Alucard leaned back slowly against a thick tree trunk, letting out a long, satisfied sigh that seemed to come from deep inside him. He rubbed his full stomach with both hands, feeling the warmth of the meal settling in nicely. The fire in front of them crackled and popped warmly, sending little sparks up into the night sky. Its bright orange glow danced and flickered across the dark trees that surrounded them in the deep forest. A small iron pot, now completely empty, sat right on top of the flames, still letting out wisps of steam from the hearty stew they had just finished sharing. The smell of cooked meat and herbs lingered in the cool air, mixing with the fresh scent of pine needles and damp earth.
"Wow, that really hit the spot," Alucard said with a big grin. His voice was deep and relaxed, like a man who had finally found a moment of peace after a long, hard day.
Jacob nodded his head slowly, but his face showed a mix of confusion and a quiet kind of happiness. He wasn't sure what to make of everything that had happened, but the food had been good, and that was something to hold onto. The two warriors sat cross-legged on the soft ground, facing each other directly across the glowing fire. The forest all around them was full of life and sounds—leaves rustling gently in the breeze, distant calls from owls and other night animals, the occasional snap of a twig under some small creature's feet. But even with all that noise, their minds were far from peaceful. They were thinking about the dangers they had faced and the bigger troubles ahead.
"Yeah, it did," Jacob replied softly, his voice barely louder than the crackle of the fire. His eyes were sharp and thoughtful, always scanning and thinking ahead. They stayed fixed on the dancing flames, watching how the light played over the logs. His trusty sword lay right beside him on the ground, its polished blade catching the firelight and shining back like a mirror.
For a while, a heavy silence fell between them. It wasn't the comfortable kind of quiet; it was thick and full of unspoken worries. The fire popped again, sending up more sparks. Finally, Jacob spoke up once more, breaking the quiet. "That monster we fought earlier today... it used talent—something only humans are supposed to possess, a special gift given to us by the gods themselves long ago. This whole attack isn't natural at all. I can't believe that monsters, demons, and wild beasts would suddenly start working together like this, teaming up to destroy all of humanity. Someone—or something—must be behind this, pulling the strings from the shadows." His voice was low, almost a whisper, as if he was afraid the dark trees or the listening shadows might hear him and report back to whatever evil was out there.
Alucard's face grew very serious all of a sudden. The easy smile from before vanished, replaced by a hard, thoughtful look. He reached over to a large jug of fresh water that sat nearby, picked it up, and took a long, slow drink. The cool water felt good going down his throat. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his rough hand. "Ahhh," he let out a refreshed sound. "I agree with you completely, Jacob. I've been fighting these creatures for years now—big ones that tower over us, small sneaky ones that hide in the bushes, powerful ones that can shake the ground with their steps—but none of them ever spoke a single word until today. They just growled and attacked like wild animals. And the gods... they've gone completely silent. They won't answer our prayers anymore, no matter how hard we beg. They don't give us any guidance or signs like they used to." He pushed himself up from the ground and stood tall, stretching his strong arms high above his head to loosen up his muscles after sitting for so long.
"Whatever's happening out there, it's much bigger than we ever thought it could be. We need to keep moving and head straight to Sparta. If there's any place in this whole world that's still standing strong against all this chaos, it has to be there. The Spartans are tough; they don't give up easily."
Jacob reached down and picked up his sword from the ground. He slid it carefully into the leather sheath strapped across his back, where it fit perfectly. The weight of it felt familiar and reassuring. "Let's just hope we're not too late to make a difference," he said, his voice steady but with a hint of worry.
Meanwhile, far away in the great kingdom of Sparta, a fierce and bloody war was still raging on between the brave Spartan soldiers and a massive, unending horde of monsters.
The Spartan king was in the thick of the battle, fighting like a madman possessed by pure fury. His long spear was completely clothed in the thick, sticky blood of the horde creatures he had already slain. He kept thrusting and swinging it without pause, cutting through monster after monster in a deadly rhythm. Blood soaked the ground all around him, turning the once-dry earth into a gruesome, slippery red mud that squelched under every boot. The air was heavy and thick with the horrible stench of death—rotting flesh, spilled guts, and burning fur. Screams from wounded soldiers mixed with the deep roars and shrieks of the monstrous horde, creating a deafening noise that never seemed to stop.
Thousands upon thousands of these horde creatures had already fallen dead on the field, their twisted bodies piled up in heaps. But no matter how many the Spartans killed, more kept coming. Their numbers seemed truly endless, like a dark wave that would never break. The bodies of brave Spartan warriors lay scattered everywhere across the battlefield, their armor cracked and broken, their lifeless eyes staring up blankly at the smoke-filled sky above. Some had arrows sticking out of them, others had deep gashes from claws or teeth. It was a sight that could break the heart of even the strongest fighter.
"CHRIS!" the king bellowed loudly, his powerful voice cutting straight through all the chaos and noise of the battle like a sharp knife. He quickly dodged a powerful swipe from a huge clawed beast that lunged at him, its sharp talons whistling through the air. Without missing a beat, he drove his spear forward with all his might, right through the beast's chest. The creature let out a gurgling roar and collapsed in a heap.
"Your Majesty!" Chris bellowed back just as loudly, his voice strained from shouting over the din. He was sprinting as fast as he could toward the king, his heavy boots slipping and sliding on the blood-soaked ground. He dodged left and right to avoid swinging claws from smaller demons, jumped over lunging beasts that tried to snap at his legs. Suddenly, a large demon leaped high into the air straight at him, its jagged jaws wide open and dripping with thick, foul-smelling saliva. Chris reacted quickly—he swung his large shield up just in time to block the attack.
CLANG! The impact was massive, like hitting a wall. It rattled every bone in Chris's body, sending a sharp pain up his arm, but he didn't stop or even slow down. He had to reach the king no matter what; lives depended on it.
Panting heavily, with sweat pouring down his face and mixing with the dirt and blood splatters, Chris finally skidded to a halt right beside his ruler. He was out of breath, his chest heaving. "I'm here, Your Majesty!" he gasped, quickly raising his sword high to block another incoming attack from a sneaky monster that had crept up behind. The king's once-shiny armor was now dented in many places from blows it had taken, his face streaked with black ash from fires and explosions, but his eyes still burned with fierce determination, like hot coals that refused to die out.
All around them, the Spartan soldiers were starting to fall back. They were brave, but they were tired and outnumbered. Arrows whistled through the smoky air like angry bees, finding targets in flesh and armor. The awful stench of burning flesh filled Chris's nose, making him want to gag. The king, with a mighty roar, cleaved through two large monsters with a single powerful swing of his massive spear. Their bodies split open and collapsed to the ground like felled trees, blood spraying everywhere. "Our soldiers are losing ground fast," the king growled, his voice deep and rumbling like thunder rolling in from a storm. "And night is coming soon—it'll be even harder to see and fight in the dark."
He turned his head sharply to look at Chris, his expression grim and serious, lines of worry etched deep into his battle-worn face. "Sound the retreat now. We fall back to the inner city where the walls are strongest. We will heal our wounds, regroup with whatever men we have left, and prepare for the final battle that's sure to come." The king tightened his grip on his bloodied spear until his knuckles turned white. "I'll hold them off here at the front. You go and blow the horn. That's an order."
Chris's heart pounded wildly in his chest, like a drum beating in his ears. The order was clear and direct; there was no room for argument in the king's tone.
But Chris hesitated for just a moment, his eyes scanning the horrible battlefield all around him. The ground was nothing but a vast graveyard now—broken shields lying cracked and useless, mangled bodies of friends and comrades twisted in death, dying men on their knees begging weakly for help or for a quick end to their pain. Flames from burning arrows and torches had spread to nearby homes and buildings, devouring wooden structures with hungry crackles, sending thick black smoke billowing up. The screams of soldiers being eaten alive by the beasts made Chris's stomach twist into tight knots, a wave of nausea rising in his throat. The air was so thick with smoke, fear, and the metallic smell of blood that it was hard to breathe without coughing.
"CHRIS!" the king roared again, even louder this time, snapping Chris back to the moment like a slap to the face. "MOVE NOW! There's no time!"
Chris nodded quickly, his throat feeling tight and dry with emotion. He swallowed hard and turned on his heel, starting to run as fast as his tired legs would carry him. Demons and beasts lunged at him from all sides as he went, but he sliced through them with his sword in a blur of motion—slash left, thrust right, parry up. He leaped over piles of corpses that blocked his path, ducked under chunks of falling debris from collapsing walls, and pushed his body to its limits. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of running and fighting, he reached the small guardhouse where the great war horn was kept.
Inside the guardhouse, the horn was old and covered in a layer of dust from not being used in peaceful times, but it was still untouched and ready. Chris grabbed it with both hands, which were shaking from exhaustion and adrenaline. He took a deep, steadying breath to calm himself, then put the horn to his lips and blew with every ounce of strength left in his lungs.
BOMMMM!
The sound was enormous, a deep, mournful call that echoed across the entire battlefield, bouncing off hills and through valleys. It cut through the roars and screams like a command from the gods. Instantly, the surviving Spartans heard it and began pulling back in an organized retreat. They grabbed their wounded comrades by the arms or legs, dragging them if they had to, forming lines to protect each other as they moved toward the inner city.
The demons and horde creatures shrieked in rage at this, their plans disrupted. They gave chase with renewed fury, claws scraping the ground, mouths foaming—until the king stepped forward boldly into their path.
"SPARTAN STYLE: WALL OF HEROES!" the king chanted loudly, his voice booming with power. As soon as the words left his mouth, the earth beneath him trembled and shook violently. Then, with a massive whooshing sound, a colossal golden shield erupted straight up from the ground like a magical wall. It was huge, taller than three men standing on each other's shoulders, and it shimmered with a holy light. This barrier blocked the entire horde from advancing further. The demons threw themselves against it in waves, claws scraping harshly against the golden surface, teeth gnashing and trying to bite through. Cracks began to spiderweb across the shield's surface, spreading quickly like ice breaking on a pond.
The king's knees buckled under the strain. Maintaining such a powerful spell was draining every bit of his energy and strength. Sweat poured down his face, his arms shook, but he held on. "RUN!" he screamed at the top of his voice to his men. "LEAVE NO ONE BEHIND! GET TO SAFETY!"
Chris, meanwhile, had scrambled up the tall stone steps to the inner city's high walls, his chest heaving with every breath. From the top of the towers, he had a clear view of the whole scene. He watched in horror as the king's golden barrier finally crumbled into sparkling dust. The demons howled in triumph, thinking they had won—until a sudden flash of bright lightning cracked across the sky.
"SPARTAN STYLE: HEAVENLY SPEED!" The king chanted one more time. In an instant, he vanished from where he stood in a blinding streak of pure white light. He reappeared safely inside the city gates just as the last pieces of the shield shattered completely. The great adamantine gates—made of the strongest metal known to man—creaked and groaned loudly as the remaining men slammed them shut with all their might. Spartans rushed forward to reinforce the gates, wrapping extra thick bands of iron and steel around them, piling heavy sling stones and boulders against the inside for added support.
The horde crashed against the doors again and again without stopping. The noises were terrible and relentless: massive thuds that shook the ground, the splintering crack of wood starting to give way under the pressure. The entire inner city trembled with each powerful impact, dust falling from the ceilings of buildings.
Inside the walls, the scene was one of heartbreak and exhaustion. Many soldiers lay dead or dying on the streets, their bodies being tended to by comrades or carried away. The smell of fresh blood and choking smoke filled every corner of the air. Women, children, and elders who had taken shelter wept openly, tears streaming down their faces as they mourned lost loved ones. Priests in simple robes moved slowly through the crowded streets, trying to help the wounded however they could—bandaging gashes, offering water, whispering prayers for the dying. The king, now supported on either side by Chris and the general, staggered step by painful step toward his royal bedchamber in the palace. His breath came in short, ragged, painful pulls, like each one hurt his chest.
Once inside the dimly lit chamber, the king collapsed onto his large bed, his armor clanking. "How many men do we still have left who can fight? How long will those gates hold against them?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper now, weak from using so much power.
Chris crouched down on one knee beside the bed and looked up at his king, his own face pale from the battle but his eyes steady and loyal. "We have what we have left after today, Your Majesty—maybe a few hundred able fighters, plus the wounded who can still hold a spear. We can hold the walls for a while, perhaps a day or two if we're lucky, but not forever. The horde is too many, and they're angry. We need a solid plan, and we need every hand that can lift a weapon or carry supplies."
The general, standing nearby with his hands shaking uncontrollably from the shock of the day, spoke up next. His once-fine armor was torn in several places, and his fingers were covered in dried blood from helping the injured. "The king used everything he had on that field—every bit of his strength and magic. If he does not recover fully with rest and healing, he may not be able to fight in the final battle when it comes. We can't lose him; he's our heart."
Chris forced himself not to break down or show weakness, even though he felt the weight of it all pressing on him. He reached out and pressed a firm hand to the king's shoulder, a gesture of respect and promise. "Then we will fight for him, and for Sparta. We will not leave our home to fall. We stand together until the end."
Far outside the city gates, where the trees and open fields had once been full of life—birds singing, farmers working, children playing—everything was now silent and ruined. The ground was charred from fires, littered with broken weapons and forgotten gear. Jacob and Alucard moved carefully through the shadows like two silent ghosts as they finally entered the wrecked outer town of Sparta. Smoke still rose from smoldering buildings, and the air carried the faint echoes of the battle that had raged.
"We came too late to stop the worst of it," Jacob said quietly, his voice heavy with sadness as he stared at the burning walls in the distance. He could see the massive horde spread out like a dark, living stain across the land, still pressing against the inner city.
Alucard did not slow his steady pace, his boots crunching softly over debris. "Sparta does not fall that easily," he said firmly, his voice carrying a steady edge of hope and determination. "The walls are strong, and the people inside are stronger. Come on. We sweep through the ruins carefully, search for any survivors hiding or hurt. We help in whatever way we can—fight off stragglers, carry the wounded, give them hope. This fight isn't over yet."