The night wind howled over the northern cliffs of Korvath. From this vantage point, the entire city lay sprawled below like a dying beast—its streets cracked, its buildings broken, its lights flickering weakly against the dark. Smoke rose in heavy, twisting columns, staining the stars. The battle was over, but its echoes clung to the ruins like ghosts.
A heavy set of footsteps approached from the forest path. Emerging from the darkness came the Kobold King, its once-imposing frame now battered and bloodied. Its armor hung in shards, fur scorched, eyes dimmed—but its loyalty remained unshaken. As it reached the cliff's edge, the towering beast knelt.
Before it stood a lone figure wrapped in a black, hooded cloak. The stranger's presence radiated quiet command. They neither flinched at the Kobold King's monstrous visage nor acknowledged its submission with warmth. Instead, the figure observed the city with cold, surgical precision, as if measuring the results of an experiment.
"So," the figure finally spoke, voice smooth but laced with authority. "The assault nearly succeeded."
The Kobold King lowered its head further, claws scraping against the stone. A deep rumble left its throat—a sound not of defiance, but of report.
The cloaked one listened silently, then extended a gloved hand. At once, a magical circle bloomed in the air, pale blue runes rotating like gears. From within, a map materialized—an arcane construct glowing faintly, suspended between them. The map depicted the continent, etched with sharp lines and faint pulses of light.
Across its surface were red sigils, like bloodstains:
Bustleburg
Giggleburg
Frostholm
Eldoria
Titanforge
Luminastra
Each mark pulsed steadily, signaling their fall. The cloaked figure's gaze moved over them with satisfaction.
"Bustleburg fell in three days," they mused softly. "Giggleburg in two. Frostholm… ah, they resisted the longest. Eldoria's mages were troublesome, but predictable. Titanforge's forges are now silent. And Luminastra… a jewel dimmed."
The Kobold King rumbled again, low and uncertain.
"But here…" The figure's finger hovered over the southern region of the map. Three sigils remained untouched, glowing faintly like embers in a dying fire:
Orleaf
Korvath
Reflynne
"They're the last," the figure whispered, a hint of intrigue in their tone. "Three bastions still stand. And tonight, Korvath has proven… unexpectedly resilient."
The map zoomed in on Korvath. Hazy projections replayed fragments of the battle—the paladin's shattered shield, Yoshiya's glowing barriers, Lia darting through enemy lines, Seikaku's precise arrow that finally wounded the King. The cloaked figure's eyes narrowed. "Adventurers," they muttered. "And not the usual rabble either. Their coordination… was beyond what I anticipated."
They turned their gaze back to the Kobold King. "You did well to hold as long as you did. But brute force alone isn't enough anymore. Valeria's weapons require… adjustments."
A second magic circle flared to life behind them. Inside it, mechanical arms and floating cores hovered, constructing new runic sigils midair. The faint sound of gears, crystal resonance, and whispering magic filled the cliffside—a glimpse of Valeria's fusion of sorcery and machinery, something far more dangerous than mere monsters.
"Korvath's defense exposed flaws," the figure continued. "Their mages adapt faster than expected. Their frontliners aren't just defensive—they're inspired. And that… is dangerous."
They paced slowly, the hem of their cloak gliding over the stone like living shadow. "Still, the plan remains on schedule. With six cities already under our control, supply routes established, and local resistance shattered, the continent's balance is shifting. When the final three fall, Valeria will no longer be a nation among nations…"
Their head tilted slightly, voice turning sharp. "…It will be the only one left."
The Kobold King's breathing grew labored; its wounds were severe. But even in pain, it responded with loyalty—slamming its shield against the ground in pledge.
The cloaked figure extended their hand again, this time pressing their palm to the King's forehead. Runes flared, sinking into its body like molten brands. The beast shuddered, roaring as strength—twisted and unnatural—flowed back into its veins. Its wounds did not heal gently; they reknit through brute magical force, leaving scars that glowed faintly crimson.
"Rest," the figure commanded. "You've earned it. The next time you rise, you will no longer be a mere king. You will be the blade of Valeria."
The King lowered its head once more, accepting its fate.
The figure dismissed the magical map with a snap of their fingers. The glowing sigils shattered into particles of light that scattered into the night wind. Below, Korvath's fires burned on, a wounded but still-living city.
"Three more," the cloaked figure whispered to the wind. "And then the game ends."
They turned, cloak billowing like a living shadow, and stepped into a swirling portal of black and silver light. Within seconds, the cliffside was empty—save for the distant roar of the recovering Kobold King and the silent map marks burned into the figure's memory.
Above, the stars looked down upon a continent on the brink of conquest.
And somewhere in the ruins below, Yoshiya, Omina, Lia, and their allies were still catching their breath—unaware that their victory tonight had only marked them as targets in a far larger war.