The battlefield stretched before Kalem like a painting gone mad—earth scorched black, skies veiled in ash, and the ground trembling beneath the clash of monsters too unnatural to name at a glance. But some had names. Old, cursed names etched into the records of the frontlines.
"A Dreadcore fighting a Howlcarver," Kalem muttered, crouched on the edge of a broken ridge, overlooking the chaos below.
The Dreadcore was a sentient mass of fury—its black crystal heart suspended in a cage of shattered stone and spiritual malevolence, chains clinking and dragging behind like severed limbs. The ground cracked where it moved. It slammed its chain-limbs into the Howlcarver, a creature that looked like an emaciated statue come alive—four arms tipped with jagged crystal blades, its head split like a broken porcelain mask.
And the Howlcarver, true to its name, screamed.
Its bladed limbs tore the air apart, sending sonic crescents across the battlefield, cutting soldiers and monsters alike. A wave of those soundblades ricocheted off the Dreadcore's chained guard, cracking the earthen shell and exposing more of the shimmering black underneath.
"Just how much longer…" Kalem exhaled, eyes narrowing. "...do I have to keep doing this before I get that?"
That—his final weapon. Still an idea, not yet reality. But everything he faced now only justified it more.
He was jolted out of his thoughts by a shout.
"Oy! Help out a bit!!"
Kalem's eyes flicked toward the source. Two soldiers sprinted through a wrecked trench, stumbling through debris as a Mawborn lumbered after them. The creature moved with startling speed for its size, its maw-chest grinding with anticipation, devouring chunks of earth and steel.
Kalem didn't respond. He simply stood up.
He drew his crimson spear with one smooth motion. The weapon thrummed as if it were alive, arcs of violet lightning crawling up its shaft. Small flickers at first, then larger pulses—resonating with his breath, his heartbeat.
"I didn't get to use that enchantment last time," Kalem said under his breath.
The spear's runes ignited.
He flicked the weapon forward.
A crack of thunder exploded across the battlefield, louder than the Howlcarver's shriek. The spear became a bolt of wrath—punching through the Mawborn with devastating force. The creature's regenerating maw tried to close around it, only for the internal spark to detonate within its core.
What remained slumped forward—twitching—and then collapsed into sizzling rubble.
The soldiers turned, stunned. One tried to call out thanks, but Kalem had already moved.
Darting across the cracked terrain, his crimson spear now dancing in his hand with rhythmic charges of lightning, Kalem struck through enemy lines—not with brute force, but like a tempest looking for somewhere to land.
The Depth Howlers that came next barely had time to scream before he silenced them. One jab to the throat—electric discharge shut its lungs. Another through the spine—lightning overloaded its nervous system. Each step was momentum, each kill a continuation of motion.
Behind him, Onyx barreled through debris, the armored bull letting out a deep bellow as it trampled a smaller parasite-beast that tried to lunge at Kalem from behind.
"Good timing," Kalem muttered.
He was aiming now for a cluster of Night-Scythes—lithe, bone-winged beasts that flew low to the ground and slashed with crescent-shaped claws. Too fast for normal soldiers. Too erratic for coordinated fire.
Kalem launched his spear again.
But this time, he didn't aim to kill.
He aimed to tether.
As the spear embedded into the earth below the swarm, the lightning rune on its haft sparked to life. In a burst, it sent crackling tendrils upward—seizing the Night-Scythes mid-flight, anchoring them like chained kites before dragging them downward in one synchronized arc.
Kalem moved in, reclaimed the spear, and finished them off in a single, sweeping arc.
From the left flank, an eruption of blackstone dust signaled the fall of the Dreadcore—but it hadn't died. It had simply gone dormant, its core pulling the shattered chains around it like a shell, sinking back into the abyssal fissure it had crawled out from.
The Howlcarver wasn't so lucky. Bloodied and limping, it tried to flee—but was caught in the jaws of another predator waiting on the edges of the battlefield.
"Even monsters have nightmares," Kalem whispered, turning away from the scene.
A high-pitched chime echoed from the edge of his consciousness—his recall rune activating. It pulled his attention toward the rear lines where a fresh wave was beginning to stir.
He sheathed the spear across his back and rolled his shoulders. Despite everything—no exhaustion gripped him. Only clarity.
The crimson spear works. But it's still not enough.
He needed a weapon for something more—something larger than even the Dreadcore. The kind of thing that didn't fall from force, fire, or lightning alone. Something with a body too thick for any blade, a hide too cursed for any enchantment.
I'll need something that crushes. Something that breaks armor… and bones… and the abyssal cores within them.
But for now—he had a job to do.
Kalem raised a hand, calling Onyx with a sharp whistle. The armored bull trotted through the scattered debris, snorting once as if asking if they were moving again.
Kalem nodded.
"Yes, we are."
As he mounted the cart again, he looked once more over the field—charred, bloodied, soaked in magic and death.
He didn't see horror anymore.
He saw patterns. Weaknesses. And the gaps he needed to fill.
This was war.
And war was just the forge where his ideas took shape.