Adam tried to rise but couldn't. His muscles were screaming at their absolute limit, twitching violently under torn flesh. Every breath came shallow, jagged, and searing as though his lungs were being clawed from within. Broken ribs shifted with each movement, sharp edges stabbing deeper, piercing organs and tearing tissue. Pain radiated through his chest like fire, flooding him with agony as he clawed at the ground. His vision blurred, his strength faltered, and though he begged his body to obey, though he screamed both inwardly and outwardly, nothing changed. His limbs were leaden weights.

And the hammer, monstrous, jagged, merciless, was already descending for the back of his skull.

But at that moment, just before the brutal blow could shatter bone and smear his life across the battlefield, the earth itself trembled. The steady thunder of gallops erupted into the chaos, the kind that split hearts in terror and raised spirits in awe. A sudden force, like a boulder hurled by a siege catapult, smashed into the Great Orc.

The beast roared as its massive bulk was torn sideways, earth exploding in clouds beneath its dragging claws. Adam's dimming eyes widened in disbelief.

There was Asher. His majesty, the Awoken One, a titan among men. With one hand he gripped one of the orc's four ox-like horns, his veins coiling in a display of strength. Dust spiraled upward as Asher ripped the beast off balance, wrenching it free from its thrashing, and hurled it like refuse into the sky.

The creature, a mountain of muscle and rage weighing several thousand kilograms, was tossed as though it were nothing more than a sack of hay. This was but an inkling, a fraction, of what made Awoken Ones a nightmare upon the battlefield.

Dust rippled outward in a shockwave, a circular ring that blasted past soldiers and corpses alike, as Asher launched himself high, leaping to meet the airborne demon. Ithamar gleamed with lethal intent as he thrust upward in a vertical stab. The steel met hide and tore it apart.

Flesh split, bone cracked, and in one clean, monstrous swing Asher cleaved from the beast's abdomen straight through its skull, splitting it in two halves like a butcher's cleaver through ripe fruit.

Still in mid-air, he seized what remained of the orc's body with both hands, controlling its descent. Then, with the inevitability of a falling star, he crashed down upon the battlefield. Earth quaked, dust plumed, and the corpse became a weapon itself, flattening and crushing a knot of orcs beneath its impossible weight. Their screams were lost to the thunderous impact.

The paladins arrived like a golden tide, riding into the fray with their banners cutting through smoke and ash. Their formation struck the horde with ruthless precision. In their very first thrust, almost a thousand orcs were felled. Each spear pierced through not one but three foes, skewering them like meat on iron. The momentum of their charge carried death forward in waves.

Then, in a single coordinated sweep, their spears were drawn wide, carving arcs of slaughter. Dozens of orcs were shredded, their bodies torn open in sprays of blood. With every pass, the battlefield shifted, the hopeless struggle of men became a tide of reckoning.

With the entrance of the Paladins, the battlefield tilted once more with the orcs being mowed down in great numbers until the last of them was killed.

….

Asher, astride Velmorne, watched with grim silence as the wounded were tended to—but to no avail. Their screams split the night, raw and piercing, as men thrashed in agony upon the blood-soaked ground.

One by one, their bodies convulsed, veins blackening with the Abyss's poison, until their comrades were forced to put them down before the corruption consumed them entirely. Some perished outright, their faces twisted with fever, suffocated by the plague that rotted them from within.

From atop his proud mount, Asher bore witness to more soldiers dying here, among their own, beneath the hands of apothecaries, than had fallen to blades and axes in battle.

He watched as healers, robes already drenched in dark stains, moved from body to body, covering faces with cloths once breath ceased, then rushing to the next. The air reeked of bile and iron. Screams clawed at his ears. Vomit, blood, and the choking rasp of lungs flooded his vision and hearing until the battlefield felt more like a slaughterhouse of despair.

And not just soldiers. Citizens, frail and untrained, succumbed even faster. Families collapsed together, entire bloodlines wiped away in a night's passing. Saelix's corruption was relentless, incurable, unstoppable, and all they could do was watch it run its course, dragging away those untouched for now, knowing many of them would eventually share the same fate.

By the time dawn clawed its way across the horizon and Asher returned, still astride Velmorne but stripped of his armour, Ithamar hanging at the steed's side like a silent sentinel, the landscape had become a graveyard. Thousands of corpses blanketed the earth, layer upon layer of death, until the morning light revealed not victory but devastation.

"Twelve thousand orcs died last night. Eight thousand of our people died to the abyss plague. If we include those who fell in battle…" Adam's voice was hoarse, muffled under the bandages swathing his torso. He sat slouched on horseback, his shoulders heavy as sorrow darkened his eyes. "We lost twelve thousand. We lost."

Asher said nothing. His golden gaze swept the corpses, yet behind the steel there was weight. Even Nero, mounted behind him, narrowed his eyes with unspoken concern. The air itself felt suffocated, morale shattered.

Hundreds of thousands still remained in the underground city, but already sickness spread among them. The plague had grown more potent, its grip deeper.

Those below Gold rank fell like flies. Even the Gold-ranked, once thought untouchable, were no longer immune. The proof was laid out before them in grisly heaps, their corpses strewn across the battlefield, lifeless beneath the pale sun.

"We need the Mythril crystal dust." Adam's voice trembled low, but resolute. "The Frontline Legion is crippled. If there's another attack, Ashkelon will be razed to the ground."

"Will that do?" Asher turned his head slowly, his gaze piercing through Adam. His words cut sharper than steel. "If we give every household a pouch filled with Mythril dust, it will not be enough to forge armour, not for our forces, nor for those who will stand with us. And without armour, without the will to fight, a pouch of dust is meaningless. When Saelix enters our realm, no trinket will save them."

Adam's reply came bitter, hollow, defeated. "Then this world is doomed. We'll all die."

The silence that followed was heavy, like a blade poised above every heart. Then Asher's voice, fell like a decree.

"You will…"

Adam's eyes widened, a flicker of dread in them as his king's words branded the air.

"...Only after my death."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.