The sun stood firm high above, burning the field soaked in blood. The heat made the air tremble, but the fight did not cease. The second day of war advanced without truce, and the clash between the Viscount's knights and Ereon turned the terrain into a scene of pure carnage.
Blades clinked, bodies spread across the ground, and among all that — him. Ereon moved like something that did not belong to the human world. Each strike was too fast, too precise. His shadows lengthened with each thrust, confusing eyes, distorting directions.
A knight tried to attack him from the flank, but the shadow under his feet rose like a living reflection. Ereon was already behind him, the sword piercing through the gap in the armor. Another advanced, shouting, but hit only air — the sound of the wind was his only answer before steel silenced him forever.
The shadows danced along with him, covering the ground like living veils. Step of the Shadow. Embrace of the Night. Dance of the New Moon. Each technique was an extension of his existence — the world moved slow before his speed.
Ereon turned his wrist, blood dripping down the blade. There was no hesitation, no emotion. Only precision and death. The midday burned over a field that already smelled of defeat.
The field became a mosaic of bodies and metallic echoes. With each new strike, Ereon vanished and appeared in another spot, as if the very sun did not dare reveal where he truly was. Terror spread among the knights; discipline began to crumble.
Near the forest, the Viscount watched, eyes half-closed: "How is the battlefield on the other side?" he asked in a harsh tone, not taking his eyes off Ereon.
One of the knights answered, his voice trembling as he watched the massacre before him:
"The woman with pink hair is stronger than we imagined..."
The Viscount raised an eyebrow, his expression hardening: "Was there any flame?"
"Yes, my lord. All who try to pass are burned," replied the soldier, swallowing dryly.
The Viscount then changed expression. His eyes widened for an instant, as if an old name had just taken shape. His voice came out hoarse, almost a growl:
"Isabela... the Valkyrie of the West? What, in the name of hell, is she doing here?"
The silence that followed seemed to weigh upon all. The Viscount then gave a half crooked smile, darkly satisfied:
"I see... so they really are trying to stop me."
"There is more, sir," murmured the knight, hesitant. "The knight with two swords... he cuts everything that approaches. None of us can get close."
The Viscount remained still for a moment, his gaze fixed on the waves that took the field. Then, he let out a heavy sigh:
"I will see for myself."
He turned slowly to the knight: "Take command and do not let him breathe for a second. He has been fighting like that for hours... at some point, he will make a mistake."
The mist around rose, as if answering the call. And, in the blink of an eye, the Viscount disappeared into it — swallowed by the fog that crawled like a living creature.
On the other side, the barony roared. Doros advanced like a whirlwind of blades. Each step was a sentence, each spin, an inevitable cut. The sound of the twin swords tearing the air resembled broken thunder, and the ground split beneath his leaps. Blood stained the earth before the bodies even realized they had been cut.
Each strike opened a path among dozens. Blood flew, shields shattered, and Doros landed amid the chaos with inhuman precision. His gaze was cold, focused — each breath counted, each movement lethal.
"None of them pass!" he roared, spinning among a group of knights. The swords traced silver arcs, and four bodies fell before any sound could be uttered.
And then she appeared — Isabela.
The pink hair, tied in a loose braid, was stained with blood. The flames surrounding her sword flickered to the rhythm of her fury. She advanced without hesitation, each strike making the ground tremble. She was the living image of a Valkyrie in fury — relentless, divine, and terrible.
She spun the sword, the fire expanding in a wide arc that incinerated an entire group of knights. "None of them shall cross this line!" she cried, her voice echoing among the roar of flames.
With each thrust, the fire molded to her will, burning armors, fusing steel and flesh. The enemies tried to retreat, but the field burned around her.
And, in the distance, amid the thick mist, something moved. The air grew heavy. The fight stopped for an instant; eyes lifted. Doros and Isabela stared in the direction of the forest.
The fog rose, swirling, shaping itself around a presence that walked calmly — firm, slow steps, echoing like muffled thunder.
The Viscount had entered the field.
Stopping beside the young baron, the Viscount observed him in silence for a moment. Acasto was a figure that seemed to have emerged from the shadows of war itself. His eyes, a deep red like freshly polished rubies, seemed to see through the soul. His hair, black and long, fell in waves over his shoulders, reflecting the pale light like liquid obsidian. His bearing was imposing, and each gesture carried an almost mechanical precision — the kind of calm that precedes death.
He dressed with an elegance that contrasted with the bloodstained field: silver-gray suit and dark shirt, adorned by a neatly adjusted tie and a brooch in the shape of a metallic flower — the cold emblem of his noble lineage. Over it, a white cloak flowed in the wind, a symbol of purity stained by war.
"What brings you here, my lord?" asked Acasto, without turning, his voice serene and icy.
The Viscount replied, his gaze fixed on the field of flames before him:
"I heard that the Valkyrie of the West was here... and that among their ranks a promising figure has emerged."
Acasto gave a discreet, almost imperceptible smile. "If you had allowed me to act, all this would have ended long ago."
The Viscount turned his gaze to him. "I know." His voice was deep, but there was something prudent in it. "However, I fear there is more in this field than the eyes can see. Yesterday, there was another young man... someone who shaped armies as one bends his own shadow. I did not find him today — and that worries me."
"Why don't we simply wipe everything off the map?" retorted Acasto, emotionless. "The king's orders are clear: no survivors."
The Viscount took a deep breath, the wind stirring his cloak. "Because there is something inside the barony that cannot be destroyed. Something the king himself wants intact."
Silence. Acasto looked at him with a firm, piercing gaze. "So we will keep sending men to death?" he asked, in a tone that sounded more like accusation than doubt.
"Hold your position," replied the Viscount, stepping back, his voice firm as steel. "Until I locate the boy from yesterday. And do not underestimate him, Acasto. Not all monsters announce themselves."
For a moment, the young baron seemed lost in memories. A brief, almost nostalgic smile crossed his face. "During the Battle of Kharen," he murmured, "I was only fourteen." He closed his eyes for a moment. "It was an awakening... tragic. I killed allies and enemies."
The words fell heavy, like the sound of a bell amid the fog. The Viscount only nodded — in respect, or perhaps in recognition. The wind blew stronger, and Acasto's white cloak rose, as if the shadows around him revered it.
The Viscount moved away from the baron, and the mist seemed to swallow his figure. In moments, he reappeared among the fog, resuming his position. His eyes, fixed and attentive, studied every movement of Ereon.
The heat of midday still burned the field, but the sun began to decline, tinting the forest and the scattered bodies with shades of orange and purple. The shadows lengthened, stretching also the tension that hung in the air. The wind carried the metallic smell of blood, mixed with the smoke rising from the other side, where Isabela and Doros continued the fight amid chaos.
Ereon remained alert, each step and each strike calculated with supernatural precision. Even he, however, felt the wear of the body after hours of uninterrupted combat. The shadows that danced around him seemed heavier, absorbing the day's exhaustion.
The distant sound of clashing swords and the cries of the barony came as far echoes, reminding that the war continued on another line, separate but equally deadly. Each movement of the Viscount reflected calm and control; he evaluated where Ereon wanted to reach with all that.
Something unsettling caught his attention. The bodies of the knights sent, somehow, seemed to disappear, as if they had been sucked away. A chill ran down the Viscount's spine, and a slow smile formed on his lips.
The Viscount dashed toward Ereon, the speed of his movements almost blurring the reality around him. Each step was like contained thunder, the knights around barely able to follow his displacements. He advanced to strike directly, determined to cut down the young warrior before he could react.
But before he could deliver the blow, a pillar of earth burst from the ground, blocking his advance. He had to stop abruptly, eyes narrowed, analyzing Ereon with sharp, almost icy attention.
"Was this what you were after?" he said, pointing to the bodies still scattered across the field. "You sought the lives of my soldiers... but why?"
Then, realizing the danger of remaining so exposed, he ordered the nearby knights:
"Retreat!" The voice, firm as steel, echoed through the field, and the soldiers retreated immediately, opening space around him.
Ereon raised his gaze, serene, and spoke with a calm almost cold:
"Viscount of the Bloody Mist… thank you for not betraying my trust."
The Viscount frowned, surprise reflected in his eyes:
"With…"
A shiver ran down his spine. A dark, dense, and ancient energy emanated from the heart of the Barony. It did not come from the battlefield nor from the fallen soldiers, but from within the territory itself.
Instinct screamed maximum alert. Every fiber of his body reacted to the presence, heavy and threatening. Ereon, motionless before him, only smiled, serene and almost supernatural, as if he knew exactly what was about to come.