Chapter 288 — Fire, Steel, and Blood
The battlefield was chaos.
The Church's army clashed against the Hollow's defenders in a storm of steel and holy fire. The once-green fields outside the walls were torn into mud and ash, banners trampled, cries of zealots and Hollow-born echoing into the morning sky. At the center of it all, Kael and Teren Valcor locked in a duel that shook the ground beneath them, their blows resounding like thunderclaps.
But while the duel drew every eye, the Hollow's survival rested on more than Kael's strength. His council—his chosen—fought like avatars of their own fury.
The Duel
Kael's magisteel blade burned with chaotic power, arcs of violet lightning splitting the air each time it met Teren's runed greatsword. The slayer moved with unnerving precision, his strikes methodical, each swing aimed not just at Kael's body, but at his heart, his wings, his core.
"You'll fall," Teren growled, his pale eyes glimmering like steel in moonlight. "As all dragons do."
Kael snarled, twisting aside, his blade smashing against the ground with a shockwave that split the earth in two. "I'm not all dragons. I'm something new."
And he surged forward, claws of chaos lashing from his free hand.
The Council's Fury
On the western flank, Rogan roared above the clash. His battle-axe blazed with Seliora's enchantments, runes burning crimson as the weapon struck with explosive force. Every swing shattered shields and crushed men into the dirt. His militia rallied around him, emboldened by his raw ferocity. "Hold the line, boys! Make the bastards bleed!"
At his side, Thalos fought with terrifying elegance. His spear was a streak of blinding light, each thrust guided by mana that turned wood and steel into a weapon of precision death. He moved like a dancer, weaving through the enemy, piercing throats, hearts, eyes—never wasting motion, never faltering.
In the shadows, Varik was a ghost. His daggers whispered through flesh, his cloak of shadow trailing like smoke as he appeared and vanished, leaving zealots clutching their slit throats. He whispered prayers mockingly into the ears of dying priests, twisting their last moments into terror.
At the center, Zerathis reveled in slaughter. The daemon's claws glowed with dark fire, every strike tearing through armor as though it were parchment. He seized one knight by the throat, lifting him high before crushing him into ash. "Your faith is weak," he spat, eyes blazing. "And weakness has no place here."
The Duel
Kael drove Teren back, his blows a storm. His chaos magic warped reality around them—stones cracking, air bending, earth splitting in jagged rifts. But Teren's runed blade sang louder, cutting through the chaos with unyielding clarity.
"You bleed power," Teren said evenly, their swords locked in a clash that lit the battlefield. "But you lack discipline. You are a storm that burns itself out."
Kael grinned, his teeth sharp, eyes glowing with draconic fire. "Then I'll make sure you burn with me."
He let the chaos surge, his form shifting—horns lengthening, scales shimmering across his skin as his dragon form stirred beneath his flesh.
The Council's Strength
At the rear, Lyria directed waves of militia, her staff pulsing with wards that shielded fighters from arrows and fire. Her raw mana radiated outward, a shimmering dome that turned aside volleys and spells. Her voice rang above the clash, calm and commanding: "Step, strike, shield! With me, they cannot break you!"
Beside her, Azhara worked furiously in the healing lines. Her hands glowed with searing green light, knitting flesh, purging poison, dragging the dying back into the fight. Sweat drenched her brow, her voice hoarse with constant chants, but she did not stop. When Zerathis had doubted her once, she now proved his opposite—life against his death.
And overhead, Seliora's magic burned. She unleashed volleys of crystalline spears from the walls, each one detonating in showers of arcane flame. Her mana surged like a storm, her laughter sharp and cruel. "Yes… yes, break beneath the weight of my craft!"
The Duel
Teren's blade flashed, carving across Kael's chest, sparks and blood spraying. Kael staggered, but his snarl turned into a roar that echoed like a dragon's cry.
The sound froze soldiers on both sides. The duel was no longer man against man—it was predator against slayer, faith against fury.
"You think discipline will save you?" Kael spat, lunging forward, his wings of chaos flaring behind him. "You've never fought a dragon who chooses to be more than a beast!"
Their blades clashed again, the shockwave sending soldiers sprawling.
Around them, the Hollow held strong. For every knight the Church pushed forward, a council member answered. For every hymn of zeal, the Hollow replied with steel, fire, shadow, and blood.
But at the heart of the storm, Kael and Teren fought on—neither yielding, neither faltering—while the fate of the Hollow hung in the balance.