The Valley of Death shimmered beneath a cruel moon, its fractured cliffs and jagged spires bathed in silver light that made the bloodstains glisten like liquid obsidian.
War cries tore through the night, mingling with the shrieks of dying beasts and the crystalline clatter of steel against enchanted hides. The chaos unfolded like a living mural, a tapestry of violence and desperation woven with threads of magic and madness. And at the heart of it all was Shun, the unyielding eye of the storm, moving through the carnage with the grace of a predator and the weight of a commander who knew the cost of every mistake.
This wasn't a battlefield for hesitation. The monsters didn't wait for you to catch your breath or second-guess your swing. They thrived on your doubts, your stumbles, your fleeting moments of fear. Shun had ordered the run to start fast—hit hard, move quick, give the enemy no quarter. The Valley of Death didn't forgive, and neither could he.
His boots crunched against the shattered earth as he wove through the center of the formation, surrounded by squads of fresh-faced soldiers who hadn't yet learned how close death liked to dance. Their armor gleamed too brightly, their grips on their weapons too tight. Some looked to him for orders, others for something more dangerous: hope. Shun gritted his tee1th. Hope was a luxury they couldn't afford, but for now, he gave them what they needed to keep moving.
"Push forward!" he roared, his voice cutting through the high-pitched wail of a mirror beast collapsing under a hail of enchanted spears. "Target the legs, not the chest! Cripple them first! Save your finishers for the big ones!"
A crystalline panther lunged from the left, its body a kaleidoscope of refracted moonlight, too fast for the rookie beside him to react. The kid—Arys, barely nineteen—froze, her spear half-raised, eyes wide with the kind of panic that got you killed.
Shun didn't think.
He stepped in, his palm igniting with a surge of clear energy that crackled like a storm trapped in his veins. The power flooded through him, a torrent begging to be unleashed. He struck the beast mid-pounce, his hand connecting with its chest in a burst of light and force. The panther careened into a shattered pillar with a sound like a thousand glass stars exploding.
It didn't rise again.
"Stay with me, Arys!" Shun called, locking eyes with the rookie. Arys nodded, panting, her face pale but her grip on her spear steadier now. Good. The kid might live long enough to learn.
Shun could feel the battlefield's rhythm, a savage symphony of clashing steel, bursting ether, and the guttural roars of creatures that didn't belong in this world. He'd learned to conduct it, to bend its chaos to his will.
A low pulse burned in his chest—the Echo, his Draconic heritage waking to the swarm of monsters. It was like a sixth sense, painting each beast in his mind as a flare of heat in his bones. His scales, shimmering beneath his tattered armor, absorbed glancing blows like they were nothing more than playful shoves.
The cuts? He barely noticed them anymore. Pain was just another note in the music.
What he did notice were his soldiers.
To his right, two were slowing, their movements sluggish—one clutching a gash across his ribs, the other staggering under the weight of exhaustion and fear. Shun didn't hesitate. He extended both hands, mana surging through his veins like liquid fire.
A dome of healing light erupted outward, bathing the wounded in a warm, golden glow. Cuts sealed shut, bruises faded, and the soldiers straightened, their eyes wide with renewed vigor, like puppets reanimated by threads of flame.
"Back in the fight!" Shun commanded, his voice a whip-crack of authority.
They didn't question him. They ran, blades flashing, back into the fray.
This was his gift—not just the strength of his scales or the speed of his claws, but the ability to turn tides. To pull people back from the brink and hurl them forward again. He wasn't just a warrior; he was a force of momentum, a heartbeat keeping the formation alive.
In the rear, he caught a glimpse of Belial, towering and unyielding, guarding Xin like a knight carved from obsidian.
Good.
Xin's backup healing waves were the only thing keeping this relentless pace from turning into a meat grinder. At the front, Raven was a whirlwind of destruction, a hammer smashing through the face of hell itself.
Toren, by contrast, was a scalpel—sharp, precise, carving through enemies with surgical efficiency. Together, they were a perfect storm. But here, in the middle, Shun had to be the heart.
A sudden tremor shook the ground, and a new beast erupted from a side crevice, its massive, plated body glinting like a nightmare forged from molten steel. A hammerjaw, its wide, toothy maw clacking like a thousand metal shards grinding together. Shun's eyes narrowed. Too early in the run for one of those. The creature was a battering ram of muscle and malice, its skull reinforced with crystalline bone that could shrug off all but the most devastating blows.
"Rokhan!" Shun barked, pointing to the tower shield bearer just ahead.
Rokhan moved like he'd been born for this, planting his massive shield into the earth with a grunt. The hammerjaw barreled toward him, its jaws wide enough to swallow a man whole. Shun didn't wait. He sprinted forward, a burst of speed fueled by the fire in his blood. His claws extended, half ethere, half instinct, gleaming like obsidian blades. As Rokhan braced, Shun leapt, planting one foot on the shield's edge and launching himself into the air.
In midair, his scales thickened, rippling across his arms and chest like liquid armor. He spun once, the world blurring around him, and brought both fists down onto the hammerjaw's head with a force that could shatter mountains.
The creature's skull cracked inward like a fractured diamond, a spray of crystal shards and dark, viscous fluid erupting from the impact. The hammerjaw collapsed, its massive body skidding across the ground before coming to a shuddering halt.
Shun landed lightly, his breath steady, his claws retracting with a faint shimmer. He turned to the soldiers behind him, their faces a mix of awe and terror.
"No time to watch," he said, his voice calm but edged with steel. "More behind us. Keep your spacing! Watch your flanks!"
A cry pierced the air from the rear—someone down, their aura flickering like a candle in a storm. Shun reached out instinctively, his own aura flaring. A line of blue light shot from his chest to the wounded soldier, a lifeline of energy that yanked them back to their feet with a jolt. The soldier gasped, clutching his spear, and rejoined the fight.
Keep them alive. Push them forward. Don't let them see you break.
That had become Shun's mantra, etched into his soul by years of battles like this one. He wasn't the hero—not the one fate had chosen, not the shining savior from the prophecies. But someone had to play the part until the real protagonist arrived.
And if they never did? Then he'd become what the world needed, scales and all.
The valley pulsed with new threats. Mirror beasts skittered across the cliffs, their reflective hides flashing with every spell that missed its mark. Another hammerjaw roared in the distance, its cry answered by a chorus of smaller, faster creatures—razorclaws, their bladed limbs slicing through the air like living guillotines. Shun's Echo burned hotter, mapping their positions in his mind. Too many. They were being flanked.
"Raven!" he shouted, his voice carrying over the din. "Take the left ridge! Thin them out!"
Raven didn't acknowledge him—she didn't need to. A moment later, a wave of energy exploded from his position, tearing through a pack of razorclaws like a wildfire through dry grass. Shun allowed himself a grim smile. She was a force of nature, and he was damn glad he was on their side.
"Toren!" he called next. "Right flank! Precision strikes—don't let them swarm!"
Toren's response was a single, elegant slash that bisected a razorclaw clean in half, its crystalline innards spilling across the ground. The man was a machine, and Shun trusted him to carve a path.
But the center was still his. Another mirror beast charged, its body reflecting Shun's own glowing scales back at him in a distorted mockery. He ducked its swipe, rolled under its claws, and drove his fist upward into its underbelly. The beast shattered like a chandelier, fragments raining down around him.
Arys was at his side now, fighting with more confidence, her spear finding weak points in the smaller creatures that darted in the hammerjaw's wake. "Stay sharp, kid," Shun said, clapping him on the shoulder. "You're doing good."
Arys grinned, a flicker of pride breaking through his fear. "Thanks, Captain!"
Captain. The title still felt like a borrowed cloak, but Shun wore it because they needed him to. He scanned the battlefield again, his Echo pulsing with the positions of his squad. They were holding, but barely. The Valley of Death was a grinder, and they were the meat.
Another cry from the rear. Another soldier down. Shun's aura flared again, pulling them back from the edge. He couldn't save everyone, but he'd be damned if he didn't try.
"Forward!" he roared, his voice a beacon in the chaos. "We don't stop! We don't break!"
The soldiers answered with a ragged cheer, their weapons flashing in the moonlight. They pushed, driven by his will, his fire, his refusal to let the valley claim them. Shun moved with them, claws out, scales gleaming, a warrior who wasn't the hero but fought like one anyway.
The Valley of Death would test them all before the night was through. But for now, Shun was their heart, their blade, their shield. And he'd keep them alive until the dawn.