A full month had slipped by since Raiking had shattered the skies.
Since that fateful night, the battlefields lay untouched, eerie in their stillness. No skirmishes disturbed the peace, no raids pierced the calm—a silence so profound that it was unprecedented for both the human clan and the barbarians since their earliest conflicts.
Yet, any warrior worth their salt knew not to be lulled by this deceptive tranquility. In a fortress as ancient as the earth itself, built from petrified beast teeth, ironwood, and stone, Raiking held his court in the highest hall. He sat silently, facing the four Warlords.
They were entrenched in deep, relentless meditation. For a month, they had been locked in battle with the Void Magic, bending their mortal forms to its will until they could achieve perfect harmony.
Among them, Arshka stood closest to achieving complete mastery. Raiking was unsurprised by this; the barbarian's innate talent had been apparent during their sword encounter a year prior, a confrontation that left a lasting impression on him.
History would never disclose how perilously close the barbarians came to total annihilation. Initially, Raiking had intended to envelop the North in Void Magic, siphoning every soul to fuel his ceaseless campaign. It was only Arshka's urgent and desperate offer of his people's servitude that stayed the Demon King's hand. In a daring gesture, he renounced his birth name, Nueness, and adopted a name resembling Arshara's to bind his soul to an eternal vow of vengeance.
Only when the human kingdom was reduced to ashes could he relinquish the title and return to his former self. The blood pact would then be concluded.
Initially, that was the sole objective. Arshka was merely a vanquished general with a sword at his throat, reluctantly fighting for survival. Yet, when Raiking unveiled the dark, limitless potential of the Void Realm, Arshka's overwhelming fear transformed into fervent devotion.
He was no longer shedding blood for a deceased woman he had never known, nor was he fighting for the faint hope of surviving the winter. He was forging a path toward a dark utopia, a realm where he could finally become his true self.
His loyalty had solidified like stone. However, the genuine allegiance of the other three Warlords in the room remained an uncertain enigma, as yet untested by the trials that lay ahead.After a moment of deep reflection, Raiking emerged from his silent meditation, confidently walking towards the grand doors. As he passed the meditating Warlords, he issued a simple command.
"Arise."
In perfect synchronicity, the barbarians opened their eyes. They neither questioned nor hesitated. Rising in unison, they followed in Raiking's formidable shadow, assured that his path would lead them to their ultimate power.
Their bodies moved without a second thought, but the true test would reveal if their spirits were equally prepared for the battles ahead.
Descending into the heart of the outpost, they entered a bustling bazaar—a convergence point where the world's treasures awaited. Merchants hawked armor crafted from the scales of sky-beasts from the distant West and weapons forged from jagged fangs capable of piercing the toughest human steel.
The air was thick with the scent of exotic herbs, stolen from the sacred forests of Elves and Fae, now transformed into potent elixirs by daring herbalists. Even the engineering prowess of the southern Dwarves had been appropriated, their formidable siege engines now looming over the market squares, casting shadows along the dark road to the prisoners' dungeon.
Upon arrival, a formidable female guard awaited by the iron gates, her gaze sweeping the horizon for any hint of danger. Raiking exchanged a meaningful nod with Arshka, a silent communication brimming with intent.
Without hesitation, Arshka plunged into the prison's shadowy depths, the guard following closely, leaving the other Warlords outside, their confusion palpable in the still air.
Their bewilderment was no accident. This was a secret pact forged between Raiking and Arshka on the night the heavens fractured and the dark covenant descended upon the world. Now, the grim consequences of that night were about to be revealed.
Just moments later, Arshka emerged with a fierce stride, the female warrior flanking him, her grip unyielding on a clanking chain. At the chain's end stumbled a captive—a human prisoner of war, battered and twisted by the trials of conflict.
Dark, sickly purple veins crept ominously from his collarbone to the lower half of his left cheek, his eyes darting with the wildness of a trapped beast.
"I must siphon!" he pleaded, each breath a desperate, ragged gasp, reminiscent of a ravenous creature craving its next feast.
Once, he had been a soldier of formidable pride, standing tall with unwavering loyalty to Dawnfall. But relentless days of gruesome torture had not broken him; it was the Void that stripped away what no steel could touch. If he were now returned to his comrades, the men he had bled beside, they would not recognize the shadow he had become.
Breaking the tense silence, Primnear's gruff voice cut through the air, demanding answers. "What kind of curse is this?"
Raiking stood unfazed, observing the man's agonized movements with a calm detachment. "It's the backlash of the Void," he explained, casting a knowing glance at Arshka, signaling him to advance to the next phase of their plan.
In an instant, Arshka vanished into thin air. When he reappeared moments later, he carried a solemn burden—a freshly slain barbarian corpse—across his broad shoulders. The body still emitted steam in the frigid air, a testament to its recent demise.
"Arshka!" roared Bellathos, his presence crackling with a lethal aura. "Did you just eliminate one of our comrades outside of combat?!"
Arshka remained undeterred by the Warlord's fury, dismissing it like a whisper in the wind. He dropped the lifeless warrior unceremoniously at the captive's feet.
Seizing this unexpected opportunity, the captive didn't hesitate.
With a swift motion, he thrust his hand toward the fallen body, siphoning streams of spiritual essence from the corpse's ashen skull, channeling the life force into his own pulsating fingertips. The once robust flesh withered rapidly, as if the natural decay of decades was compressed into mere seconds.
As the corpse was drained of its essence, the jagged purple veins that marred the captive's face began to recede. His once sickly skin regained a healthy hue. A deep sigh of relief escaped his lips, and he slumped forward as though a soul had finally been freed from the clutches of the abyss.
"Demon King," Helzarn intoned, his grip resolute on his sword's hilt, a latent fury simmering beneath his calm exterior. "Perhaps you could enlighten us on the spectacle unfolding before us?"
The ground crunched under Raiking's boots as he strode purposefully towards the captive who struggled for breath, his presence commanding the attention of all who watched. "I see the curiosity in your eyes, the questions about my origins," he proclaimed, his voice a sharp blade cutting through the tense atmosphere. "In my homeland, the world is a battleground of stark contrasts: Good locked in perpetual struggle with Evil."
Halting beside the prisoner, Raiking's gaze swept across the formidable barbarians encircling him. Resting his hands with a pointed nonchalance on the captive's shoulders, he maintained an unyielding focus on the warriors, even as the prisoner flinched beneath his touch.
"Do not confuse our alliance for friendship," Raiking continued, his voice chilling and devoid of any warmth. "We are merely tools for each other's ambitions. If not for Arshka's intervention, your entire Evil race would have already fallen by my hand. So, cast aside your hatred and bewilderment. Be thankful that exile is the only price you're paying for your past transgressions."
As the last word left his mouth, an ominous wave of entropy erupted from his hands. The prisoner had no chance to feel the agony as his body disintegrated into dust. The cold wind swept through the outpost, capturing the ashes and dispersing them into the darkened sky. The warlords stood in paralyzed silence, forced to confront the terrifying truth that their formidable existence was as fragile as dust, easily scattered by a true force of nature.