The dawn sky was streaked with the amber glow of a rising sun as the fleet of the Silver Axes stirred to life. The harbor at Sandy Shores was ablaze with movement—sailors rushing to their stations, warriors boarding in perfect formation, and captains barking orders that echoed over the crashing waves.
At the heart of it all, fifty warships stood ready, their hulls reinforced with blackened steel and silvered runes, designed to withstand the dark magic of the enemy. Each vessel bore the emblem of the Silver Axes—a double-headed axe crossed over a crimson tide. The fleet consists:
Each ship was crewed by seasoned warriors, veterans who had sailed through both storm and war, their hearts steeled for the bloodshed ahead.
1. The Titans – Dreadnought Class
5 vessels, 400 men each
Armed with siege ballistae, reinforced hulls, and dragonsteel plating
Commanded by elite warlords
Main ship: Leviathan– Led by Jhon, the largest and most heavily armored of all.
2. The Iron Fangs – Heavy War Galleys
10 vessels, 250 men each
Specialized in ramming enemy ships, equipped with broadside catapults
Crewed by battle-hardened Silver Axes warriors
3. The Stormcallers – Standard Warships
20 vessels, 150 men each
The core of the fleet, balanced between speed and firepower
Armed with long-range harpoons and close-combat boarding units
4. The Windfangs – Light Skirmish Ships
15 vessels, 80 men each
Fast, maneuverable, designed for scouting and flanking enemy vessels
Crewed by agile warriors skilled in sea raids
Khaltar soared above the fleet, the wind whipping through his darkened cloak as he guided Aruzhan, the great Griffin, over the churning waters of the open sea. From above, he could see the sails unfurling, the ships cutting through the tides like sharpened blades.
From the deck of Leviathan, Jhon stood at the bow, his arms crossed over his steel-plated chest, watching the fleet take formation. His voice, a deep growl that carried over the waves, boomed across the deck. "Eight days of sailing, men. Eight days of hunger, cold winds, and sleepless nights. But the ninth—" his fist clenched, his piercing gaze sweeping over the gathered warriors—"the ninth will be their doom."
A resounding roar of approval erupted from the warriors, their fists pounding against their shields.
From the stern, Yaraq, the elder warrior, his beard streaked with silver and his axe sharpened to a deadly gleam, let out a guttural growl. "Let the shaman whisper their curses, let the dead rise—none will stand against the fury of the Silver Axes!"
The oars struck the water in perfect rhythm, the drums of war pounding a relentless beat. The fleet surged forward, slicing through the waves like a pack of hunting wolves, their destination clear—Sol-Mayora.
After eight grueling days at sea, the fleet of the Silver Axes finally reached the cursed shores of Sol-Mayora. The once-golden sands of the island had turned a sickly ashen gray, the air thick with the stench of decay and the whisper of unnatural winds. Waves crashed violently against the coast, but the true horror lay beyond the shoreline. The warriors aboard the warships stood frozen in shock.
Before them stretched an endless wall, rising hundreds of feet into the sky, an unholy fortress not built of stone, nor steel, nor any mortal material—but of bone and flesh, writhing and pulsating as if it were alive.
Thousands upon thousands of The Fallen had merged into a singular entity, their skeletal remains twisted together like grotesque mortar, forming a barrier that moved and shifted, its many skulls grinning with an eerie sentience. Hollow eyes followed the ships, and wailing cries of the damned echoed from deep within the cursed structure. The wall itself breathed.
Veins of dark energy coursed through its grotesque form, making it pulsate like a massive, slumbering beast. Some areas were composed entirely of armored knights, their still-rusted helmets fused together into grotesque towers, while other sections twitched and reformed, as if the very souls trapped inside were still fighting against their eternal imprisonment.
Jhon's grip tightened on the hilt of his greatsword. Even for a warrior as seasoned as him, this sight was something beyond nightmares.
"By the gods…" Yaraq muttered, the elder warrior's voice shaking slightly. "This… this is no mere necromancy. This is a damnation beyond reckoning."
High above the fleet, Khaltar soared on Aruzhan, his keen eyes sweeping across the twisted land, searching for the one responsible for this abomination.
Beyond the Wall of the Dead, Sol-Mayora was unrecognizable. The once-proud ruins of ancient cities were now buried beneath an ocean of bones, the land itself fractured as if something had crawled its way out from the depths of hell. Then, he saw it.
At the heart of the island, upon a massive spiraling tower of fused skeletons, stood the Shaman of the Fallen. A withered figure cloaked in dark, tattered robes, his very presence radiating corruption. Around him, hundreds of undead spellcasters chanted in an unholy symphony, their voices weaving dark magic into the sky. It was clear—the Shaman had fortified Sol-Mayora into a true fortress of death.
Then, a sudden war cry split the cursed air. A sound so powerful, so defiant, that it sent ripples across the battlefield like a shockwave. From beyond the hills, beyond the eerie wall of the damned, a new force had arrived.
The Fallen, the orcs, and the goblins all turned their heads in unison, their grotesque, undead eyes scanning for the source. Confusion rippled through their ranks. What army dared to challenge the unholy horde of Sol-Mayora? That moment of distraction was all Khaltar needed.
With a powerful beat of Aruzhan's massive wings, Khaltar swooped down like a storm of death, his blade gleaming with righteous fury.
The first Shaman's guard barely had time to react before Khaltar's sword cleaved through his skull, splitting it open like rotting fruit.
Aruzhan tore through another, his talons digging deep into the undead warrior's ribcage before tossing him like a broken doll. One by one, they fell.
Steel clashed against corrupted flesh, dark spells erupted in the air, and Khaltar danced through the chaos like a tempest, his every strike precise, fueled by rage and purpose. Then—he reached the Shaman.
The Shaman of the Fallen, a wretched figure cloaked in layers of blackened bones, turned just in time to see his doom descend upon him.
With a guttural roar, he unleashed a torrent of black fire, the very essence of necromancy, aiming to reduce Khaltar to ash. But Aruzhan, swift as the wind, veered midair, dodging the deadly flames.
Khaltar leaped from his mount, twisting through the air as his blade came down in a brutal arc. The Shaman raised his staff of bones to block the strike—Too slow.
With a sickening slice, Khaltar's sword tore through the Shaman's throat, severing his head from his body. For a moment—silence. Then—chaos.
In instant after Shaman's head hit the ground, the magic holding The Fallen together shattered.
A monstrous, unearthly scream erupted across Sol-Mayora as hundreds of thousands of undead giants and warriors convulsed, their bodies collapsing into dust and bone.
The very walls of Sol-Mayora, built from their fused bodies, crumbled like a decayed corpse, falling apart in an earth-shaking crash. The tidal wave of destruction swallowed everything—the orcs, the goblins, the very land itself buried beneath the dead.
Khadag, the orc warlord, and Ghur'Zir, the Goblin King, stood frozen in horror. Their mighty armies, their monstrous forces—Gone.
In an instant, their entire war effort had been buried alive under the weight of the very creatures they had once commanded. The battlefield had become a graveyard.
And in the center of it all, standing atop the corpse of the fallen Shaman, Khaltar held his bloodstained blade high.
The dust had barely settled, the screams of the dying still lingering in the air. Khaltar stood atop the corpse of the fallen Shaman, his blade dripping blackened blood, his gaze locked on Khadag and Ghur'Zir.
Behind him, 23,500 Silver Axes stood in formation, their armor gleaming under the dim, cursed sky. Veterans, killers, warriors of iron will. They had followed Khaltar through the depths of hell, and now they stood ready to end the last remnants of the enemy army.
Khaltar pointed his blade at them. "Kneel, or die."
A tense silence followed. Ghur'Zir, the Goblin King, swallowed hard. His armies had been obliterated, his scavengers buried beneath the dead they once looted. The once-arrogant ruler of goblins, who thrived on chaos and slaughter, now saw only one path forward.
Slowly, he fell to his knees, his crooked spine bowing before Khaltar. His voice trembled. "Mercy… I surrender."
Khadag, however, grinned. The orc warlord was not afraid. He had witnessed the fall of his warriors, the utter destruction of Gor-Thalok's might, but unlike Ghur'Zir, he did not beg for his life.
Instead, he chuckled, his fanged smile splitting his scarred face. "You think this is over?" he said, voice thick with amusement. "You buried my warriors beneath the ruins of Sol-Mayora. But the green tide is coming."
Khaltar narrowed his eyes. Khadag took a step forward, his massive frame looming despite the carnage around him. "The Gor-Thalok may be dead," he admitted. "But it's just a matter of time before my kin arrive."
And then, the earth trembled. From the horizon, beyond the shattered remains of the skeletal walls, they emerged.
A vast sea of green-skinned warriors, marching in perfect ranks through the swamps and floodplains that stretched beyond the battlefield. Their banners fluttered in the toxic wind, marked with crude symbols of their clan's brutal legacy. The Shatûr'Maz Clan.
Unlike the hulking red orcs of Gor-Thalok, these orcs were leaner, faster, and more numerous. Their swamp-forged armor was dark with moss and rot, their weapons jagged and coated in venom from the creatures of their marshland home. Their war cries rippled through the air, shaking the bones of the fallen.
And at the head of the 40,000-strong horde, riding a massive black-scaled drake, was Khadag's cousin. The Warlord of the Shatûr'Maz. His name was Zhurga the Mireborn.
A warlord as cunning as he was ruthless. Unlike Khadag, who relied on brute force, Zhurga was a master of ambush, of poison, of shadow warfare. His warriors did not fight fair—they fought to infect, to weaken, to drown their enemies in the filth of their homeland.
He pulled his drake to a stop, his piercing yellow eyes locking onto Khaltar. A grin spread across his painted face, his tusks glistening with swamp slime.
"Well, cousin," Zhurga called out to Khadag, "it seems I arrived just in time."