Wind howled through the ruined fortress, threading through shattered battlements like a whisper of ancient war—cold, relentless, unforgiving. The Kingdom Core pulsed faintly in its stone cradle—slow, rhythmic, stubbornly alive.
Ten stood against the coming storm. Ten defenders. Ten against a tide that could drown them.
Then Serra's voice cracked sharp from the eastern watchtower—urgent, slicing through the tension.
"Arthur! Sixty targets inbound. They're Dreadfiends."
All eyes snapped to her. Mana shimmered in her gaze—Long-Range Sight blazing. Her pupils narrowed like a hawk locking onto prey, unyielding.
"I can't see every detail… but at least twenty-five are 5th mana circuit. Ten at 6th. Ten more at 7th… can't see through others might be highr than 7th"
A heavy silence dropped, thick as stone.
Arthur stepped forward, sword resting lightly on his shoulder. His voice was calm—an anchor in the storm.
"Everyone. Prepare yourselves."
No need for orders. They knew.
The line held.
Mana surged through veins and bone. The wind stiffened—charged with anticipation.
Then the first flames bloomed across the western slope—Drake's staff igniting, his voice cutting through the night.
"Burning Surge!"
A wave of fire rolled forward, devouring brush and shadow alike. The vanguard's screams echoed—seven Dreadfiends burned to ash before claws could scar stone.
Beside him, Serra's bow sang—three arrows loosed in a heartbeat, each tipped with concentrated mana.
"Piercing Volley!"
The shots tore through air and flesh—three Dreadfiends dropped, their throats shredded. Heads rolled.
Ten down. Fifty remain.
But the horde faltered not.
They shimmered—blinked.
Claws scraped stone. They were inside.
Julien stepped forward, flames wrapping his spear like living serpents.
"Crimson Gale."
He spun into the fray—fast, precise, merciless. Sparks flew with every strike. Five Dreadfiends fell, limbs torn and bodies scorched.
Total slain: fifteen.
The forest trembled.
From the darkness, ten larger figures emerged—muscles rippling, eyes burning with ancient malice. The air warped around them.
Dreadfiends—8th mana circuit.
Julien's grip tightened, jaw clenched.
"I'll take four. Split the rest."
Arthur's nod was the only reply.
They charged—spear and sword met fang and claw with thunderous fury.
To the right, two 8th circuits flanked wide, bringing ten more Dreadfiends behind them: half 5th, half 7th.
Fifteen more surged into battle. Forty-five active.
Leona and Jace held the right flank. Leona danced, her blade flashing silver lightning. Jace met brute force with raw ferocity—his gauntlets blazing fire.
On the wall, Serra loosed arrow after arrow—quiver thinning, breath steady.
"They're climbing!"
Drake turned, fury flashing—four Dreadfiends cresting the wall.
"Fall back!" he shouted, flinging a ring of fire.
But the defense cracked. Dreadfiends poured in like a relentless flood.
Inside the keep, battle roared.
Rodin stood firm, arms raised, stone magic forging a dome around the Kingdom Core and Tess. Ten 5th circuit Dreadfiends hammered it with savage blows.
"Hold that wall!" Bryce's shield gleamed, raised high.
Behind them, Tess lifted her staff, voice steady despite exhaustion.
"Sanctified Buff: Active. You've got my light."
The barrier held—fragile, trembling.
Then Ron moved, calm as ever.
"Illusion Trap: Fracture Field."
The air shimmered. Five Dreadfiends twisted too sharply—lunging at phantoms.
Illusions detonated.
"Iron Breaker!" Bryce's blade cut a cleaving arc—five down.
Total slain: 25. Remaining: 35.
But the break was brief.
Four 7th circuit Dreadfiends breached the inner defense.
Ron's voice stayed cold, precise.
"Illusion Bind: Echo Shift."
Two staggered mid-lunge. Bryce slammed one into the wall, bones shattering like brittle glass.
Rodin growled, slamming a fist into the floor.
"Earth Spike: Scatter Field!"
Stone ruptured—three skewered.
One slipped through—charging Tess.
"Purification Ray!"
Holy light lanced through it. Rodin crushed its twitching corpse beneath stone.
Total slain: 30. Remaining: 30.
From the corridor, Nikolai emerged—bloodied, eyes sharp as a hawk.
A Dreadfiend lunged—7th circuit, fast.
He vanished.
Shadow Step.
Reappeared behind the creature—dagger flashing.
Another intercepted.
He twisted, flung a blade. Rune detonated on impact.
Boom.
Smoke.
Steel.
One kill.
Another came—he dodged, lunged, slashing throat with ruthless speed.
Spotting Rodin grappling one more, Nikolai struck from behind—twin blades, efficient, brutal.
Total slain: 35. Remaining: 25.
"I'm heading outside," he muttered, vanishing again.
⸻
Outside, Julien finished his four—smoking corpses littered the ground. He glanced to Drake and Serra—locked in battle with four 7th circuits.
"Leona and Jace are still holding. Nikolai will reach them soon. After Arthur and me, they're our strongest."
He moved.
Leona ducked a claw, drove blade through a fiend's jaw. Jace shattered skull with a flaming punch.
Only twenty left.
Then the sky shifted.
Four monstrous presences stepped forward.
9th mana circuit.
Arthur's eyes narrowed, cold fire lighting them. Julien instinctively stepped back.
"I'll take two. You take the others," Arthur said, already moving.
Julien didn't argue.
"Flame Bloom: Spearstorm!"
Fiery spears rained down. One fiend died, another reeled.
Julien shifted, sword blazing—cleaved cleanly.
Two 9th circuits down.
Arthur blinked forward.
Strike.
Dead before it knew.
Second blink—
Another drop.
Total slain: 47. Remaining: 13.
Then—
From Arthur's shadow, something rose.
Not a beast.
A horror.
Rank 1.
Ink-black. Silent. Wrong.
Julien's instincts screamed.
"I've got this," Arthur said, voice steel—without turning.
The horror moved with unnatural grace—fast, precise.
Arthur parried barely. Second strike grazed throat.
It blinked through the floor—attacked from below.
Then above.
He dodged—cut—bled.
The horror screeched.
From the cracks, dozens of lesser creatures spilled forth—Dreadspawn.
Not part of the original sixty.
Julien readied spear, but Arthur lifted his hand.
"Sword Petal."
Golden mana bloomed, spectral blades spinning like a deadly storm.
They danced—slicing through the charging Dreadspawn.
Blood sprayed, bodies crumpled beneath the storm of petals.
But the horror came again—this time from behind.
Arthur stabbed backward, Ashbreaker piercing gut.
It shrieked, clawed shoulder.
He winced but stood firm.
Vanished—reappeared above.
Blade screamed down.
Arthur met it—lightning against black steel.
Shockwaves rocked the wall.
"You don't belong here," he hissed through gritted teeth.
It struck again—pain searing his side.
Arthur staggered.
Eyes sharpening, he whispered,
"I've found your core."
Mana surged, lightning roaring through Ashbreaker.
The horror screamed.
Shattered.
Its body unraveled into shadows.
Gone.
Final count: 60 slain.
Ashbreaker dimmed in Arthur's grip.
Silence fell.
Blood. Smoke. Exhaustion heavy on every breath.
The Kingdom Core pulsed—faint, steady, defiant.
They had held.
⸻
As the last of the mutated hounds collapsed into a heap of mana-drenched gore, silence spread like wildfire across the broken battlefield. The scent of scorched earth and blood lingered, but the wave had ended.
Sixty fierce beasts had risen. Sixty lay broken.
The barrier pulsed again.
A deafening hum filled the air.
A curtain of golden light swept the ruined terrain—an arcane verdict.
From fractured ground to treetops, mana signatures flickered—judged, measured, weighed.
Above, the sky shimmered. Transparent panels formed midair, arcane script dancing.
The announcer's voice returned, firm, resolute.
"All enemies neutralized. Kingdom Core preserved. Defensive integrity intact."
Panels shifted, projecting names—one by one. Glowing figures flickered, tallied with cold precision.
"Scores displayed. Points awarded based on individual contribution. Defense actions carry 1.5x multiplier. Leadership, strategy, and heroism evaluated."
Numbers were more than points—they were testament.
Arthur Valerian stood tall, sword dripping residual mana, not a scratch on him.
440 points.
His composure in chaos, voice at the frontline, strategy weaving the team's fate—crystallized here.
Julien Reinhart, chest heaving from brutal battle, followed close behind.
385 points.
Every strike clean, decisive—commanding space like a general aflame.
Nikolai – 325 points.
Bryce – 310 points.
Rodin – 300 points.
Serra – 290 points.
Jace – 265 points.
Leona – 260 points.
Ron – 250 points.
Drake – 240 points.
Tess – 210 points.
Names shimmered, fading gently into the light.
Some heads lifted in pride. Others lowered—quietly measuring the gap.
For Arthur, it wasn't the points—it was the faint golden glow pulsing from the Kingdom Core, alive and untouched.
They had survived.
But more than survival—they had defended something greater than themselves.