveled and his face covered in sweat. The healer knelt beside the stretcher and began his examination in a trained silence. Kaelith came out of the tent and watched from the entrance, her lips trembling as she saw Namien looking unlike himself. Namien's hands were clenched tightly at his sides until the healer finally stood up, offering only silence. Seeing this, Namien angrily lunged towards the healer, grabbing his collar and pulling him close to his face. “Tell me what’s wrong with him!” he growled, his annoyed tone still low. There was still no answer from the healer, just like the guard before, which made Namien scream in his face with fury. “TELL ME WHAT’S WRONG WITH HIM NOW!”. The healer’s heavy-laden eyes slowly answered Namien’s question with slow, faint, and heavy words: “...He is no longer of this world.”.

  Namien’s grip on the healer’s collar slowly loosened until he let go. He stood frozen for a moment, then his legs could not bear the weight of the news, and he fell to his knees on the street, right beside his mentor who had taught him magic, wisdom, and self-control. Without realizing it, tears streamed down Namien’s cheeks as he bowed his head. “You shouldn’t have died for us just to summon that creature…”. Kaelith, who had been watching the event from the beginning, covered her trembling mouth with her hand, her lips quivering as she saw Namien’s reaction and understood what had happened. She said nothing, her breath catching as sorrow choked her, and tears began to fall as she watched someone she had resented sacrifice his life for them. And in the tent, King Aetheryn, having heard what happened from his officer, dismissed him and sank into his carved oak chair. He covered his face with both hands and did not speak, for he too knew what they—and he—had lost. It was a price Solhen had paid, a toll from the sky's vengeance to win this war for his kingdom and its people.

  On the other side, the battlefield still roared with chaos, but for Vael, all sound had faded as he had to face Thelan. Before him now stood the decaying and sunken remains of his brother's body, once bound by the same oath, the fire within him now extinguished. Thelan was now nothing more than a controlled necromantic puppet. This was not the man he once knew; the Borreal symbol still clung to his shattered and rusted armor, his skin was pale, his mouth was torn, and his sword moved not with honor, but with the command of his controller. Vael’s knees trembled. “Thelan… it’s me, Vael,” he said once more. But, just as before, there was no answer from Thelan. Only the sound of his blade could be heard as it swung at him, fast and without mercy, and Vael did not move from his position or block the attack. He still stood frozen, not out of fear, but out of the sorrow in his heart. Then, the attack was blocked by Sora, who had been watching them both and now stood between them, his blade intercepting the deadly strike just inches from Vael’s head. The silent Sora narrowed his eyes, looking at the undead Thelan and then back at Vael, waiting for a signal or a word. But Vael just stood there, staring at what used to be his friend, his brother, now a tool controlled by someone else, a form without a soul. Sora looked again at Thelan, then back at Vael. As Thelan stepped back into a dueling stance, Sora was about to step forward to answer the challenge, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. It was Vael.

  “Let me finish this. This is my burden,” he said softly, his voice pained. Sora looked at him for a moment, then slowly lowered his sword and stepped aside. Vael took Sora’s place, stepping forward to answer the duel, taking a breath he hadn't taken since the war began. In his left hand, he held his sharp Borreal sword, and in his right, the dagger that had once belonged to Thelan. Thelan moved first, his movements a blur, but Vael met him with a shout that was part war cry, part a broken heart fighting its own brother. Their swords clashed in an instant, too fast for most to follow, each of their movements perfectly mirrored, as if they had fought each other a thousand times in their training, in their memory, even in their dreams. Every strike echoed with the sorrow radiating from Vael, and every block was a restraint, a memory of who his opponent used to be. And still, Vael pushed forward, seeing his brother as his opponent in a form he never wanted to face. Sora watched, frozen not with doubt, but with respect for Vael. This was not his fight; this was a farewell written in steel by Vael.

  Across the battlefield, Sora's gaze pierced through the smoke and fire and saw the enemy commander standing silently on a high rock, watching the duel between Vael and Thelan. Even from a distance, the aura around him was suffocating to Sora, not of anger or rage, but something far more deliberate. Then, the commander turned away and began to walk away from the duel, which he apparently found boring. It was as if this battle no longer required his attention, the pieces already set for something much larger, his stage already prepared. Sora narrowed his eyes. He would not let that shadow simply vanish. Without a sound, he shot off to pursue the commander, his sword held tightly in his hand. His every step was hot, and his legs screamed with exhaustion. But his determination was unshakable. He was not just a man trying to protect a kingdom; he was the one meant to face the enemy commander, and he would not let him disappear behind the smoke of another ruined kingdom.

  Not this time.