A general born to rule

the hunt begins

Supplies had been arriving at the Abyssal Dominion, but the flow had become erratic, alternating between brief spurts of abundance and long stretches of scarcity. The war had taken its toll on logistics, with the growing forces of Nyzora pressuring every trade route. The outposts were running low on ammunition, rations were getting thinner, and the soldiers were feeling the strain of the relentless conflict. With each passing hour, morale was dipping as Valorcrest and its allies struggled to maintain their strongholds.

In the lab, the pressure was even higher. Alara, Aislin, and Seraphine, Sam's three devoted lovers, found him unconscious amidst the wreckage of a failed experiment. The air smelled of burnt metal, and debris was scattered across the floor. His body was limp, a result of a catastrophic miscalculation while trying to fuse ancient runes with Valorcrest's weaponry. Panicked, the three women called for help, and within moments, guards rushed in to assist.

"Get him to the medical room, now!" Alara commanded, her voice sharp with urgency.

As the guards carried Sam's body away, Seraphine, her tail lashing in agitation, looked at the shattered remnants of Sam's experiment. "He's been pushing himself too hard."

Aislin's violet eyes glimmered with concern as she walked beside the stretcher, holding Sam's hand. "He's trying to do too much. But he won't stop until he gets it right."

When they reached the medical room, Sam, still barely conscious, weakly lifted his head. "Tell... the other scientists... to work overtime," he muttered, his voice hoarse and strained. "They... they need to fill in... my place. The weapons must be finished."

His lovers exchanged worried glances but knew they had no time to protest. With Sam out of commission, the scientists back in the lab immediately began working day and night to compensate for his absence, driven by the same relentless determination Sam had shown. Yet, even with their combined efforts, the looming presence of Nyzora's forces made their success uncertain.

---

At the front lines, Marcus lay unconscious in the infirmary. Empress Valdrianna and Dark Elf Queen Elandra stood by his side, their expressions a mixture of worry and anger. The doctor, a stern-faced older man, looked over the injuries Marcus had sustained from Nyzora's undead dragon. His chest was wrapped in bandages, burns still fresh from the lightning strike. The scars were grotesque, yet they only added to Marcus's legacy as a warrior who had faced the unthinkable.

"How long until he wakes?" Valdrianna's voice was sharp, though the undercurrent of worry was undeniable.

The doctor frowned. "It's hard to say. The lightning strike was brutal, and while his physical wounds will heal with time, his body needs rest. It could be days, maybe longer."

Elandra clenched her fists, standing rigid as she looked at her lover's still form. "We can't afford to wait much longer. His tactics are what have kept us from being overwhelmed."

Valdrianna, though sharing her concern, placed a hand on Elandra's shoulder. "We must trust that his plans and strategies will be enough to hold us for now. He has given us the tools; we need to use them wisely until he wakes."

The two women, resolute in their commitment, left Marcus to heal. Yet they knew that every moment he remained unconscious, the danger grew. Nyzora's forces were becoming more powerful, and the threat of losing the Abyssal Dominion was becoming real.

---

Across the battlefield, Nyzora, the dark goddess of the undead, stood on a high cliff overlooking the ruins of the Abyssal Dominion. Her undead legions moved in waves across the desolate landscape, relentless in their pursuit of victory. The land beneath her feet trembled with the weight of her power, and the air was thick with the stench of decay.