The city slept beneath a blanket of stars… until something tore it apart.
A shriek split the night—so brutal that the magical alarms reacted too late.
Far too late.
The watchmen barely managed to shout:
"Attack! Attack!"
Chaos was already racing through the streets.
From atop the walls, enchanted torches flickered with nervous light, unable to master the thick fog devouring their glow. Each flash revealed only fragments of the nightmare: colossal felines, their fur bristling like blades, incandescent eyes burning through the haze, claws ripping chunks of stone free with every step.
Their roars were not merely heard.
They vibrated through bone.
From the central tower, Marcus Valentine—governor of Eldoria, the man known as the Jackal—watched with an unmoving face. The walls he had always believed invulnerable cracked like clay beneath the assault of those beasts. His breathing shortened; his fingers trembled as they clenched into fists.
"By the gods…" he whispered, barely a thread of sound. "This cannot be happening…"
The pack descended upon the city like a living storm—a whirlwind of fangs and claws devouring everything in its path.
There was no reprieve.
A roar shook the walls and the souls of those who tried to defend them, and the felines hurled themselves against the first line. Their claws—sharp as consecrated blades—tore through shields as if they were soaked leather. The clash of metal mixed with screams, splintering wood, and the wet crack of bones snapping without resistance.
The soldiers lasted only seconds before breaking.
What had been a formation of hundreds collapsed into desperate chaos—a human wall stumbling backward, trampling itself in its attempt to flee.
From the battlements, an enchanted torch tumbled into pools of blood below. Its sparks caught on scattered planks and barrels. Flames burst to life with savage speed. Within seconds, the streets were burning.
Scorching smoke mixed with the fog, staining the air red and gray until every shadow became the promise of death.
The felines moved through Eldoria like kings.
One climbed a tower with an impossible leap and tore half a crenellation apart with a single swipe. Another seized a fleeing guard, lifting him with monstrous ease before dropping him from the wall like a discarded rag into the darkness below. Then it stood still, chest rising and falling slowly—as though listening for living hearts before choosing its next prey.
Marcus Valentine slammed his fist against the desk with such force that quills, seals, and scrolls leapt into the air.
"Mages! Contain those beasts—even if there are only a few of you!" he roared, desperation cracking his voice.
The mages obeyed in stumbling confusion, as if the command were the last thing they still understood. Their trembling hands unleashed torrents of light—raw magic without control, hurled more from terror than skill.
Spells streaked through the air like clumsy flashes.
Useless.
The felines evaded them with humiliating ease, twisting their bodies in movements that seemed almost mocking—living shadows laughing at human effort.
The few spells that struck their targets found no flesh. They fizzled harmlessly against hide reinforced by bestial mana, like raindrops striking burning stone.
The response came without warning.
Without sound.
Like a sentence already passed.
Claws pierced chests, ribs snapping like dry branches. Armor did not split—it burst apart, exploding along with the flesh it was meant to protect. Swords fell beside severed hands. Throats opened in a single stroke. Soldiers collapsed with the empty expression of those who die before realizing they have already been struck.
There was no battle.
Only slaughter.
Then the plaza darkened.
Not from smoke or flame—but from something denser than night itself.
From the rubble emerged the leader of the pack.
An A-Omega feline.
Its fur did not shine; it seemed to absorb light itself, devouring it in absolute silence. Every movement left a wake of trembling shadows, as though they possessed a life of their own. Its eyes burned deep crimson, like coals in a forge—intelligent, ancient, and filled with patient fury.
Its mere presence tightened the air.
With every step, the ground cracked beneath it, fragments of stone trembling as though the world itself resisted bearing its weight.
When it roared, the sound was not thunder.
It was impact.
A brutal shockwave slammed into the defenders' chests, tearing the breath from their lungs. Several soldiers dropped to their knees—not from conscious fear, but because their bodies simply refused to remain standing.
The A-Omega regarded them…
Not as prey.
As insignificant obstacles.
A group of smaller felines encircled the detachment guarding the main gate. Claws tore through shields and armor as though they were wet hide; fangs opened throats and breastplates with grotesque ease. Spears, swords, and axes bounced harmlessly from their bodies like useless toys.
Within seconds, the walls were painted red.
Blood ran between the cobblestones, splashed across columns, pooled thick beneath the trembling feet of those still trying to fight.
The soldiers' screams blended with the savage roars of the beasts and the crackling fire that had begun to devour homes and guard posts.
The city groaned beneath the weight of massacre.
From the tower above, Marcus Valentine watched with pallid skin and a rigid jaw. He had defended Eldoria for decades. He had seen wars, sieges, monstrosities.
Nothing compared to this.
He tried to shout orders, strategies—anything to organize resistance. But shock had corroded military discipline. Even the most seasoned warriors hesitated, unable to accept that they were fighting—and losing—against impossible predators.
Then another crash shook the wall.
A feline leapt from the shadows and landed among the defenders like an iron ball fired from a catapult. The impact shattered the ground. Bodies flew. Bones cracked like branches. Shields embedded themselves into the walls.
Below, another beast rammed the market gate with such force that the bolts tore free. Barrels of oil and stored torches rolled into the street. Flames embraced them the moment they struck the ground.
Within seconds, nearby houses burned like giant torches, illuminating the nightmare with cruel clarity.
The glow of the fire revealed what the fog had hidden:
Soldiers drenched in blood.Civilians running blindly.Feline shadows moving through the smoke like creatures born from hell itself.
The city was not merely under attack.
It was being devoured.
The assault was absolute.
Eldoria seemed doomed—swallowed by fangs and fire…
Until a different light tore through the darkness.
A majestic radiance rose in the distance, so intense that the felines paused in confusion. The roar of slaughter weakened. The night itself seemed to hold its breath.
From the sky descended three figures wrapped in colossal auras that warped the air around them, as though the world itself bowed to receive them.
And with them came a steed of lightning—a magnificent creature that seemed to walk upon living thunder. Each step left sparks across the cobblestones, illuminating with brutal clarity the corpses, the shattered walls, and the river of blood flooding the square.
For a brief moment—fleeting but real—the felines stepped back.
Ears flattened.
Bodies tense.
It was not fear.
It was recognition.
They had been hunting easy prey.
Now they would face something different.
The human defenders—broken and exhausted—felt hope beat once more within their veins. The few still holding swords or staffs straightened, breathing as though emerging from long suffocation.
Then Marcus Valentine descended from the tower.
His boots struck the cobblestones with a commanding echo, his cloak opening through smoke, ash, and embers like the wing of a hawk diving back into the battlefield.
He was no longer the calculating governor nor the fearful politician watching from above.
He was the warrior who had once raised the shield that founded Eldoria.
He drew his sword.
The metal sang like restrained thunder.
"Form ranks! Do not fall back! Shields and magic—hold the line!"
His voice pierced the chaos.
The soldiers responded instantly. Staffs rose; runes burned with weary but resolute light; shields slammed together, rebuilding a living wall—uneven, bleeding…
But unbroken.
Amid smoke, corpses, and the sparks of the lightning steed, the last human resistance rose again.
Perhaps only remnants remained—broken men, exhausted magic…
But they stood.
The war was not over.
It had only just entered a new phase.