Clang!
The sound of steel striking steel reverberated through the smoky air, followed by a sickening thud. A soldier collapsed beside General Hebruski, his body a canvas of agony—torn open, slashed apart by the savage nails of the devil. The man's chest gaped in ragged strips, ribs poking through like broken twigs. Blood splattered across Hebruski's armored boots, hot and sticky.
Around him, the battlefield groaned under the weight of death. Screams tore the night like jagged blades, swallowed by the dense fog of demonic corruption. One could hardly tell if Hebruski's skin gleamed from sweat or the suffocating pressure radiating from the devil's presence. The air itself was heavy, charged with dread.
Slash!
Another scream. Another man cut down. The rhythm of death was deafening. The earth, once solid, now trembled beneath their feet as if even the ground feared what stalked above it.
It was only last night. The camp had been quiet, just the sound of crickets and the soft snoring of exhausted men. No one had expected the attack—not here, not now. For centuries, the mortal world had lived in peace, the devils of the dark realms sealed away. But tonight, those centuries had cracked.
A message had arrived not long before—the southern General Quashing, desperate, urgent. Something had happened at the palace, something big. A breach, a sign, maybe even an omen. Hebruski hadn't ignored it. He had feared it. And now, amid the screaming and slaughter, he could feel it in his bones: this chaos was linked to the temple incident.
Hebruski tightened his grip on his sword, knuckles white beneath his gauntlets. All around him, soldiers were faltering. Many had already fallen. The few who remained stood only by sheer will, their movements sluggish, eyes hollow. If this continued, they would be overrun. The devil—this monstrous creature of hate and rot—would reach the center of the camp. And if it reached the center...
No. He wouldn't let it.
He had already dispatched two messengers to the palace, begging King Arthro for reinforcements. But the devil had moved faster than expected, cutting through their lines like a plague of blades.
How long will it take? Hebruski thought bitterly, chest heaving. How long before the King answers? Or are we alone in this hell?
"General...! General!"
A weak voice tore through the chaos. Hebruski's head snapped to the right. Through the shifting shadows and thick smoke, he saw movement—crawling.
One of the messengers.
The young man dragged himself across the battlefield, every inch of motion leaving a streak of blood behind him. His armor was ripped to shreds, skin torn and burnt. One eye dangled loosely from its socket, ripped out by the devil's claws, the other bloodshot but filled with purpose. He clutched a broken shield in one hand, as if it still protected something. As if it mattered.
Hebruski ran toward him, sword held firm in one hand, the other shielding his face from falling embers. He knelt beside the soldier as the ground quaked beneath them.
"Did we fail?" Hebruski asked, voice tight, trembling despite his hardened shell. "Tell me. Did you fail?"
The young man coughed up blood and tried to smile. "We were attacked halfway through… but… I used my shield… covered the other messenger. He should've made it through. If nothing's gone wrong… he's already reached the palace."
Hebruski's chest surged with pride, grief, and something too deep for words. He rested a hand on the soldier's shoulder.
"You did well. More than well. I will tell King Arthro myself. I'll demand your name be written in gold. Your family will know… your honor will not be forgotten."
The soldier tried to rise. Hebruski caught him. "Don't. Save your strength."
But the soldier was shaking his head slowly, face twisted with pain. "General… I know I don't have much time. My body's already… shutting down."
"No—"
"Please," the soldier cut in, voice cracking. "Let me say this. Just one request… one last thing."
Hebruski's lip quivered. He had seen countless deaths, had ordered men into slaughter and watched them fall. But this—this boy, this brave soul—had been under his command since the early campaigns. He had watched him grow, fight, bleed. And now, he was watching him die.
"Say it," Hebruski whispered, a tear slipping from the corner of his battle-hardened eye.
"When I'm gone… please, deliver my body to my wife. Her name is Lirien. She lives near the river bend, in a white cottage with blue windows. I built it with my hands. Tell her... tell her I love her. That I thought of her in my final breath. That if there's a next time… I'll find her sooner. I won't waste another moment."
The soldier's voice faded, lips trembling. "And tell our son… I'm sorry I won't get to see him grow up. But I'll always… be with him…"
And then his head dropped, body limp, blood pooling beneath him.
Hebruski's hand remained on the boy's shoulder, not ready to let go. For a long time, he stayed there—on one knee in the bloodied dirt, surrounded by screams, fire, and the devil's shadow.
He closed the soldier's lone remaining eye with trembling fingers.
"Rest well, son," he whispered. "You were braver than most kings."
From the shadows, the devil growled. The ground shook again.
But Hebruski stood, eyes burning with fury and sorrow. He looked down at the young man once more, and then to the heavens.
"By the gods, we will survive this," he said, voice rising like a prayer. "And your sacrifice will not be in vain."
With a roar of rage and heartbreak, General Hebruski raised his sword and charged back into the inferno, leading what remained of his army toward the encroaching dark—toward the devil whose claws had stolen a hundred lives.
Behind him, the dead soldier lay still.