The sun shone high above, yet within the Duchy its light seemed extinguished. The land and forests breathed with a life of their own—dark, silent—and every step the crusaders took sank into a shroud of shadow that swallowed both sound and hope. Ninety-five thousand men advanced toward the heart of the Duchy, their armor dulled by gloom, their banners waving with faith and oath—unaware that the night had already claimed them.
They crossed the first boundary, and the ground trembled beneath their boots. Legs that had marched with certainty turned to lead; breath grew heavy, and mana thickened like frozen mire in their veins. Soldiers fell to their knees, stumbling into one another, their cries muffled by the darkness. Orders vanished, banners fell, chains of command shattered—chaos reigned.
From the shadows, the Douglas emerged—five thousand led by Lusian—moving like a lethal swarm. Arrows vanished into the gloom before they could strike the earth; blades whispered as they cut.
Alejandro Marchen blocked a strike aimed at his throat and answered with a precise counter, felling the Douglas warrior before he could react. Blood mixed with mud and damp leaves. Around him, the cries of wounded comrades tangled with the roar of battle:
"Help! I can't—!"
Some tried to lift the fallen, but waves of shadow dragged them away, devouring every flicker of light. Torches revealed little more than silhouettes of death and despair.
Thirty meters away, Sir Edran cut down four enemies in a narrow corridor of trees. His sword shone, slicing through the darkness like a bolt of judgment, while his ragged breathing betrayed the strain of the fight. Lyra, her eyes blazing with mana, unleashed bolts of light that pierced the shadows, striking down Douglas warriors attempting to flank them. Every movement they made was precise, calculated—and exhausting.
Alejandro and Leonardo pushed toward the heart of the darkness, their eyes locked on Lusian and his forces. Each blow carried fury and purpose, cutting down enemies one by one as they carved a path forward. At their side, Delora moved like a shadow within shadows, cloaked in her dark mana; her strikes were fluid and deliberate, a seamless blend of aggression and control, leaving a trail of fallen foes without ever sacrificing her own defense.
Emily moved diagonally through the most wounded, casting spells of protection and healing. Every spark of light was a shield, not a weapon of vengeance; her purpose was to save lives, not take them. Her breathing trembled, each spell draining strength and hope, yet she could not stop.
Kara remained in the rear, watching—ready to intervene only when necessary. Her movements were defensive, measured; she assessed the battlefield, guarded key positions, and weighed the loyalties of both sides before acting.
The forest trembled with the clash of steel, mana, and screams. Every action reflected the will of the one who carried it out: some fought to destroy, others to save, others simply to survive—and all felt the weight of each second on the line.
The horror became undeniable: thirty thousand crusaders lay dead among trees and mud, trapped between weakening magic and lethal strikes. Thousands more fled in disarray, abandoning banners and weapons, ignoring commands no one could hear. Each fallen body whispered a warning—the darkness was not faced with courage alone; it devoured the strong and the desperate alike.
In the outer cities, the fighting did not cease. Every street and square became a battlefield: Douglas warriors struck from windows and rooftops, blades in hand, while the blessed heroes raised barriers of light and hurled spells that split the gloom like lightning. Every failed incantation, every misstep, cost another life.
The Douglas fell as well—three thousand of their number did not survive the concentrated fire of the chosen. Yet the crusaders had lost far more, whether dead or scattered in retreat, while the darkness remained unbroken. Every fallen shadow was replaced by another; every silenced cry echoed across the Duchy's lands.
When the survivors began to fall back—exhausted, disoriented, and terrified—the central city and its six outer strongholds remained untouched, wrapped in a veil even the sun could not pierce. The blessed heroes covered the retreat, lifting the wounded and casting protective spells over the last corridors of light that still endured. Emily held her halo with trembling hands, searching for any trace of Lusian within the darkness—unable to betray him openly, yet afraid of losing him.
The massacre had ended, but the Duchy endured—a dark, living entity that taught the crusaders a brutal truth: light must be upheld with precision, sacrifice, and faith. Every shadow was a sentinel; every tree, a silent threat; every step forward, a trial of will and endurance.
The first ambush had proven that even the strongest faith could shatter before cunning—and absolute darkness.
The war had only just begun.