Oscar
A portal rippled open, and Oscar stepped through, his assistant close behind—a middle-aged elven woman he called Nana. To anyone else she looked ordinary, but she was B1, his assigned minion in disguise.
The throne room loomed before them, all shadow and silence. At its heart sat the Dark Lord, unmoving on his black throne. He looked carved into place, as if he had not stirred in an age, his gaze locked somewhere distant.
"Were you able to get what I asked of you?" The Dark Lord's voice rumbled suddenly, deep and resonant.
Oscar flinched. He hadn't expected him to notice his arrival, much less speak. "Yes, my Lord," he stammered, bowing quickly. "We retrieved the books and maps you requested—on the Never Day and the Gallan Wall."
"Good… goooood…" The Dark Lord muttered, then let out a strange, low laugh.
Oscar stiffened. That laugh again. Always after some cryptic remark none of them could understand. Was it amusement? Madness? Or something only he comprehended? If Oscar could decipher it, perhaps he might win a fraction more trust—trust he could use.
Still, one detail gnawed at him. Why those two places? The Gallan Wall, the great bulwark of the Light Races. The Never Day, a land from which no one had ever returned. If the Dark Lord was truly planning to move against either… or both…
He found himself speaking before caution could silence him. "Dark Lord—are you planning an expedition into the Never Day?"
The Dark Lord's head tilted slightly, his tone drifting as though his thoughts were leagues away. "Why do you want to know?"
Oscar steadied his breath, masking the urgency that rose inside him. "Because if you are, I would like to join you."
At that, the Dark Lord finally turned his full gaze upon him. For a heartbeat, the weight of it threatened to crush him. "Why," he said, each word deliberate, "would I allow that?"
Oscar swallowed, choosing his words carefully, crafting the beginning of a lie that concealed a truth too dangerous to reveal. And so he told him why…
---
Ella
The whip cracked against her back, fire lancing through her flesh. Ella fell to her knees, a strangled cry escaping before she could bite it down. The Goblins always watched for weakness; tears meant another strike.
A rough hand gripped her arm. She flinched, but it was only Ellen—her fellow Fae, her only friend left. Ellen's face was pale, eyes hollow, yet she pulled Ella upright. Together, they staggered back to the endless line of prisoners clawing at stone and dirt. The tunnel stretched on forever, an artery of suffering carved into the bowels of the Never Day.
The name itself was a curse. Ella could no longer recall how long she had been captive here. Moons? Years? Time dissolved in the endless dark. All that remained was labor, fear, and the looming presence of the Goblins.
They whispered about escape, but no one in history had ever returned from the Never Day. This was no prison—it was a grave.
She had seen too much to believe otherwise. Humans, Elves, Dwarves, Fae—all reduced to the same thing: tools to be broken. Those who collapsed were not buried, not mourned. The Goblins feasted on their flesh, their laughter echoing in the tunnels while the screams of the dying were swallowed by stone.
Ella trembled at the memory. She had witnessed it, the moment when a prisoner was chosen—pulled from the line, eyes wide with terror, their voice rising in a final plea that ended in silence and blood. The Goblins' hunger was not just survival. It was cruelty given form.
Rumors persisted, though. Somewhere deep in the east lay an empire of shadows, vast and sprawling, with millions of slaves. The thought made her sick. If the whispers were true, what she saw here was only a fragment of the Never Day's cruelty.
Death itself offered no release. Some had slit their wrists or hurled themselves against the jagged rocks, desperate to escape. Even then, the Goblins claimed their bodies, devouring them before the blood cooled.
The Goblins understood despair. They grouped slaves by race to give the illusion of solidarity, then crushed rebellions before they could spark. Ella still remembered the Elves who had risen, their courage blazing bright for the briefest heartbeat. They had been butchered within an hour, their bodies desecrated as a warning. The message had been clear: hope was a lie.
And yet…
The tunnels hummed with a new sound. A horn. Long, mournful, trembling with menace.
Ella froze. She knew that sound. It wasn't Goblins disciplining slaves—it was war. Another tribe was invading. She had seen it before. Armies flooding the tunnels, steel clashing in the dark, slaves caught between rival feasts. Half of them slaughtered, the survivors dragged away like plunder.
Her stomach twisted. Her knees gave out. Tears blurred her vision, hot streaks down her dirt-caked face. She had seen too much blood, too much despair.
The horn came again, closer this time.
Ellen's hand found hers, trembling, but firm. Their eyes met—fear, desperation, but also a spark, however faint.
Ella's heart hammered, not just with dread but with something else. Rage.
The Never Day pressed down on her like a tombstone, heavy and absolute. But for the first time in moons uncounted, a thought took root: I will not die here.
She clenched her fists until her nails cut into her palms. She would fight. Somehow, some way. Even if she had nothing but defiance left, she would not be consumed by this endless night.
Not yet.
---
Avatar Merlin
The First Fortress of the Gallan Wall was worse than I had feared. The gate lay in splinters, Orcs flooding through like a tide of green fury. Elves fought desperately, blades flashing in the dying light. The enemy had even scaled the battlements, forcing defenders back step by step.
I stood at the edge of the fray, shield and sword in hand, adrenaline surging.
Captain Ellis, her jaw tight with resolve, barked orders: "Take the streets! Drive them back to the gate!"
The clash was immediate. Orcs, twisted parodies of men, thundered into us. Some tall and rangy, others squat and brutish. Skins mottled in pale yellows, grays, midnight blacks, or bloodied crimson. Hair matted, hides leathery, eyes burning with feral hunger. Each radiated a dark aura, raw and primal, draining the light around them.
One of them—towering, red-skinned, wielding a massive cleaver—charged me. His blade swung with bone-crushing force. I raised my shield, the impact reverberating through my bones. The aura of his presence pressed cold into my chest, a suffocating reminder of power I dared not reveal. Not here. Not yet.
Instead, I fought as I had trained. As I had played. A tank build. A battle shielder. A protector.
I roared and activated Shield Parry & Counter, slamming my shield into his strike. He staggered, opening his guard. I spun, sword flashing, and carved him down in two clean strokes.
Another Orc surged forward. Another fell. My skills flowed as if my body remembered what thousands of hours in the digital world had taught me. This was no longer a game—but the mechanics were the same.
A sudden movement—my Supreme Awareness triggered. A twelve-foot Orc hurled a spear straight at our sorcerer, who was locked in her firestorm, oblivious.
Not on my watch.
I cast Shield Sacrifice. My body twisted, intercepting the strike. The spear shimmered as it passed through the sorcerer harmlessly, the force absorbed into my shield. The weapon dissolved into sparks. Her head snapped up, eyes wide in shock, then fury. With a scream, she unleashed a torrent of flame that vaporized the Orc where he stood.
My shield cracked and split apart, useless now. All I had left was my sword.
Fine.
I dashed forward, a burst of speed carrying me into the gut of an oncoming Orc. The collision drove the breath from both of us. I twisted, slashing upward, splitting him clean in half.
The battle churned around me. There was no end to them. Only the fight.
---
Captain Ellis
From behind the shield wall, Captain Ellis saw it all. The line wavered under the Orc onslaught, shields buckling, Elves pressed hard.
Then—movement.
Merlin. Charging.
The strange Elven knight hurled himself into the Orc horde like a thunderbolt, silver blade carving a path of ruin. It was reckless, suicidal—and yet, somehow, it worked. The Orc ranks faltered. A gap opened.
Ellis seized the chance. Her voice cut through the chaos: "Shield wall—advance! Push for the gate!"
The Elven Knights surged forward, shields locking, blades thrusting. Hope flickered in their eyes.
The First Fortress of the Gallan Wall still stood, but the battle for its heart had only begun.