Rolan and his companions raced through the forest, their forms a blur as they dashed toward the village. The dense canopy above filtered the sunlight into flickering shards, casting dancing shadows on the forest floor. Despite the weight of their armor, the warriors moved with practiced agility, navigating the twisting terrain with ease. They weaved between thick tree trunks, vaulted over roots, and leapt from branch to branch like seasoned hunters stalking prey.
Their speed was more than human—each movement honed through years of training and supernatural enhancement. The tribal warriors, clad in sleek demonic steel, kept pace with Rolan, their footfalls barely audible over the rustling leaves. These were no ordinary soldiers. They were elite, battle-hardened and bound by a singular purpose: to protect and to avenge.
Their destination loomed ahead—the Mage Tribal Village, now under siege.
Kuro, ever the swiftest among them, suddenly appeared beside Rolan, his cloak fluttering like smoke behind him. "We're getting close," he reported, voice calm despite their relentless pace.
Rolan gave a curt nod. His eyes burned with purpose. Behind them, the other warriors picked up the signal, passing the message like wildfire down the ranks. Weapons were drawn, eyes sharpened—battle could erupt at any moment.
By early afternoon, they burst from the forest's edge into a wide clearing. The village lay just beyond, but the scene was far from peaceful.
The stench hit them instantly—thick, putrid, and choking. The sharp tang of rotting flesh mingled with burnt wood and blood. It coated their throats and stung their nostrils.
The village had once been a peaceful settlement. Simple wooden houses stood in scattered rows, now broken and crumbling. Charred markings scorched their exteriors—magical residue from defensive spells hastily cast and easily overwhelmed. Craters dotted the earth, some still glowing faintly with residual mana. The air was oppressively still, as if holding its breath.
And then they saw them.
Dozens upon dozens of undead staggered through the ruined streets, gnawing on corpses, tearing apart what remained of the villagers. Twisted and malformed, their eyes glowed with unnatural energy. Rolan scanned the scene—by his estimate, there were at least three hundred.
A blood-curdling scream pierced the silence, echoing from the far side of the village.
The undead turned, shrieking as they noticed the approaching warriors.
"RAAAAAAAHHHHH!!"
Their grotesque mouths opened wide as they surged forward with horrifying speed. Despite their rotting limbs and exposed bone, they moved with terrifying vigor, as though some unseen force propelled them.
"Battle stations!" Kuro barked.
The tribal army responded in unison. Their formation tightened instantly, no hesitation, no fear. Only resolve burned in their eyes—this was the battlefield they had long prepared for.
With a furious roar, the Berserkers charged first, massive blades cleaving through the undead with unstoppable force. Heads flew, spines were split, and limbs scattered like broken branches. Each strike was delivered with such precision that it was clear—these were masters of carnage.
The Brawlers followed, moving with brutal efficiency. They ducked and weaved between attacks, smashing skulls with elbow strikes, knees, and open palms. Their fighting style was raw and primal, and the undead were no match for their sheer power.
The Lifestealers moved like whispers in the wind, their curved daggers slicing open throats and severing tendons in fluid, elegant motions. They slipped between enemies like shadows, each kill silent and deadly.
Swordsmen formed disciplined units, darting forward in choreographed bursts. Their blades danced in synchronized arcs, cutting down enemy after enemy before retreating back into the fold. Behind them, the Offensive Knights thundered forward, axes raised high. Each strike they unleashed created bloody shockwaves, knocking multiple undead aside in a single blow.
In mere minutes, the first wave had fallen.
But there was no time to breathe.
From the shattered buildings came more shrieks. Undead poured from shattered doorways and broken windows. A second ambush—just as numerous, just as savage.
Kuro's brows furrowed. "This is no accident."
"Master, allow us to handle this wave!" Reynald stepped forward, eyes fierce and blazing.
"These bastards know how to set traps now?" Bane growled as he crushed the skull of a snarling ghoul with a brutal punch.
"They're not mindless," Rolan muttered, eyes narrowing. "Someone's directing them. A Lord… maybe even an Overlord."
"Then let's give them hell!" Braun bellowed, raising his warhammer high before slamming it into the ground. The earth split with a deafening crack, launching undead into the air like ragdolls.
Another three hundred enemies surged at them from all directions. The warriors quickly reformed into a tight circle, backs to one another. The ground trembled beneath their feet. The clash resumed with renewed fury.
Kuro blurred through the battlefield, decapitating enemies in streaks of silver light. Braun swung his hammer with earth-shaking power, each blow sending bodies flying like leaves in a storm. Bane's fists moved with explosive force, his every strike caving in ribcages or shattering spines.
Ella danced between attacks, her twin blades carving crimson trails through the air. Reynald fought like a beast possessed, his greatsword cleaving through lines of undead with primal rage. Blood and ichor coated him from head to toe.
Rolan, meanwhile, broke from the battle, his instincts guiding him toward a barricaded house on the village's edge. He could sense something beyond the door—not the presence of death, but of life.
As he approached, he saw a faint shimmer in the air.
"A magical ward," he murmured, inspecting it. "Clever. It's keeping the undead out."
He placed his hand on the sigil and dispelled it gently. The wooden barricade creaked as he entered.
Inside, a small group huddled together. Alive. Shaken. Breathing.
To his relief, it was Anna's family.
"Anna!" her mother gasped, tears spilling from her eyes.
"Uwaaaah! I thought you were all dead… hik… hik!" Anna cried, flinging herself into their arms.
"It's alright, Anna. We're alive… just barely," her father, Rein, said. His voice was gravel and sorrow. He gently stroked her hair. "But the others… we couldn't save them."
Anna turned to Rolan, voice cracking. "This is Big Brother Rolan. He saved me… and he brought the warriors. He saved all of you."
Rein slowly dropped to his knees before Rolan, trembling. "You saved our daughter… our family. We owe you everything. We're in your debt."
Rolan placed a hand on Rein's shoulder. "Stand. There's no debt between us. Only the will to survive. But this isn't over. Not yet."
He scanned the room. Just four survivors: Anna, her parents, and her two younger siblings. The rest of the village—consumed. Lost.
Rolan clenched his fists, jaw tight. Today had been a victory. But barely. This wasn't the end of the war.
This was only the beginning...