Naira closed her eyes.
The image of Laurence—covered in blood, cutting men down as if it were a dance—rose unbidden in her mind.
"Death Reaper…" she murmured. "Let's see how long you can remain standing."
Her thin, dangerous smile marked the beginning of an even bloodier week.
And so night fell over the battlefield like a black shroud.
In the darkness, the wind turned cold, silent… expectant. The corpses from the day's slaughter, still warm, seemed to stare at the sky, ignored by the steady march of an army determined to conquer—or die trying.
The Empire's drums fell silent.
They did not wish to rouse Dara's defenders.
It was time for the ambush.
Thousands of imperial soldiers advanced in tight formation, boots pressing into wet mud without a word. They would not draw attention. They would not announce themselves.
That was their first mistake.
Because in the night,the world does not belong to men…but to the Douglases.
Gareth Helmström marched under imperial command, chest high, pride hardened by years of campaigns.
A veteran of the Sixth Legion.Level 65 earth mage.Beta affinity.
A living symbol of the Empire's strength.
Around him, thousands advanced beneath red-and-gold standards. The frontal clash at the wall made the earth tremble, yet Gareth kept his gaze fixed forward.
Still, as the army moved in mass, no one saw what the night concealed.
Among the trees, pressed low to the ground, fifty men cut through the darkness as if they were part of it. They made no sound. Breathed without force. Left no tracks.
The Umbral Veil cloaked them entirely—a Douglas Clan spell undetectable even to elite mages.
At their head, Laurence Douglas raised two fingers.
A silent signal.
The fifty shadows dispersed.
A faint snap.A flicker of black.
The first imperial mage's head struck the ground.
Then another.And another.And another.
The screams at the front, the drums, the clash of steel—all of it masked the silent slaughter beginning behind the lines.
Laurence moved as though he floated. His blade did not gleam—it devoured light. Each strike was clean, swift, soundless.
Every mage eliminated was a direct blow to the Empire's strategy.
One managed to gasp—
"N-no! We're under att—!"
Darkness split him in half before he could finish.
THUM—THUM.
The drums pounded like the Empire's own heart. The deep rhythm vibrated in Gareth's chest like a reminder:
We are the conquerors. We are the unstoppable tide.
The generals raised their banners.
"Forward!"
As one, they stepped.
An ocean of steel advancing.
Gareth marched in the third line—the zone mages. His earth magic shielded, reinforced, fortified. His hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the adrenaline of the coming clash.
Dara, looming before them, did not resemble any fortress he had ever seen.
"I don't like this, Gareth," his companion Arken muttered.
"Be quiet and focus," Gareth replied—though he too felt a strange weight in the air.
Torches flared along the battlements like a swarm of orange stars.
"Alarm! The Empire advances!"
The Kingdom's drums answered—fast, aggressive.
An open challenge.
Then Gareth saw them.
Defensive mages.
Dozens.Perhaps hundreds.
All raising their hands.
Blue light gathered.
"Weakening Seal: THEROS!"
The invisible shockwave struck Gareth like a hammer to the chest.
He stumbled.
"W-what the hell…?"
His armor felt twice as heavy. His breath burned. His mana moved sluggishly, thick as frozen mud.
Around him, soldiers cried out:
"I can't move properly!""My mana won't respond!""My legs—they weigh a ton!"
Gareth tried to activate Petrified Reinforcement, one of his basic spells.
Nothing.
"Damn this fortress…" he snarled.
The Kingdom's spells fell like rain.
RATATATATAT—
Heavy shields blocked what they could, but many screamed as they fell. The Empire retaliated with enhanced magic, yet weakened as they were, their spells died before reaching the walls.
Then the enemy counterattack erupted:
"Tempest Wall!""Earth Lance!""Ice Shards!"
Explosions.Fire.Ice.Steel.Screams.
The imperial front dissolved into a hellscape of flashing light and collapsing bodies.
Siege conjurers sprinted between the ranks.
"FIRST CONJURATION!""BREACH STRIKE!"
Gareth swallowed.
That was never a good sign.
Three pillars of fire descended from the sky and struck the southern wall.
KRRRRAAAACK.
Stone trembled. Split. Shattered into rubble.
"One more! One more and we're in!" a general roared.
And for a single—brief—moment…
Gareth believed they would win.
Then he heard the screams.
Behind them.
He turned.
And what he saw froze him in place.
The imperial mages—our mages—were falling like wheat before a scythe.
One.Two.Ten.Hundreds.
No noise.No struggle.No defense.
"W-what's happening?" Arken whispered, pale as a corpse.
One mage managed to ignite a sphere of light.
The glow revealed—
—rows upon rows of bodies.—conjurers with their throats cut.—blood pooling in silence.
And at the far edge, for the briefest instant, a figure.
Human… but not quite.
Eyes like black embers.Shadow wrapped around him.A calm, unhurried stride.
Laurence Douglas.
The Death Reaper.
The orb fell.
So did the mage who held it.
Headless.
Arken screamed. Gareth desperately tried to raise a wall of earth.
Nothing.
His mana did not answer. His body shook. His knees buckled.
Then he felt it—
A presence behind him.
Cold.Lethal.Precise.
"It's not personal," a soft voice whispered, almost polite. "It's only war."
The blade entered through his back and emerged from his chest.
Hot.Wet.Final.
Gareth fell to his knees. Blood filled his mouth. The world blurred.
The drums faded.The scent of blood vanished.The earth stopped trembling.
He thought of the Empire.Of the Sixth Legion.Of the campaigns he had survived.
Not like this…he thought.Not without touching the wall…
His vision dimmed.
The last thing he saw was Laurence's shadow moving through imperial ranks—
as if he were the undisputed master of the night.
And then…
Gareth Helmström, veteran of the Empire, exhaled for the last time.