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Chapter 12 — The Battle at Blackreach Plains
The plains trembled as if the earth itself feared what was coming. Mist rolled low and thick, twisting between the dying grass and broken banners. Aren stood at the front line, his blade glowing faintly in his hand. Behind him, thousands waited — humans, elves, beastkin, demi-humans — bound not by nation or crown, but by the boy who had appeared from nowhere.
Across the field, the enemy's torches flared to life — an ocean of fire and iron. War drums thundered, shaking the very bones of the world. The enemy general raised his banner — a crimson serpent devouring the sun — and a roar tore through the mist.
Ser Daren stepped forward, armor gleaming faintly. "Orders, Commander?"
Aren's voice was quiet but steady. "No orders. Just one truth — we fight not for gods or glory. We fight to live."
He raised his sword, and a shimmering ring of ash and flame erupted around him. The sigil of the Ashen Circle blazed across the battlefield. A heartbeat later, the horn of war screamed, and the world descended into chaos.
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Steel met steel. Magic tore through the air in streaks of light. The ground erupted under the clash of mages, beasts, and soldiers. Aren moved through the storm like a shadow, every motion sharp and desperate. He had no master's training, no prophecy guiding his hand — only instinct, pain, and the strange whisper of the world that had summoned him.
"Burn…" The word slipped from his lips as his sword caught fire. The flames didn't consume the blade — they danced with it, alive, sentient, as though the world itself fought beside him.
He cut through armored knights, shattered spells mid-air, and stood against creatures that should have crushed him. His body screamed, but something inside him — something ancient — refused to break. Every heartbeat was defiance.
Then, amidst the chaos, a scream — Lira's.
He turned. A corrupted ogre, twisted by dark mana, lunged toward her, its claws dripping with venom. Aren sprinted — faster than he ever had before. The world blurred. He intercepted the beast's strike, the impact throwing him back, blood spilling from his lip.
Lira's voice shook. "Aren, you—"
"Run!" he shouted, pushing her away just as the monster roared again.
The ogre swung its massive club. Aren caught it with both hands, the force shattering the ground beneath him. He could feel the bones in his arms crack — but he didn't stop. The flames on his sword flared brighter, the whisper in his head louder. Do you wish for strength? Then give me your pain.
"Take it!" he roared.
Fire exploded from him — not ordinary fire, but a surge of living ash that burned without consuming. It swept across the battlefield, swallowing the ogre and every dark creature nearby. The air screamed as light and shadow clashed in one blinding wave.
When the smoke cleared, Aren stood alone — trembling, his body scorched and bleeding — surrounded by a field of blackened corpses. His army watched in stunned silence.
Lira ran to him, her hands glowing with healing light. "You fool… you could've died."
He smiled weakly. "Then it means I lived enough to make it count."
Her tears fell onto his bloodied armor. Around them, silence fell. The battle was over — the first victory of the Ashen Circle.
But Aren didn't feel triumph. He felt the world watching him — the skies pulsing faintly as if something ancient had stirred. The wind whispered his name. Aren… the summoned who was not called…
And deep beneath the plains, far below the ashes, an unseen presence opened its eyes.
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