The street erupted into chaos as blades sang and magi-fire arced through the air. There was no turning back.
"Defend!" Seraphina shouted, realizing they were ambushed. The initial wave of Slaechulan fighters charged, swords clanging against the polished steel of Dalthun blades.
Heimer moved into formation without a word, eyes locked on the enemy. He drew Rentern in a single, fluid motion, blade gleaming as he met the first strike—his presence alone a silent command to those around him.
"What is the status, Heimer?" she demanded, holding her ground amidst the turmoil.
"Viridian formation! Mages to the rear!" he yelled, his voice cutting through the fray. His skill in sword doctrine was undeniable; he parried and countered blows with precision, each movement fluid and practiced.
Amidst the chaos, the Slaechulan warriors fought with coordinated finesse. Beastkin darted through the melee with feline agility, draconians unleashed bursts of elemental breath, and harpies swooped overhead, launching javelins from the sky.
A harpy squadron attempted to break the Dalthun lines from above, their wings beating furiously as they dove with shrill cries. Dalthun mages countered with arcs of lightning and slicing winds, striking harpies from the sky. Feathers and bodies crashed to the ground, the battle above as fierce as that below.
But Seraphina observed that they were being outmatched. She saw fear ripple through their ranks as the Dalthun forces pressed forward. The ground was littered with the fallen—beastkin with blood-matted fur, draconians whose scales were scorched and cracked, and harpies whose wings were torn and broken. The diversity of the Slaechulan dead was a grim testament to the kingdom's reliance on its demi-human legions.
But in the midst of the skirmish, something terrible emerged from behind the inn—a gaunt, gray-skinned figure dragging a corpse behind it. In its hands, it wielded a jagged bone-scythe, the blade wickedly curved and stained with old blood. The creature's eyes were wild, its mouth smeared red as it tore into flesh with wet, snapping sounds that echoed between the stone walls.
A hush fell over the battlefield.
Heimer's jaw tightened. He fixed the newcomer with a cold, unwavering stare, shifting his stance to place himself between the threat and his allies. He said nothing, but his grip on Rentern grew white-knuckled, every muscle coiled for violence.
Seraphina's gaze sharpened, her posture unyielding. She studied the figure with clinical precision, mind racing through tactical options. Then, with a quiet certainty, she spoke—her voice steady, betraying nothing but command. "That's Hunger," she said, just loud enough for Heimer to hear. "I saw him once before, during the village massacre last year. He won't stop unless we make him."
Seraphina's tone remained crisp and decisive. "Heimer, keep him away from our lines. We hold position—no one breaks formation."
"On my mark, we engage," Heimer ordered, his jaw set. "Let me clear a path for you. We can't let him reach our men."
As the abomination advanced, Seraphina raised her magi-gun with practiced calm. "Open fire!" she commanded. "Focus all fire on the target—do not let it close."
With a sudden flurry of movements, their guards began to set up formations, aiming their weapons at the beast wreaking havoc. The air thickened with tension as their plan settled into place.
They moved as one unit, a coordinated effort from the Dalthun forces, but Hunger continued his relentless advance, devouring any who dared enter his path.
Seraphina's voice cut through the chaos, unwavering. "Hunger! You end here."
But the onslaught seemed to invigorate Hunger. He howled in glee, drawing energy from the chaos.
"Why are you attacking our soldiers?" a Slaechulan commander shouted, disbelief etched across his features. "We thought you were here to help us!"
Hunger paused, his mouth stained with blood as he turned to regard the commander. A grotesque smile spread across his face. "I changed my mind. A buffet is much better than a meager dinner."
In a flash, he lunged forward, jaws snapping shut around the commander's neck, silencing him instantly. Blood sprayed across the cobblestones as the commander crumpled to the ground.
As panic swept through the ranks, some of the Slaechulan soldiers faltered, unsure whether to attack the Dalthun forces or the maniacal figure consuming their comrades.
With a terrible shriek, Hunger swung his bone-scythe in a wide arc, felling two Slaechulan soldiers. As their bodies hit the ground, a sickening energy pulsed from him. The corpses began to twitch and jerk, rising unsteadily to their feet—eyes vacant, limbs stiff, answering his silent call.
A wave of horror swept through both armies as the dead began to move.
Heimer's eyes narrowed, his expression hard as stone. He didn't flinch or speak—just shifted his stance, blade raised, gaze locked on the advancing dead. His presence alone was command enough for his men to rally behind him, forming a shield wall at his back.
Seraphina stepped forward, her posture commanding, voice ringing out over the chaos—not to her own troops, but to the Slaechulan ranks. "Slaechulan warriors!" she called, her tone sharp and authoritative. "This creature is no ally to any nation. If you value your lives, join us—just for this moment. We can drive him back together. Lay down your quarrel, and fight the true threat!"
For a heartbeat, the battlefield seemed to pause. Some beastkin hesitated, ears flicking uncertainly; a harpy hovered midair, glancing between the undead and the Dalthun lines; a draconian's grip tightened on his halberd. Uncertainty flickered in their eyes as the corpses shambled closer.
But then a grizzled draconian captain spat on the ground, scales glinting. "We need no help from imperial dogs!" he shouted, rallying his men. "Better to die than stand with you!"
Others echoed his defiance, their old grudges outweighing the terror before them. Swords, claws, and spells turned once more toward the Dalthun forces, the moment of possible unity shattered by years of blood and bitterness.
Seraphina's jaw tightened, her eyes narrowing—not in fear, but in cold calculation. So be it, she thought. Let them reap what they sow.
As the last wave of civilians fled the burning town, the battlefield began to fracture into two distinct fronts.
The town wasn't massive, but large enough to hold a few hundred without crowding. Enough for a real fight to fracture into flanks.
The eastern corridor of the town—half-collapsed and littered with corpses—was where Hunger had made his lair. That's where Heimer moved, his steps deliberate, his holy blade Rentern gleaming as it drew from his core. Behind him, a cadre of Dalthun swordsmen fanned out to intercept the reanimated dead.
The western flank was a different beast. Slaechulan soldiers, still alive and enraged, charged with cold discipline, their golden robes singed from spellfire. Seraphina, flanked by magi-gunners and elementalists, took point.
"Split and subdue!" she commanded. "My unit will hold the living. Heimer—cleanse that thing before it unbinds the veil!"
Heimer gave a short nod. His voice rang clear above the cacophony.
"Form shield crescent. Purge advance in two steps!"
The soldiers obeyed immediately, creating a tight half-moon of steel. In its heart, Heimer plunged Rentern into the ground. The blade hummed with a resonant vibration as holy glyphs spiraled up its edge.
The air pulsed. A faint golden corona radiated from Heimer's shoulders.
Heimer drew his hands together in front of his chest, breath slowing as mana surged inward, coalescing into light. Rentern's glyphs burned with pale fire, like molten moonlight carved into steel. The charging process left him exposed—but the soldiers around him fought like a divine wall, blades moving in precise arcs, pushing back the tide of clawing dead.
Hunger paused in his carnage. The pulsing glyphs on his body reacted violently—flaring, twisting—as if resisting the light.
Then Heimer's voice thundered across the field:
"By Luma's will—be cleansed! Purification Strike!"
A radiant shockwave erupted outward from Heimer, engulfing a thirty-meter radius. The ground itself shimmered as divine fire poured from Rentern like a tidal wave of light. The undead shrieked in pain as their twisted forms cracked, withered, and turned to ash.
Even the sky recoiled. For a moment, no sound could be heard but the distant rumble of collapsing bones.
When the light faded, a great ring of scorched earth surrounded Heimer—void of corruption, cleared of undead.
Heimer wavered slightly, catching himself on his sword. The spell took its toll, but he remained standing, glowing faintly with residual grace.
Though seared and scorched, Hunger's smile grew wider. "I felt that," he rasped with eerie delight. "But it only makes the game more interesting."
He lunged again—but Heimer was ready. Now reinforced, his swordsmen surged forward, meeting Hunger with renewed strength. Though no longer surrounded by undead, the creature was still a force of unnatural speed and hunger.
The cultist began dodging and parrying with increasing cunning, no longer charging blindly but choosing his moments with calculated intent. Every blow he parried was followed by a bite or a claw. Still, Heimer and his team held the line.
On the western front, Seraphina's forces unleashed elemental havoc. Firebolts licked across enemy shields, while earth-spikes shot from beneath the feet of the Slaechulan elites. Seraphina moved like a war-conductor—flawless, ferocious, instinct honed to a razor.
At her signal, a phalanx of gunners fired a synchronized volley—six magi-rounds exploding into the opposing ranks. The Slaechulan commander tried to counter with a wave rune, but Seraphina was faster—dashing forward and unleashing a focused burst of fire directly into his open flank.
The commander fell, smoldering.
Another soldier screamed and lunged at her. She side-stepped, grabbed his wrist mid-swing, and twisted, firing a flameburst point-blank into his ribs. His body dropped, limp and charred.
Above, a squadron of harpies took flight, wings beating furiously as they tried to flank the Dalthun lines. Dalthun mages responded with precise arcs of lightning and bursts of wind, striking harpies from the sky. Feathers and bodies tumbled to the cobblestones, the air thick with ozone and char.
"Push through!" she called, eyes blazing. "We split them here and now!"
Mages reinforced her position with crystallized barriers, turning the street into a death funnel. Gunners fired overhead while elementalists rained acid and flame from balconies. The Slaechulans faltered—not from lack of skill, but from the sheer precision and fury of Seraphina's command.
Back at the eastern flank, Hunger roared, blood dripping from his jaws. Heimer stood tall, breathing heavily.
"You're just another thing crawling out of the dark," Heimer said, voice firm. "And I'm here to put you down."
Rentern flashed again as Heimer raised it, bracing for another charge.
He met Hunger head-on, driving forward with relentless precision. Blood streaked his armor—none of it his own. Rentern clashed against elongated bone-claws, the impact ringing loud enough to echo through the square. Hunger's grin widened into a jagged maw, slick with gore, lips peeled back in savage delight.
"You're a fun one," the creature rasped, voice like torn cloth. "Let's see what breaks first—your blade, or your body."
Heimer didn't answer. He struck again—faster, harder.
A blur at his flank caught his eye.
"Watch out!"
Halden. A young knight, barely old enough to shave, still glowing with the pride of freshly earned armor. He shouldn't have been here. But he'd begged—insisted on the honor of standing with Heimer.
Brave. Stupidly brave.
He intercepted Hunger's next lunge—and for one moment, it worked. The tip of his longspear punched into the monster's ribs.
Hunger didn't flinch.
With a snarl, the creature grabbed Halden by the leg and ripped. Bone cracked like twigs. The scream that followed would haunt every man on that flank for weeks.
Hunger ate the severed limb in front of them, chewing thoughtfully as Halden was dragged away by his comrades—sobbing, face white as ash.
"You," Heimer growled, stepping forward. "You'll regret that, beast."
He surged.
Rentern carved through Hunger's defenses, blade glowing with radiant light. Each strike was precise, blessed, devastating. Heimer ducked a claw, jammed a dagger between Hunger's ribs with his off-hand, then drove his knee into the creature's chest.
Hunger reeled.
With one clean motion, Heimer swept its legs out, slammed it to the ground, and drove Rentern into its shoulder, pinning it to the stone. The abomination howled, thrashing—until Heimer seized a fallen spear and plunged it through the other arm.
It writhed. Bled black sludge. But it was pinned.
He stood over it, sword raised—
"Wait."
Seraphina's voice rang out through the haze of battle.
Heimer glanced over his shoulder. She stood amidst the debris, composed but tense, one hand still bleeding from the earlier clash.
"Heimer, it's over," she said. "It's contained."
"It's not over until it's dead," he said flatly.
"We need to consult the Emperor. We've already captured one of their elites—Love. If we can do the same here—"
He didn't answer. Just drove his blade through Hunger's throat.
The creature gurgled, clawing at the steel buried in its neck.
Then Heimer drove his sword through its skull—cold, final.
Silence fell like a dropped veil.
He turned to her. His voice was low, unwavering. "I will not allow something like that to be brought into the heart of the capital. Not again. If that disappoints you, then punish me. Strip my rank. I accept it."
Seraphina's mouth opened, then closed.
"I would rather fall than serve the Empire poorly," he added, quieter. "You wouldn't be of use to him if you let that thing live."
Her fingers twitched. For a breathless moment, she said nothing—just stared at the steaming corpse, at the blood seeping between the stones.
Radames had saved her from a forgotten province. Given her something no one else had—a purpose. A place at his side. The thought of being useless to him—it dug deeper than any blade.
And Heimer had just said—no, implied—that she was failing.
But she didn't shout. Didn't scold.
"I'll consider your punishment once we return," she said, voice calm, sharp as drawn steel.
A soldier ran up, armor scorched and helmet dented. "Commander! We've swept the area. Most Slaechulan forces are dead or fled. There are scattered groups trying to escape through the valley trails. Should we pursue?"
Heimer glanced at her.
"Permission to lead the hunt," he said. "I can make sure none return. Except one, if you want a messenger."
Seraphina hesitated.
Then remembered Radames' voice: Sometimes, kindness is betrayal. Mercy is a luxury. Ruthlessness is wisdom, when it protects the Empire.
"Grant him quarter," she ordered. "One. The rest—hunt them down."
Heimer nodded. "Understood."
As he moved to depart, she spoke again—this time lower.
"Your judgment is harsh. But your sword... I can't argue with the results."
He paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
"And your command," he said, "held the line better than anyone else could've. I'll admit that much."
She didn't respond right away. She looked at the bloodied knight being carried on a stretcher, Halden sobbing through clenched teeth.
Nearby, a pair of Dalthun soldiers helped a wounded beastkin Slaechulan—one of the few who had surrendered rather than fight to the death. The battlefield was a ruin of mingled bodies, human and demi-human alike: fur, scales, and feathers stained with blood and ash, the cost of the day's violence laid bare.
"Let's make sure he lives," she said. "He's too brave to die this young."
And as Heimer disappeared into the smoke, she added to herself—Too brave. Just like I once was.