Chapter 287 — Clash of Faith and Steel
The storm broke at dawn.
The first horns blared across the southern fields, long and low, shaking the Hollow from its uneasy slumber. From the watchtowers, scouts shouted warnings, their voices carrying over the walls. The Church's banners rose like a tide of white and gold against the gray morning sky. This time their formation was tighter, their march measured, their voices raised in a chorus of hymns that shook the very ground beneath them.
The army that advanced was no rabble. This was discipline, zealotry sharpened into a blade.
Kael stood on the front rampart, magisteel sword in hand, his cloak snapping in the wind. His dragon blood burned in his veins, thrumming with anticipation. His eyes swept over the enemy lines—and then he saw him.
Teren Valcor.
The man strode at the vanguard, clad in blackened mail that shimmered faintly with wards. His weapon, a slender greatsword etched with runes, gleamed with a hungry light. Even from across the field, Kael could feel the man's killing intent. It wasn't bluster, nor zealotry—it was cold precision, a predator's certainty.
"They're here," Rogan growled from Kael's side, his axe balanced on his shoulder. "Stronger than before."
"They've learned," Thalos muttered, tightening his grip on his spear. "But so have we."
Behind them, Seliora—the daemon mage who had sworn herself to the Hollow—oversaw the distribution of her newest creations. Blades laced with fire runes, spears tipped with condensed crystal that could pierce plate like parchment, and crossbows strung with threads of mana. When the militia raised them, the weapons pulsed with faint light, their wielder's mana feeding the enchantments.
"Let them test our steel," she said, her crimson eyes blazing. "I've armed your people with magic of the ancients. They'll carve through the Church's ranks like fire through wheat."
The battle began with a roar.
The Church's army surged forward, their hymn turning into a war cry. Shields locked, pikes lowered, they crashed against the Hollow's militia like a wave against a cliff. But this time, the cliff struck back.
Bolts of light ripped from Seliora's crossbows, tearing holes in the enemy line. Blades ignited with flame as militia fighters cut through armor and shield. The air rang with screams, steel, and the hiss of burning flesh.
Thalos fought at the front, his spear a blur, striking with the precision of a man who had trained for this very day. Rogan waded into the fray like a storm, his axe cleaving through shields, armor, and bone alike, roaring commands to the recruits behind him. Varik vanished into the enemy lines and reappeared with throats cut, his daggers leaving trails of blood in his wake.
Even Zerathis joined the slaughter, his claws wrapped in shadow, ripping through zealots with casual disdain. "Pathetic," he spat, tossing a broken body aside. "These are sheep dressed in steel."
But the zealots fought with a newfound fury. Their lines didn't break as easily as before. They moved with conviction, voices rising in prayer as if their god himself walked among them. Each time one fell, another stepped forward without hesitation. It was no longer the Hollow's overwhelming advantage—it was a battle of attrition.
Kael never moved from the wall. His eyes never left Teren Valcor.
The Dragon Slayer walked through the chaos, the press of soldiers parting around him. His steps were measured, deliberate, as though the screams and blood meant nothing. When he reached the foot of the Hollow's gates, he looked up—and their eyes locked.
"Kael," Teren said, voice carrying like a blade cutting through silence. "Dragon of the Hollow."
Kael leapt from the battlements, crashing into the earth with a force that shook the ground. Dust and splinters exploded outward as he rose to his full height, sword gleaming, chaos magic thrumming at the edges of his form.
"Teren Valcor," Kael growled. "I've been waiting for you."
The slayer's lips curved into the faintest smile. "Then let us not waste time."
Their blades met in a clash that split the air.
Kael's magisteel sword roared with chaotic energy, each swing carrying the weight of his dragon strength. Teren's greatsword met it with precision and grace, runes glowing as they cut through Kael's magic like glass. Sparks and arcs of raw power erupted with every strike, their duel drowning out the battle around them.
Kael drove forward with sheer power, blows like thunder, forcing Teren back step by step. But the slayer moved with an unnatural calm, parrying, sidestepping, and countering with strikes that cut dangerously close.
"You fight like a beast," Teren said, his voice calm even as his blade screamed against Kael's. "But beasts are meant to be hunted."
Kael's eyes flared, his grin feral. "Then let's see if you can bring this one down."
He unleashed his chaos magic, the ground around them warping, air splitting into jagged black rifts. Teren answered with a surge of his own—the runes on his blade erupting in pale light, each strike aimed not at Kael's body but at his very essence.
The duel raged at the heart of the battlefield, two titans clashing, neither yielding an inch. Around them, the Hollow's council fought tooth and nail, their new weapons cutting deep into the Church's forces.
But for all their strength, for all their fire, Kael and Teren's battle was the true center. Every soldier—ally or foe—stole glances at the duel, knowing the outcome would decide everything.
And in that storm of steel and fury, Kael felt something he hadn't in a long time—an enemy who could truly push him to his limits.
The fight for the Hollow had only just begun.