The sun—or whatever celestial body cast that pale and cold light across the purple sky of this Amalgam—shone on his sword. The light reflected from the silver-plated steel blade, striking the retina of the creature growling before him.
The scouts called the creature "Gnarl-Fang"—a mass of muscle and rage that walked on two legs, horned, and wielding a massive axe made of patched-together old iron. They were the native inhabitants of one of the shattered fantasy dimensions that had become an unwelcome neighbor to Kaelen's kingdom.
"Hold the formation! Don't let them breach the line!" shouted Kaelen, his voice echoing above the pattering rain that had begun to fall. The water tasted acidic on the tongue.
"Those bastards are more than we thought, Sir Kaelen!" yelled one of his soldiers, Erlan, raising his shield to block an axe strike that sent him slipping in the mud.
They fought at a strange border. On one side, the ancient stone walls of Brightstone Castle rose high—the last bastion of his kingdom. On the other, the ruins of metal and glass they called "The Scrap-Wastes," where the Gnarl-Fang and other bizarre creatures nested.
This war wasn't for expansion. It was for survival. For a sip of clean water, for a bundle of uncontaminated wheat, for the right to breathe air without lethal spores.
A larger Gnarl-Fang charged forward, ignoring the spear embedded in its shoulder. Its eyes glowed blood-red, filled with inhuman madness.
Kaelen didn't retreat. He stepped forward, swinging his sword not with emotion, but with precision. The movement was a dance he had mastered since youth—The Falling Leaf. His blade swiped, avoiding the incoming axe, and sliced through the creature's neck.
Thick black blood sprayed, coating his armor and face. He didn't blink. He was used to it.
He felt something strange. A vibration in the ground. Not from the creature's steps, but something… mechanical. Deep.
"Down! Everyone down!" he shouted, his instincts saving him first.
He dove behind a chunk of fallen wall just as the entire Scrap-Wastes ahead of them erupted upward. Not an explosion of fire, but an eruption of earth and metal. The booming sound didn't come from magic or a warhammer, but something completely foreign.
When the dust settled, Kaelen saw it.
A massive machine—like a metallic crab with giant treaded wheels and a spinning drill at its front—crawled out of the freshly carved tunnel. The machine released black smoke and a deep mechanical hum. Beside it, human soldiers in gleaming gray armor—the same ones his scouts had spotted in the distance—marched out in formation, their strange weapons emitting blue light pointed in every direction.
The Ironclad Legion. From another world.
The Gnarl-Fang, once their enemy, now looked confused. Some charged toward the drilling machine, only to be obliterated by bursts of blue energy from the soldiers' weapons. They were no longer threats—just pests being swept aside.
"New forces…" Erlan muttered, face pale.
"Not forces. An invasion," Kaelen replied, voice low. His eyes narrowed as he analyzed. The drill machine was clearly moving toward them, crushing everything in its path—including the remaining Gnarl-Fang. Its destination was clear: Brightstone Castle.
They were no longer dealing with savage beasts.
They were dealing with an organized power with technology beyond comprehension.
"Archers, aim for any weak point on that machine! Everyone else, fall back to the second gate! Shields up front!" Kaelen barked, cutting through the spreading panic.
He was Oathbound. He had sworn to protect his people and his king. Even if his enemy was a metal demon from a foreign hell, his oath remained the same.
Arrows flew, but they bounced uselessly off the machine's metal shell. Blue energy blasts retaliated, melting stone near the archers and forcing them to scatter.
They were losing. Outgunned. Out-matched.
Out-technologied.
But Kaelen wasn't someone who surrendered easily. He observed how the machine moved—slow, not agile, only able to advance straight. And he watched the soldiers walking beside it. They were living beings. They could die.
"Erlan, take ten of our best. We'll flank them—target the soldiers, not the machine. Watch their firing pattern. They need time to recharge after each shot!"
It was a huge risk. But staying put meant death.
At his signal, they moved, slipping through the ruins that the drill machine hadn't yet crushed. Rain and dust concealed their movements.
The battle shifted. This was no longer a frontal assault. It turned into guerrilla warfare. Kaelen's lightly armored troops used their agility and knowledge of the terrain. They struck in small groups, slashing with their swords, disappearing before the enemy's energy weapons could lock onto them.
Kaelen spotted one Ironclad soldier separated from the formation, setting up something like a pole in the ground. Without hesitation, Kaelen leapt, bringing his sword down. Not on the torso armor, but on the neck joint. His silver blade cut through wires and tubes, and blue fluid sprayed out. The soldier crackled with electronic choking sounds and collapsed.
That was their weak point. The joints.
The brutal battle felt like it lasted for hours. They slowed the enemy's advance and managed to kill several soldiers, but their losses were also heavy. Three from his group were dead, their bodies charred by energy shots.
Finally, the drill machine's sound changed, and it stopped.
A distorted voice boomed from its speakers, speaking in a strange language that was somehow understandable.
"Local inhabitants. We are here to stabilize this zone. Surrender the castle and the geothermal resources beneath it. Resistance is futile. Surrender, and you will be allowed to leave."
Geothermal resources.
So that was the reason. They wanted to mine something beneath his castle. His home.
Kaelen stood atop a ruined stone, blood dripping from the cut on his forehead. He looked at his exhausted, terrified, but still determined soldiers. He looked at the castle behind him, where the women, children, and his aging king resided.
Surrender?
That wasn't an option.
That would be a betrayal of his oath.
He raised his sword, pointing it at the drill machine.
"We are the Knights of Brightstone!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the rain and mechanical hiss. "We will not surrender our home to invaders from another world! We may die, but we will die with honor—and every step you take will be paid in blood!"
He didn't expect them to understand.
This wasn't for them.
It was for his men. To ignite their spirit. To remind them who they were.
He leapt down, and the battle erupted once again—more savage and desperate than before. They fought in their own way now: brutal close combat, where skill with a blade and courage still held meaning.
As he cut down another enemy soldier, his eyes caught something in the sky.
A small, agile flying vehicle—not belonging to the Ironclad Legion—zipped overhead, as though observing the battle below. A reminder that in this chaotic world, there were always other factions watching, waiting to take advantage—or simply trying to survive.
But that was a concern for later.
For now, survival was all that mattered.
Defending every inch of land with blood and iron.
He exhaled, gathering strength for his next strike. His oath bound him here—either atop the corpses of his enemies, or atop his own grave.
There was no other choice.