Within the open expanse, a vanguard of fifty Crawlers engaged in a frantic aerial skirmish with the flickering silhouette of the young magis, who wove through their ranks with the elusive grace of a phantom. The tempo of this mid-air slaughter was so accelerated that the severed limbs and viscera of the initial brood had yet to even strike the flagstones below.
The air was filled with the hiss of enchanted blades carving through demonic meat. The staccato sparks of talons clashing against conjured steel. The dissonant shrieks of the dying swarm. The groan of buckling masonry as nearby towers strained under the visceral intensity of the battle. A heavy, suffocating scent of scorched flesh and demonic putrefaction drifted upon the gale.
The miniature theatre of war above the main square remained in a state of violent, perpetual motion—a whirlwind of steel and slaughter.
The young magis momentarily used the falling torso of a Lickcrawler as a transient foothold in the sky, his eyes cold as he chanted a fresh liturgy to accelerate the purge:
"Flamus Blaszblade!"
[WHIZ-WHIZ-WHIZ-WHIZ—!!!]
The firestorm above coalesced into a roar of absolute destruction. A hundred brands of igneous steel plummeted from the cyclonic currents, trailing one another like a torrential river of molten vengeance. The flight of the blades curved with the gale, homing in on each demon beast from every direction with predatory precision. Each enchanted shard struck the Crawler horde with concentrated ferocity, radiating concussive waves of heat that ruptured demonic organs.
The igneous blades tore through the ranks, bifurcating over a dozen Crawlers in a single pulse of violence. Splinters of bone and jagged dorsal thorns rained down upon the fortress, as sprays of sickly green ichor flooded the air. The cyclonic winds snatched the shredded remnants of the fray, dispersing gore across the city as the energy of the spell saturated the very stones of the fortress with the scent of a scorched abyss.
The young magis descended to the flagstones of the fortress, his face ashen and drawn as his mana reserves drained like a torrential river. Even as his boots met the ground, there was no time for rest; despite the dozens of demon beasts he had just eviscerated, over three hundred and fifty Crawlers remained, maintaining a lethal perimeter. More chillingly, the bulk of the swarm appeared largely unscathed by the initial firestorm.
[GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR—HAAAA!!]
The Crawler horde abruptly checked its offensive, a low, guttural vibration rippling through the dark. Having witnessed the visceral slaughter of their kin, the demon beasts abandoned their reckless lunges, adopting a predatory patience that felt more ominous than their prior frenzy.
Scores of the creatures retreated into the embrace of the shadows, some crouching upon the rooftops while others prowled the underground conduits or clung to the vertical masonry. Their maddened hunger remained palpable, yet they lingered in the dark, recalibrating their tactics for a more calculated ambush.
[KRA-BOOOOOOM!!!]
Suddenly, a concussive blast and a seismic tremor erupted from beyond the fortress walls. The high towers groaned and swayed with terrifying instability, while the masonry of the taller structures began to shed dust and splintered stone.
[CREEEEAK—CRUMBLE!]
The tremor forced Seraph to snap his gaze toward the curtain walls in shock. He had sensed the thunderous approach of the hundred-thousand-strong undead legion earlier, but only now did he hear the bone-shaking impact of massive boulders striking the Ragguard defences.
[THOOOM! THOOOM!]
Such a heavy, systematic bombardment could only be the work of Bigfoots hurling monoliths at the ramparts. It was a grim realisation: this midnight watch was not a mere skirmish, but a full-scale, coordinated assault by the Demon Legion.
From the poisoning by Norak to the internal Crawler strike, and from the undead sea to the long-range Bigfoot siege—none of it was a coincidence. It was the overture to an extinction-level event.
'The movements of the demon beasts are unfolding like a chain of strategically interlaced stratagems. This means even the treachery of that wretch, Norak, was no impulsive act, but a gambit the Legion meticulously orchestrated and embedded within Ragguard decades ago!' Seraph mused with bitter clarity upon realising the truth.
This revelation meant not only were the sentry forces on the ramparts in mortal peril, but Seraph himself was out of time and forced to hasten to the defence of the outer walls.
Suddenly, Seraph's eyes fell upon Robin and a contingent of several hundred Bloody Hunting demon hunters standing paralysed not far from the centre of the fortress.
These hundreds of warriors gripped their steel, staring toward the western and northern curtain walls in a state of profound indecision; meanwhile, a portion of the sentry force had established a perimeter of shields and spears to prevent the Crawlers from launching further ambushes.
They didn't know if the walls had already buckled; they didn't know if they should flee the city now while a gap for escape remained before all was lost. The atmosphere within the fortress had stagnated into a heavy paralysis, as every soul wavered between the impulse to fight, to fly, or to find some desperate middle ground in this hour of crisis.
"ROBIN!! Divide your strength and reinforce every flank of the curtain walls! Send ten demon hunters to safeguard General Leonis at the command centre immediately! As for the Crawlers remaining within these walls, I'll wipe out the entire swarm by my own hand!" Seraph bellowed, his voice carrying across the flagstones to the far side of the grounds.
"But... there are hundreds of them! Are you sure you can take on such a tide alone?!" Robin shouted back, his voice cracking with doubt.
"I'm sure!! You have to trust me! Once I've finished the slaughter here, I'll rendezvous with your forces with the utmost haste!" Seraph roared.
"Right!" Robin bellowed back. "We'll be waiting for you at the walls! Move out, everyone—double time!" He gave the order and immediately surged forward, leading the charge.
Robin wasted no more time on hesitation. He orchestrated the deployment of his demon hunters toward the four stretches of the fortress walls; as they sprinted, the hundreds of warriors maintained a defensive shell of shields, ever vigilant against a sudden Crawler ambush from the flanks.
Yet, it seemed Robin and his cohort were overestimating the threat to their retreat; throughout their shouted exchange, the eyes of the demon beasts never strayed toward the fleeing unit, as if the warriors weren't even worth the effort of a kill.
Instead, the hundreds of Crawlers vaulted across the rooftops and sentry towers, seeking optimal vantage points for a coordinated strike. They let out low, guttural snarls, projecting a concentrated malice toward the young magis—their singular, ancestral foe.
The swarm prepared to lunge at their terrifying adversary alone. Many of the demon beasts didn't so much as flicker an eyelid at the warriors passing beneath their talons, as if, in this heartbeat, there existed only one enemy in the entire world.
Seraph remained equally fixed, his gaze locked in a lethal stalemate with the surrounding horde. He stood with glacial composure amidst the main square, encircled by hundreds of demon beasts, his frame wreathed in an incandescent flame aura that crackled with erratic static. His white cloak snapped violently in the gale, a herald of the coming storm.