"What the hell is going on!?" Llarm's thoughts screamed louder than the war horns. "One moment I was watching Lucy get his ass kicked, and now I'm fighting for my damn life!"
He twisted midair as a crackling spear of lightning sliced past his cheek, close enough to singe his skin. The surge of wind he'd conjured at the last second had barely shifted the spear's trajectory. His long blonde hair whipped around violently, caught in the turbulence of his magic and the chaos engulfing the cliff.
Around him, the world had fractured into madness.
Once firm underfoot, the rocky cliff now trembled beneath the weight of violence. Colossal bodies of giants tumbled over the edge like broken statues, their massive torsos crashing into the battlefield below with bone-shattering thuds. Their heads—cleanly severed—remained on the cliff's edge, expressions frozen in shock and fury.
The coppery tang of blood saturated the air. Llarm's lungs burned as he breathed in smoke and iron. The once-clear sky above was now clouded with plumes of elemental mist—cinders from fire spells, gusts of dust, shattered ice crystals—all choking the battlefield in a swirling storm of war.
And now, through the haze, more shapes emerged.
Ogres—hulking, musclebound brutes clad in patchwork armor of bone or steel—charged into the fray from both sides, turning the already nightmarish battle into utter bedlam.
Some bore Ithriel's colors, roaring as they swung massive iron clubs and jagged axes that tore through Seraphine's ranks like reaping blades. One picked up a screaming beastkin and hurled him into a cluster of silver-armored elves, scattering them like rag dolls. In retaliation, Seraphine's ogres answered with equal fury—one of her titanic warriors snatched a frost-marked elf mid-spell and crushed him in a single fist, then waded forward, body slick with blood, to meet a rival brute head-on.
"They brought ogres up here, too?!" Llarm's eyes bulged.
The cliff shook under their stomping charge, and every impact sent cracks splintering through the ground.
Armored bodies surged in every direction. Silver-clad elves and beastkin clashed with icy-blue counterparts, their weapons ringing with each desperate strike. Dragonkin roared, their armored tails and claws rending the cliff as they fought. Screams of rage and pain layered over one another like a symphony of death.
Llarm coughed, his throat raw from the acrid smoke. His wide, darting eyes suddenly locked on a crazed dog-beastkin clad in jagged blue armor. The enemy's sword was raised high, madness dancing behind his bloodshot eyes as he charged.
Llarm didn't think. He reacted.
The air pulsed around him as he snapped his fingers. An invisible yet deadly blade of condensed wind cleaved toward the charging beastkin, slipping through a vulnerable seam at his midsection. The enemy's body split neatly in half—the upper half continuing its mad charge for a step before toppling lifelessly, mouth still frozen in a snarl.
Llarm flinched at the sight but rose higher, pushing himself above the chaos, lifted by the whirling currents he controlled. His heart pounded in his chest like a war drum.
Below, the battlefield was a sea of motion and blood.
He scanned the carnage, searching for anyone he could help.
Then he saw her.
Eri.
The cat beastkin moved like a whisper through the enemy ranks, her shortsword flashing silver in the sun. Each strike was a clean kill; enemies crumpled before they could react. Her expression was focused, calm, and cold. "Her power-up is something else…" Llarm thought, momentarily stunned.
He scanned left and froze.
Gindu.
The dragonkin's sapphire-blue scales gleamed beneath the battered remnants of silver armor, dented and smeared with streaks of blood and ash. But his scales? Not a single blemish. He was locked in a brutal dance with another Dragonkin—this one a violet-scaled woman who moved with feral grace and ferocity. Sparks flew each time their claws met.
Llarm's grin cracked through the chaos.
"The amazing Llarm strikes again, protecting the weak!"
Quietly, he conjured a wind spiral around the enemy dragonkin's ankles. Her purple-scaled legs stumbled as the gale unbalanced her, just for a second. But that was all Gindu needed.
With a growl, Gindu raked his arm across her neck. His sharpened arm-scales sliced through her throat. Her head hit the rocky ground with a dull thump, purple eyes still wide with fury. Blood spurted from her neck in an arc, soaking the black cliff in crimson.
Llarm hovered above, arms crossed smugly—until he saw Gindu slam both fists into his chest and scream something wordless into the roar of war.
"What's his problem? Doesn't he know it's the amazing Llarm protecting him again?" Llarm muttered, shaking his head. "Just like last time…"
Then, he felt it.
A shift in the air pressure. A vibration.
Through the currents of wind surrounding him, he sensed something fast—many somethings—hurtling toward him.
He whipped his head around.
Streaks of elemental magic filled the sky—flaming bolts, icy spears, jagged boulders, compressed sand disks. The air hissed with magic aimed directly at him, slicing through the smoke like arrows of death.
Llarm's eyes widened.
"Crap."
He didn't wait.
He surged backward, the wind screaming against his face as he pushed himself faster than he ever had in training. Each blast missed him by inches—fire licked the bottom of his boots, water hissed past his ear, stone scraped his ribs.
Hair flying, heart pounding, he weaved through the assault like a leaf in a storm. Every dodge was instinct: every breath, a gasp for survival.
Then, he saw them.
At the rear of the enemy lines, long-armed, ice-armored elves stood with grim precision. Their fingers moved in practiced unison as they conjured the next volley. Llarm's stomach dropped.
One of them pointed skyward.
"He's still up there—Fire!"
He heard the shout like thunder cracking across the battlefield.
Llarm clenched his jaw, bracing against the next wave of pain.
"This is going to suck," he thought as more magic lit up the sky, "but it's nothing the amazing Llarm can't handle."
Seraphine rose slowly from her throne, the obsidian and gold seat creaking under the shift of her celestial form. Her long robes of shimmering starlight trailed behind her, glowing faintly in rhythm with her fury. From her elevated perch atop the cliff, her eyes fell on the chaos unfolding right before her, steps away from her throne—and they burned brighter, angrier, with every passing heartbeat.
Her gaze didn't blink. Didn't flinch.
Only narrowed.
"Ithriel… I knew you wouldn't play fair," she seethed silently, her thoughts sharp as blades. "But a tunnel ambush? Behind enemy lines? I thought Lucy was your target. So why this… this slaughter?"
Once a commanding vantage over the battlefield below, the cliff had become the battlefield. It was now a hellscape of screaming bodies and blood-soaked stone. Her children—elves, beastkin, dragonkin, giants, and ogres—lay strewn across the jagged rocky surface, their forms broken and scorched, limbs twisted at impossible angles. Some were crushed beneath the dead giants, others torn apart by elemental magic.
And now, ogres clashed with ogres, their monstrous roars booming across the battlefield like drumbeats of the apocalypse. The towering brutes barreled through stone and soldier alike, some swinging rusted clubs that shattered squads of elves in a single blow, others hurling chunks of broken cliff into the air, flattening dragonkin mid-flight.
The rocky cliff became a slaughterhouse of monsters—limbs flailing, bones crunching, war cries echoing—as these living siege engines turned the high ground into a churning pit of death, loyalty lost in the raw brutality of survival. The clash of weapons and the howling of spells filled the air, turning it into a chorus of agony and war.
Seraphine's fists trembled at her sides.
That was what enraged her most.
Not Ithriel's cleverness. Not even the treachery.
But the death—her children's death—and her divine helplessness to stop it.
Trapped in her astral-projected form, she was nothing more than a ghostly observer. Her image shimmered with divine brilliance, radiant and ethereal, but she could not raise a single hand in defense. She could not cast a spell, command, or lift a dying child from the stone. She was here in spirit only, reduced to a silent witness of slaughter.
And worse still, bound by law.
The ancient decree of the gods was clear: no god could kill the children of another. The punishment was absolute, for such an act would tear apart the fragile truce that held the divine realm together. To disobey would be to turn every god against her.
So she stood still—furious, trembling, and helpless—as her children died.
Tears began to swell, blurring her vision. They streaked down her cheeks, glistening like trails of silver fire. "I will revive you," she whispered into the windswept air, voice trembling. "Do not worry, my children… I will bring you back."
Then her gaze lifted.
Through the storm of blood and smoke. Through the blur of agony and fire.
She saw him.
Ithriel.
The God of Control sat motionless on his throne of polished black stone, positioned at the far edge of the battlefield. His icy blue armor gleamed beneath the sun, its sharp angles catching the light like crystal. The faintest, most maddening grin curled on his lips—calm, composed, untouched by the chaos around him.
But it was his eyes that struck her like a blade.
Those gold, pitiless eyes.
The same eyes that had watched her for centuries. Cold. Confident. Dismissive. It was as if everything—even the carnage now painting the cliff red—was just another chess move.
Another plan unfolding.
A fresh tear slid down Seraphine's cheek, burning hot even in its silence.
"Don't think this is over, Ithriel," she vowed. "Don't think I'll let this stand."
Her grief was no longer grief.
It was fury in waiting.