As dusk bled across the plains, a crimson haze veiled the horizon, and the earth trembled beneath the advancing armies of the Smart Empire. War drums pounded like the heartbeat of some colossal beast awakening from slumber, while banners of gold and black rippled in the smoky wind. The air reeked of burnt iron and blood.
General Baru stood atop the ramparts of Ironblood's shattered walls, his armor scorched, his eyes as sharp as tempered steel. "Archers—ready yourselves!" he bellowed, his voice thundering through the lines. "Let them come! I want every arrow to drink blood before it falls!"
Below, the Silver Wolf Legion stirred like a slumbering dragon. Tens of thousands of soldiers raised their shields, their blades glinting with the last light of day. In their midst, Ray tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, his young face streaked with ash and blood. His heart pounded, yet there was no fear left—only the calm of a man who had already died once in his soul.
"General," a messenger cried, kneeling before Baru. "The enemy's magic corps are assembling—thousands of them!"
Baru squinted toward the horizon. The setting sun caught on countless staves and orbs; lines of sorcerers stood like pillars of fire. "So," he muttered, "they mean to burn us from the earth."
He raised his sword high, its blackened blade reflecting the dying light. "Wind mages, disperse! Archers, ready volleys! Steel yourselves, men of Vant—let the gods see how wolves fight when cornered!"
A deafening roar answered him.
The first wave of enemy fireballs descended like meteors. The sky ignited. Walls shuddered, men screamed, and the ground itself seemed to cry out. Yet through the inferno, Baru's voice roared again: "Stand your ground!"
Ray dove aside as a blazing projectile smashed into the wall beside him, hurling men like rag dolls. His ears rang, his skin burned, but his hands—steady as ever—found his sword once more. Somewhere beyond the smoke, he could hear Baru still shouting, his command a steady drumbeat amidst chaos.
Then came the sound—the cold, terrible hum of thousands of crossbows drawn in unison. "Loose!" Baru shouted.
A storm of arrows streaked across the blood-red sky. They fell like rain upon the advancing Smart infantry, darkening the plain. Screams filled the air; men fell by the hundreds.
Karlin, watching from his high pavilion, clenched his fists. "Raise the shields!" he cried. "Mages—counterfire!"
The earth erupted again as flame met steel. For every hundred men the Smart army lost, the Silver Wolves lost fifty. Yet Baru would not retreat. He stood firm upon the burning walls, his armor reflecting the firelight, his sword like a shard of night.
At last, he turned to his aides. "Signal the right flank—Feint withdrawal. Draw them in."
"General," one cried, "if we fall back, they'll overrun us!"
Baru's eyes gleamed coldly. "Then we crush them in the jaws of death."
The drums changed rhythm—three quick beats, one long. To the enemy, it sounded like retreat. Karlin smirked. "Fools," he hissed. "Press the attack! Don't let them breathe!"
His troops surged forward—tens of thousands of armored soldiers, their battle cries shaking the ground.
But as they poured through the broken gate, a second sound split the air—a low, resonant hum. Beneath the ruins, the earth shuddered violently. The Smart soldiers froze in confusion. And then, with a roar that seemed to come from the bowels of the world, fire erupted from the trenches.
Baru's trap had sprung.
Flames engulfed the front ranks, melting armor and flesh alike. Screams rose like a storm as the fire pits consumed all within. Baru's cavalry charged from both flanks, their lances gleaming like silver lightning, cutting through the disoriented enemy.
Ray, in the thick of the melee, swung his blade with all his strength. Every stroke was a memory, every fallen foe a ghost avenged. His mind echoed with the cries of his slain comrades—Bit, Ole, the nameless thousands burned to ash.
"Fifty-three thousand…" he murmured hoarsely, driving his sword through another man's chest. "And one more for them."
Night fell, but the battle raged on. The plain blazed with fire; shadows danced across corpses and shattered steel. By dawn, the Silver Wolf Legion still stood—bloodied, broken, but unyielding.
Baru leaned wearily against the ruins of a wall, his armor split and his face blackened with soot. "Report," he rasped.
"Seven thousand losses, my lord," came the reply. "The enemy… over sixty thousand dead or burned. But their reinforcements are closing in."
Baru looked to the horizon—already, new banners were rising, black against the morning sun. He smiled grimly. "Then we fight again. Until the gods themselves grow weary."
Ray sank to his knees amid the corpses, his sword dripping crimson. He lifted his gaze toward the burning sky. "Mother… if you can see me, I've kept my promise. I'll keep fighting… until my brothers can rest."
Far away, in the Imperial Capital, the War Minister received Baru's bloodstained report. He read it in silence, his hand trembling. Then he whispered, "The Silver Wolves still live… Baru still stands."
And in the heart of the Smart camp, Karlin's laughter echoed through the smoke. "Impressive, old wolf," he sneered. "Let's see how long you can howl before you die."
The storm of war was far from over. The gods themselves seemed to turn away as the continent bled beneath their indifferent gaze.