While the battle continued on the plains below, another army quietly gathered far beyond the eyes of men.
High atop the surrounding mountains, deep within the ancient forests, and across the forgotten valleys where no sunlight seemed to linger, an unnatural mist slowly began spreading through the land.
It crept silently across the ground.
At first, it was little more than a thin layer of fog drifting between the trees.
Then it grew thicker.
Heavier.
Within minutes, the mist swallowed entire hillsides, hiding the forest beneath a sea of pale white. The air turned unnaturally cold as frost began creeping across blades of grass, coating leaves and fallen branches in a thin layer of ice despite the warmth of the afternoon.
Silence followed.
No birds sang.
No insects chirped.
Even the wind itself seemed to disappear.
Then...
A hand emerged from the fog.
It was nothing more than weathered bone wrapped in scraps of rotting leather.
Another skeletal hand followed.
Then another.
One by one, skeletal figures stepped from the endless mist, their hollow eye sockets staring silently toward the distant battlefield. Rusted swords hung loosely from brittle fingers, while cracked shields and broken helmets clung to bodies that should have long since returned to dust.
They did not speak.
They did not breathe.
They simply marched.
As the fog continued to thicken, more skeletons emerged from every direction until countless silent warriors stood shoulder to shoulder, their numbers steadily growing with every passing moment.
The earth itself seemed to surrender to the dead.
Then...
A deep, rhythmic sound echoed through the mist.
**Clop.**
**Clop.**
**Clop.**
The skeletal army immediately parted.
From within the dense fog, the head of a horse slowly emerged.
Not flesh.
Bone.
Its skull was stripped bare, empty sockets glowing faintly beneath an ornate steel helm that had somehow endured the passage of centuries. Thick plates of black armor covered its neck and torso, each piece scarred by countless battles yet meticulously maintained despite the absence of any living rider.
The undead steed continued forward without haste.
Only when its entire body had emerged from the mist did the rider become visible.
Towering above the skeletal army sat a knight clad in equally ancient armor.
His broad shoulders were draped beneath a tattered black cloak that swayed gently despite the complete absence of wind.
Where his head should have been...
There was nothing.
Only an empty collar stained by time.
Yet somehow...
Every skeleton surrounding him instinctively lowered its weapon.
The Headless Horseman had arrived.
And behind him...
The mist continued to spread.
The Headless Horseman brought his skeletal steed to a slow stop upon the crest of a distant hill.
From where he stood, the battlefield stretched endlessly beneath him.
Thousands of orcs continued clashing against the defenders surrounding the Bastion, their war cries echoing across the plains as fire, steel, and blood stained the once peaceful grasslands.
The distance was immense.
Far beyond the range of arrows.
Far beyond the reach of ordinary eyes.
Yet none of it seemed to matter.
The headless knight remained perfectly still, his empty neck facing the battlefield as though unseen eyes quietly observed every movement taking place below.
Behind him, the skeletal army continued emerging from the ever-expanding mist.
Rows upon rows of undead warriors silently assembled across the hillsides, their rusted weapons hanging loosely at their sides. Unlike the orcs, there were no battle cries.
No shouting.
No excitement.
Only an endless procession of bones disappearing into the pale fog.
The army continued growing.
Hundreds.
Then thousands.
The mist showed no sign of stopping.
Several skeletal cavalry slowly rode forward before halting beside the Headless Horseman. Their undead mounts pawed silently at the frozen earth, waiting for an order that never came.
The Headless Horseman never reached for his weapon.
He simply watched.
Far below...
A lone figure suddenly burst through the front ranks of the orc army.
The emerald glow surrounding the warrior flashed brightly against the sea of iron before a massive blade of compressed air carved a path straight through the advancing formation.
Even from this distance...
The attack was impossible to miss.
The skeletal cavalry remained motionless.
The Headless Horseman likewise did not react.
Moments later...
The emerald light disappeared.
In its place, crimson flames erupted across the battlefield.
A blazing arc tore through the heart of the orc formation before exploding into an inferno that briefly illuminated the entire plain.
The flickering fire reflected against the polished armor of the undead commander.
For the first time...
He moved.
One armored hand slowly tightened around the reins of his skeletal horse.
The battlefield fell silent once more.
Then, in a voice no louder than a whisper...
"...Lambert."
The name drifted into the mist.
Not spoken with hatred.
Nor with surprise.
Simply...
Recognition.
The skeletal horse turned away from the battlefield.
Without another glance, the Headless Horseman guided his mount back into the endless fog.
Behind him...
The countless skeletons followed.
One by one, the army disappeared into the mist until nothing remained upon the hill but silence and frost.
Only the distant sounds of battle continued to echo across the plains.
---
Beyond the borders of every known kingdom, far past the last mountain ever recorded on a human map, stretched a land that no living explorer had ever returned from. It was a place absent from history books and forgotten by every civilization that still walked beneath the sun. The air itself felt unnaturally still, as though even the wind refused to cross its boundaries, leaving behind a silence so complete that it seemed to swallow every sound.
Towering mountains surrounded the region from every direction, their jagged peaks disappearing into thick clouds that never parted. The valleys below had long since become barren, their cracked stone devoid of trees, rivers, or even patches of grass. Fine black dust drifted endlessly across the empty landscape, carried by slow currents of cold air that never seemed to stop. There were no signs of wildlife, no insects, no birds circling overhead. It was a land where life itself had surrendered countless ages ago.
At the center of that desolate world stood a single mountain that dwarfed every other peak around it. Its cliffs rose almost vertically into the heavens, their dark stone polished smooth by time until they resembled an enormous pillar supporting the sky itself. Upon its summit rested a fortress unlike anything found within the human realms.
The outer walls alone were monumental. They had been constructed from enormous blocks of black stone reinforced with layers of dark metal so perfectly fused together that no seams could be seen between them. Every surface had been engraved with intricate scriptures unlike any language known to mankind. The symbols intertwined endlessly across the walls, weaving together into vast geometric patterns that stretched from one end of the fortress to the other. At regular intervals, the engravings pulsed with a faint violet glow, causing the entire wall to shimmer as though invisible currents flowed beneath the stone itself.
Despite standing for what must have been centuries, perhaps even millennia, the fortress showed no signs of age. There were no cracks within the walls, no loose stones scattered beneath the battlements, and no vines or moss dared cling to its surface. It stood exactly as it had the day it was built, untouched by time and completely indifferent to the passage of history.
An enormous gate guarded the only entrance into the fortress. Forged entirely from black metal, it towered over the surrounding walls, its surface covered by the same glowing scriptures that illuminated the rest of the stronghold. The symbols brightened and dimmed in a slow, rhythmic pattern, almost like the steady beating of a heart hidden somewhere deep within the mountain.
Beyond the gate stretched an ancient citadel built on a scale that defied imagination. Broad stone roads crossed between towering halls, massive fortifications, and colossal towers that overlooked the endless wasteland below. Every pillar, archway, and building carried the same mysterious violet inscriptions, giving the impression that the entire fortress had been crafted as one immense work rather than countless structures built over generations.
Deep within the castle, beyond silent corridors lined with towering pillars of black stone, stood the throne hall. The chamber was vast enough to contain an entire village, its polished floor reflecting the faint violet light that flowed continuously through the engraved scriptures beneath it. At the far end of the hall rested a throne forged from black metal, its broad frame engraved with countless glowing symbols that crawled across its surface like living veins.
Upon that throne sat a lone figure, his body concealed beneath dark armor and his face hidden behind a featureless helmet. He remained perfectly still, allowing the slow pulse of the glowing scriptures to become the only movement within the immense chamber.
The silence within the throne hall lingered for several long moments, broken only by the faint pulse of the violet scriptures that flowed across the floor, the pillars, and the throne itself. The light rose and fell in perfect rhythm, casting long shadows that slowly shifted across the chamber before fading once more into darkness.
Before the throne knelt a lone woman.
Large crimson wings rested neatly against her back, each feather edged in a darker shade that resembled dried blood. A glowing violet script extended from above her right eye, running across her cheek like an ancient scar before disappearing beneath the collar of her armor. The same mysterious engravings could be seen upon the leather wrapped around her forearms and along the handle of the whip fastened at her waist, their glow rising and fading together with the countless scriptures surrounding her.
She remained motionless, her head lowered in respect.
Only after the chamber had fallen completely silent did she finally speak.
"Your Majesty."
Her voice echoed softly throughout the immense hall.
"The western operation has begun."
The figure seated upon the throne did not answer.
His posture never changed.
Even so, the pressure filling the chamber seemed to grow heavier.
Amelda continued without lifting her head.
"Our observer has confirmed the presence of Lambert."
For the first time since her report had begun, the figure upon the throne slowly raised one hand.
The movement was subtle.
Almost effortless.
Yet the entire chamber seemed to respond as the violet scriptures engraved throughout the hall pulsed once before settling into silence again.
"...Lambert."
The voice that answered was calm and deep, carrying neither excitement nor concern.
"The Hero's hound."
Amelda remained kneeling.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"The Hero himself?"
"No reports of his appearance."
The throne room once again fell silent.
Several long moments passed before the figure finally spoke.
"Continue observing."
"There is no need to interfere."
"As you command."
Amelda lowered her head even further.
The chamber returned to silence, while beyond the fortress walls the ancient scriptures continued their endless pulse, illuminating the forgotten kingdom hidden beyond the reach of mankind.
---
The southern checkpoint carried on with its usual routine.
Merchants passed beneath the towering stone gate, caravans waited for inspection, and travelers rested beneath the shade of the walls before continuing their journey toward the Imperial Capital. Beyond the checkpoint, endless plains stretched toward the horizon, where the distant silhouette of the capital stood proudly beneath the afternoon sky. Its towering walls, countless watchtowers, and the great castle rising above them all remained peaceful, completely unaware of the disaster unfolding hundreds of kilometers away.
Then a lone horse appeared upon the southern road.
Its frantic gallop immediately caught the attention of the guards.
The animal stumbled repeatedly, its body drenched in sweat and foam, yet it continued forward with what little strength it had left.
"...Someone's coming in fast."
The guards narrowed their eyes.
As the horse drew closer, they saw its rider.
He wasn't a soldier.
He wasn't an Imperial scout.
He was nothing more than an ordinary villager.
His clothes were torn beyond recognition, dried blood stained his sleeves, and fear was written plainly across his face.
The horse collapsed the moment it reached the gate.
The rider was thrown onto the road, rolling across the stone before painfully forcing himself back onto his feet.
"Sir!"
A guard rushed toward him.
"You're injured!"
The villager shoved him aside.
"I..."
"I need..."
He stumbled forward, his eyes desperately searching the checkpoint until they found a small stone building tucked behind the gate.
"The relay..."
"I need the relay..."
"Hey!"
"You can't go in there!"
The guards tried to stop him, but panic had long since overtaken reason.
He pushed through them with surprising strength, nearly falling several times before bursting through the wooden door.
Inside, several relay operators looked up in alarm.
"What happened?"
The villager collapsed against the stone pedestal supporting a polished crystal sphere.
His chest rose and fell violently as he struggled to breathe.
"Connect..."
He coughed.
"Connect me..."
One of the operators hesitated.
"This relay is reserved for Imperial emergencies."
The villager slammed both hands against the pedestal.
"THIS IS AN IMPERIAL EMERGENCY!"
The room instantly fell silent.
Without another word, the operator placed both hands upon the pedestal.
The runes surrounding the crystal awakened.
Soft light flowed through the engraved lines before the cloudy sphere gradually cleared, revealing another relay station somewhere deep within the Empire.
A calm voice echoed from the crystal.
"Southern Relay Station."
"State your report."
The villager gripped the pedestal so tightly his hands began to shake.
His voice cracked as he fought to force the words out.
"The Orc King..."
"...The Orc King is leading an army!"
"They're attacking the southern border!"
"The battle is still ongoing!"
He could barely breathe.
"Captain Lambert..."
"...Captain Lambert is holding the line!"
"But there are too many!"
"Please..."
"Send reinforcements!"
The room on the other side of the crystal fell completely silent.
Even the operators surrounding the villager stared at him in disbelief.
"...Repeat your report."
The villager's voice trembled.
"The southern border is under attack."
"The Orc King is leading the invasion."
"...Captain Lambert is buying us time."
"If no one comes..."
"...everyone will die."
Silence consumed both relay stations.
No one needed to ask another question.
The Empire had just received the most urgent report it had heard in decades.
---
The report traveled across countless relay stations before finally reaching the heart of the Empire.
Within the Imperial Palace, the throne room carried on with its usual business. Ministers debated taxation, nobles whispered among themselves, and officials presented petitions one after another as though it were any other afternoon.
At the end of the hall, upon a throne of ivory stone and gold, sat the Emperor.
Beside his throne stood an ornate display unlike any other within the palace. Resting upon a polished stand was a magnificent suit of silver full plate armor, displayed without its helmet. Beside it leaned an exquisitely crafted halberd, its blade engraved with elegant runic patterns, while an enormous shield bearing the Imperial crest completed the display. The three relics had stood beside the throne for generations, untouched, serving as silent reminders of the Empire's glorious past.
The great doors opened.
An imperial relay officer hurried into the chamber before kneeling.
"Your Majesty."
"An emergency transmission from the southern frontier."
The Emperor didn't even look up from the document resting in his hand.
"...Proceed."
The officer swallowed.
"The village of Bastion is under attack."
"An Orc King is leading the assault."
"The battle is currently ongoing."
"Captain Lambert is holding the southern border and has requested immediate reinforcements."
The chamber fell silent.
Several ministers exchanged uneasy looks.
An Orc King.
That alone should have been enough to stir the Empire into action.
Instead...
The Emperor simply turned another page.
"...Lambert is there?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Then he'll manage."
The answer came without hesitation.
"Dispatch the Border Knights."
"No further mobilization is necessary."
The relay officer hesitated.
"Your Majesty... the report states the battle is still ongoing—"
The Emperor finally looked up.
His expression remained calm.
Almost bored.
"I heard the report."
"If Lambert cannot defend a border village..."
"...then he was never worthy of defending the Empire."
Silence swept across the throne room.
No one dared answer.
Then—
A chair scraped against the marble floor.
"Father."
Every head turned.
Standing among the members of the royal family was the Crown Prince.
His expression had hardened.
"With all due respect..."
"...an Orc King leading an invasion is not an ordinary border incident."
The Emperor looked at him without interest.
"The Border Knights have already been dispatched."
"It is sufficient."
The prince took a step forward.
"It isn't."
Another uneasy silence settled over the hall.
"The southern frontier protects millions of Imperial citizens."
"If the report is accurate, every hour we delay could cost countless lives."
The Emperor rested his chin against one hand.
"...Then what would you propose?"
The prince answered without hesitation.
"I request authority to oversee the southern response personally."
"I will coordinate reinforcements, secure supply lines, and prepare the surrounding provinces should the frontier collapse."
Several ministers quietly nodded.
Others looked toward the Emperor, waiting.
A long silence followed.
Finally...
The Emperor gave a dismissive wave of his hand.
"...Do as you wish."
"If it keeps you occupied."
The prince bowed immediately.
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
Without wasting another second, he turned and strode from the throne room.
Before the great doors had even finished closing behind him, his voice echoed through the palace corridors.
"Summon the logistics office."
"Prepare emergency provisions."
"Notify every Border Knight garrison within three provinces."
"And have fresh relay crystals prepared."
"We move immediately."
Inside the throne room...
The Emperor simply returned to reading his document.
As though nothing of importance had happened.
---
The battle raged on long after the afternoon sun had begun its descent.
Golden light slowly faded beyond the western horizon, painting the battlefield in shades of crimson and amber as smoke drifted endlessly across the plains. The cries of steel, the roars of dying orcs, and the thunder of clashing weapons never ceased.
Far beyond the battlefield, columns of armored riders could finally be seen emerging from the southern roads.
The Border Knights.
Their polished armor reflected the last rays of sunlight as hundreds of horses galloped toward the frontier without slowing. Behind them rode another formation, smaller in number but equally disciplined. Their banners bore the crest of the Imperial Crown Prince, and unlike the Border Knights, every rider wore identical white cloaks flowing behind them.
They pushed their mounts relentlessly.
The village had to hold.
Meanwhile...
The battlefield had become almost unrecognizable.
Bodies covered the plains as far as the eye could see.
Broken weapons lay scattered among shattered shields, while abandoned banners disappeared beneath piles of fallen orcs. The once-green fields had long since vanished beneath blood-soaked earth, making every step increasingly difficult for both friend and foe alike.
Nearly half of the invading army had already fallen.
Yet the battle showed no signs of ending.
Lambert continued advancing through the remaining ranks, Gale Cutter carving another path through the endless sea of enemies, while the defenders slowly pushed forward behind him.
Several guards suddenly found themselves unable to advance.
The corpses had begun piling too high.
"Move aside."
A familiar voice echoed from behind them.
Gayrum stepped forward, resting one hand against the blood-soaked ground.
The strange markings engraved upon the crimson dragon pendant hanging around his neck began to glow.
A deep rumble spread beneath the battlefield.
The earth slowly parted.
Long trenches opened across the plains as though an invisible giant had torn the ground apart with its bare hands.
Without hesitation, the surviving gnolls and several adventurers immediately understood.
They began dragging the fallen orcs toward the newly opened pits.
One after another...
The bodies disappeared beneath the earth.
The battlefield slowly opened once more.
Lambert never looked back.
He simply continued walking forward.
Gayrum watched another mountain of corpses begin to form before letting out a tired sigh.
"...You're making too much work for me."
Far ahead...
Another line of orcs disappeared beneath Gale Cutter.
Gayrum pinched the bridge of his nose.
"...At least try leaving them in one pile."
Lambert's voice drifted back without so much as turning around.
"I am."
Gayrum looked toward the battlefield.
The bodies were scattered across nearly the entire plain.
"...You're impossible."
A nearby guard couldn't help but laugh despite the battle still raging around them.
For the first time since the invasion had begun...
Hope had returned to the battlefield.