The battle with the crystal beast left the camp in silence. Its carcass lay across the plain, massive even in death, scales cracked and blackened where lightning had torn through. Soldiers circled it cautiously, still half-expecting it to rise again.
Eryndor leaned against a broken palisade, chest rising and falling with measured breaths. His knuckles were raw, sparks faintly dancing across his skin, the storm inside him slow to settle. He had won—but only just. The monster had forced him to fight past his limits, to chain every lesson his father had drilled into him. One mistake and his body would have been crushed into the earth.
For the first time in months, he felt the ache of exhaustion not just in his muscles, but in his bones.
The victory was short-lived. Within weeks, other monsters stirred. Stronger, stranger, as if the death of the crystal beast had awakened something buried deeper in the northern wilds.
The Ironhide Brutes: Towering gorilla-like creatures with hides as dense as forged steel. Even his lightning barely pierced their armor, forcing Eryndor to rely on precision strikes at joints and eyes. The fight left him bruised and battered, but alive. Void-Fangs: Wolf-lions tainted by void corruption. Their shadows stretched unnaturally, their movements erratic and unpredictable. One nearly tore into his side before he countered with a desperate overcharged strike, lightning searing the air. The Ash Serpent: A colossal snake that moved through the burnt forests, scales glowing faintly with embers. Its breath carried waves of suffocating heat. Eryndor fought it for hours, darting between trees, dodging strikes that split the ground. He ended it with a thunderclap strike that shook the canopy, but the burns lingered for days.
Each battle left scars. Each victory felt narrower than the last. But with each trial, his storm grew sharper, answering to his will with newfound precision.
Unlocked Abilities:
By the end of his first year on the frontlines, Eryndor felt the storm inside him shift, deepening into something fiercer. He unlocked new facets of his power:
Storm Veil: A protective field of crackling energy that reduced impact from heavy blows.
Chain Surge: Lightning that could arc between multiple enemies, striking groups instead of single targets.
Pulse Step: A short-range burst of speed, almost like teleportation, leaving a crack of thunder in his wake.
Tempest Guard: Instinctive energy reinforcement to his body, making him more durable in prolonged battles.
He had yet to master them fully, but even raw, they turned near-death into slim survival.
By the time his second year began, the battlefield had changed. The northern plains were no longer a single kingdom's problem. Word had spread of the stronger monsters awakening, and other nations had taken notice.
One dawn, Eryndor stood atop the ridge and watched as banners approached from the horizon. Dozens of war columns, armored knights, elemental casters, beast-riders, and mercenary companies—all converging.
The Crimson Halberdiers of Veyros, famed for cutting through armies with disciplined spear formations.
The Skyfire Legion of Karesh, casters who wielded flame like extensions of their own bodies.
The Drakebound Order of Solthar, riders who had tamed smaller drakes, using them for aerial combat.
They did not come for the wolf-lions or the brutes. They came for something older. Something stronger.
Whispers spread through the combined camps of a monster that dwarfed even the crystal-scaled beast: The Hollow Titan, an ancient remnant from the primordial age, slumbering deep beneath the northern cliffs. It was said to be large enough to blot out the sun when it rose, with hide that no blade or spell could pierce.
First Contact Between Armies
That night, around the fires, Eryndor listened quietly as generals and commanders from different nations argued.
"We attack at dawn, before it fully stirs."
"You'll be throwing lives away. We need containment, not blind slaughter."
"Our soldiers are not here to wait. If it rises, entire cities will fall."
Eryndor sat apart, arms crossed, storm humming faintly in his veins. His body still carried the ache of his last battles, but his mind was already focused on the horizon. He had fought brutes, void-born, serpents, and more, but this would be something else entirely.
Kael's words echoed in his mind: Sometimes the fight isn't about winning—it's about proving you belong in it.
He clenched his fist, sparks dancing across his skin. He belonged here. Whether by fate, storm, or sheer will.
And when the Hollow Titan stirred, he would be there to meet it.