The night over Kente was cloaked in a mystical silence, where the sea wind from the Strait of Manche threaded through ancient elm groves, carrying the briny scent of salt and the whispering murmur of waves. I, Ealdred—Earl of Kente, an old warrior scarred from distant Jerusalem—sat beside the small wooden bed where Lucien, my five-year-old son with hair golden as ripened wheat fields under summer sun, was slowly drifting into sleep. The candle on the oak table flickered, casting distorted shadows on the stone walls: an old warrior with his left cheek slashed by Asael's blade, deep eyes holding memories of battlefields. Lucien stirred, his sleepy voice rising: "Father, continue the story." I smiled, gently stroking his hair: "What do you want to hear tonight, my little warrior?" Lucien's eyes widened, sparkling in the candlelight: "The story of you fighting monsters, the giant monsters from the deep sea." I chuckled softly, the sound echoing in the cold stone chamber of Amber Tower. "Monsters, eh? Then I'll tell you about the year 1088—when the seas of England raged, and I stood amid the storm to defend the throne. It's the tale of two blood brothers tearing the kingdom apart, of William II Rufus and Robert Curthose, and of me—the one summoned from the shadows to halt the ocean's fury." Lucien clutched his warm wool blanket tightly, eyes wide with excitement. I blew gently on the candle, making the light dance like the souls of fallen warriors. The story began with the sea, with ferocious waves and ancient secrets buried beneath the ocean depths.
In the spring of 1088, Dover was shrouded in thick fog, where sheer white cliffs rose like colossal walls guarding England's shore. Urgent reports from secret scouts spread through Kent: Robert Curthose, Duke of Normandy—elder brother of King William II Rufus, stripped of succession rights after William the Conqueror's death—had assembled a massive fleet at Boulogne. This was no ordinary rebellion; Robert had allied with mystical northern forces, wielding the "Bird War Cocoon"—a legendary artifact from the lost Atlantean civilization, allowing him to summon and control ancient sea creatures. King William II Rufus, with hair fiery red like hellfire and eyes sharp as ice, summoned his loyal earls to Westminster Palace, a grand edifice of granite columns and crimson carpets. As I entered the great hall, my iron boots echoing on the marble floor, the king looked at me with trust: "Ealdred, hero of Jerusalem, I need you once more to shield this throne from my brother's wrath." I knelt on one knee, voice steady: "I will defend this land, Your Majesty, but if the enemy summons monsters from the deep, can we withstand such ancient power?" Rufus smiled, gripping the lion-carved throne: "If you doubt yourself, who will believe in England? Rally your forces and turn the sea into his graveyard." I left the palace, mounted my black warhorse, and summoned 500 Ascendant knights—elite warriors trained from ancient bloodlines, clad in silver armor engraved with anti-magic runes. The sea wind blew frigid, mingling the scent of rust and salt, heralding the blaze of war. I, who thought I had sheathed my sword after countless campaigns, once again unsheathed Lucifer, the legendary blade with a pale edge harboring the power of blue flame.
As Robert Curthose's fleet neared Kent's coast, the sky suddenly darkened as if stained by a giant inkblot, eclipsing the sun and turning day to night. I rode atop Dover's white cliffs, wind whipping my cloak, gazing down at the Strait of Manche: a colossal fleet of over 3,000 warships, each hundreds of feet long, hulls of polished black oak plated with northern-forged steel. Prows carved with ferocious sea dragons, black sails emblazoned with the Leviathan symbol—an ancient sea beast. The fleet divided into three wings: the center with the flagship Sea's Wrath—a towering three-deck floating fortress carrying 5,000 Norman and Scandinavian mercenaries armed with repeating crossbows firing rocket arrows and grappling hooks; the right wing of 1,000 transport ships bearing 20,000 heavy infantry in full iron armor, round shields, and battle axes; the left wing of 1,000 swift light ships crewed by sea cavalry—warriors riding Leviathans, half-fish, half-steel creatures 50 feet long, mouths spewing venom. From afar, war drums thundered like the ocean's heartbeat, mingling with the roars of sea monsters. Robert stood on the flagship's deck, draped in a shimmering blue cloak woven with runes, holding the Bird War Cocoon—a black orb with glittering coral wings emitting an eerie glow. His fleet was not just military might but a flawless logistical system: supply ships with thousands of tons of dried meat, bread, and wine; medical vessels with sorcerers healing wounds by magic; intelligence ships with trained falcons carrying messages. Behind me, young knight Elric, face pale, voice trembling: "How can we fight the ocean itself, my lord?" I gripped the reins tightly, voice resolute: "By turning the sea into their hell." The war's scale defied imagination: 50,000 English troops arrayed along the coast—10,000 archers, 20,000 infantry, 5,000 cavalry—supported by fishing villages supplying whale oil and rocket arrows.
That night, under a hazy starlit sky, I ordered the first strategy: ignite whale oil to create a fire wall on the sea. Hundreds of large barrels, each holding 500 liters of flammable liquid from Dover's stores, were floated into the strait on long ropes. English soldiers, hidden behind cliffs, awaited dawn. As the first sunrays broke, I signaled: 200 archers loosed fire arrows—shafts wrapped in oil-soaked cloth—into the spreading slick. The sea erupted into a blazing inferno, spreading miles wide, incinerating hundreds of Robert's sea creatures: Leviathans roaring as their flesh charred, sinking in thick black smoke. The devastation was horrific: 20-foot flames swept away 500 light ships, killing 10,000 mercenaries, corpses floating like withered leaves. Robert's fleet fell into chaos, the right wing severed, forced to retreat and regroup. But we paid a price: contrary winds blew fire ashore, razing part of a fishing village near Dover, claiming 200 civilian lives. Elric cheered: "We've made the sea fear us!" I nodded, heart heavy: "This is only the opening clash. The Kraken—lord of the deep—has yet to rise." Our strategy relied on solid logistics: Kent's armories with 50,000 arrows, 10,000 grappling spears, and 5,000 magic-resistant shields; provisions from inland farms sustaining three months of combat. Robert, with his vast fleet, leaned on magic to compensate, but our fire proved: mortals could defy gods.
Three days later, amid a roaring storm, the Kraken—legendary beast summoned by the Bird War Cocoon—emerged from the strait's depths. From afar, I saw Robert's flagship glide over raging waves, its steel dragon prow belching black smoke. Robert stood defiant on deck, eyes gleaming like sapphires under lightning, raising the black orb, its rumble like thunder. The sea roared, waters parting: the Kraken revealed itself, over 1,000 feet long, skin black and glossy as obsidian, eight colossal tentacles like moving mountains, each 200 feet with thousands of suckers and venomous spines. Its maw gaped like a cavern, spewing toxic black ink obscuring vision. Each tentacle lash sent 50-foot waves crashing, smashing 300 English ships near the shore, killing 5,000 men instantly. English ranks faltered, screams blending with thunder: "A monster from hell!" I planted the Ascendant banner—crimson with a silver falcon—into the rocky ground, shouting: "Hold the line! Today we fight not for the king, but for the children born on this soil, for Kent's green fields and peaceful villages!" Lucien, hearing this in the tale, looked up with wide-eyed wonder: "Were you afraid, Father?" I smiled softly, stroking his hair: "Yes, my son. Afraid until my heart pounded like war drums. But I pressed on, for fear is an illusion, while the motherland is real." The Kraken lunged ashore, tentacles shattering watchtowers, earth and stone exploding, creating apocalyptic ruin: villages flooded, trees snapped, bodies drifting.
The battle raged three days and nights in unrelenting ferocity, turning the Strait of Manche into a hellish battlefield of unprecedented scale: 50,000 English against 40,000 Normans and thousands of sea beasts. On shore, I commanded 1,000 heavy crossbows firing 10-foot iron bolts at the Kraken's eyes, each volley making the beast howl, black blood gushing like fountains. Severed tentacles caused horrific chaos: tsunamis sweeping 2,000 soldiers, submerging villages. We erected 50 fire towers along the coast—30-foot oil-soaked wooden poles signaling cavalry. When the Kraken crawled ashore, 500 Ascendant knights charged like a flood, hacking tentacles with rune-engraved steel swords. On the second night, torrential rain and lightning raged; Robert chanted ancient spells from his ship, turning surrounding waters into a massive black vortex sucking 100 English ships into the abyss. I drew Lucifer from its scabbard, the blade glowing pale blue: "You burned Jerusalem once; now burn this sea!" Slashing the water, waves parted, blue fire exploding across 5 miles, searing two Kraken tentacles, making the beast writhe. Yet we lost 3,000 men, corpses floating, blood staining the sea red. Logistics strained: storms depleted food, forcing us to fish and collect rainwater; broken weapons were reforged at mobile forges. Robert employed siege tactics: light ships harassed at night, sea cavalry struck sporadically. By the third day, the sea was choked with black smoke and wreckage, but the Kraken lived, compelling a shift: target the power source—the Bird War Cocoon.
On the fourth day, under feeble post-storm sunlight, I realized the only path: a direct assault on the flagship to destroy the Bird War Cocoon, Robert's magical core. At dusk, I led 10 suicide knights—the finest warriors in light armor with grappling hooks—down to the shore. We swam submerged through pitch-black waters, waves cutting like knives, fish and human corpses floating as death's warning. Logistics for the mission: whale-skin air bladders, poisoned daggers, short arrows. Climbing the flagship's side, sea wind howling through rigging, Robert awaited on the rain-soaked deck, surrounded by 50 sea-cavalry guards. He laughed deeply: "Ealdred, slayer of Asael, blocking my path again? I don't need your blood—only England on its knees!" I stood firm, seawater dripping from armor: "You see only the vast ocean, forgetting the steadfast earth beneath." My strategy: distract guards with comrades, focus on Robert. He swung the orb, summoning a Kraken tentacle to shatter nearby ships, deck shuddering. I clung to a mast rope, shouting: "Lucifer, end this nightmare!" The sword blazed white, ready for the fateful duel.
The duel between Robert Curthose and me unfolded on the flagship's deck amid the open sea, under cold moonlight and roaring waves. Robert drew Hydro Heart—a slender blade glowing blue, forged from magical coral, fluid as tides. He struck first: a lightning-fast horizontal slash at my neck, wind hissing. I parried with heavy Lucifer, clashing steel thundering, seawater spraying like blood. I countered: a vertical overhead chop, Lucifer's might cracking the deck, but Robert dodged nimbly, spinning like a current, thrusting at my side. I rolled aside, shielding; the thrust missed but tore armor. He sneered: "You're sluggish as sand!" I retorted: "Yet sand swallows the sea." Third strike: Robert flung the orb, summoning a wave to sweep me, but I leaped, slashing his hand, severing the orb's strap. He blocked with his sword, then unleashed a storm of blows—three rapid strikes at legs, chest, head. I spun Lucifer defensively, creating a ring of blue fire repelling him, then thrust straight at his chest, piercing armor. Robert roared, lashing a Kraken tentacle, tilting the ship. I lost balance but hooked a rope, severing the nearest tentacle. After ten exchanges, he weakened; I charged, Lucifer cleaving the Bird War Cocoon. A sky-shaking explosion, the orb shattering, coral fragments raining. Robert collapsed, blood foaming: "You win… but the sea will remember you." I replied: "I never feared the sea—only greedy hearts."
As the explosion's light faded, the sea calmed, the Kraken bellowed once more before dissolving into the depths, leaving white foam and wreckage. Robert lay motionless on deck, eyes staring at the stars. I returned ashore in a small boat as dawn broke, English troops cheering along Dover's cliffs, fire towers blazing like victory festivals. Yet silence filled my heart—the silence after storm, where the victor loses part of his soul: 20,000 dead, villages ravaged, sea bloodstained. King William II Rufus named me "Marshal of the South," offering gold and lands, but I declined, requesting only Amber Tower's construction—a 100-foot monument of white stone on the cliffs, with an observatory and library preserving war's memories. Each year, the Ascendant line lays white flowers in remembrance, teaching young soldiers strategy and logistics: seeing the sea not just as foe but ally. In later days, I spoke less; Matilda—my wife with gentle eyes—asked: "Do you still dream of battlefields?" I answered: "No, but I hear the sea calling, reminding me of mistakes." At midnight, I took Lucien to the shore, pointing where the Kraken rose: "Did you really kill the monster, Father?" I smiled: "I only defeated my own fear, my son." Time passed, Dover greened again, but in my heart, waves sounded like clashing swords, reminding peace's value.
Lucien grew swiftly, intelligent and quiet as the deep sea; I taught him swordplay and books, recounting not just victories but failures: "Strength doesn't make you great, son—only compassion ensures remembrance." Lucien asked: "Was Robert Curthose a demon, Father?" I shook my head: "No, he chased a flawed dream, blinded by greed." In his eyes, I saw Isolda's and Matilda's light—gentle yet profound. The Ascendant line spread to Normandy and Rome, one day to bear the Templar name, but its core remained the vow: Fight so no more fighting is needed. The candle burned low, Lucien asleep, hand clutching my sleeve.
Outside, sea wind swept Amber Tower, waves distant like footsteps of the departed. I gazed at Lucifer in the corner, light reflecting on my son's face: "My boy, the world brims with demons, deep seas, blood, and fire. But greatest is humanity—those who love and forgive." I kissed his forehead, singing Isolda's old lullaby: "Amber sleeps in ashes, / Light returns to its origin…" Blowing out the candle, darkness enveloped, the sea whispering softly—no thunder, no monsters, only profound peace.