Spring, 1468 AD – Southern Flank Encampment

  They looked like the dead.

  Alaric, Vice-Commander Selzer, Grand Captain Bristane, and the rest of ninety-seven knights of the 1st Battalion stood in the treeline, dressed in the blood-stained uniforms stripped from the corpses of the supply depot soldiers.

  The plan was a synchronization of chaos. The main artillery batteries under Duke Thorne would bombard the northern sector of the Southern Flank first. This would draw all eyes and all reinforcements away from the officer's camp in the south, giving the infiltration unit a window of exactly one to two minutes.

  "It’s a tight window," Bristane muttered, adjusting his stolen helmet. "If Vallen has elite knights posted, two minutes won't be enough to clear the Command Center. We could get bogged down."

  "That is why we split," Alaric said, his voice low. "The ninety-three of you will form a perimeter line. You use the shotguns to snipe anyone who tries to intercept us. Clear the path."

  He pointed to the massive central tent flying the Buckland commander’s flag.

  "Myself, Selzer, Bristane, and four elites will storm the tent directly."

  BOOM.

  In the distance, the ground shook. The first heavy artillery shell had been fired.

  "Go!" Alaric screamed.

  The 1st Battalion broke cover, sprinting like madmen through the final stretch of the forest. They moved with desperate speed, their boots pounding against the earth.

  As they broke through the foliage and the vast plain of the Southern Flank came into view, even Alaric faltered for a fraction of a second.

  It was a sea of people. Fifty thousand soldiers, tents stretching as far as the eye could see. It was a terrifying display of military might.

  But then, the sky screamed.

  The first shell, equipped with Alaric’s fuse hat, detonated above the northern sector. The compressed air ignited, creating a shockwave so powerful it flattened tents and ruptured eardrums a mile away.

  Then came the second. Then the third.

  Panic erupted instantly. The orderly sea of soldiers turned into a chaotic whirlpool. Men screamed, running north toward the explosions or diving into ditches, completely ignoring their southern rear.

  "Now! Push!" Selzer roared.

  The Battalion surged forward. As they neared the officer's sector, a squad of confused Buckland knights spotted them.

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  "Hey!" one knight shouted, waving his sword. "You there! Which unit are you? Where are—"

  BANG.

  His head snapped back, a red mist spraying into the air before he even finished his sentence.

  The sniping group had fanned out. They didn't stop running. They simply raised their steam shotguns and fired on the move. The lead bullets, traveling at supersonic speeds, tore through plate armor as if it were parchment.

  The Buckland knights, even if strong, didn't stand a chance. They couldn't see where the shots were coming from, nor did they understand what was killing them. They dropped one by one, their formations crumbling in seconds.

  "Path clear!" Bristane shouted.

  Alaric, Selzer, and the assault team broke away from the snipers. They channeled aura into their legs, boosting their speed to the limit. They became blurs of motion, tearing toward the massive command tent.

  Marius Vallen, Alaric thought his heart pounding with the rhythm of vengeance. I’m coming.

  They reached the perimeter of the Command Tent. The guards here were already dead, taken out by the snipers from a distance.

  "Breach!" Selzer yelled. He was in the lead, his sword drawn as his face set in a grim mask of determination.

  He rushed toward the tent flap. Alaric and Bristane were steps behind him.

  Then, it hit him.

  ZZZZZT.

  Alaric’s mana sonar didn't just ping, it screamed. It wasn't the signature of a human swordsman. It wasn't Marius Vallen. It was a void. A sticky, cold, sickening static that felt like looking into a deep, infected wound.

  It was the same feeling he had felt a year ago in the forest.

  "SELZER!" Alaric screamed, his voice cracking with terror. "STOP! DON'T GO IN!"

  The Knights froze. Selzer, hearing the sheer panic in Alaric’s voice, tried to skid to a halt. He dug his boots into the dirt, stopping just inches from the entrance.

  "Alaric?" Selzer turned his head, confusion in his eyes. "What is "

  Thwip.

  There was no sound of a blade. Just a dull, wet impact.

  Selzer’s eyes went wide. He tried to speak, but only a gurgle of blood came out.

  Alaric stopped breathing.

  Sticking out of the side of Vice-Commander Selzer’s neck was a nail. A long, black, jagged nail the size of a short sword.

  It had pierced through his throat, severing the spine and the artery in a single motion.

  "No..." Bristane whispered, stepping back, his face pale as ash.

  Alaric watched, paralyzed, as Selzer’s mana signature, bright and warm just a second ago plummeted into nothingness. The Vice-Commander crumpled to his knees, then fell face-forward into the dirt, the black nail still quivering in his neck.

  The tent flap slowly parted.

  A hand emerged. It was large, pale, and covered in intricate, glowing purple tattoos. The index finger was missing a nail.

  A figure stepped out. He was towering, draped in dark robes. His eyes were black sclera with burning violet irises, and he wore a bored, almost disappointed expression.

  He looked at Selzer’s corpse like one might look at a stepped-on insect.

  "I was told there would be a challenge," the demon rumbled, his voice vibrating in Alaric's bones. "Instead, I get... flies."

  Alaric’s shock shattered. The blood in his veins turned to ice, and then to boiling lava. The image of the demon general, the image of the war game, the image of Selzer dead on the ground, it all combined into a single point of infinite hatred.

  "MALAKOR!"

  Alaric screamed the name, the sound tearing from his throat, raw and filled with a rage that shook the air itself.

  "MALAKOOOOOOOOR!"