The sound of crumbling stone still echoed faintly in the air as ash drifted across the battlefield like snow. The last of the stone golems had fallen, but peace hadn't come with their defeat. The silence that followed was not relief—it was warning.
A slow, mocking applause broke through the stillness.
Clap…Clap…Clap…
From atop a massive, broken stone, a lone figure sat casually, one leg hanging over the edge, watching them with amusement. a tall man watched the scene below with a grin that didn't reach his cold, ruthless eyes. His long black coat flapped gently in the wind, his midnight-black hair tied in a neat ponytail, and a single scar ran from his jaw to the corner of his lip, like a trophy from a battle long past.
He didn't speak immediately. He let the tension build. Let them see him. Let them feel him.
When he finally spoke, his voice rolled over the battlefield like thunder—smooth, deep, and saturated with danger. He leapt down with feline grace, landing silently despite his size. The air around him seemed to grow heavier, darker.
"What a strategy. Truly—chef's kiss—brilliant." He chuckles with a voice that rumbles like thunder.
"Forgive my lack of manners. I'm Gorath Maldir… but people just call me—The Destroyer."
A wave of dread rippled through the group standing beneath the broken wall.
Starmon tensed instinctively. Sofia reached for her blade. Elisa's flames wavered. Even King Albert Arc, armored and battle-worn, took a step back.
Gorath Maldir—the second most dangerous general under Malakar Veilgrave. A walking calamity. A man said to have erased an entire kingdom from the map. No armies. No mercy. Just him.
Mark's voice cracked the silence, low and wary.
"That can't be him… can it?"
Starmon's jaw clenched. "It's him."
Gorath stretched lazily, as if warming up for a casual workout.
"Thank goodness you all showed up," he said with a bored tone. "I was just about to destroy this whole shitty village to pass the time."
Suddenly, a shout came from above.
"Your Highness! Look out! There's a horde of black-armored soldiers outside the gates!"
Albert turned sharply. His eyes widened. Across the hills, stretching far beyond the village walls, stood an army cloaked in darkness—hundreds of soldiers clad in jet-black armor, weapons drawn, eyes burning with malice.
Albert's blood ran cold.
"That's… that's more than an army. That's a slaughter waiting to happen."
Gorath chuckled without even turning to look.
"Don't worry. They won't move… unless I say so. Frankly, I don't need them. But you know, everyone loves an audience."
He tilted his head, his smirk fading into something colder. The air dropped another few degrees.
"Now then," he said, voice sharp as a blade. "Let's get to the real reason I'm here."
He took a step forward.
"Where is YT?"
The question hit like a hammer. Elisa turned to Mark, her voice barely a whisper.
"What do we do now?"
Sofia stepped forward, voice calm but firm.
"He's not here. YT already left."
Gorath raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
"Left? Huh… And where exactly did he go?"
Sofia shrugged. "No one knows. He's too far to reach now."
Gorath went silent. For a brief moment, something flickered in his expression—disappointment?—before it vanished beneath the usual smirk.
"He's gone already? Damn… I actually wanted to see him."
The sincerity in his tone unsettled everyone more than his threat did.
Mark stepped forward, eyes burning with fire.
"Well, too bad. Your friends met him—and they died for it. You'll be joining them soon enough."
He raised his blade.
"EVERYONE, GET READY! WE BEAT ZYRA! HE'S JUST ANOTHER LUNATIC WITH A NAME!!"
Gorath blinked, then gave a small laugh.
"You fought Zyra? No way. How was she? Still into dragons and that so called roots magic?"
The group froze.
Elisa squinted, confused. "Is he… seriously insane?"
Gorath said "If you have fought Zyra then you must have got tired."
Albert rolled his eyes.
"Sympathy from you? What, are you trying to kill us with comedy now?"
Gorath laughed, loud and unhinged.
"Why not? Laughter is the only thing that keeps monsters like me from getting bored."
And then, just as quickly, his laughter stopped. His smile vanished.
"Now. I won't ask again. Where. Is. That. Brat?"
Starmon stepped forward, his sword drawn. His blue eyes burned with defiance.
"We already told you. He's not here."
"If you're having trouble hearing, I'd be happy to fix that with steel."
Gorath's expression didn't change. But the air shifted—like a predator deciding which limb to tear off first.
"You've got guts," he said. "Too bad, guts don't stop bones from breaking."
The tension snapped like a bowstring.
Gorath cracked his knuckles.
The battlefield was moments from becoming a graveyard.
Starmon raised his sword high into the air, voice cutting through the smoke and fear like lightning.
"Everyone—attack at once! We can beat him!"
But fate had other plans.
BOOM!
A deafening explosion shattered the skies. One by one, the towers around Moonveil erupted in fire. Flaming debris rained from above as archers were thrown like ragdolls, their screams swallowed by the inferno. The once-organized defenses were now a collapsing ruin.
From the flames, they emerged.
Shadows wrapped in tattered cloaks and glowing with crimson symbols—curse users. Their very presence warped the air, and their twisted grins promised nothing but agony.
The battlefield froze.
Starmon didn't blink. He turned back to the group, his voice sharp and commanding.
"Don't get afraid of them! Just attack! If we fall back now, we—"
But then he noticed it.
A silence where a threat should've stood. He looked forward but Gorath was gone.
"No…" Starmon whispered. "He's behind—!"
But before the words could leave his mouth, it was already too late.
CRACK!
As he turned around, A fist—solid as steel and moving faster than the eye could follow—collided with Starmon's cheek.
"You're in my way, Mr. Strategist." The voice was low but cold.
Starmon's body twisted violently as he was sent flying into the air like a comet by another punch. His sword slipped from his hand, spinning midair as blood scattered in his wake.
But Gorath wasn't done.
He jumped—no, launched—into the air after him, faster than gravity, faster than sound. In the blink of an eye, he was face to face with the stunned warrior.
Gorath's fist clenched, his arm cocked back like a cannon.
"Game over."
The punch landed with devastating force—right into Starmon's gut.
The impact echoed like thunder across Moonveil.
WHAM!
Starmon's body rocketed downward, smashing into the earth with such power that the ground cracked and erupted into a cloud of dirt and shattered stone. Dust exploded outward as if the very world had recoiled from the blow.
And then, silence.
Gorath landed gracefully on the edge of the crater he'd created, not a speck of dirt on him. He didn't even look at the chaos he'd caused—just brushed off his coat with quiet annoyance.
"There's no need to be so aggressive," he said, almost mockingly. "I'm not here to kill all of you."
He tilted his head slightly, smiling with sinister calm.
"I just need YT's head."
The air trembled with tension.
Starmon's broken body still lay in a shallow crater, unconscious, bloodied, motionless.
Gorath stood amidst the wreckage, calm as ever, the rising sun casting a long shadow behind him—like death itself looming over Moonveil.
King Albert clenched his fists.
"Enough," he growled. "We end this now."
He turned to his circle of elite mages.
"Initiate the Forbidden Convergence. Summon it."
The mages gasped. Some hesitated. But when they saw their comrades dying one by one… they obeyed.
Their staffs were slammed to the ground as one. A low, droning chant echoed across the field, like a thousand ancient voices awakening.
Glowing crimson sigils spun beneath them, crawling outward like wildfire, forming a massive rune circle that engulfed the entire courtyard.
Suddenly, the earth split.
From the molten fissure rose a towering creature of blazing fire and obsidian armor—the Fire Golem of Aldenor, a relic of ancient war long forbidden by the Moonveil code.
It stood three stories tall, its molten veins glowing bright orange, fists the size of carriages, a chest forged from living magma.
Its very breath ignited the air.
The mages roared in unison:
"GOLEM! ANNIHILATE HIM!!"
The giant bellowed—a roar that shattered windows and knocked soldiers off their feet. With a single titanic step, it charged.
BOOM!
The ground cracked. Each step was a quake.
It swung a molten fist, faster than anything that massive had any right to be.
Gorath didn't move.
Not until the last second.
He sidestepped like a dancer.
The golem's fist slammed into the earth where he'd just stood, creating a twenty-foot crater, chunks of stone launched into the air like meteors.
"Tch. Impressive toy," Gorath muttered.
The golem whirled around and launched a barrage—flame whips, molten boulders, rapid punches that blurred through the air like volcanic machine-gun fire.
Gorath began walking forward. Calmly.
The attacks exploded around him, lighting the battlefield ablaze.
Still, he walked.
Unburned. Unshaken. Unimpressed.
"Let me show you why kingdoms fall before me."
He vanished in a blur.
BOOM!
Reappeared on the golem's shoulder, his hand pressed to its neck.
"Curse Technique: Implosive Seal."
A black rune ignited beneath his palm.
CRACK.
The golem's entire upper torso caved inward, like a soda can crushed by an invisible force. Its molten chest burst outward as its fiery core was sucked into a singularity—an instant collapse from within.
The creature's body twisted, buckled, then fell apart in a chain reaction of internal ruptures.
It crumbled, flaming limbs disintegrating midair.
The battlefield went silent as flaming debris rained down.
Albert stepped back in horror. His trump card… gone in less than ten seconds.
Gorath exhaled like he'd just swatted a fly.
"Next?"
The mages' chants faltered. One of them stepped back. Then another.
Fear had taken root.
"He—he's not even—injured…" one whispered.
"Retreat!" screamed another. "RETREAT!"
They turned to flee.
Big mistake.
Gorath raised his left hand—palm outward—and slowly swept it sideways through the air like he was wiping a window.
"Curse Technique: Void Reaver."
FWOOOSH.
A shadowy ripple burst from his palm and sliced through the battlefield like a guillotine of black light. The running mages froze mid-step, expressions frozen in fear.
Then—
THUD. THUD. THUD.
Their bodies split in two—clean, silent, merciless.
Gorath lowered his hand slowly, his eyes void of sympathy.
"Cowards don't deserve to wield magic."
MARK CHARGES.
"YOU BASTARD!!" he screamed, tears and rage burning in his eyes. Flames and electricity surged around him, forming a brilliant aura of red and blue.
He dashed forward, faster than ever before, his blade crackling with both elements. With a powerful war cry, he swung his sword imbued with his signature elemental rage—Thunderflame Slash!
Gorath ducked it. Countered with his elbow.
Mark twisted, dodged the blow, and landed a point-blank fireburst spell in Gorath's chest, momentarily engulfing him in flame.
"That enough heat for you?!"
From within the blaze, a deep voice echoed "Not even close." The flames vanished in an instant—as if scared to touch him.
But Mark kept pushing. He spun midair, launching fireballs from one hand while slashing with his blade in the other.
Gorath grabbed his blade barehanded—it sizzled against his palm—and pulled Mark forward into a knee to the stomach.
Mark coughed blood but twisted away, landing a shockwave-enhanced roundhouse kick to Gorath's face.
Gorath took a step back.
His smile vanished.
"You've got guts."
Suddenly, his aura changed.
A deep, sickening hum filled the air. The ground beneath him cracked into hexagonal plates. His eyes glowed pitch black.
Gorath raised his right arm—and in a dark swirl of smoke and energy—a massive black warhammer materialized in his grip. The weapon was etched with runes that pulsed like a heartbeat, its head almost as large as a man.
"Let me show you how we used to smash armies."
It was enormous. Etched in runes.
Mark didn't flinch. He roared and swung again, combining sword and spell in rapid strikes—ice, flame, lightning.
Gorath parried each one effortlessly, each strike of his hammer cracking the earth.
And then, the counter came.
BAM!
They clashed—steel vs curse, will vs power.
Blow after blow. A beautiful, violent dance. Then Gorath feinted—
And with a pivot, brought his hammer down diagonally across Mark's ribs.
CRUNCH.
Mark's eyes widened. His body bent unnaturally.
Then—
BOOM.
He was launched across the courtyard, slammed into a stone wall so hard it cracked like an eggshell. Dust exploded outward.
He dropped.
Unmoving.
Silence fell.
Gorath stood in the center of the battlefield, untouched.
"He fought well," he said coldly. "But like the rest—he's in my way."
The battlefield of Moonveil was already soaked in blood, yet the worst was far from over.
Gorath Maldir stood amidst the smoldering ruins, his black coat fluttering in the wind, hammer resting on his shoulder. His blood-red eyes scanned the field without care. Around him, corpses lay scattered—soldiers, mages, protectors of Moonveil—reduced to limbs and ash.
King Albert Arc stood tall ahead of him, flanked by a battalion of heavily armored soldiers. The king's black hair flowed behind him, and his eyes, sharp as ever, were locked on the monstrous man before them. In his right hand, he held his ornate staff—Aetherbrand, forged from ancient moonwood and silverite, glowing with celestial runes.
Albert raised his staff. His voice echoed across the battlefield:
"Soldiers of Moonveil! Stand your ground! For our kingdom! For our people!"
The soldiers roared in unison, forming tight formations.
Albert lifted Aetherbrand to the sky. Light exploded from its tip.
"Arcane Commandment: Aegis Constellia!"
A massive dome of starlight shimmered over the troops, shielding them from the darkness.
Gorath grinned.
"You're going to need more than glowing bubbles, old man."
He raised one hand casually and muttered:
"Curse Technique: Blight Scatter."
A storm of black needles erupted from his palm, slicing through the sky. Many shattered against the shield, but a few pierced through, striking down multiple soldiers who screamed and collapsed, twitching as the curses spread.
Albert slammed his staff into the ground.
"Gravity Pulse!"
A crushing wave of pressure erupted outward, forcing Gorath to slide back several feet.
"Hmm... impressive," Gorath said. "Let's up the game."
He raised both hands, shadows coalescing like ink around him.
"Curse Technique: Sinner's Judgement."
Chains of cursed energy lashed out, wrapping around several soldiers and yanking them violently into the air. Their armor shattered as they were pulled apart midair.
Albert didn't flinch. He raised his staff again.
"Tempest Ward!"
A gale of wind surged forward, knocking Gorath back. Albert's soldiers charged with shields raised and blades drawn. They fought valiantly, attacking with everything they had.
Gorath moved like a demon.
He let go of his hammer.
"I don't need this for you insects."
He stepped into the crowd. His fists cracked armor. His knees shattered skulls. With each whisper:
"Curse Technique: Black Erosion." —a wave of corruption melted metal and flesh.
Albert blasted the field with a wall of flames:
"Phoenix Wrath!"
Flames in the shape of wings burst forth, engulfing the enemy.
But Gorath emerged, singed but smiling.
Albert fought longer than any man should've. His staff spun like a whirlwind.
"Celestial Chains!"
Chains of light wrapped around Gorath's arms. For a moment, he stilled.
"Cute," Gorath muttered.
With a flex of his muscles and cursed aura—he shattered the chains.
Finally, Albert's knees buckled. His staff slipped from his grasp.
He collapsed beside the bodies of his fallen men.
Still breathing. Still alive. But unable to rise.
Gorath turned his gaze to the two girls watching in horror—Elisa and Sofia.
Elisa trembled, exhausted and pale. Her knees almost gave out.
"I can't… he's too strong," she whispered.
Sofia grabbed her wrist.
"It's now or never, Elisa. We fight."
Elisa swallowed hard and nodded. Flames crackled to life in her palms.
Gorath let out a mock yawn.
"Let's see what the side characters have to offer."
Sofia raised her hand.
"Divine Shield!"
A yellow barrier appeared around them, shielding them.
Elisa hurled fireballs with all her might. Gorath dodged effortlessly, laughing.
He dashed forward. One punch collided with Sofia's shield.
Crack.
The shield fractured.
He grabbed Elisa by the arm mid-cast and spun.
With a devastating punch to her stomach—
CRACK!
She flew back, hitting the giant stone from earlier.
Her body rolled, limp.
Unconscious.
"No!" Sofia cried.
One final strike—a brutal backhand—sent her crashing to her knees.
Gorath raised his cursed hand.
"This ends now."
Then—
"STOP!"
A voice thundered across the ruins.
Gorath paused.
And turned.
The battlefield was painted in ash and blood, silent for a moment—just a moment—until a low scraping sound broke the quiet.
Clang… Clang… Clang…
Starmon was dragging his sword across the ground. His body trembled, drenched in blood, his head hung low like a fallen warrior forcing himself to rise from the depths of hell. One foot after another, he walked forward.
Gorath turned, unimpressed. "Huh? I thought we had zombies in our team."
Sofia, still wounded and burning with desperation, saw her chance. Summoning every ounce of strength she had left, she snatched her sword from the dirt and lunged at Gorath with a scream. But he was ready.
He caught her wrist mid-swing, twisted it effortlessly, and in one cold, calculated motion—
SHLUNK!
—he stabbed her with her own sword.
Her eyes widened as blood spilled from her mouth.
Gorath said "Sad… your so-called hero is just—letting you suffer this pain."
But the smirk faded.
He felt something…
Someone.
A storm of rage was rushing toward him.
Starmon charged with a roar, slashing violently, his strikes powered not by strength but fury. His blade sang through the air in wild arcs. Gorath dodged with calm elegance, until—
RIPPP!
Starmon's sword sliced through his black coat, piercing the fabric across his chest.
Gorath stopped, looked down at the tear in disbelief.
Gorath (furious): "You… you fool…
That was my FAVORITE coat!!"
And then—
BAM!
He hammered Starmon with a devastating punch, throwing him to the ground like a ragdoll. Blood splattered, bones cracked, and Starmon didn't rise.
Gorath lifted his arm high, voice booming across the ruins. "WHERE IS THAT DAMN YT?!"
Before the echo faded, a sudden burst of brilliant blue light screamed across the battlefield.
The beam of raw magic blasted toward Gorath. He reacted in time, crossing both arms to block it, but the force still sent him sliding backwards, his boots grinding deep furrows into the ground. The shockwave shook the very earth beneath them.
When the dust settled…
He appeared.
Tall. Regal. Radiating ancient power.
Clad in a blue robe, a long beard and hair flowing in the wind, he stood firm, leaning on a glowing staff. His presence bent the atmosphere itself. It was as if time bowed to him.
Morpheous said "Fighting the weak now, are we?
Why don't you try someone your own size?"
And as the screen faded to black, the final word echoed like thunder—
TO BE CONTINUED…
Episode Ends.
"Chronicles of YT"
Episode Title: The Destroyer