Days slowly turned into a week.
Inside the quiet cafeteria of the inn, Jonathan and Mary sat together at one of the far corners, occupying a table that had remained empty for most of the day. The clink of distant dishes and murmurs from other travelers filled the space, but at their table, an awkward silence had settled in like dust on old wood. Mary, her cheek resting on the surface of the table, sighed heavily. Her posture was one of absolute boredom—arms limp, expression pouty, and eyes half-lidded with disinterest. She had grown tired of staying in this town, and it showed in every motion and breath. Adventure called to her restless spirit, but for now, they were stuck in a holding pattern.
Jonathan glanced at her, concern quietly flickering in his eyes. He tried to offer a few words of comfort, but the root of their delay was out of his control. His sword—an irreplaceable weapon forged with rare materials—was still in the process of being reforged. The dwarf smith overseeing the work, a renowned artisan in the town, had told him plainly that the process was delicate and time-consuming. The blade was being rebuilt from its core, and that kind of work could not be rushed. So, Jonathan waited—patiently, if not a little guiltily—while Mary suffered the stagnation in silence. The air between them felt increasingly still. Mary remained motionless, still leaning on the table as if gravity itself had pressed her down. She hadn't said anything in some time, and that pained Jonathan more than he expected. He wanted to lift her spirits, to bring life back into her eyes. And then he remembered something.
With a quiet murmur, Jonathan reached into his Dimensional Storage—a magical inventory space he often used to keep important items. His hand brushed against the familiar binding of something he hadn't touched in years: an old, worn book from his childhood. He pulled it free. A fine layer of dust coated the cover, dulling the faded lettering and ancient illustrations. He gently wiped it clean with his hand, revealing a crest etched into the leather. As the dust dispersed into the air, Mary's attention was subtly drawn to the movement. Her eyes flicked toward Jonathan, catching the book in his hands. Instantly, her body lifted upright, curiosity sparking in her expression. Her voice broke the silence.
"Hey... What's that?"
She asked, her tone shifting from boredom to genuine intrigue.
"I've never seen that book before."
Jonathan smiled slightly and held it out to her.
"It's an old storybook,"
He replied to Mary's curiosity.
"I used to read it when I was a kid. It's been with me for a long time."
Mary eagerly took it from him, her fingers brushing over the aged cover with reverence. Without wasting another second, she opened the first page. The scent of old parchment and faint traces of ink rose to meet her as she dove into the unfamiliar tale, her boredom melting away almost instantly. Within moments, she was lost in the story, her mind carried elsewhere. Jonathan leaned back, watching her with quiet satisfaction. The silence no longer felt heavy—it had become a shared calm.
Meanwhile, across the world…
Deep within the borders of the Demon Territory, the land trembled beneath the march of armored boots and war chants. Tirvakash, the chosen Hero, and his stalwart party advanced alongside the revered Holy Knights, pushing deeper into territory long held by demons. Several towns had already been liberated by their relentless campaign, the cries of the oppressed now replaced with cautious hope. But a shift was brewing in the heart of the demonic forces. Following the replacement of the previous General of Demon, a new figure had risen to power—Crimson of Darkness. A name whispered like a curse through demonkind. Ruthless, cunning, and with an uncanny command over magic and strategy, Crimson wasted no time in asserting his authority. Upon his orders, one of the elite commanders of the Demon Knights was mobilized, leading a quarter of their elite forces toward the front lines. Their objective: reclaim the lost lands from the encroaching holy forces. Ten hours after the order was given, the Hero and his allies had already reclaimed a fallen kingdom, freeing dozens of slaves and extinguishing the lingering demonic presence that plagued the area. The Holy Knights fortified the position and made preparations to rest before pressing further.
Within the inner chamber of the reclaimed palace, the Commander of the Holy Knights received a missive from the main outpost—an intelligence report that chilled him to his core. The demon leadership in this region had changed. Crimson of Darkness now ruled, and the absence of organized demon resistance in recent battles had been a ploy. The new General had been consolidating strength, reorganizing units, and preparing a retaliatory strike far more dangerous than anything the knights had faced before. The commander relayed the information to his troops. Some knights cheered, hopeful that the change in leadership meant disorganization and an easier path to victory. Others, however, sensed something amiss. Why replace the previous general now? What was Crimson truly planning? Before questions could be answered, a panicked shout echoed from the watchtower above.
"Enemy force incoming! North ridge—massive demon army approaching!"
Within moments, the warning spread like wildfire. Knights poured into defensive positions, drawing weapons and preparing magical barriers. But something was different. The scout who raised the alarm saw it first—the approaching demon knights weren't like the usual chaotic rabble. Their formations were tight, disciplined. Their armor shimmered with an unfamiliar, sinister magic. And then, it struck. A massive explosion tore through the center of the Holy Knights' formation, sending bodies flying and sowing chaos. Screams rang out. Cries for help echoed as medics scrambled to tend to the wounded. Debris rained down like a storm.
"Where did it come from?!"
Someone shouted.
One of the Hero's close companions stepped forward, activating his unique skill—Detection, a powerful spell that allowed him to zoom across long distances and read mana signatures.
His eyes widened in horror.
"There… in the back lines. Several demon mages. High-level. At least level 60 or higher."
Suddenly, glowing magic circles appeared across the enemy's side, signaling another barrage of spells. This time, the Commander of the Holy Knights was ready.
"Shield casters—brace for impact! Mages, ready your counter-offensive!"
A dome of divine energy formed just in time to intercept the onslaught of fireballs, dark lances, and infernal storms. Then, in retaliation, the Holy Knight mages launched devastating magic of their own—level 75 to level 100 spells—raining down holy fire and searing light onto the demons' front lines. But the demons responded in kind. A shimmering wall of defense magic, woven by the combined power of their mages, absorbed most of the incoming spells. They were prepared. They were disciplined. This was no longer the disorganized horde they once faced.
"Now!"
Shouted Tirvakash, brandishing his glowing blade. With a flash, the Hero and his party surged forward, striking while the enemy's focus was on defense. Tirvakash himself cut through the magical barrier like paper, his sword humming with divine energy. His companions followed suit, each unleashing their most powerful abilities. The clash erupted with thunderous fury. Steel met steel. Magic collided in midair. Screams of fury, pain, and determination filled the battlefield. But one thing was clear: this battle was far from over. And the war had only just surfaced.
Though the Hero and his party were greatly outnumbered, the outcome of the battle hinged not on numbers—but on power. And in that, the balance leaned heavily in their favor. Tirvakash, the chosen Hero, moved like a phantom across the battlefield. His blade sang through the air, a streak of divine steel too fast for the naked eye. One by one, elite demon knights fell before they could even register his presence. To them, it was as if death itself had become invisible, cutting through their ranks with chilling precision. Their enchanted armor, blessed by ancient demon rituals, did little to withstand the force behind the Hero's strikes. His party—each one a seasoned warrior in their own right—stood as the perfect complement to his unstoppable charge. With their combined magic and martial prowess, they carved a path of devastation through the demon forces, working in seamless harmony. The air was thick with smoke and spellfire, but at last, the battle turned. The demon forces broke ranks, falling back, scattered and broken.
And so, another victory was claimed.
Tired and bloodied, the Hero's forces took time to rest and recover amid the charred remnants of the battlefield. Tents were pitched among the ruins of the fallen kingdom, and sentries posted along every approach. It was a fragile peace—brief and uneasy—but peace nonetheless. What none of them realized was that they had been watched. Hidden among the broken hills and the shadows of ruined towers, a small scouting party of demons observed the battle with grim focus. They remained unseen, recording every tactic, every technique, every magical signature. Once satisfied, the scouts departed under the cover of darkness, making their way back to a covert outpost. Upon arrival, the intelligence was immediately relayed to a high-ranking commander, who in turn passed it to a cloaked figure known only as the Mailer—a demon whose sole role was to deliver critical information across vast distances to the demon command structure. This was no ordinary courier. Empowered with demonic teleportation magic and bound by strict oaths, the Mailer was entrusted with messages of the utmost secrecy.
The journey was long, and fraught with danger, but the Mailer reached his destination—the blackened fortress that served as the seat of power for the regional demon command. There, high above in a throne-like structure carved from obsidian and bone, awaited the fearsome General of Demon—the one known as Crimson of Darkness. Crimson sat in eerie stillness as he received the report. His glowing crimson eyes scanned every line with emotionless precision. When he finished, he gave a single, sharp order that chilled the air.
"Summon the Crimson Knights."
This order alone sent waves of unease rippling through the command ranks. The Crimson Knights—a division unlike any other—were his personal guard, hand-crafted through forbidden rituals and enhanced by demonic essence. Their loyalty was absolute, their strength unmatched. Even the elite demon knights paled in comparison to them. Rumors spoke of their victories—how, in the past, a small detachment of Crimson Knights had wiped out entire kingdoms fortified by Holy Knights and their reinforcements. Their movements were so fast that even trained warriors failed to track their steps. One survivor, a high-ranking Holy Knight who barely escaped an ambush, had once claimed: "I didn't see them coming—I only saw the dead they left behind." The fact that Crimson was deploying them now meant only one thing: he was no longer content to watch from afar. The Hero had earned his attention. Back at the fallen kingdom, Tirvakash and his companions took advantage of the calm. Inside one of the larger tents near the command post, they gathered to discuss their next steps. The Hero was anxious. Despite their successes, he knew they lacked the strength and numbers to directly challenge a General of Demon—especially one as dangerous as Crimson.
"Until now,"
Tirvakash admitted,
"I've never faced a demon general alone. Not one of this caliber. If the stories are true, Crimson is unlike any we've fought."
The group exchanged uneasy glances. Training was necessary. Preparation was essential. They could not afford arrogance, not now. That night, the ruined kingdom was bathed in the gentle glow of campfires. The wounded rested, the healers worked tirelessly, and the commanders prepared for whatever would come next. Peace, for the moment, held. And then dawn broke. The sun crept over the horizon, casting golden light across the battered kingdom. Slowly, knights stirred from their tents. The night-watch handed over their duties, finally allowed a moment of sleep. Within the makeshift kitchens, a few Holy Knights skilled in culinary magic prepared breakfast for the battalion—smoke and savory scents drifting through the morning air. Inside the command tent, the Commander of the Holy Knights poured over a massive map when the flap opened with a rush. Tirvakash entered with urgency in his stride.
"When do we move?"
The Hero asked. The Commander looked up with a knowing smile.
"Tirvakash, it's been less than three days since the last battle. Our forces are still recovering. We must be patient. If we push too soon, we risk falling apart before reaching Crimson's stronghold."
Tirvakash hesitated. His fists clenched in frustration, but after a moment, he exhaled and nodded.
"…Understood."
He turned and left, returning to his camp with renewed determination to wait—for now.
Shortly after, the long-awaited reinforcements finally arrived. But what surprised everyone was the sight that greeted them: no horses, no caravans. The Holy Knights marched in full formation—on foot—across the battlefield. Their armor was unlike anything seen before: gleaming silver etched with radiant runes, forged from mythril and enchanted against both magic and corruption. They moved with discipline and quiet resolve, an imposing wall of strength. At their head walked the Reinforcement Commander, a seasoned warrior whose reputation preceded him. Upon reaching the camp, he immediately sought out the Commander of the Holy Knights. Their meeting was brief, but direct.
"We are here to end this,"
The Reinforcement Commander said, voice like iron.
"Crimson of Darkness has evaded justice long enough. With your cooperation—and the Hero—we will strike at the heart of their command."
The news swept through the camp like wildfire. With their arrival, morale soared. Knights trained harder, mages refined their spells, and scouts spread out to track enemy movement. That evening, within the war tent, three great minds came together: Tirvakash, the Hero; the Commander of the Holy Knights; and the Commander of the Reinforcements. They stood over the war map, tracing out enemy paths, noting strongholds, and planning the route that would take them to the Demon General's fortress. For the first time, the forces of light had what they needed to strike back—strength, unity, and a plan.
In the Eastern lands, the Darkness Knight and his formidable army marched across a vast expanse of rolling green hills and fields dotted with ancient trees. Towering mountains loomed to the north, their snow-capped peaks slicing into the sky, and just ahead lay the thick veil of an ominous forest known by few and feared by many. As they approached the forest's edge, a palpable sense of unease settled over the troops. The trees whispered secrets in the wind, and even the seasoned soldiers sensed something unnatural. The Darkness Knight, despite his usual confidence, halted at the threshold of the forest. A chill rippled down his spine. His instincts, honed through countless battles, warned him—something was wrong.
And then, the sky darkened.
A massive shadow passed overhead, blotting out the sun. The soldiers froze, eyes wide, and slowly lifted their gaze. High above, cutting through the blue expanse with wings like fortress walls, a creature from nightmare soared—a Black Dragon. Its scales glistened like obsidian under the sunlight, and molten sparks flickered within its open maw. The Darkness Knight's crimson eyes narrowed. They had entered the territory of the Black Dragon. He remembered now—a report he had dismissed as a rumor. The path they were taking had been marked as a danger zone, a nesting ground of the Black Dragon, the mightiest of its kind. But in his arrogance, he had paid it no mind. Now, he faced the price of that hubris.
"Retreat!"
He barked, voice thunderous. But it was too late. The dragon unleashed a devastating breath of molten flame, not ordinary fire, but liquid inferno. The explosion that followed was apocalyptic—a blinding flash, a deafening boom, and then silence. A crater, vast and deep, replaced the land his army once stood upon. Trees were obliterated. The sky itself seemed to recoil. The Darkness Knight was hurled through the air, landing violently several hundred meters away, tumbling across the ground before he skidded to a stop. Smoke coiled into the sky like serpents. Rising with a groan, his armor dented and his body bruised, he looked back. His army—annihilated. Nothing remained but scorched earth and ruin. And above it all, the dragon circled lazily, majestic and merciless.
Then, it descended. With impossible speed for a creature of its size, the Black Dragon slammed into the earth with such force that the trees around them uprooted and flew like twigs caught in a storm. The shockwave battered the knight, tossing him once more through the air. He crashed against a boulder, the rock shattering beneath him. Breathing heavily, he stood. Alone. The dragon landed before him, an ancient creature whose sheer presence warped the air with heat and pressure. The Darkness Knight, bruised yet undeterred, drew his sword with a resonant shing, eyes locked with the beast's molten stare.
"Tch. Damned lizard,"
He muttered, trying to mask the unease twisting in his chest. Yet beneath his bravado, fear churned. Even at his strongest, he knew—he was outmatched. This was no ordinary foe. The Black Dragon had lived for millennia. It had crushed kingdoms. It had consumed heroes. And now, it stood against him. But surrender was not in his blood. With a roar, the Darkness Knight launched himself forward. The ground cracked beneath the force of his leap. His speed blurred past sound—his body nearly weightless, gliding at the velocity of light itself. He aimed for the dragon's neck, sword crackling with concentrated mana. But the dragon was faster. In a flash, its colossal claw struck him from mid-air. He didn't even see it coming. One moment he was attacking—next, he was plummeting like a meteor, slamming into the ground with a bone-breaking crash. Blood spilled from his lips as his body screamed in agony. Through hazy vision, he saw the dragon's claw retract from where it had struck. He couldn't even perceive its movements. Grimacing, he cast a high-tier healing spell. Warm light enveloped him, slowly knitting his shattered bones, mending ruptured organs. But even as his body healed, his mind trembled.
Still, he stood. And attacked again. From above the dragon, he gathered all the mana he could muster. His blade flared with raw energy as he swung it in the air, unleashing a crescent arc of dense magical force—a slash of power aimed directly at the dragon's head. It collided. And… dissipated. The dragon's scales were like enchanted black steel, each one a fortress of its own. Nothing pierced it. The Darkness Knight unleashed a barrage of magic—ice, fire, lightning, void. All failed. He struck its joints, its underbelly, its wings. No difference. It was like fighting a god. Winded, he landed atop a tree, sweat pouring from his brow. The dragon slowly turned to face him, eyes glowing like twin suns. Magic circles began to form in the air beside it—dozens, hundreds—each one pulsing with catastrophic power. In a blink, the sky lit up. Beams of destructive light rained down, each blast vaporizing the land. The Darkness Knight bolted through the trees, the forest erupting behind him with every near-miss. Explosions rocked the Earth. A single misstep, and he would be vaporized.
Then came the dragon's breath again. The fire-beam struck a mountain in the distance—half of it disintegrated in an instant. That… was what would have become of him had he been slower by even a heartbeat. But now—his chance. As the dragon cooled down from its fiery assault, he surged upward with all his remaining strength. His body glowed with unspent mana, veins alight with power. His sword hummed like a living thing. Time slowed. He aimed for the same point on the dragon's neck—the weakest joint between the scales. With a scream, he brought the sword down, channeling everything into that one strike. CRACK. The shell finally split. Blood spilled. The dragon roared—an earth-shattering, sky-ripping sound that forced even the clouds to tremble. The Darkness Knight was thrown away by the roar's sheer force, but he had succeeded. He had wounded the beast. Hovering in the sky now, the dragon's expression changed. Anger. Pain. Disbelief. The heavens darkened as it prepared its final judgment. Thousands of magic circles surrounded it, glimmering in gold and crimson, ready to unleash their wrath. To the Darkness Knight, it looked like stars had formed a constellation of death above. He ran. Beams rained down.
Crater after crater exploded in his wake. Entire groves vanished. With the last of his speed, he dove into the dense forest. The trees, thick and numerous, served as shields. Beams detonated against them, halting their pursuit. But the dragon wasn't done. Another fire-beam lanced through the sky, incinerating the forest ahead and carving a kingdom-sized crater into the land. The heat alone was enough to melt steel. The knight, barely ahead of the blast, escaped by the slimmest margin. And yet, he was alive. Burned, bruised, exhausted—but alive. And the battle was far from over.
"I mustthink of something—anything—to bring that monster down. A wound like that… It's not nearly enough to kill it."
The Darkness Knight's voice trembled with restrained fury, his breath ragged as he stood atop a ridge, overlooking the smoldering battlefield. His eyes narrowed in frustration as he recalled the countless strikes he had landed—all in vain against the Black Dragon's nearly impenetrable shell. His body was bruised, broken, and bloodied, but his will remained ironclad. Above him, the dragon roared with unrelenting wrath, channeling a torrent of arcane energy into its core. The sky darkened as scores of magical sigils ignited across its colossal form, pulsing with ancient power. Then came the onslaught—waves of magical destruction rained from the heavens, scouring the forest, pulverizing boulders, and reducing the landscape to ash. The once-vibrant woods now resembled a charred wasteland, each tree stripped of life, each stone shattered to dust. The Darkness Knight moved like a shadow amid the inferno, weaving through narrow gaps in the terrain, leaping over smoldering roots, skidding across collapsing hillsides. Every breath burned his lungs; every dodge shaved seconds from his life. He could feel the attacks closing in—the precision and speed of the Black Dragon's barrage left him no room to counter. It held all the advantage. High in the sky, the dragon had a clear view of the terrain. It was hunting him now—not with curiosity or caution—but with the full fury of a god of destruction.
Then, without warning, the sky tore open. The Black Dragon descended in a blur of night and flame, its body streaking toward the ground like a meteor. The impact shattered the world beneath it—mountains trembled, valleys cracked, and the earth screamed in protest. The resulting earthquake rippled for miles, shaking the very bones of the land. The Darkness Knight was caught in the blast and sent flying, smashing through trees, bouncing across the broken ground. Mid-air, before he could recover, the dragon's tail came like a whip of death—striking him with impossible force. The air was knocked from his lungs as he plummeted, carving a trench in the dirt as he landed. A thick cloud of dust and smoke engulfed the area, and for a moment, the dragon believed it had triumphed. Its crimson eyes narrowed, scanning the debris. But then, as the smoke began to clear, the crater was empty. From above, a glint of silver pierced the gloom. With all the strength he could muster, the Darkness Knight launched himself from the sky, descending like a divine executioner, his blade aimed at the dragon's open wound from their earlier clash. With a cry of desperation and fury, he drove his sword deep into the exposed flesh. The dragon howled, an ancient, rage-filled sound that shook the heavens. In response, it beat its wings and soared into the sky in a violent frenzy, trying to shake the knight loose.
But the Darkness Knight held fast, his fingers like iron clamps on the hilt of his blade. Wind tore at his cloak, claws lashed past him, but he continued to carve the wound wider with short, powerful slashes. Blood like molten gold gushed from the wound. At last, his grip slipped, and the knight fell. Thinking fast, he conjured a platform of space magic mid-fall, halting his descent. Hovering in the sky, gasping for breath, he looked up at the raging behemoth. The dragon writhed in the sky, bleeding and furious—but far from defeated. He had little time. The Black Dragon's wounds were already starting to heal.
The air exploded with force as they clashed once more—beams of flame and magic lanced through the skies, shattering the clouds, tearing through the heavens like comets. Each collision between the knight's blade and the dragon's claws sent out shockwaves that flattened entire groves. The trees burned, the rivers boiled. The land was being rewritten by this battle. But as the duel dragged on, something shifted. The Darkness Knight, despite his injuries, began to adapt. Each attack he dodged became more calculated, each movement more precise. He learned the rhythm of the dragon's wrath, the tempo of its strikes, the micro-movements before its massive attacks. With this insight, he began to strike back—not wildly, but with devastating purpose. He located thin seams in the scales, hidden beneath the wings and near the joints, slowly weakening the beast.
Still, it wasn't enough.
A deafening roar echoed across the sky, unlike any before. The Black Dragon's form began to glow with eerie orange lines—veins of pure power coursing through its body. The sky lit up in fiery veins as its body expanded, hardening, its magic flaring to apocalyptic levels. This was its final stage. Its ascension. Now, it was no longer a beast—it was a living cataclysm.
And it attacked.
The onslaught was merciless. The Darkness Knight could no longer defend himself. Even with his supernatural speed, he could barely track the dragon's movements. Each strike broke the sound barrier. Each spell shattered the world. Mountains vaporized beneath the weight of its flame. Forests vanished in waves of molten light. The sky was on fire. The earth was ash. He was bleeding from every inch of his body, vision blurred by pain and exhaustion. Yet he stood. He stood, not for pride—but for loyalty. His life belonged to the Demon King. He had a debt, a purpose, a vow. And he would not die—not here. Not until he had fulfilled that purpose. He forced power into his limbs. His flesh screamed. His bones cracked. His mana surged beyond anything he had ever known. Somewhere within that breaking point, something awoke. A new strength. A deeper current of power that flowed through every inch of him—mana, refined by resolve and forged in desperation. His body became weightless, his mind sharpened to divine clarity. The moment had come. With a final burst of power, he ascended above the Black Dragon's head, gripped his blade with both hands, and began to condense every ounce of mana he had left. The blade shimmered, then blazed with radiant energy, glowing brighter than the sun. The mana compressed to a singular point—unstable, luminous, and violently charged. Then he swung.
The air ruptured. The sky tore.
A beam of pure mana, visible as a slash of photons, ripped through the heavens. It moved faster than light, even light itself impossible to follow. The dragon's body tensed—but it was too late. The beam struck, slicing cleanly through its thickened scales, severing flesh and bone in a single perfect arc. The Black Dragon's roar died in its throat. Its body fell in two, crashing into the earth with a force that split the mountains and silenced the wind. A crater formed beneath it—vast and deep, the final scar of the battle. Hovering in the sky, barely conscious, the Darkness Knight breathed heavily, each inhale a victory against the pain. The battlefield was in ruins. The sky had turned red. The sun dipped behind the horizon as darkness reclaimed the land. He had fought for nearly ten hours—perhaps more. He had lost count. Time meant nothing in that fight. Only survival. Only victory. His eyes drifted down to the dragon's corpse. He descended slowly and stood beside its massive head.
"Finally…"
He murmured.
"Took long enough."
With effort, he raised his blade once more, sheathing it in high-density mana. A few precise strikes and the dragon's head was severed. He placed one gauntleted hand atop the remains and prepared a teleportation spell. With a final glance at the devastation he had wrought—and survived—he vanished in a burst of magic. The teleportation gate opened within a demon outpost. When the Darkness Knight appeared, bloodied and half-collapsed beside the Black Dragon's severed head, every demon present froze in stunned silence. all of Demon Mages immediately rushed forward, casting high-tier healing spells. The air was thick with disbelief and awe. A high-ranking Demon stepped forward, eyes locked on the monstrous trophy.
"S-sir! You… you actually defeated one…"
No Generals had ever claimed such a victory. No demons had ever returned from an encounter with a Black Dragon, let alone slain one. Despite his battered form, the Darkness Knight stood tall. This was no longer just a victory.
It was a declaration.
He was no longer merely the Demon King's Generals.
He was the strongest among them.
-To be Continued...