The battlefield before the Devil King's palace stretched like a wound carved into the earth. Blackened soil, cracked by fire and scarred by steel, ran all the way up to the colossal gates—gates large enough to swallow armies whole. They towered, etched with infernal symbols, a reminder that no human hand had ever breached them.
And at those gates, the vanguard bled.
Kaelion stood atop a ridge overlooking the clash, his cloak torn at the edges, his eyes sharp despite the exhaustion etched into his features. His strategies had carried the vanguard this far—through ambushes, countercharges, traps layered by devils who understood numbers as well as he did. But here, at the threshold, the weight of sheer quantity pressed down like a mountain.
