The gates of the fort groaned as they creaked open, revealing the horizon stretching wide beyond, a land ripe for both conquest and retreat. Adric stepped out, his white armor gleaming under the pale afternoon sun, the weight of battle finally beginning to lift from his shoulders. The White Demons, his loyal army, stood at attention behind him, the calm after the storm settling over the soldiers. They had won—for now. But there was something more pressing.
"Tonight, we celebrate," Adric declared, his voice cutting through the heavy silence that had filled the air for so long. His eyes, sharp and unwavering, scanned the troops, as if reminding them of the blood they had shed, the victories they had claimed. The fire in his gaze was not just from the battle, but from the fire of ambition that burned in his chest.
"We return home," he continued, his words solid and true. "We've held the line here. But next time, we will come back stronger. We will grow, and we will return with a force that no swarm, no beast, can withstand." The words were a promise, both to his men and to the land they fought for.
Wyrmspire was not just a city—it was their heart, their origin, their legacy. Located 200 kilometers away from the fort, it was a long journey, one that would take the army a week to traverse. But Adric knew that it was the right time. The Demonic Forest had been kept at bay for now, but there was more to come, and he would need every man, every soldier, every piece of steel to withstand the future. His eyes held a spark as he imagined the force he would one day command, one that would be unstoppable.
The next day, the White Demons gathered their things and marched in formation toward their home. The landscape shifted as they moved across it, from the jagged edges of the Demonic Forest to the rolling hills and fertile plains that led to Wyrmspire. The journey, though tiring, was made easier by the soldiers' resolve. Their lord had led them through countless battles, and now, they marched toward peace—however fleeting it may be.
After a week's grueling march, Wyrmspire finally came into view. The city loomed tall on the horizon, its stone walls steadfast against time and conflict. As they approached, the city's people gathered, their cheers and applause reverberating off the walls. It wasn't the soldiers they celebrated, but the figure leading them—their young lord, Adric, whose name had become a symbol of hope, strength, and resilience.
But before the celebrations could fully unfold, the White Demons made their way to the center of the city. There, a shrine stood—one of remembrance and honor. Adric had designed it himself, a sacred space where the names of the fallen were etched into stone, their remains kept in hallowed grounds beneath it. The shrine had been built over the course of two years, each name a testament to the sacrifices made by those who fought alongside him. The names were meticulously engraved by Adric himself, each stroke of his blade marking the memory of those who had given their lives to ensure the survival of their comrades.
As the soldiers gathered around the shrine, a solemn silence fell over them. They gazed upon the stone carvings, their faces filled with grief and respect. Some soldiers kneeled, others stood in reverence, but all shared in the moment of remembrance. The people of Wyrmspire, too, gathered around, their eyes filled with tears as they watched their lord honor the fallen. For the first time, they saw him not just as a warrior, but as a hero—a man who valued the lives of his men, who carried their memories with him.
The city wept for those lost in the campaign, but they also wept for their lord—the young heir who had carried the weight of so many lives on his shoulders. His actions had set him apart from every commander who had come before him. No noble, no ruler, no warlord had ever honored their fallen so deeply, so personally. Adric was more than a leader; he was their symbol of strength.
News of his actions reached the ears of his father, Duke Orlan, who sat in his private chambers, his brow furrowed as he absorbed the weight of what his son had done. No commander in history had ever taken such a personal stake in the lives of his men. It was a legacy that would echo through the annals of time.
Later that day, Adric made his way to his father's castle, his heart heavy with the burden of what lay ahead. He entered the grand hall where his father and the noble court awaited him. The room, rich with tapestries and opulence, fell into silence the moment Adric stepped through the door. Every noble rose from their seats, a gesture of respect, but Adric's eyes were not on them. His gaze was fixed ahead—on his father.
Without a word, Adric knelt before the Duke, his armor clanking softly as he lowered himself. It was an act of respect, but also one of humility. Even in the face of his growing power, his victory on the battlefield, and the respect of his men, he never forgot who he was—an heir to the Duke of Wyrmspire.
The Duke, stern and commanding as ever, looked at his son with a mixture of pride and concern. "What news of the battle, my son?" he asked, his voice deep and commanding.
Adric raised his head, his eyes locked onto his father's. "We held the line. The swarms are kept at bay, for now. But in ten years, there will be a shift. A massive change among the demons. This reprieve will not last. We need to prepare for the worst."
The room was deathly silent as the nobles listened intently, their gazes fixed on Adric. His words were not those of a young commander looking for praise, but of a leader preparing for an uncertain future.
"I need ten million strong," he continued, his voice unwavering. "The White Demons will need to grow. We must build an army the likes of which the world has never seen. The demons are only biding their time, waiting for the right moment to strike. When they do, we will be ready."
The silence in the room was deafening. The gravity of Adric's words hung in the air, settling over the assembled nobles like a heavy cloak. No commander, no lord, had ever spoken with such certainty about the future. And no one had ever asked for so much before. Ten million soldiers—such a force would require unimaginable resources, preparation, and time.
For the first time, Adric's father—Duke Orlan—looked at his son with a deep, unsettling realization. The weight of his son's ambition, his vision for the future, was now clear. This wasn't just a fight for survival—it was the beginning of a campaign that would shape the very future of their world.
And in that moment, every noble in the room understood: Adric was no longer just the heir to the throne. He was a king in the making, one who would reshape their world with his will, his strength, and his vision.
explanation Adric could give regarding why he needed an army of ten million strong:
Adric's voice was calm, yet filled with an undeniable intensity as he continued speaking. The nobles in the room, who had been listening in stunned silence, now leaned in, eager to understand the reasoning behind his daunting request.
"I don't ask for ten million soldiers lightly," Adric began, his voice steady but firm. "The swarms of demonic beasts we fought—they were only the beginning. This war with the beasts is not a simple campaign where we defeat them and return to peace. No, we are facing something far greater."
His eyes swept across the room, meeting the gaze of each noble, each military commander, each trusted advisor. The weight of his words seemed to settle over them, thick and heavy.
"The demons we've faced—these beasts that ravage the land—are not mere mindless monsters," Adric said, his voice cutting through the hall like a blade through silence. "They evolve. They grow stronger. They adapt. And now… they think."
He stepped forward, each word laced with grim certainty.
"They've learned to use terrain to their advantage. They've begun to follow leaders, to coordinate ambushes, to lure us into traps. Every instinct of the primal hunter has sharpened into strategy. Every clash is no longer a brawl, but a calculated strike. They are learning war."
The nobles stirred, uneasy.
"The swarms we crushed today will return. Stronger. Smarter. More savage. They will not come in a single tide we can brace against, but in countless waves—scattered, cunning, relentless. They will force us to bleed from every front, testing our limits until we break."
He paused, letting the weight of his vision settle on every soul in the room.
"And if we are not ready—if we do not prepare now—everything we love will be swept away in fire and shadow."