It was midnight. The world stood still, holding its breath.
Behind the firebreak, the knights gathered—silent, resolute. Their mission was not conquest. It was annihilation. No mercy. No captives. The cultists had taken innocent lives in the most brutal, twisted ways imaginable. The only price fitting was death—death by fire.
Slowly, they advanced. Cloaked in silence, they marched behind the one man born to wield destruction—the Duke, flame-clad, unwavering. And behind him, always at his side, stood Knight Commander Alaric, sword at the ready, his healing aura a steady pulse of protection.
They halted at the edge of the firebreak. The air was thick, the forest before them heavy with the scent of mana. It was not just wood and leaf—it was old magic, deeply rooted, resisting destruction.
Before the Duke, the trail of oil gleamed in the moonlight.
He stepped forward, raising a gauntleted hand.
"Heavenly Flame Art – First Form: Ember's Path."
With a wave of his hand, the oil ignited. Flames rippled across the trail like a serpent of light, surrounding the castle in a great ring of fire. But this was no ordinary forest—it was the Forest of Death, ancient and cursed. Its trees were soaked in generations of magic. The flames danced, but they could not consume it.
The Duke narrowed his eyes. "So the stories were true."
He raised both arms.
"Heavenly Flame Art – Third Form: Blazing Tempest."
A cyclone of flame surged from the heavens, crashing into the trees, whipping branches into ash. The fire screamed. But the forest still stood—charred, but unbroken. The mana fought back, protecting the land like an angry god.
Still not enough.
The Duke's aura flared, heat rising like a storm. The soldiers behind him took another step back, sweat pouring down their brows. More. More. More. He layered spell after spell, his voice shaking the ground, his power shaking the sky.
And still—it was not enough.
With a slow breath, he turned to Alaric.
A signal.
Alaric nodded grimly. He knew what it meant.
The Duke's blade had shattered in the battle against the Bone Dragon. He had no choice but to use his own body as a medium. His body would burn. His soul would blister. But he had no fear—because behind him stood the greatest healer in the duchy. His own student. His worst, best mistake.
The knights dropped to their knees behind their shields, forming a phalanx. Alaric stepped forward, blade unsheathed, stance firm.
"Sacred Blessing Art – Third Form: Holy Bastion."
A dome of radiant green aura engulfed the troops. Alaric braced himself, channeling every ounce of power he had to shield them.
The Duke, already engulfed in flame, clenched his fist.
"Heavenly Flame Art – Final Form: World Destroyer."
A black flame, darker than night, roared from his fist as he slammed it into the ground. The earth shattered.
The forest howled.
Mana screamed. Trees turned to cinders. The flame didn't just burn—it devoured. It consumed the ancient magic that protected the land, turning centuries of dark mana into smoke and ruin.
From miles away, the cultists' screams could be heard—piercing, desperate, terrified.
And then—silence.
The fire had eaten the very soul of the forest.
Behind him, Alaric slashed through the heat wave, protecting the formation with everything he had. When the flame finally ceased, the forest was gone.
The Duke stood in the scorched earth, trembling. His armor was gone—melted away. His skin blistered. His hair burned to ash.
"It hurts like shit," he muttered with a crooked grin.
Alaric ran to him, eyes wide.
"Sacred Blessing Art:Forth form: Blessing Field!"
Green light flowed from his hands, weaving skin, muscle, and bone back together. The Duke's hair regrew, his scorched body mended. Slowly, he straightened, the pain fading.
Alaric tore his mantle and wrapped it around the Duke's shoulders. The fire still raged around them, but it was weakening. By dawn, it would be nothing but smoke and memory.
"Now it's your turn," the Duke said, climbing into his wagon to rest.
With a shout that shook the ash from the trees, Alaric raised his sword.
"CHARGEEEEEE!"
The knights surged forward, charging toward the ruined castle. The cultists that survived aboveground were slaughtered. But many had gone underground, hiding beneath the soil like rats in the dark.
The knights descended.
They found a vast chamber, an altar of bone and blood still intact. Despite the fire, despite the death—the cultists were still chanting.
"STOP THEM!" Alaric roared, too late.
A pulse of dark energy erupted from the altar, slamming him back. Every torch flickered out.
The air went cold.
The stone shook.
A crack opened in the earth—and from it, rose Mephisto.
One of the Generals of the Demon King. Cloaked in shadow, crowned in bone. His eyes burned like dying stars.
Alaric scrambled to his feet, lips parted in disbelief.
"Shit," he breathed.
The real battle had just begun.