Fate of the Marked

Wrath

Even from the hill's edge, I could see the Kingdom's forces were struggling—losing.

Their frontlines buckled under the relentless assault. What should've been an organized defense had fractured into desperate skirmishes. Battle formations shattered as Astoroth's twisted creatures tore through their ranks like a tidal wave of death.

I watched as a line of armored soldiers locked shields, holding firm against a charge from one of Astoroth's monstrous warbeasts—a towering, four-legged brute of fused metal and corrupted flesh. Its armor-like hide deflected arrows harmlessly. With a deafening roar, it crashed into the shield wall, sending men flying like broken dolls. One soldier barely had time to scream before jagged claws crushed him into the dirt.

To the left, a group of Kingdom archers frantically loosed volley after volley, but it was like shooting into the abyss. Skeletal knights in darkened plate, their hollow eyes burning with soulless fire, marched through the hail of arrows without flinching. They crashed into the archers with brutal efficiency—blade meeting flesh, death in every stroke.

Farther down the line, I saw Kingdom swordsmen desperately trying to push back Astoroth's twisted berserkers—mutated monstrosities with bloated, sinewy muscles and warped, scythe-like arms. The soldiers fought with valor, but their swords barely scratched the monsters' grotesque hides.

One soldier—barely more than a boy—lunged forward, his blade biting deep into a fiend's chest. For a fleeting moment, I thought he'd won—until the monster laughed. It gripped the sword embedded in its chest, pulled it deeper, and swung its malformed claws, splitting the boy in half.

I clenched my fists, heart pounding in helpless rage.

They were outmatched. Outnumbered. The Kingdom's soldiers should've had the advantage—better-trained, better-armed—but they were human, mortal... and terrified.

Astoroth's forces fought with the twisted glee of those who had nothing to lose and everything to kill. There was no mercy, no retreat—only endless hunger for destruction.

A Kingdom officer shouted desperate orders, rallying a ragged group of spearmen into a defensive formation. Their faces were pale and haunted, worn thin from exhaustion and terror. I could see the trembling in their arms, hear the unsteady breaths even from here.

They won't hold for long.

I gripped my staff tightly, feeling the surge of mana crackling beneath my fingertips like a storm begging to be unleashed. I turned to Sihir. Without a word, I traced a shimmering rune in the air, casting a camouflage spell over her. She vanished instantly, blending seamlessly into the backdrop of the war-torn battlefield.

Now... for my part.

I raised my staff high, letting out a slow, measured breath. Concentrating. Summoning. The air around me grew heavy, vibrating with raw magical energy. A faint, pulsing orb of blinding blue light appeared at the tip of my staff, barely larger than a flame at first—but it grew.

The orb expanded rapidly, pulsing brighter with every heartbeat, swelling to the size of a boulder, then larger still. Sparks of magic crackled and snapped like lightning, searing the air with intense heat.

Bigger. Brighter.

It had to be.

Soldiers on both sides of the battlefield began to notice, heads turning toward the sudden burst of light piercing the darkened skies. Whispers of panic and awe rippled through the ranks as Astoroth's monstrous forces snarled and hissed, shielding their grotesque faces from the burning glow.

The ground itself trembled beneath me as I channeled every ounce of focus into the rapidly growing orb. The sheer intensity of the spell made my fingers numb, but I didn't stop. I couldn't.