The screams of the soldiers who had stayed behind woke me the next morning. They weren't ordinary screams, not the routine shouts of orders or makeshift alarms: they were screams pierced by fear, by that vibration in the throat that doesn't come from military discipline, but from the instinct to survive.
—What's happening? What's going on? Are we under attack?
My legs reacted before my head. I ran outside, still in wrinkled clothes, my heart pounding like a war drum. The air smelled of iron, of collective sweat, and of accumulated fear. Murmurs mixed with broken orders, the clash of metal, and the pounding of hurried footsteps.
And there, in the middle of the chaos, was Daichi. Firm. Serious. Unmovable, like a statue of iron. His eyes didn't just look—they pierced into the men. Around him, the soldiers who hadn't fled yet gathered, as if that lone figure could hold them together against the inevitable.
I didn't fully understand the situation, but the tension in the air said it all: the enemy was near… or already devouring us.
A soldier rushed to me, his face drenched in sweat, his eyes wide. He handed me a sword, almost throwing it into my hands.
—Take this, get ready to fight! —he shouted with a broken voice, before running off again to scream at the others to take their positions.
The cold metal in my hand snapped me back to reality. This wasn't a dream. War was here.
Daichi stepped forward and raised his voice. His words were fire amid the frozen uncertainty. He reminded the soldiers that they were not alone—that to defend the wall was to defend their families, their dead, their gods. His voice thundered, unshakable, as if nothing could break him. The men listened in reverent silence, as though his words were the last prayers before sacrifice.
When he finished, a collective roar burst from the soldiers' throats. War cries, fury, desperation. They all ran to their posts, driving their feet into the earth as if that alone could hold back the inevitable.
The clash was immediate. Steel met flesh. Flesh answered with screams. We fought hand to hand, battling against a sea of shadows that seemed endless. My sword vibrated with every strike, my arms ached with every thrust, my ears rang with the chorus of death. And still, we endured, cutting down enemies one by one, clinging to each fleeting second as if it were our last.
But then, a piercing shout rose from the enemy ranks:
—Bring out the dragon!
The air froze in our lungs. For an instant, the battlefield was suspended in impossible silence. And then—the roar.
A roar that was not sound, but cataclysm. It shook the ground, tore through men's guts, ripped the courage straight from their hearts.
From behind the hills, the horizon ignited. A massive red dragon emerged, with wings that darkened the sky and scales glowing like living embers. The heat it radiated dried the sweat on our faces and left our throats raw. Its shadow wrapped us like an early grave.
And then we saw him. On the monster's back, a man.
He was no knight, no lord of kingdoms. He was an unnatural figure. His eyes were covered with a filthy bandage, stained with scars and dried blood. In his hands he wielded a massive axe, its blade forged from the pits of hell itself.
With a monstrous leap, he hurled himself from the dragon's back and landed before the castle. The ground shook. And yet, his body didn't even flinch from the impact. No broken bones, no pain, no fatigue. Only a presence that made us feel like insects.
—Who is that man? —a soldier whispered, voice cracking.
The question died in the air. Several, desperate, dared to attack. They rushed at him with spears and swords, screaming to drown their own fear.
The man swung his axe once. A single bloody arc in the air. And the soldiers were split in two, their bodies collapsing like rag dolls, the earth soaking in a river of hot blood.
The silence that followed was worse than the screams.
Then, a blur of motion: Iko. He moved like lightning, striking from behind while the man was distracted. His sword pierced the enemy's side, sinking halfway in. Thick, black blood spilled from the wound.
But the stranger didn't even flinch.
—Who the hell attacks from behind? —his voice was deep, dripping with contempt.
—Iko. Or do I need to ask for permission? —the hero retorted, with that arrogance that always defined him.
A ripple of hope ran through the soldiers: Iko was here. One of the Twelve Heroes. Maybe all wasn't lost.
The bandaged man tilted his head.
—You have no honor, cursed human.
Suddenly, he seized Iko by the arm with monstrous strength. Iko barely had time to tense his muscles before being lifted into the air like a child. He slammed him into the ground once. Again. Again. Each strike raised dust and blood. Bones cracked, the earth turned red.
—You are weak. You don't even deserve my mercy. Today, you will die by my hand. Be grateful for that, human.
Iko, battered, tried to crawl. His trembling fingers searched desperately for his sword—the last shred of his pride. But the man grabbed him by the leg and, with brutal force, hurled him against the castle wall. The impact boomed like thunder. Iko hung there, between stone and blood, unconscious, stripped of his arrogance.
The enemy turned slowly. There was something chilling about his movements: he sought no haste, no glory. Only massacre. His presence was a pit of shadow that devoured all hope.
Then he stopped. He frowned beneath the bandage, as if sensing something the rest of us could not.
A crackling sound broke the silence. Ice began forming at his feet, binding him with chains of frost. Frozen earth crept upward like living claws, biting into his legs.
—Ice magic! —someone shouted from the darkness.
The air turned razor-sharp, each breath a knife in the throat. A mist of frost spread across the battlefield, extinguishing the dragon's scorching heat for an instant.
From the shadows, a figure emerged. Silver hair gleamed like blades beneath the dim light. A cold aura surrounded his body, and each step left a trail of frost that devoured the ground.
It was Aiko, another of the Twelve Heroes.
The soldiers, torn between fear and awe, whispered his name as if it were a spell. Amid that hell of fire and blood, Aiko's icy presence was like a new god descending upon the battlefield.
The bandaged man turned his head, smiled faintly, and tensed his muscles. The ice began to crack, resisting.
The battle, we all understood then, was only just beginning.