The remnants of the Kingspawn huddled in trembling clusters, five soldiers clinging to the fragile hope of survival. Smoke and steam twisted around them, embers drifting like fireflies, frost cracking beneath molten fire, leaving jagged fissures across the scorched earth. Every step threatened to betray them; the battlefield had become both trap and executioner. Each crater and splintered fragment of ice was a testament to the storm that had already passed.
The battlefield below was a chaos of elements and motion. Flames twisted with frost, wind scattered embers like shards of light, and the soldiers' desperate movements seemed almost frantic against the measured, terrifying grace of the predator at its center.
Tormond moved with precision, each step deliberate. His blade caught shards of sunlight, slicing through smoke and frost like a shard of living light. Behind him, Draconic Tempest coiled, scales flashing sapphire even through the haze. Its tail flicked impatiently, claws scratching at scorched earth. A low hiss reverberated—a predator's warning, more terrifying than any roar.
The first soldier lunged, forging a Windblade Strike, desperate to disrupt Tormond. His name was Halven, a sergeant known for stubborn defiance. He swung, but Tormond's eyes met his. A subtle tilt of his blade deflected the gust harmlessly aside. The dragon's tail lashed in Sapphire Coil Whip, knocking Halven sideways. Frost splintered under the impact; molten fire seared armor and boots. Aqua Vortex Chains coiled around his legs, freezing him mid-step, while Inferno Trail seared metal, hissing steam into the air.
Inside the house, Mikayle pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. The sound of Halven's scream traveled faintly to them. "They're… they're dead," she whispered, fear lacing her voice.
Ivan's grin faltered, eyes sharp and tense. "Even five soldiers can't last… not against that."
Another soldier, Lindor, attempted to flank. Twin ice blades formed in trembling hands. Draconic Tempest arched, tail striking with lethal precision. Sapphire Coil Whip shattered both blades midair. Aqua Vortex Chains wrapped around his arms, immobilizing him, while Inferno Trail ignited frost into jagged, sizzling fragments. Lindor's scream cut short as his bones splintered.
Tormond advanced deliberately. Windstorm Arc swept across the battlefield, debris spinning, shields ripped from hands, embers hurled like deadly needles. Frostbind Chains froze soldiers mid-step. Inferno Trail licked precise arcs, melting ice and scorching armor alike. Steam hissed violently where fire met frost.
Through the window, the children watched, wide-eyed, frozen by fear. Yuhan's hands shook. "The battlefield… obeys him…"
Marco clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles whitened. "We can't… we can't even… do anything."
Minor Hits Amidst Domination
Even absolute mastery did not make Tormond untouchable. A soldier on the periphery lunged with a Wind-Forged Blade, shimmering silver in the haze. Tormond parried, fluid and exact—but a shard of ice, caught in the redirected gust, grazed his shoulder. A thin line of blood marked the steel beneath his armor.
The children froze. Mikayle's voice trembled. "He… he got hit?"
Ivan pressed his forehead against the glass. "Even he can bleed…"
Yuhan's hands shook violently. "If… if he can feel it… what hope do they have?"
Marco's fists twitched. "We're supposed to face this? We can't even track it with our eyes…"
Another soldier, desperate, spun in a whirlwind of Wind-Forged Strikes, aiming at Tormond's legs. He shifted effortlessly, slicing the gusts apart. Yet a blade nicked his thigh. Minor, almost inconsequential—but the twitch in Tormond's shoulder made the children gasp in unison, hearts pounding as if caught in the storm themselves.
Tormond adjusted, imperceptibly. A tilt of the shoulder, a slight twist of the blade—enough to redirect momentum, enough to teach the attackers their futility. Even in mastery, he was aware of the chaos, reacting with precision and calm.
Escalation and Orchestration
The battlefield seemed alive. Frost cracked under heavy blows; fire melted ice into scalding steam; wind hurled debris in spinning arcs. A burning tree toppled, sending jagged splinters scattering across the frost. Embers reflected in Tormond's eyes as he moved like a conductor, orchestrating the storm with every subtle motion.
A soldier raised a Flame Edge, swinging desperately. The dragon arched, striking with Dragonstorm Convergence—wind lifted embers, water froze midair, fire ignited shards into a hailstorm. The soldier never landed a blow; armor shattered, limbs broke, screams cut short. Steam hissed violently, curling into thick plumes that obscured the battlefield for a fleeting moment.
Another soldier spun forward, dual ice blades in trembling hands. Tormond tilted his sword, coordinating perfectly with Draconic Tempest. Tempest Dragon Fang struck: wind shredded embers into frozen shards, fire erupted in precise arcs, water spiraled into crushing, freezing coils. The soldier was flung aside, armor shredded, limbs broken, body landing in a heap of frost and embers.
Even minor debris attacks were annihilated. With Windstorm Arc, Tormond redirected shards midair; ice froze, then ignited from Inferno Trail, exploding into harmless brilliance.
The children huddled closer, pressed against the window, faces pale. Mikayle whispered, voice quivering, "It's… a massacre…"
The Final Line
Five soldiers formed a last defensive line. Wind whipped hair and clothing; Frostbind Chains coiled legs; Inferno Trail licked exposed armor. Every strike was countered: Tormond's subtle flicks, the dragon's coiling strikes. Sapphire Coil Whip shattered shields and bones. Limbs broke, weapons splintered, screams swallowed by elemental chaos.
One soldier lunged with Windblade Strike. Tormond intercepted instantly: Windstorm Arc caught the strike midair, Frostbind Chains froze legs, Inferno Trail seared armor. The dragon struck with Sapphire Coil Whip, crushing bones, shields, and hope. The soldier crumpled.
Another soldier attempted to flank with ice spears. Tempest Dragon Fang spiraled toward him, multi-element coils crushing the attack midair. Shards exploded in scalding steam; his body was thrown aside, frozen and scorched.
Finally, the last five Kingspawn collapsed under Dragonstorm Convergence and Tempest Dragon Fang. Limbs shattered, armor splintered, screams swallowed by chaos. Smoke curled, steam hissed, and the battlefield fell into surreal, deadly calm.
Aftermath and Awe
Tormond exhaled slowly, unbroken, a predator at the storm's center. Draconic Tempest coiled behind him, tail flicking, teeth clicking softly. Flames simmered against frost; smoke twisted lazily; shards of ice lay scattered across scorched earth.
Inside the house, Mikayle, Ivan, Yuhan, and Marco sat frozen, mouths open, hearts pounding. Every minor graze Tormond had taken had sent shivers down their spines. Their fear and awe intertwined; they had witnessed carnage no child should see.
Mikayle whispered, voice hoarse. "No army… no force… could stand against him."
Ivan's grin returned, predatory and sharp, tinged with awe. "And this… this is only a fraction of his power. Imagine when he unleashes everything."
Marco's fists twitched involuntarily. Yuhan's breath caught in his throat. Predator and storm, master and dragon, stood undefeated—a living embodiment of control, power, and terrifying mastery. Even in the quiet, the lingering energy whispered a warning: whatever faced them next would be destroyed beyond imagination.
Tormond exhaled slowly, the battlefield around him falling into a surreal, deadly calm. Frost shards glittered across the scorched earth, steam curled in lazy spirals, and the few survivors of the first wave lay broken and shattered. Yet even in victory, Tormond's eyes flicked north.
Through the window, Mikayle pressed her trembling hands to the glass, wide-eyed. Ivan's grin had vanished, replaced with taut tension. Yuhan's breath caught in his throat. Marco's fists twitched. They had seen the massacre unfold—and now, fear deepened.
"The… the ones he just killed…" Mikayle whispered, voice barely audible. "They… they wore the Empire's mark…"
Ivan's eyes narrowed, following Tormond's gaze. "All of them. And now… more are coming."
From the northern horizon, a disciplined wave of pawns advanced. Off-white cloaks flapped in the wind, each bearing the Karvan Empire emblem—a coiling serpent encircling a crescent sun—embroidered boldly across their chests. The symbol shimmered faintly, catching smoke and frost like an ominous promise.
The children's faces paled. Every minor hit Tormond had taken, every crushed soldier, every flash of blood seemed magnified now. What they had just witnessed—the massacre—was about to repeat, on a far larger scale.
Tormond's grip tightened on his blade. Draconic Tempest coiled, muscles tensing, wings twitching. Even in victory, the predator recognized the looming threat. The storm had calmed—but it was far from over.
Smoke rose, embers swirled, and the distant silhouettes of the Empire's pawns advanced steadily, a tide of pale cloaks and black emblems moving toward the battlefield. The children pressed closer to each other, hearts pounding, as the inevitable truth settled over them: the massacre was only the beginning.
And from the northern horizon, the Empire's wave grew larger, unstoppable, advancing with the certainty of fate itself.