Smoke and ash wafted heavily through the air as the glow of burning districts pulsed through the gloom.
Screams rang out in different tenors amidst the clash of steel and the guttural roars of monsters worse than mere beasts.
Tens of thousands of boots hammered the Capital's main highway as the Kingdom of Rostovo's surviving armies forced their way towards the exit of the sprawling city.
Still in formation, warriors and wizards fought through fire and smoke, killing and dying for every block they managed to cross.
Most civilians had already fled, but the army gathered any stragglers who dared to run with them.
A few stubborn holdouts hid in their homes as the columns passed. The soldiers lamented without looking back. They knew these holdouts would regret staying behind but could do nothing for them; they were busy fleeing for their own lives.
The Capital City of Rostovo had become a hellscape. Flames devoured everything.
The King's Castle lay in ruins — ramparts collapsed, towers shattered, its silhouette erased by smoke.
Visibility worsened as the fires spread from the noble quarter toward the commercial and residential districts. The last survivors of Rostovo's army escaped those streets just ahead of the advancing blaze.
These military survivors were luckier than those who had fled directly from the King's Castle itself. Hurried and breathless whispers murmured about how few actually survived the chaos inside the Castle proper.
Makeshift barricades sagged along the ruined avenues, abandoned in haste. Corpses of their brethren slumped across them like discarded warnings.
Behind the retreating army, the enemy advanced at a leisurely, almost mocking pace. Their ranks fanned out, tearing through buildings and dragging out anyone they found. Some captives were killed on the spot; others were hauled deeper into the horde.
The invaders jeered as they followed, delighted by the destruction they were allowed to inflict.
The kingdom's remaining soldiers fought desperately to reach the highways beyond the city walls. If they could break free onto open roads, they might still protect the last citizens and the surviving members of the royal line.
But hope was thin. These were the final remnants of Rostovo's true military, and they fled rather than fought. The forces remaining in other cities were little more than town guards and militia--reserve troops at best, fodder at worst.
The country's true strength had been in the powers of its King and Queen, each alone enough to conquer huge swaths of nearby kingdoms if Rostovo had been threatened, along with natural barriers along three of the country's four sides.
But the King and Queen were both likely dead. The Capital now faced an overwhelming host of hellish abominations and none amongst the military's top brass even knew how or why.
Red‑skinned, hairless men draped in hooked chains — the links writhing like living serpents — led packs of alien horrors and other monstrosities as they hunted for survivors.
Undead, minor demons, and lesser devils swarmed among them.
These creatures tore into the vanguard and flanks of the kingdom's men‑at‑arms, desperate to reach the heavily armored carriage at the center of the retreat.
Knights and mages fought sword and spell to hold the line around it.
Though the attackers occasionally broke through the front ranks, they never pushed far. The wall of elite warriors and spellcasters repelled them again and again.
After six hours of brutal maneuvering and constant rear‑guard fighting, the survivors finally pushed through the ruined city gates and onto the kingdom's wide highways.
The carriage rolled steadily onward, but its defenders trudged beside it in exhaustion and despair.
Some wept openly — for their families, their friends, their home. Everything behind them was ash and ruin.
Others marched in hollow silence, their expressions blank.
The horrors they had witnessed had scraped away the last threads of their sanity; they could only cope mechanically.
Only those closest to the armored carriage carried anything resembling hope. Even though they looked worn, a faint spark of the warrior spirit still lingered in their eyes, and in their steps.
Three figures stood atop the carriage, each wearing a different distressed ex pression.
A gigantic elderly knight held the adult prince and princess by one of their arms, his grip unyielding. A massive axe hung across his back, impossibly secured there but worn with obvious comfort and ease.
The crown prince — a striking young man with vivid blue eyes and blond hair — sobbed openly, uncaring who saw. Despite his tears, he held his sheathed katana in both hands, his white-knuckled grip trembling visibly.
The princess, equally striking with her short, tomboyish blond hair, scowled fiercely. Every few moments she tried to wrench her arms free from the knight's grasp. She might as well have been shackled; the old knight didn't budge.
Despite the battered gear of the men‑at‑arms, the knights' and mages' equipment gleamed with shifting colors, radiating reassuring auras of power.
These were the Knight and Mage Captains, sworn to defend the carriage carrying the last surviving members of Rostovo's royal family.
Nearby, clusters of archers scanned the darkness. Some marched with arrows already nocked, ready to draw at the slightest threat.
Mages and clerics kept their spells primed, prepared to intercept any long‑range or area attacks — but none came.
The sounds of burning and battle still echoed from the city, though the walls muted them. The distance turned the chaos into a faint, ghostly wail.
Many soldiers turned for one last look at the Capital. Flames lit the horizon for miles, clashing strangely with the starless night sky.
An hour later, the burning city was only a dim glow behind them. The survivors passed through small outlying villages, gathering anyone willing to flee.
A contingent of archers marched behind the carriage. Unlike the sword‑ and axe‑bearing men‑at‑arms, these were hunters and citizens pressed into service for their skills at tracking, or with a bow.
They were frightened, but they kept pace, even though few had ever endured a forced march.
Mixed among them were civilians — exhausted couples carrying children or elderly parents. Some bore heavy packs; others carried nothing at all.
Many sobbed quietly. Others walked with vacant, unfocused eyes.
Among the hopeless moved a young man of about twenty, a quiver on his back and a bow slung over his shoulder. He wore the bloodstained uniform of an archer scout. Deep wounds marked his arms and shoulders, and his face was speckled with dried blood.
He marched in perfect step with those around him, but his movements were stiff — mechanical, almost puppet‑like.
His blue eyes, however, darted wildly, full of terror, disbelief, and resentment.
His eyelids blinked slowly, unnaturally slow compared to the frantic motion of his gaze. Tears slipped down his cheeks into the stubble of a scraggly beard.
His thin lips were pressed tightly together, as if holding back a scream.
The survivors around him weren't fully catatonic, but they forced themselves to ignore the muffled sounds he made. Castle staff and support workers moved through the crowd, handing out water and tending wounds — including his.
A teenage page finished wrapping a leaking gash on the young man's forearm. The blue‑eyed man tried desperately to get the boy's attention with muffled noises and frantic eye movements, but the page didn't notice. He simply moved on.
The young man continued marching, step after step, mile after mile, in that same unnatural gait.
His terrified eyes scanned the road ahead — then suddenly closed. His body didn't falter.
The darkness behind his eyelids was such a relief that tears squeezed out.
A muffled sigh of relief tried to escape him, but his lips stayed clamped shut.
He wasn't in control of his own body. He could feel his feet as they automatically continued walking. The feeling was suffocating. Like being in a dream, knowing it was a dream, but unable to move any differently.
Everything except his gaze and his breathing ran on autopilot.
That didn't mean he felt nothing.
He felt everything. Exhaustion. Pain. The sting of every wound. The itch he couldn't scratch. The ache he couldn't rub.
His breathing was ragged from the endless march. A sharp stitch in his side made each inhale hurt.
He could take a deep breath — but the moment he tried to shout, his lips betrayed him and sealed tight.
Others around him were just as tired, but they could still act. They could stop, rest, stretch, drink.
He hadn't been able to do any of that since he woke up in this strange place.
Where am I? What is this place? How did I get here?
Why can't I control my body? Why am I still walking? What the hell is happening? Panic swelled inside him.
Despite the pain, he clung to the idea that this was just a vivid dream. I must've fallen asleep on the plane to San Juan.
A burst of light flared before him — visible only to him, judging by the lack of reaction from anyone else.
Words formed in the air, and a mechanical male voice echoed through his mind:
[SO THIS IS WHAT THE TERM 'WISHFUL THINKING' LOOKS LIKE]
His eyes widened, the only reaction he could manage, as the letters dissolved and reformed.
[NO, THIS IS NOT A DREAM]
The voice had answered the question he'd only thought. Shock rippled through him.
The oppressive voice continued:
[YOU ARE THE NEWEST HERO CHARACTER OF THE MOBILE GAME, DESTINY WAR TACTICS!]
[YOU ARE WALKER TONLEVAR, ARCHER SCOUT OF THE KINGDOM OF ROSTOVO]
[IF YOU WANT TO CONTINUE LIVING, KEEP WALKING, WALKER]