The battlefield had become a never-ending nightmare. Vorms kept swarming from every direction—emerging from the ruins, from cracks in the earth, even from the dense fog. The 9th Brigade seemed completely surrounded by a living tide of monstrosities.
Each roar heralded another massacre. Soldiers fell one by one, snatched from their posts, crushed, torn apart. The screams of pain, mixed with the Vorms' howls, formed a macabre symphony.
"They're everywhere!" a soldier screamed before being dragged into the shadows.
Despair filled every eye. Panic took root. This was no longer a battle—it was a desperate struggle to survive.
Kael, his eyes burning, did not retreat. He struck. He slashed. His spear spun through the air, tracing arcs of blood. A Vorm lunged at him—he pierced it clean through before ripping it apart with a swift movement.
Another came from behind. Kael spun on instinct, slicing through the creature's neck. Black blood sprayed, but he didn't stop. His heart beat to the rhythm of fury. He screamed with every blow, consumed by the sight of his comrades being eaten alive.
He couldn't accept it. These humans were becoming food. He saw pleading faces vanish into jaws, and something inside him snapped. He became a whirlwind of death, a beast with blazing eyes.
Not far off, Naelys moved with precision, her sword flashing through the mist. Her technique was almost like a dance. Each movement was deadly. Her face was stoic, but her arms moved with vengeance.
The Vorms stood no chance against her. She dodged, countered, beheaded—never losing her rhythm. Every time a comrade fell, her strikes grew fiercer.
The twin sisters, Nyra and Syla, danced through the blood. Their reinforced fans snapped open like blades, slicing flesh and shattering bones. They covered each other flawlessly, graceful and deadly.
"Three on the right!" shouted Syla. Nyra spun, eviscerating all three Vorms in a blink. Their synchronized attacks were like a lethal performance.
But all eyes were soon drawn to Declan. He advanced with eerie calm, his gaze empty of fear. Each step marked a new kill. His blade moved at an inhuman speed.
A Vorm attacked from the left: dead in a blink. Another lunged from behind: split without him even turning his head. Even the hardened generals were speechless.
"By the blood of the old ones… that kid… he fights like he's seen a hundred wars," muttered a captain. Even General Draeven raised an eyebrow.
Draeven slowly stepped to the center of the group, his aura cold and eyes sharp. In a calm, commanding voice, he said, "To us generals… these low-level Vorms are nothing but deskwork."
He knelt briefly, placing a hand on the ground. A pale light radiated around him. "I can sense their essence," he said. "These beasts all have yellow cores. That's the weakest tier."
He stood again. "If you think they're strong now, wait until you see what hides within the orange... then red... and beyond." His gaze sliced through the ranks like a blade.
A sergeant approached. "General, we need to repair the transport. It's completely unusable."
Draeven nodded. "It'll take a full week. No less. And we've got no signal to call for reinforcements."
He turned toward the remaining troops.
"Each of you has rations for seven days. No more. Managing supplies is now top priority."
A panicked soldier asked, "But what if the Vorms keep coming?"
Draeven stared at him coldly. "Then we kill them. Or we die."
He raised a hand. "We'll set up camp here. Northern sector will be barricaded. East will be mined. West on watch. The inner zone will be for rest."
Soldiers began dragging Vorm corpses to create makeshift walls. The veterans organized shifts, guard posts, and sentries.
Kael sat for a moment, gasping. His uniform was soaked in blood, his heart still pounding like a war drum. He looked up at the gray sky.
"Are we really going to survive a week here?" he muttered.
Declan sat beside him, calmly cleaning his blade. "It's not about power… it's about will."
Naelys walked over, placing a water flask beside Kael. "Drink. You won't last three days if you collapse now."
"Thanks," he murmured. Their eyes met briefly. Amid all the chaos, a spark still endured.
Draeven and two other generals took position on the high ground. "Get some rest," he announced. "We generals will stand watch tonight."
As the camp settled into the heavy silence of post-battle exhaustion, stars began to pierce through the clouds. One week. One hell. But a glimmer of hope remained.