Boots hit the earth in steady rhythm. Swords clashed somewhere in the distance. The air was thick — with smoke, with blood, with the stench of death. Cries of pain cut through the chaos, mixing with the desperate shouts of men running straight into what they knew might be their end.
It had only been a month since the demons came. They tore into our world without warning, leaving fire and ruin behind. Now, war has begun — not for power or pride, but because it's fight or die.
And we're not ready to die.
From atop the northern stronghold's outer wall, Victor Vllynski watched the chaos unfold below.
Clad in golden-black armor, his presence alone cast a shadow across the stone battlements. At his side, a longsword of the same hue rested in its sheath, pulsing faintly with a thick red aura streaked in crimson—a weapon forged for war, and stained by it.
He had seen many battles before. But never like this.
Victor was the youngest to ever transcend into a Sword Saint—an unmatched prodigy who mastered the blade by twenty-three and was hailed the strongest by twenty-five. Now, at twenty-seven, he stood where the kingdom needed him most: guarding a critical outpost between the kingdom's heartlands and the corrupted northern region.
The land beyond the walls was once alive with movement—dense woodlands, scattered villages, merchants on the road, adventurers chasing coin and beasts. It wasn't rich, but it breathed. It had rhythm. Now, it festered.
Since the invasion, nothing grew, nothing returned. The trees warped. The skies dimmed. And the demons gathered—creatures born of rot and flame, drawn to life like moths to fire.
And now they were here. Swarming the field. Tearing into men who could barely hold formation. The stronghold still stood—for now—but the front line was thinning fast.
Victor's grip tightened on his sword and said.
"It was time".