Ismael stood still, his chest heaving as he stared at the lifeless body of the demon he had just defeated.
The demon's once-handsome head now lay severed on the ground, its pale skin marred by dirt and blood.
Its eyes, once sharp and calculating, were now dull and empty.
The battlefield around him was a chaotic mess of blood, broken weapons, and the cries of the wounded.
The ground was littered with the remnants of the fight—shattered shields, splintered arrows, and the mangled bodies of both Harengons and demons.
The noon sun hung high in the sky, its golden rays casting long shadows over the carnage. The heat was oppressive, making the air feel heavy and hard to breathe.
Sweat dripped down Ismael's face, mixing with the dirt and grime that clung to his skin. His armor, once polished and gleaming, was now dented and stained with blood.
His sword, still crackling faintly with the remnants of thunder magic, hung loosely in his hand. He was exhausted, every muscle in his body screaming for rest, but he couldn't afford to stop. Not yet.
At first glance, it seemed the Harengons were winning. Their forces were pushing back the demon army, their numbers overwhelming the enemy.
The Harengon knights moved with precision and discipline, their swords cutting through the demons with practiced ease.
Their armor, though battered, still shone in the sunlight.
The archers, positioned on the higher ground, rained down arrows with deadly accuracy, their movements swift and coordinated. Even the ballistae, massive siege weapons mounted on wooden platforms, were proving effective, their heavy bolts piercing through the flying demons with terrifying force.
But despite the apparent advantage, something felt off to Ismael. The air was thick with tension, and a sense of unease gnawed at the edges of his mind.
He couldn't shake the feeling that this victory was too easy, too quick. Demons were cunning, and they rarely fought without a plan. His instincts screamed at him to stay alert, to be ready for whatever came next.
As if in response to his thoughts, the ground beneath him trembled violently.
Ismael stumbled, his boots slipping on the blood-soaked earth. His eyes darted to the source of the disturbance, and his heart sank.
Another landshark burst through the earth with a deafening roar.
Its metallic body glinted in the sunlight, its jagged edges tearing through the ground like a knife through paper.
The force of its emergence sent shockwaves through the battlefield, toppling nearby buildings and sending debris flying in all directions.
The Harengon knights rushed toward the machine, their swords raised and their faces set with determination. They were ready to cut down any demons that emerged.
But as the gate of the machine creaked open, a dark, suffocating aura spilled out, washing over the battlefield like a tidal wave.
Ismael's breath caught in his throat. This was no ordinary demon. The aura was overwhelming, oppressive, and filled with a malice that made his skin crawl.
It was as if the very air around him had grown heavier, pressing down on his chest and making it hard to breathe. He knew, deep in his gut, that this was something far beyond what they had faced before.
"Get out of there!" Ismael screamed, his voice cutting through the chaos. But it was too late.
A thick, black smoke erupted from the machine, engulfing the knights in an instant. Their screams echoed through the air, sharp and filled with agony, as the smoke drained the life from their bodies.
One by one, they fell, their lifeless forms crumpling to the ground. The smoke spread quickly, consuming everything in its path, leaving behind only silence and death.
From within the smoke, a deep, resonant voice spoke. "Mortals. You experience a few victories and grow arrogant. We have seen kingdoms rise and fall, and Harheim is but a blink in the annals of history. In a century, no one will remember this tribe ever existed. Unlike you, we demons are eternal."
The smoke began to clear, revealing a towering figure. It was a demon, but unlike any Ismael had ever seen.
The creature stood at least twice the height of a man, his broad shoulders draped in a sleek black tuxedo that seemed out of place on the battlefield.
The fabric was immaculate, not a single speck of dirt or blood marring its surface. His hair was jet black, slicked back neatly, and his face was strikingly handsome, almost human-like.
But his eyes—those piercing red eyes—were filled with a cold, calculating intelligence that sent a shiver down Ismael's spine. Above his head, a red halo pulsed with an eerie light, casting a crimson glow over the scene.
[Rare: Malzareth — Level 72.]
Ismael's jaw dropped. A demon commander. He had heard stories of such beings, but he had never imagined he would encounter one.
Demon commanders were among the most powerful entities in the demon hierarchy, beings of immense strength and cunning.
They were said to be nearly unstoppable, capable of turning the tide of any battle with their presence alone. And now, one stood before him, his very presence radiating an aura of dread.
The demon commander bowed his head slightly, a mocking gesture of respect. "My name is Gerlahim Azalani," he said, his voice smooth and cold. "And I am here to end Harheim's legacy."
Ismael's hands tightened around the hilt of his sword. His heart pounded in his chest, but he refused to back down.
He had fought too hard, lost too much, to let fear take hold now. With a fierce cry, he charged toward Gerlahim, his thunder sword crackling with energy.
The blade hummed with power, the air around it shimmering with electricity as he swung it in a wide arc.
But Gerlahim merely raised a hand, his expression one of mild amusement. "Foolish," he said.
In an instant, the corpses scattered across the battlefield began to stir. Skeletons, revenants, and ghouls rose from the ground, their hollow eyes fixed on Ismael.
The skeletons were clad in rusted armor, their bones creaking as they moved. The revenants, their bodies twisted and deformed, let out guttural growls as they lurched forward.
The ghouls, with their jagged teeth and clawed hands, moved with unnatural speed, their eyes glowing with a sickly green light. They surrounded Ismael, attacking from all sides with a ferocity that left him no room to breathe.
Ismael swung his sword with all his might, the thunderous energy of his blade cutting through the undead with ease.
The air crackled with each strike, the force of his blows sending skeletons flying and revenants crumbling to dust.
But for every one he destroyed, two more took its place. The sheer number of enemies was overwhelming, their relentless assault wearing him down with every passing second.
Before he could react, Ismael felt the sharp sting of a blade cutting into his side, the crushing weight of a revenant slamming into him, and the searing pain of teeth sinking into his arm.
He cried out, his voice filled with pain and frustration, as he fought to break free. With a desperate leap, he managed to escape the horde, but not without cost.
His body was battered and bloody, his strength fading with every passing moment. His armor was dented and torn, and his sword felt heavier in his hand than it ever had before.
Gerlahim laughed, a deep, mocking sound that sent chills down Ismael's spine. "How does it feel?" the demon commander asked. "Your brothers and sisters, the ones you fought alongside, are now your enemies. Do you see the futility of your struggle?"
With a wave of his hand, Gerlahim raised more undead from the fallen Harengons.
The once-proud warriors now moved with jerky, unnatural motions, their eyes empty and their weapons turned against their own kind.
The undead army swarmed the battlefield, their numbers growing with every fallen Harengon. The defenders were quickly overwhelmed, their cries of defiance turning to screams of terror as they were consumed by the horde.
"Now," Gerlahim said, his voice dripping with malice, "your entire tribe, the one you worked so hard to protect, will become my undead army. And you, Ismael, will be the one to deliver the final blow."
Ismael's vision blurred as he struggled to stand. His body was failing him, but his spirit refused to give in. With a roar of defiance, he charged at Gerlahim once more, dodging the undead that lunged at him.
But before he could reach the demon commander, two Harengon knights—now twisted into undead monstrosities—stepped in his path. Their spears pierced his sides, and with a brutal shove, they threw him to the ground.
Ismael gasped for breath, his strength fading fast. He could feel the cold grip of death closing in, but his mind was filled with rage and regret. He hated this. He hated how it was ending. He had fought so hard, sacrificed so much, only to fail when it mattered most.
Gerlahim approached, his footsteps slow and deliberate. He looked down at Ismael, his red eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. "A warrior like you will make a fine addition to my army," he said. "Imagine the irony—the one who was supposed to protect them will be the one to end their lives. Your father, your mother, your sisters… they will all die by your hand."
Ismael closed his eyes, his mind filled with images of his family, his tribe, and everything he had fought to protect. He couldn't let this happen.
He wouldn't.
But as darkness crept into the edges of his vision, he felt powerless to stop it.