Sub-Chapter 3.1 — The Fortress at the Edge of Night
Cold wind tore across the peaks of the Zorel Mountains, to look upon the Zorel Mountains is to witness a land caught in a perpetual gasp. A thick, rhythmic mist—known to the locals as the "Breath of the Bereft"—clings to the granite slopes like a living shroud. This is no ordinary fog; it is heavy and silver-tinged, swallowing the sound of footsteps and the light of the sun until the world is reduced to a monochrome dream. The mountains do not merely sit in the mist; they seem to generate it, exhaling a cold, damp silence that warns all travelers that they are entering a domain where the laws of the living carry no weight.
The peaks themselves are obsidian-sharp, piercing through the cloud layer like the broken ribs of a fallen titan. There is a brutal, vertical elegance to the Zorel range that mirrors the jagged silhouette of The Eventide, Lucifell's castle, nestled within its highest cradle. Every ridge is a razor's edge, and every gorge is a bottomless shadow. The vegetation here has long since surrendered to the gloom, consisting only of "Ghost-Oaks" with white, barkless trunks and iron-tough moss that glows with a faint, bioluminescent indigo, providing the only guidance for those brave enough to navigate the climbing passes.
As one ascends toward the fortress, the air grows thin and carries a metallic tang, as if the very stone is charged with the residual energy of Lucifell's power. The mountains act as a natural resonator for the castle's aura; they feel clinical, high-stakes, and ancient. There is no birdsong here, only the low, mournful whistle of the wind through the hollowed-out crags, a sound that the Eclipse Guard calls the "War-Song of the Wind." In the Zorel Mountains, one does not just feel watched—they feel judged by the earth itself, as if the mountains are waiting for a single misstep to claim another soul for the valley below.
For a moment the night sky bent inward, as if the air itself had been folded by an unseen hand. A ripple of darkness formed above the stone path leading toward the great gates of the fortress.
Then Lucifell stepped out of the distortion, the transition nearly absolute.
He did not merely arrive; he materialized from a parasitic void, a black twirl vortex that seemed to chew a temporary tunnel through the very fabric of the Zorel Mountain's eternal mist. It was a swirling, heavy nexus of shadow that tasted of iron and ancient static, spinning at a rate that warped the air and temporarily froze the distant cosmic red of the nebula above into a distorted, cold aura. He emerged with a chilling, balanced grace, his feet—shod in dark, armored boots—making no sound the wet obsidian path leading to his castle main entrance.
The wind greeted him immediately, carrying the thin, sharp breath of high-altitude air. It pulled at the long black coat that draped over his shoulders.
Behind him, the parasitic void began to collapse upon itself, folding the darkness inward with a low, mournful, and wet sound. The wind, which usually screamed through these spires, fell into a hush as he took his first step, leaving only the soft hiss of the collapsing vortex to compete with the sound of his breath.
Before him stood The Eventide, Lucifell's Castle.
The fortress rose from the knife-edge ridge like a jagged crown carved from the bones of the mountain itself. Its towering walls were built from dark basalt, weathered by centuries of storm and frost until the stone had turned nearly black. Against the dim sky it looked less like a castle and more like a shadow that had solidified into shape.
Tall, narrow watchtowers pierced the sky like spears. Their jagged battlements mirrored the surrounding peaks of the Zorel range, as though the fortress had grown naturally from the mountain.
Even in the deep of night, the castle lived within its own strange twilight.
A heavy purple-grey haze hung permanently over the structure. Moonlight struggled to pierce it, turning the air into a dim, muted dusk no matter the hour.
The silver banners of the Eclipse Guard snapped violently in the wind.
Far below the cliffs stretched a vast forest—the ancestral lands of the Centaur clans who guarded the mountain passes. Their territory formed the living barrier before the gates of the fortress.
Behind the castle, however, the world simply vanished.
The cliff plunged downward for thousands of feet until it met the dark waters of the Mournvale Sea. Even now the distant waves shimmered faintly under the eclipse-lit sky.
Lucifell stared at the fortress for a quiet moment.
Home.
Or at least the closest thing he allowed himself to call one.
He walked toward the gates.
Massive iron-bound doors groaned open at his approach, the ancient mechanisms responding to his presence without the need for guards.
Inside, the harsh brutality of the exterior gave way to something far colder.
The Great Hall of Eventide stretched before him.
Its vaulted ceiling rose high overhead, supported by massive pillars carved into the shapes of weeping willow trees. Their stone branches arched upward like frozen silhouettes against the darkness.
The floor beneath Lucifell's boots was polished obsidian.
Every step reflected faintly across the black glass surface.
Instead of torches, small floating embers drifted through the air like slow-moving fireflies. Their dim glow painted the hall in shades of crimson and gold.
The fortress was quiet.
Not the peaceful quiet of sleep.
But the heavy, listening silence of a place that had witnessed too many wars.
Even sound seemed to disappear inside the thick stone walls. The only constant noise was the faint whistle of wind slipping through the narrow arrow slits carved along the towers.
Lucifell continued deeper into the castle.
From somewhere in the eastern wing, a soft lullaby floated through the halls.
It was slow and melodic.
A song sung in the ancient tongue of the Ancient Tiger Clan.
The monks often sang it during evening meditation. A song meant to calm restless spirits.
The wind carried the distant notes through the corridors like drifting smoke.
Lucifell walked past one of the inner halls and paused briefly.
Runagard stood there, towering over a much smaller figure.
His son, Oligard.
The giant-orc crossed his massive arms as the young boy stared up at him nervously.
"Do not touch the statue again," Runagard said in a deep, patient voice.
"But father—"
"Oligard....that statue belongs to Tigris's Clan."
The boy glanced nervously toward the enormous jade tiger positioned at the center of the temple entrance.
Runagard sighed.
"Respect the spirits of this place."
The boy nodded quickly.
Lucifell continued walking without interrupting them.
Further down the corridor, the doors to Alquine's laboratory were already dark.
No light escaped from beneath the frame.
She had likely collapsed at her desk again after working too long with her experiments.
Typical.
Lucifell passed the chamber without looking more to it.
A sudden metallic clink echoed faintly from the upper rafters of the western wing.
Marvelerick.
Lucifell looked up briefly.
The dragon-blooded warrior hung lazily in a chain hammock suspended between iron beams near the ceiling. His chain blades clinked softly as he shifted his weight.
Below him sat Tigris.
The monk leaned against a wooden pillar, calmly sipping tea while watching the chains sway above him.
"You're going to fall one day," Tigris said calmly.
Marvelerick grinned down at him.
"That's what makes it exciting."
Tigris exhaled slowly.
Lucifell continued walking before the conversation could spiral further.
At the far end of the hall, an open balcony faced the endless sea.
Azazel stood there.
The wind tugged at his coat as he slowly dragged a whetstone along the edge of his sword.
Steel whispered against stone.
Azazel did not turn when Lucifell approached.
"You know i can't stop her right?," he said quietly, his eyes never leaving the blade.
Lucifell stopped.
His gaze fixed on the endless, black sea reflecting scattered fragments of starlight below. A long silence stretched between them—the silence of two men who had fought a thousand wars.
"I mean Alice," said Azazel as he stop sharpening his sword.
"Oh...right....,"
The sea stretched endlessly below, its black surface reflecting scattered fragments of starlight.
"Unvoidable," Lucifell replied.
Azazel nodded once.
That was enough explanation for him.
Lucifell moved on.
Near the inner sanctum entrance, an old man waited patiently beside a wooden table.
Old Man Garry.
Priest of the church of light near the Lycan forest.
The one who raised The Fallen Angel.
The moment Lucifell approached, the war commander lifted a hand and removed the dark mask from his face.
The Nightbringer vanished.
For a brief moment, only Lucifell remained.
Garry studied him quietly.
"You look tired."
"I always look tired." said Lucifell
"That was not an answer." replied Garry as he close his journal.
Lucifell placed the mask on the table.
"Tomorrow, The Arcana captains will arrive before midnight,"
he said calmly.
"The situation in the Dark Elven Forest is worsening."
Garry folded his arms.
"Lavik's territory."
Lucifell nodded.
"The Underworld army is gathering there."
The old man frowned.
"And the meeting?"
"Strategy."
Lucifell looked toward the distant mountains.
"War is coming."
Before Garry could respond—
A furious voice echoed through the hall.
"LUCIFEEEEEEEEL!"
Alice stormed into the chamber like a hurricane.
Her boots slammed against the obsidian floor as she pointed directly at him.
"You think disappearing like that is funny?!"
Behind her, Tigris appeared quickly.
"Alice," he said calmly, "perhaps we should—"
"NO."
Old Man Garry sighed.
Lucifell simply stared at her for a moment.
Then—
He vanished.
The air rippled.
And the commander was gone.
Alice froze.
"…He did not just do that again."
Marvelerick's laughter echoed faintly from the rafters.
Runagard shook his head from the hallway.
Azazel continued sharpening his sword.
And high above them all—
In the silent spire of the Nightbringer Sanctum—
Lucifell had already returned to prepare for tomorrow The ARCANA Captains campfire meeting that would decide the fate of Mournvale.
This room is a hermetic void.
There are no doors, no stairs, and no windows.
Located in the highest, detached spire of The Eventide.
It feels like a place outside of time. A single, high-backed stone chair faces the balcony. The room is silent, save for the low hum of the wind. There is no bed; only a training floor scuffed by the boots of a man who never stops preparing for the next war.
Sub-Chapter 3.2 -The Arcana Captains Campfire Meeting
Friday before the midnight.
The forest of the Zorel Mountains was not a place meant for ordinary men.The air itself felt heavier here. Ancient pines stretched toward the dark sky like silent sentinels, their twisted branches clawing at the cold mountain wind. Somewhere in the distance, unseen beasts howled beneath the veil of night.
Only those strong enough to survive the climb, the predators, and the merciless terrain could ever reach this place.
Which was exactly why Lucifell chose it.
At the heart of the forest clearing, a lone campfire burned quietly, its amber light dancing against the surrounding trees.
One by one… figures began to emerge from the darkness.
They arrived without announcement.
Without escort.
Without fear.
Because each of them carried a name feared across battlefields.
The Arcana Captains.
A tall armored warrior stepped into the light first. His massive frame cast a long shadow over the flames as the metal of his armor clinked softly with each step.
Artharuk.
from Centaur Clan.
The captain of the Iron Vanguard.
He crossed his arms and stood silently beside the fire.
Moments later, a lean figure appeared, his eyes sharp like a predator observing prey. His long coat swayed as he walked, the glint of two curved blades visible behind his back.
Elrich Stood
from Elf clan.
The Captain of Umbral Phantoms.
he calmly waited without a word.
And then a massive figure enters the campfire.
Zoandrel.
The captain of the Blood Oath.
From Giant Clan.
He smirked slightly.
"Looks like I'm not the first one this time."
A soft chuckle echoed from the darkness.
"Speed is meaningless without elegance, Zoandrel."
A tall man with silver hair stepped into the firelight with calm, almost theatrical grace.
Edward York.
a human.
The captain of the Ashen Legion.
Soon after,
another silhouette emerged quietly from the trees.
A woman with sharp eyes and a calm expression approached the fire, the fur lining of her cloak shifting with the wind.
Kestrel.
from Lycan clan.
Captain of the Frostfang Rangers.
Her gaze briefly scanned the clearing.
As if she was searching for someone.
More footsteps followed.
Heavy.
Light.
Silent.
Calculated.
One by one the rest of the captains appeared—each carrying an aura that could freeze the blood of ordinary soldiers.
The sailor Kahn, Amphibian Human race. Captain of the Dread Cavalry.
The quiet strategist Donnie. Human race. Captain of the Oracle
The restless Ramy. Faun Clan. Captain of Stormbringers
The calm but watchful Xien. Mermaid Clan. Captain of Arcana Navy Squad
The disciplined healer AL Henry. Human Race. Captain of Hallowed Veil.
The towering blacksmith Hobor Dalur, whose hammer had forged weapons that changed the fate of wars. Dwarf Clan. Captain of the Blacksmith.
And finally…
A figure who seemed to appear without ever walking into the clearing. Perched upon a nearby giant stones behind the campfire like a watching shadow.
Azazel.
half human-elf.
The captain of the Eclipse Guard.
Twelve captains.
Twelve legends.
Yet none of them spoke the question that lingered in the cold night air. Because they were all waiting for the same man.
The fire crackled, a deep violet-blue hue under Edward York's careful maintenance. Around the flames, the hierarchy of Mournvale's military might sat in a heavy, symbolic circle.
Kahn Lamh Aquila sat with his back straight, his shield leaning against his knee, looking like a king in exile.
Xien Xerovastii sat in her conjured water-sphere, her 300-year-old eyes reflecting the dancing flames as she watched the 10-hour sand clock beside her.
Zoandrel loomed like a shadow behind the circle, his massive feet shaking the earth slightly every time he shifted his weight.
Elirch Stood, the Umbral Phantom, was perched on a high branch above them, his dual daggers spinning idly in his hands. He looked down at the gathering with a grin, his eyes darting toward Donnie, who was meticulously recording the seating arrangement.
The fire suddenly flickered.
The wind shifted.
And the forest itself seemed to fall silent.
Footsteps approached from the darkness.
Heavy.
Deliberate.
The sound of armored scales shifting with each step echoed faintly through the clearing.
A tall figure emerged into the firelight.
Two meters tall.
Clad in dark dragon-scaled armor that shimmered with a faint teal glow between its engraved seams.
Behind him, massive wings of blackened membrane folded slowly as he stepped forward.
At his side rested a single sheathed blade.
Light Bearer.
No one spoke.
No one needed to.
Because every captain in the Arcana knew the presence that now stood before them.
Lucifell.
The Nightbringer.
His blue-sky eyes scanned the captains around the fire through his mask.
Satisfied that all had arrived.
His voice finally broke the silence.
Low.
Calm.
Like distant thunder rolling beneath the earth.
"The Underworld Army has begun moving again."
The words alone made the fire crackle louder.
Zoandrel tilted his head slightly.
"So they finally crawled out of their pit again."
Lucifell nodded once.
"The corruption is spreading faster than expected."
His gaze shifted toward the dark horizon beyond the trees.
Artharuk stepped forward slightly.
"When do we move, Commander?"
The firelight reflected against Lucifell's draconic visor.
For a brief moment, the teal glow inside his armor pulsed like a living heartbeat.
"Soon."
His voice dropped even lower.
"But this war…"
"…will not be as simple as killing one monster."
None of them asked what he meant.
Because every captain in Arcana had learned one truth over the years.
When Lucifell sensed something wrong…
It usually meant something far worse was coming.
The wind howled through the Zorel forest again.
Lucifell stepped into the center. The "Nightbringer" is reflecting the violet fire like a polished skull.
"The border is silent," Lucifell began, his voice cutting through the wind. "But the silence of the Underworld is never peace. It is a breath held before a scream."
Ramy Tedyssus leaned back, the tip of his cigarette glowing bright orange. He blew a cloud of smoke toward the stars. "A scream we've heard before, Commander. But this time... the scouts say the Vanguard of the Underworld isn't just demons. It's her personal guard."
The name Leinca wasn't spoken, but it hung in the air like a cold mist.
Azazel, standing closest to Lucifell as his right hand man, didn't move a muscle. His pearl-white eyes scanned the faces of the other eleven. He was the "Shadow's shadow" of this group—the one who knew the secret Lucifell had just shown Kestrel in the sanctum.
Hobor Dalur spat into the dirt and wiped his soot-stained hands on his apron. "I don't care whose guard it is. If they bleed, my steel will find 'em. I've re-aligned the balance on Artharuk's shield and sharpened Kestrel's bolts. We're ready for a slaughter, not a diplomatic meeting."
AL Henry Timothy adjusted his glasses, his sarcasm drawl breaking the tension with a chilling calm.
"Ohhh... such violence, Master Smith. But remember... the more they bleed, the more work I have to do. And my 'Mercy' is... quite expensive these days."
Artharuk stamped his centaur hooves, the sound like a hammer on an anvil. "Enough talk of healing. We are the 12. If the Underworld moves, we crush them. Right, Commander?"
All eyes turned to Lucifell.
The violet fire flared up, casting long, jagged shadows behind the 12 Captains. Lucifell stood motionless, the weight of Kestrel's earlier words—and the memory of his own face in the mirror—pressing against the inside of his mask.
The crackle of the violet flames seemed to heighten the tension, the air thick with the scent of Ramy's tobacco and the metallic hum of Hobor's heavy tools. Artharuk's restless hooves and AL Henry Timothy's chillingly casual drawl were like flint and steel—ready to spark a fire that even Edward York couldn't control.
Then, the water in the magically conjured sphere shifted.
Xien Xerovastii slowly sat upright, her movements as fluid and terrifying as the deep-sea currents she commanded.
She didn't look at Artharuk, nor did she acknowledge AL's sarcasm. She simply opened her mouth.
The sound that emerged wasn't a shout.
It was a low, resonant hum—the "Song of the Ancient Tides."
The vibration traveled through the earth, up through the soles of the Captains' boots and the hooves of the Centaur. It carried the weight of 300 years of underwater silence, the cold pressure of the abyss, and the sorrow of a thousand sunken ships.
The aggression in the clearing didn't just fade; it collapsed. Artharuk's hooves stopped their frantic stamping. Elirch's spinning daggers slowed to a halt. Even the giant Zoandrel took a slow, deep breath, his massive shoulders finally relaxing.
"The sea does not argue with the storm," Xien said, her voice carrying the haunting, melodic depth of a Siren.
"It simply endures until the storm has nothing left to give."
She turned her pale, timeless gaze toward the center of the circle.
"We are the twelve pillars of a house that stands on a cliff. If we tremble against one another, the house falls into the maw of the Underworld. Commander..."
She paused, her eyes locking onto Lucifell's draconic mask.
"...The sand in my glass is low. I have six hours of breath left on this soil. Do not waste them on the bickering of children. Tell us why you called this fire. Tell us what the 'Nightbringer' sees that the 'Commander' refuses to say."
The silence that followed was absolute. Xien had stripped away the military bravado, leaving only the raw truth.
Donnie Ab Kelenzy stopped writing in his journal. He looked up, his hood falling back just enough to reveal his obsessive, calculating stare. He knew what Xien was hinting at. He had seen the "hesitation" too.
Lucifell stood as still as a statue, the flickering violet light dancing off his armor.
"The Mermaid is right," Edward York whispered, eyes twinkling with a sad, weary fire. "We aren't here for a strategy meeting, are we, Lucifell? We are here for a confession."
The atmosphere in the clearing shifted from a heavy silence to a suffocating weight. The 12 Captains, some of the most dangerous beings to ever walk the earth, watched as the "Nightbringer" did something none of them expected.
Lucifell's gloved fingers reached for the edges of his obsidian mask. With a metallic click that sounded like a bone snapping in the quiet night, he pulled it free. He didn't hide his face this time. He let the violet firelight wash over his tired, human features—the silver-white hair, the piercing blue eyes, and the faint, jagged scars that hummed with a low, cursed energy.
Sub-Chapter 3.3 — The Commander Confession
He walked slowly, his boots crunching on the dry earth,
until he reached the edge of the pit.
He sat down directly in front of the flames, his posture surprisingly relaxed for a man carrying the weight of a dying kingdom.
He turned his head toward Ramy. "One," he said simply.
Ramy Tedyssus didn't hesitate. He flicked a cigarette from his pack with the practiced ease of a veteran. Lucifell caught it mid-air, placed it between his lips, and leaned forward. He didn't use a match. Instead, a spark of dark green flame—the manifestation of his own internal curse—ignited the tip.
He took a long, deep inhale, the embers glowing a sickly emerald green against the violet night. He exhaled a cloud of smoke that seemed to linger in the air like a ghost.
"The mission is simple," Lucifell finally spoke, his voice no longer filtered through the mask. It was raw and heavy. "For the upcoming battles at the Forest of Dark Elves... the Underworld Commander's troops are marching from behind that canopy. Our final task is to neutralize her."
The mention of "her"—Leinca—made a ripple of tension go through the circle. Kestrel lowered her gaze, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Lucifell took another drag of the cigarette, the green light reflecting in his pupils. "We need answers. Who orders them? Where is their hidden kingdom? What is the name of the King that sits on their throne? I am tired of fighting shadows in the mist."
He looked around the circle, his eyes stopping briefly on Xien, then Donnie, and finally Kahn.
"What I want is to erase the center. The core. Whatever they really are... we are going to find the heart of the Underworld Kingdom, and we are going to tear it out."
Hobor let out a low, appreciative grunt. "Finally. A target I can actually put a hammer through."
Donnie Ab Kelenzy leaned forward, his quill scratching furiously against his parchment. "The Forest of Dark Elves is a labyrinth, Commander. If they are marching from the rear, they have a shortcut—a rift we haven't mapped yet."
Xien watched the smoke from Lucifell's cigarette rise toward the stars. "And the Commander herself? To 'neutralize' her... does that mean she returns in chains, or in a casket?"
The question hung over the fire, cold and sharp.
Lucifell took another slow, deliberate drag of the green-lit cigarette. The smoke curled around his silver-white hair, momentarily masking the exhaustion in his eyes. He didn't look at Xien when he answered, but his voice carried an undeniable authority that silenced the crackling fire.
"Chains," he said, the word dropping like a heavy stone into a deep well.
He leaned forward, the dark green embers of the cigarette casting a sickly, spectral glow over his face. "Like I said, we need answers. This isn't a massacre for the sake of blood; it's an interrogation of a kingdom that refuses to stay dead."
He paused, a flicker of something old and painful crossing his expression before he smoothed it back into a mask of stoic command. "And I have a bond with her in the past. A history she cannot ignore. I can use that—to draw her out, to break her silence, and to ensure we find the core of their operations."
Sub-Chapter 3.4 — A or B?
The "past" was a ghost that haunted every member of the 12 in different ways.Lucifell flicked a stray ash into the violet flames. "We have time, but not much. According to the calculations from Kestrel's scouts and the data from Donnie's squad has decoded, their main vanguard won't reach the Dark Elven Forest for another month. That is our window."
Donnie Ab Kelenzy nodded sharply, his quill moving in a blurred rhythm. "Thirty days. Thirty days to reinforce the elven borders and set the trap. If they are marching from the rear, they expect us to be looking at the front gates. They're arrogant."
Kestrel watched Lucifell from across the fire. She saw the way he sat—not like a god, but like a soldier who knew the cost of every word he spoke. "A month to prepare for the end," she whispered.
Kahn Lamh Aquila crossed his massive arms over his chest. "A month to prepare the Dread Cavalry. If we are to neutralize a Commander of the Underworld, we'll need the heavy artillery positioned at the forest's edge. I'll begin the maritime transport of the cannons tonight."
Artharuk stamped a hoof, his eyes burning with a wild, golden light. "And the Iron Vanguard? We aren't built for waiting, Commander. Give us the order to scout the perimeter."
Lucifell stood up slowly, the cigarette now a short, glowing stub. He crushed it under his boot and looked at the 12 Captains—his brothers, his sisters, his executioners.
The violet flames hissed as a cold wind swept through the Gray-Leaf Thickets, carrying the scent of damp earth and coming rain. Lucifell began to reach for his mask, the signal that the "human" moment was over and the Commander had returned.
But before the obsidian steel could touch his face, a low, melodic chuckle drifted down from the canopy above.
Elirch Stood dropped from his branch, landing silently on the balls of his feet like a predatory cat. He didn't stand at attention; he leaned against a nearby birch tree, lazily spinning one of his jagged daggers. His eyes glinted with a dangerous curiosity.
"A month of waiting... how tedious," Elirch purred, his voice smooth and mocking. "But there is a small detail we're overlooking, isn't there, Commander? Or perhaps you're just keeping the best part for yourself?"
He stepped closer to the fire, the light catching the sharp, pale angles of his face. "What about the Dark Elves, Commander? We are marching an entire division into their ancestral territory. They aren't exactly known for their hospitality—especially when 'The Nightbringer' comes knocking.
Do they welcome us as liberators, or are we fighting two wars at once?"
The question hung heavy in the air. The Dark Elves were a proud, isolationist race, and their forest was a deathtrap for those who didn't know the "Living Paths."
Ramy snorted, flicking a stray ember off his coat. "He's got a point. Those pointy-eared bastards would just as soon put an arrow in our necks as look at us."
Artharuk grunted in agreement, his hooves shifting restlessly. "My squadron doesn't move well through Elven brambles. If they turn on us, we'll be slaughtered in the thickets."
Lucifell paused, the mask held halfway to his face. He looked at Elirch—the man who lived for chaos—and then out into the darkness of the forest they were destined to enter.
"The Dark Elves..." Lucifell began, his voice dropping an octave.
The silence that followed was different from the others. It was the silence of a blade being drawn slowly from a sheath. Lucifell held his mask, but he didn't put it on yet. He looked into the violet flames, his blue eyes reflecting a cold, celestial calculation that reminded everyone present that he was once a prince of the Heavens.
His voice dropping into a hollow, haunting tone.
"In my Archangel's eyes, every living being on this planet has a right to live. That is the light I once carried."
He looked up, the fire casting long shadows across his silver-white hair. "But as a soldier... a warrior... and a Commander of War... I see them as an obstacle. An enemy to be erased if they stand between us and the Underworld.
However, we cannot simply commit a holocaust without reason. We represent the Mournvale Kingdom, and even in the dark, there must be a method to our madness."
AL Henry Timothy leaned forward, his smile grin widening. "Ohhh... 'Holocaust' is such a heavy word, Commander. So, what are the two paths? I do hope one involves less... cleanup."
Lucifell ignored the medic's sarcasm and held up two fingers.
"Plan A: The Forced Vassalage. We offer them a choice. They grant us full passage and provide scouts for the 'Living Paths' of the forest. In exchange, Mournvale recognizes their borders and offers protection from the Underworld. They become our eyes in the canopy, or they get out of our way."
He curled one finger down, leaving the second pointing toward the dark sky.
"Plan B: The Scorched Path. If they refuse, or if they have already made a pact with the Underworld Commander... we treat the forest as a hostile fortress. We don't fight them in the trees. We burn the trees. Edward York and his Ashen Legion will turn the Dark Elven Forest into a sea of charcoal, and we will march over their ashes to reach the Commander's rear guard."
Edward York didn't blink. He simply nodded, a small flicker of orange flame licking his fingertips. "The trees burn just as easily as the demons, Lucifell. Just give the word."
Donnie Ab Kelenzy adjusted his glasses, his quill hovering over the page. "The Dark Elves are prideful. They will likely choose Plan B out of spite, unless we show them the overwhelming force of the 12 Captains first. It's a gamble of psychology, Commander."
Kestrel looked at Lucifell, her expression unreadable. She knew that "The Boy from the Forest" would hate Plan B, but the "Nightbringer" sitting before her was ready to execute it without blinking.
"The choice is theirs," Lucifell concluded, finally snapping the obsidian mask back onto his face. The Nightbringer was back. "But the mission remains the same. We neutralize the Underworld Commander. Anyone who stands in the way of that goal—Elf or otherwise—is merely fuel for the fire."
The violet fire in the center of the clearing suddenly flattened, the flames licking the dirt as the atmospheric pressure plummeted. Above the Gray-Leaf Thickets, the sky bruised into a deep, sickly charcoal, and a low, guttering thunder rumbled through the earth like the growl of a buried god.
The Nightbringer stood at the center of the storm. Behind the obsidian mask, his voice turned into something jagged and cold.
"Leinca..."
He spoke her name not as a lover or a friend, but as a threat assessment.
"Beyond her mastery of the blade, she is a void in the weave of the world. She is immune to every magical element you possess. Your spells will slide off her skin like rain off a roof. She possesses strength and speed that defies the laws of the living. And if she draws her steel fully..."
Lucifell looked at Edward York, whose own fire seemed small compared to the vision the Commander was conjuring.
"Inferno Blaze. A single slash, and a hundred kilometers of the world vanishes in an atomic bloom of fire. And if you survive that, you face the Dancing of the Phoenix. Every strike you land on her blade only feeds her. When her katana glows with that orange electricity, she becomes a ghost—weightless, untouchable—until she lands the one blow that ends the world. Then... she resets. And the cycle begins again."
He looked at the Twelve. Even Artharuk and Zoandrel looked small in the face of such a description.
"Tell me," Lucifell's voice hissed through the mask's vents.
"How do the twelve of you defeat a woman who turns your own strength into her fuel? Our only 'trump card' maybe Alice, but she is still a child compared her has become. She needs years—years we do not have."
He stepped toward the fire, the dark green embers of his cigarette long extinguished.
"Like I said... we neutralize her. No matter the cost. We don't fight a fair war. we fight a war of entrapment."
The thunder cracked directly overhead, illuminating the 12 Captains in a flash of white light.
"Tomorrow, I move ahead of the division. I go to the heart of the Dark Elven Forest for negotiations with their ruler, Lavik The Cutterbones."
Donnie Ab Kelenzy stopped writing, his hand trembling slightly. "Lavik? Commander, the rumors of that butcher... they say he views everything that isn't a Dark Elf as livestock. The girls they take... they don't just kill them. They feast on the terror before the meat."
Ramy spat on the ground, his face twisted in disgust.
"A racist, cannibalistic bastard with a 190cm frame and a twisted soul. Negotiating with a man who likes the taste of 'different' blood? That's not a meeting, Commander. That's walking into a slaughterhouse."
Lucifell didn't blink.
"Lavik is 150 years of accumulated filth. He is evil, he is twisted, and he hates us. But he fears the Underworld more than he hates Mournvale. I will offer him Plan A. If he shows me his 'Cutterbones' teeth..."
The air in the clearing didn't just grow cold—it died. The thunder above transitioned from a roar into a sustained, rhythmic drumming, like the heartbeat of a titan.
Lucifell leaned into the violet light, his silhouette stretching until it swallowed the shadows of the other twelve. The obsidian mask seemed to absorb the firelight rather than reflect it.
"If he shows me his 'Cutterbones' teeth," Lucifell continued, his voice dropping into a register that made the ground beneath Artharuk' hooves vibrate with dread, "I will not waste a single soldier's life on a siege. I will simply span my Domain across their entire forest."
Sub-Chapter 3.5 — The Nightbringer's Warning
The reaction was instantaneous. AL Henry Timothy stopped his mocking grin. Donnie's quill snapped in half. Azazel's hand tightened on his hilt until his knuckles turned the color of bone.
They knew.
"I will let the darkness drown them," Lucifell hissed.
"Their heirs, their lovers, their parents, their sons, and their daughters. Every living thing that draws breath under that canopy will find the air turned to lead. Eternal Night will descend, and in that vacuum, they will realize too late that pride is a poor substitute for oxygen."
The 12 Captains sat in a rigid, terrifying silence. They had seen the Eternal Night once before—a void where light ceased to exist, where the lungs burned as if filled with broken glass, and where even the bravest warrior became a blind, gasping animal in the dark. To cast it over an entire forest was an act of divine execution.
"I will leave them just enough breath to regret their king's arrogance," Lucifell concluded. He finally snapped the mask fully into place, the "Nightbringer" persona sealing away the man. He stood up, the long black cloak of his uniform billowing in the rising wind.
"The 12th Squadron moves at dawn. Azazel, you walk with me to the gates of the Cutterbones. The rest of you... prepare the perimeter. If the sky turns black before midday, you know what to do."
Without another word, he turned and vanished into the treeline, leaving the violet fire to flicker and die in the wake of his cold intent.
The 12 Captains watched in a silence that felt like a held breath. As the finality of Lucifell's threat against the Dark Elves settled into their bones, the atmosphere reached a breaking point.
The violet flames of the campfire suddenly bent inward, as if being sucked into a vacuum. A black vortex erupted from the earth beneath Lucifell's boots, a swirling shroud of pure, absolute nothingness that spiraled upward, consuming his silhouette. Within the eye of the dark storm, the obsidian mask was the last thing visible—a cold, unblinking skull of shadow.
Then, with a sound like a distant door slamming in a void, the vortex collapsed. He vanished into the dark.
Instantly, the crushing weight of the Domain lifted. The thick, suffocating air cleared as if a fever had broken, and the roaring thunder that had been bruising the sky fell into a sudden, eerie silence. The stars reappeared, cold and distant, over the Gray-Leaf Thickets.
Left behind in the flickering, dying light of the violet fire, the 12 Captains looked at the empty space where their Commander had stood.
Ramy let out a long, shaky exhale, the smoke from his mouth rising into a now-calm sky. "He's getting stronger," he muttered, his voice barely a whisper. "The 'Eternal Night'... it's not just a skill anymore. It's becoming him."
Azazel stood up, his silver hair catching the last of the fire's glow. He didn't say a word to the others. He simply adjusted his blade and walked toward the treeline in the direction Lucifell had gone. He was the shadow's shadow, and the march to the Cutterbones had already begun in his mind.
Donnie looked down at his snapped quill and the ink-stained map of the Dark Elven Forest. "Thirty days until Leinca arrives," he whispered to the remaining ten. "But only twelve hours until the Elves find out if they still have a future."
Kestrel remained seated, her eyes fixed on the spot where the black vortex had claimed him. She remembered the boy in the forest, but she could still feel the phantom pressure of the Nightbringer's lungs on her own.
Sub-Chapter 3.6 — Somewhere Beyond the World of Men
The battlefield burned beneath a crimson sky.
Broken weapons and shattered armor littered the black stone plains of the Underworld.
Demons and soldiers alike lay scattered like discarded dolls.
At the center of the carnage…
A woman slowly pulled her blade from the chest of a fallen warlord.
Blood steamed against the burning ground.
Her long dark hair swayed in the infernal wind.
Her crimson eyes stared upward.
Toward a world far beyond the Underworld.
A quiet whisper escaped her lips.
"Lucifell…"
The name was not spoken with hatred.
Nor love.
But with something far more dangerous.
Memory.
The soldiers of the Underworld bowed as she turned away from the battlefield.
Black armor gleamed beneath the red sky.
Her sword rested lightly against her shoulder.
Leinca.
Chief War Commander of the Underworld.
And the one person in existence…
Whoever live closely with the man behind the Nightbringer's mask.