The earth shuddered.
The tremor was brief but violent, enough to send both Sunny and Goliath staggering, forced to brace themselves just to stay upright.
They rose at the same time, their eyes locking in mutual disbelief. Their silent glares posed the exact same question: What just happened?
The biting tension that had suffocated the tent moments ago was instantly replaced by a fleeting, sharp confusion.
Goliath wasted no time. He lunged for his trusted blade on the floor, brushing past Sunny without a word. With his greatsword gripped tight, the Champion of War stepped toward the exit to witness the source of the upheaval.
It was total chaos.
The sun had already dipped below the horizon. The only sources of light and warmth were the scattered campfires and mounted torches flickering against the encroaching dark.
A horde of Abominations—corrupted, nightmare creatures—had encircled the camp in a tightening vice. The soldiers had scrambled to respond, forming a desperate wall of spears, attempting to hold a unified front against the tide. But the warriors were losing ground, and losing it fast.
Goliath turned for a moment to look back at the boy, but found only vacancy. On the floor lay a suit of leather armor and a discarded crimson mantle, abandoned where they fell. Of the Shadow, there was... not even a shadow.
Goliath's lips curled into a delighted grin. "I will see you on the battlefield, then," he whispered, his voice thick with euphoria, tasting the coming slaughter before a single drop of blood had been spilled.
He licked his lips in sublime anticipation and crossed the threshold.
The wind, sliced by the edge of the greatsword resting across his shoulders, caught his crimson mantle and brown hair, snapping them behind him like banners against a white canvas.
Soon, the mountain snow would be painted red. The night would be set ablaze by the sparks of clashing steel and claws. The stillness of dusk would be shattered by the agonizing screams of a battlefield where slaves, warriors, and monsters bled as one.
***
Auro sat with his squadmates around a flickering campfire.
The sky had bled from crimson to a pale blue before finally settling into an intense, vibrating black. Around him, the other soldiers ate and drank in weary solidarity, their bodies heavy with the exhaustion of another day spent scaling the frozen mountain paths.
But Auro carried a different kind of mountain upon his heart. He sat with his head bowed, staring at a small emerald prism wrapped in a tattered, old handkerchief. It was a gift Orphne had given to each of the Nine before they parted ways.
Auro had wanted to call it a "lucky charm," but the others had reprimanded him sternly the moment the word left his lips. In this world, "luck" was a foul omen, a cursed concept. They had made him promise never to utter that wretched term again.
He traced the green glow of the glass and the runes the Huntress had etched into it. The words of the Shadow demon still echoed in his skull, digging into his heart like rain eroding stone.
"...you are all slaves to fate."
The sentence had taken root. His breath was shallow, his eyes bloodshot.
"Are we really doing the right thing?" Auro whispered to himself.
The laughter of the other soldiers, though only a few feet away, felt like echoes from a distant galaxy. He pulled the pendant close to his chin, clinging to the warmth of the memory it held.
'Why did we decide to kill the Gods? Whose idea was it to begin with?'
Doubt had become a tangled knot, a tourniquet tightening around his neck. He was haunted by the mortifying suspicion that the Shadow had been right.
Meanwhile, around him, the men were deep in a discussion of... significant gravity.
"And that, my friends, is why I am my own grandpa."
"Bro! I just asked if you wanted more soup! Not a seven-minute lecture on that circular mess you call a family tree!"
"Okay, either the wine is hitting me hard, or the eye floating in my broth just winked at me."
"Guys, there's a hair in my bowl. What do I do?"
"Ask for its name. If you hit it off, ask her out on a date. And remember your dear friend."
Suddenly... a thunderous crash shook the earth. It sent pots of scalding soup flying and threw the camp into a panic.
Something immense had fallen from the sky, bringing the end of the world with it.
The laughter of the soldiers died instantly; the idle chatter around the campfires was severed as if by a blade.
Auro finally looked up. With trembling fingers, he re-wrapped his prism in its tattered cloth and shoved the bundle into the small pocket beneath his belt. He turned his gaze toward the slave pens—the epicenter of that bone-shaking thud.
Then, a bestial shriek shattered the silence of the night.
Panic flared among the common conscripts, but the Awakened within the ranks didn't hesitate. They sprang to their feet, reaching for their weapons in a single, fluid motion. Seeing their leaders stand, the rest of the legion followed suit, their training overriding their terror as they scrambled to form up.
The army closed ranks, weaving themselves into a series of tight, concentric circles. As the first wave of slaves came screaming out of the darkness, fleeing whatever monstrosity was hunting them, the mountain chill sharpened. A biting fear, mixed with a frigid, desperate fervor, rippled through the battalion.
From every direction, an army of Corrupted creatures emerged. They were nightmares of razor-sharp claws, tentacles thick enough to snap ancient trunks, and maws capable of grinding steel. These were the masters of the mountain, scavengers of the peaks come to feast on the flame of Desire burning within their souls. They had come to feed, but the men did not intend to die.
The soldiers of the outermost circle leveled their spears, the Awakened shifting to the front to take the brunt of the impact. In the second circle, the lighter infantry raised their polearms higher, aiming for the eyes and throats of the oncoming swarm. At the core, archers and crossbowmen stood ready, bolts notched and strings taut.
Auro stood in the front line. His palm felt slick against the hard wood of his spear. With his free hand, he reached for the pocket at his waist, clutching Orphne's gift through the fabric. As his fingers closed around the prism, his mind snapped into a cold, sharp lucidity.
The enemy was only paces away now. The screeching of their maws pierced his ears, and their foul, carrion stench filled the lungs of the first circle.
Auro took one last breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them, the massacre of the Black Mountain had begun.
***
Goliath cut through the battlefield like a juggernaut in full stride. His crimson mantle whipped through the air, stained by the spray of ichor and blood he left in his wake, while the smaller monsters shattered against his black plate armor like waves against a cliff. Even with the absence of his right arm, his greatsword traced lethal, rhythmic arcs through the dark, shearing through the flesh of the Corrupted as if it were mere parchment.
Beyond the flickering halo of the torches and campfires lay a world of absolute shadows, brought forth by the mountain night.
It didn't take the Champion of War long to locate his men. They were locked in a desperate, frantic resistance. To his seasoned eyes, the tactical situation was clear: the legion had formed up by the book, successfully repelling the first wave of Dormant vermin. But the second wave had shattered their ranks with brutal efficiency. Awakened-rank creatures—ranging from Beasts to hulking Demons—had crashed into the line with unnatural fervor. The archers had been forced into a chaotic retreat, and many in the middle ranks lay broken, trampled by the swarm or devoured alive.
Only the Awakened soldiers were holding the line, their resistance flickering like dying embers.
A few paces away, Goliath spotted the rookie. Auro had just snapped his spear inside the gullet of an Awakened Monster and was now hacking away with his shortsword, his grip slipping as the hilt became slick with gore. Nearby, the infantry's arrows hissed through the air, piercing the hides of the beasts only to snag uselessly in their thick muscle.
Suddenly, a beast lunged from the shadows behind Auro. The boy didn't turn in time; he could already smell the carrion breath of the creature as its maws unhinged to claim him. But before it could strike, a slab of black iron descended. The impact pulverized the monster, sending tons of snow and shattered earth geysering into the air. The beast's blood sprayed across the clearing, drenching Auro's leather armor.
Auro looked up, gasping for air, and found his General looming over him.
"Not a bad blood-baptism, eh, rookie?" The Champion of War looked down at Auro with a grin of grim satisfaction, his crimson eyes glowing like the embers of the dying fires.
Goliath stood upon the field like a lion atop a ridge, surveying the savanna as a King surveys his domain.
"Men!" he roared. His voice, a thunderous peal that shook the very air, struck the hearts of his soldiers. "Stand! Tonight, the Gods themselves are our witnesses! The blessing of the War God guides your blades! Forget who you were, forget where you came from—savor this moment! Glory is breathing down your necks!"
At his words, the broken line surged. The archers fired with a renewed, frantic rhythm. The crossbowmen reloaded with trembling speed. Even the wounded found the strength to rise. The blood of the legionaries began to boil, burning as hot as the sun.
The counterattack had begun.