The desert slept beneath a sea of stars.
Moonlight spilled across endless dunes, turning the sand silver, each grain shimmering like crushed glass. The wind whispered softly as it carved delicate patterns into the earth, erasing footprints almost as soon as they were made. The night was cold, vast, and unforgiving—perfect for hunters who did not wish to be seen.
Five cloaked figures rode through the open wasteland.
Their silhouettes cut through the moonlight like moving shadows. Cloaks fluttered behind them, dark against the pale sand. One of them was massive, his horse groaning beneath his weight, every step heavy and deliberate. Another carried a bow so long it towered above his body, its shape unmistakable even from afar.
No words were spoken.
Only the sound of hooves—steady and merciless.
Within the Lu border stronghold, fury boiled.
King Marsh Brandston paced the stone chamber like a caged beast. His face twisted with rage, veins bulging at his temples.
"He lived…" Marsh snarled. "That bastard still breathes."
Before him, chained war dogs whimpered, their bodies trembling as his shadow loomed over them. In a blind surge of anger, Marsh kicked one aside, chains rattling violently.
"I will kill him!" he roared. "I will tear Vanward apart with my own hands!"
The dogs shrank back, whining.
By 3:07 a.m., the chamber doors burst open.
"Your Majesty!" a soldier cried, breathless. "Scouts report movement—horses approaching the perimeter!"
Marsh's eyes burned. "Send the battalion. I want their heads."
On the outer wall, Lu soldiers peered into the desert, squinting against the moonlight.
"I see four horses," one guard muttered.
Another frowned. "Weren't there five?"
The question was never answered.
A giant arrow tore through the air.
THOOM.
It struck the first soldier clean through the chest, pinning him to the stone wall as blood sprayed across the battlements.
Silence.
Then terror.
From the dunes below, a figure stood calmly in the open sand.
He wore a hawk-shaped mask, its eyes sharp and predatory, the beak gleaming gold beneath the moonlight. Resting vertically against the sand was a longbow twice his height, its string humming faintly.
The figure lifted the bow effortlessly.
Another arrow flew.
It pierced a second soldier's skull before the scream could leave his throat.
Someone shouted in horror, "It's— it's the Hawk!"
Leo Kingsley.
Vanward's deadliest sniper.
The walls erupted into chaos.
Arrows began descending inside the stronghold, punching through unarmored throats and shoulders, impaling men who had thought themselves safe. One archer was driven backward off the battlement, his body snapping against stone as he fell.
Leo drew again.
A soldier raised his shield—
The arrow punched through wood, through arm, and into his chest, pinning him upright as blood flooded from his mouth.
Inside the stronghold, alarms rang. Soldiers scrambled into formation—
Then the gates exploded inward.
The massive reinforced doors—designed to withstand rams and siege engines—shattered like brittle wood.
A towering figure stepped through the storm of splintered iron and stone.
Seven feet tall.
Built like a living fortress.
He wore the mask of a bull demon, its surface scarred and brutal, crowned with thick white horns. In his hands was a massive mace, already stained dark with blood.
Ed Grizzly, The Tank, moved like an avalanche.
A spear buried itself into his thigh. He staggered one step, grunting beneath the bull demon mask.
Then he grabbed the shaft.
Pulled the soldier forward.
And crushed his skull against the stone wall.
Blood splashed across Ed's armour as he ripped the spear free from his own leg, flesh tearing audibly. He barely slowed.
The mace came down.
Armor collapsed inward.
A man's ribcage caved like wet clay.
Another soldier slammed his shield into Ed's chest—hard enough to stagger him back half a step.
Ed roared.
He swung sideways.
The shield shattered.
The man behind it spun once, spine snapping, and hit the ground already dead.
Each swing of the mace crushed armour, shattered bones, and sent soldiers flying like broken dolls. Shields bent. Spears snapped. Nothing stopped him. He advanced without hesitation, trampling the fallen beneath iron boots.
Dust and sand filled the air.
From within the cloud emerged another nightmare, accompanied by spine-chilling laughter.
A man wearing a demon mask with red horns, a grotesque red tongue carved into its face, long canines protruding in a twisted grin.
Laughter echoed—wild, unhinged.
Axes flashed.
Adam. The Berserker.
He tore through soldiers with reckless abandon, spinning, cleaving, hacking. Blood sprayed across the sand as his laughter rose higher, sharper, drowning out screams.
"Run!" someone yelled.
Discipline shattered.
Lu soldiers fled toward the gate—only to freeze.
The dust parted.
A horse stepped through the ruined entrance.
Upon it rode a figure clad in black.
The mask was unmistakable—jet black, lined with huge jagged teeth, its grin cruel and endless. From its brow rose twisting purple horns, glowing faintly beneath the moonlight.
The air itself seemed to grow heavy.
Whispers spread like wildfire.
"It's him…"
"The demon…"
Fear seized every heart.
The rider dismounted slowly, boots touching sand soaked with blood.
Someone screamed.
"THE DEMON HAS ARRIVED!"
Gris Luxion stepped forward.
And the stronghold knew—
There was no raid.
This was an execution.