They came as dawn split the grey sky.
No more probing attacks. No slow movements to test the defenses. This was the full wave—men like a flood bursting from the encampments, surging across the plain before Vallenwood's eastern wall.
Albert watched from atop the tower. Twenty thousand. Maybe thirty thousand. Behind them, five massive siege towers crawled forward like wooden monsters, each pushed by hundreds of hands. On the flanks, heavy cavalry waited to charge the moment a gap opened.
"They're serious this time," Lord Harald murmured beside him.
Albert didn't answer. His eyes swept across the enemy ranks, counting, mapping, searching for patterns. But in his head, those voices had begun to fade. Replaced by something else—hunger.
"Move the archers into position," he said. "Infantry ready at the gate. If the wall breaks, we hold inside."
Lord Harald glanced at him briefly. Perhaps he saw something in Albert's face, but he didn't ask.
Albert descended from the tower. Below, Luise waited with his horse. Her face was tense.
"This is it," she said.
Albert mounted and rode toward the eastern gate. Behind him, his troops began to move—the Special Regiment. They stood in the front line, behind the massive wooden gate that was the only barrier between them and death.
Leo was among them.
Albert caught a glimpse of him—the young man gripped his spear with trembling hands, face pale, but he stood. Didn't run. Beside him, an old soldier patted his shoulder, saying something Albert couldn't hear.
He looked away. No time for that now.
From outside, war drums began to echo. Thousands of voices united in a battle cry that shook the very ground.
The earth trembled. The siege towers began moving faster.
"ARCHERS!" Hilda's shout rang from atop the wall. "LOOSE!"
Whoosh... whoosh... whoosh...
Thousands of arrows streaked through the air, raining down on the enemy ranks. But they kept advancing. Those in front fell, those behind stepped over the corpses, and pressed forward.
The siege towers drew closer. One hundred meters. Eighty. Fifty.
"FIRE! BURN THEIR TOWERS!"
Flaming arrows streaked through the air, embedding in the wood. But the wood was wet—they'd coated it with mud. The fire spread slowly, too slowly.
"STONES! HURL THE STONES!"
The mangonels within the walls began their work. Massive boulders flew through the air, smashing into the first tower. Wood cracked and splintered, but it didn't collapse. The tower kept advancing.
Forty meters. Thirty.
Albert could see the faces of soldiers atop that tower. Their eyes—wild, frightened, but determined. In their hands, spears and swords, ready to leap onto the wall the moment the assault bridge dropped.
"READY YOUR SWORDS!" he shouted. "THEY'RE COMING THROUGH!"
Twenty meters.
The first tower reached the wall. The wooden bridge crashed down with a deafening impact, slamming into the battlements. Leandria soldiers began to leap across, screaming, swords raised.
And in that moment, Albert's world shifted.
***
He didn't remember climbing onto the wall. But suddenly he was there, Wurzel in his hand, and the first body had already fallen at his feet.
A slash. One throat opened, blood spraying. Then a thrust, the second soldier fell with wide eyes. A spin, a low cut, the third soldier's leg shattered at the knee, he collapsed screaming.
The world narrowed to a single corridor—only him and the enemies before him. No left, no right, no up or down. Only movement. Only slashing. Only thrusting.
But something was different today.
Usually, Albert fought like water—flowing, dodging, thrusting into gaps, efficient. Every movement had a purpose, every slash designed to kill as quickly as possible. He was a tool. A cold, precise machine.
Today, that tool was broken.
The first slash—didn't kill instantly, only wounded. An arm severed at the elbow, but that soldier still lived, falling backward, screaming. Albert looked at him briefly—the man's face was red, mouth gaping—then turned away, seeking the next target.
The second—stabbed in the belly, but not deep. His intestines began to spill out, but he still stood, groping at his wound with trembling hands. Albert had already moved on, leaving him behind.
The third—slashed across the face. Not a fatal cut. Nose split, left eye destroyed, but he still lived, crawling backward, trying to flee. Albert let him.
The fourth, fifth, sixth—all the same. None died quickly. They were grievously wounded, but remained alive. They fell behind him, moaning, screaming, calling for mothers, calling for goddesses, calling for anything.
Albert kept moving.
Atop the tower, a Leandria soldier leaped down, sword aimed at him. Albert parried, then—instead of thrusting back—he slashed at the man's leg. The knee opened, white bone visible. The soldier fell, screaming, crawling. Albert turned away, seeking another.
Behind him, the trail he left wasn't corpses—but a horrific tableau. Arms severed at elbows, bellies torn open, faces half-destroyed, legs bent backward. They were all still alive, still moving, still screaming.
And those screams spread.
At the second tower, Leandria soldiers about to jump stopped short. They heard the screams from the first tower—not the cries of quick death, but long screams, full of torment, full of terror. They looked down at Albert.
That man stood amidst a pile of still-moving flesh. His green cloak was red with blood—enemy blood, his own? Unclear. His face... his face hadn't changed. Not angry, not enraged, not laughing. Just flat as a statue.
But his eyes...
His eyes were different. Usually cold, like a frozen lake. Now, beneath that cold, something moved. Something hungry. Something that enjoyed this.
A Leandria soldier leaped from the second tower. Not from courage, but pushed from behind. He landed before Albert, sword trembling in his hand.
Albert looked at him.
One second. Two seconds.
Then he moved. Not a swift attack. A slow movement, deliberately slowed, like a cat playing with a mouse. His sword flashed—not toward the neck, but toward the arm. A cut at the elbow. The soldier screamed, fell, clutching his remaining arm.
Albert looked at him. Then he kicked—not to kill, but to send him rolling away. The soldier tumbled, stopping near the wall's edge, whimpering.
Albert had already turned, seeking another.
Atop the tower, the Leandria soldiers began to hesitate. They saw what was happening below—not a battle, but a strange kind of slaughter.
That demon wasn't killing quickly. He wounded, crippled, then left them alive—alive in suffering, alive in terror, alive as a warning to others.
"Who is that?" someone whispered.
"The Black Sword Demon..." another answered.
That name spread like fire through dry grass. From mouth to mouth, from tower to tower, from front ranks to rear.
"The Black Sword Demon is there..."
"He doesn't kill—he tortures..."
"He leaves them alive..."
The screams from the wall grew louder. Albert's victims kept moaning, calling out, their voices shattering the concentration of other soldiers. In the rear ranks, some began to fall back—not a rout, but slowing, losing spirit.
Atop the wall, the Helvetian soldiers watched their commander with strange feelings.
A veteran man-at-arms whispered to his comrade, "What's happened to him?"
"I don't know... but this... this is terrifying."
Hilda, from the watchtower, stared at Albert with narrowed eyes. She had seen many things on the battlefield. But this... this was different. Not tactics. Not strategy. This was the release of something long caged.
And that release was horrifying.
In the reserve ranks, Leo watched from a distance. His body trembled—not from fear of the enemy, but from fear of his own commander. He remembered the slap to his jaw, the first lesson, the second lesson, the medical tent, the prisoner he'd killed.
And he realized: what he was seeing now was his own future, if he survived this war.
A monster.
***
The third tower reached the wall.
But no one jumped.
The Leandria soldiers atop it clustered at the edge, looking down, looking at the scene on the first and second towers. Still-moving corpses, blood everywhere. And in the midst of it all, one figure with a black sword, standing still, waiting.
"JUMP!" their commander shouted. "JUMP AND ATTACK!"
No one moved.
The commander pushed a soldier forward. The man fell from the tower, landing on the wall with a heavy thud. He rose, leg broken, trying to crawl backward.
Albert walked slowly toward him. Every step echoed in that soldier's ears.
"NO... DON'T COME NEAR!"
Albert stopped before him. Looked at him. Then, without expression, he stepped on the man's hand—slowly, applying pressure, until bone began to crack.
The soldier screamed.
His scream echoed across the entire battlefield. At the third tower, the soldiers began to retreat—not an orderly withdrawal, but a rout. They leaped down from the tower, to the rear, anywhere to escape that demon.
At the fourth and fifth towers, the same chaos. Commanders shouted, threatened, killed a few soldiers as examples—but no one cared. They'd seen what awaited on that wall, and they feared that Demon more than their own commanders.
On the left flank, the heavy cavalry ready to charge began to waver. Horses snorted, restless, sensing their riders' fear. The knights exchanged glances.
"What's happening up there?" someone asked.
"Black Sword Demon... they say he leaves the wounded alive... to spread terror..."
"That's just a story..."
"Listen to the screams yourself!"
From a distance, the screams still carried—not one or two, but dozens, dozens of voices in a horrifying harmony that pierced the ears.
Dozens of soldiers in horrific condition, yet alive and suffering more with every passing moment.
***
Atop the wall, the battle stopped.
Not because of victory or defeat. But because no one dared advance.
The Leandria soldiers already on the wall—maybe a hundred men—froze. They looked at Albert, then at each other, then back at the towers beginning to empty.
They were trapped.
Albert walked toward them.
First step—they retreated three paces.
Second step—they retreated five paces.
Third step—they crowded at the wall's edge, nowhere left to go.
One soldier—perhaps the bravest, or the most desperate—shouted and charged. His sword swung at Albert's head.
Albert parried. Then, with deliberately slowed movement, he thrust into the soldier's belly. Not deep. Just a few inches. Enough to make him scream, fall, clutching his wound.
Blood seeped between his fingers.
Albert looked at the others.
"Go," he said. His voice was low, flat, not loud. But in the sudden silence, the word carried clearly.
"Go and carry word. Tell them what you saw here. Remember if you return, you must be prepared to live in suffering."
No one moved.
Albert raised his sword. Pointed toward the towers. "GO!"
They ran. Not an orderly retreat, not a tactical withdrawal. A genuine rout—pushing, shoving, trampling those already fallen, anything to get off that wall. They leaped from towers, from ladders, from anywhere. Some broke legs, some broke necks, but they ran.
Below, the Leandria ranks began to dissolve. Soldiers in the rear didn't know what was happening—they only saw their comrades fleeing in terror, screaming about a Demon, about a black sword, about comrades still alive but suffering.
That small chaos spread like disease. Within an hour, the entire right wing of the Leandria assault collapsed—not from being defeated in battle, but from fear.
Fear of living yet suffering in horrific ways.
And in the midst of it all, Albert stood atop the wall, surrounded by still-groaning bodies. His cloak was now completely red. His face—that same face—hadn't changed.
But his eyes... his eyes told a different story. Something that made even the Helvetian soldiers themselves uncomfortable approaching.
Luise ran up to the wall. She stopped a few meters from Albert, staring at him.
"My Lord..."
Albert turned. His eyes had grown colder, and something else lurked within. Something moving, wild, hungry. And for a moment, Luise saw herself as prey in Albert's gaze.
No... more than that.
Then, in an instant, something in those eyes flickered. Like someone waking from a dream.
"Luise." His voice was hoarse. "The enemy... they're retreating?"
Luise nodded, unable to speak.
Albert looked around. Saw the still-moving enemy soldiers. Saw blood everywhere. Saw his own troops staring at him with a mixture of fear, awe, and horror.
His hand—the one holding Wurzel—trembled slightly.
"I..." He didn't finish the sentence.
The sword fell from his hand. Clanged against the stone wall.
Albert dropped to his knees.
Luise rushed to his side, gripping his shoulder. "MY LORD!"
Albert didn't answer. His eyes stared blankly ahead. His breath came in gasps—not from exhaustion, but from something else.
"I see them again," he whispered. "All of them... all here..."
Luise embraced him. Didn't care about the blood, didn't care about the filth, didn't care about anything.
"Quiet, quiet now... you've done enough..."
Around them, the battlefield grew still. The enemy had withdrawn. Helvetian soldiers began gathering the wounded, counting the dead, rebuilding their defenses.
And atop Vallenwood's wall, amidst a heap of still-moving, moaning flesh, Albert knelt, held by Luise, trying to remember who he was.
Was he Albert, the young noble and commander who protected his men?
Or the Demon, who reveled in terror?
He no longer knew.