The sky above Delmar was still grey when the sound first appeared. It was like a giant hammer hitting wet ground—the sound of thousands of soldiers marching in the distance. The steps were slow but steady, heavy but organized—a clear sign that something powerful was coming.
At the top of the tallest watchtower, Gavin Deyne stood silently, holding a telescope. His face was pale, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the foggy horizon. He started to see dark lines in the distance—like a wave of darkness slowly moving closer. And then, in the middle of that army, he saw something that made his heart drop.
It wasn't a human. And it wasn't any creature he knew.
It looked like a living skeleton, wearing a long robe like a wizard. But the robe moved even though there was no wind. Its eyes glowed purple, and a soft, glowing mist floated around its body. It didn't walk—it hovered, floating between life and death.
Gavin lowered the telescope, his jaw tightening. "Aven," he called without looking back.
Aven, who was standing nearby, stepped forward. "Can I see?"
Gavin handed him the telescope. Aven looked through it—and instantly froze.
"By the broken time…" he whispered. "That's not a normal demon. I can feel it from here. He carries no weapon—but he brings fear."
Below the tower, the guards began to gather. Whispers spread like wildfire. Even before the fight began, fear had already crept into their bones like smoke.
Hours passed. The Dravern army started setting up camp outside the walls. Their dark tents stood in neat rows. But everyone's attention turned when two figures slowly walked toward Delmar's main gate.
The first was a tall, strong man wearing black armor with red markings and a giant sword on his back—he was Varkas Drelmor, the commander of the Dravern army. Next to him floated the skeletal figure in a purple cloak—Nirzagal, the Hollow Flame, a creature whose deathly presence could be felt even through the thick stone walls of the city.
They stopped a few meters from the gate. Varkas stepped forward and raised his voice. He spoke loudly and full of pride.
"Give us your city. This is not a battle you can win. But if you surrender… you will live. You'll be our slaves—but you'll stay whole."
Then Nirzagal floated forward. His voice echoed like it came from many worlds.
"If you choose death… your souls will still be free. But they'll belong to me. I will bind them… to serve me… forever."
On top of the wall, Lans turned to Aven, confused. "What does he mean… souls will be his?"
Aven shook his head slowly. "He doesn't just kill… he makes you believe that death is the beginning of slavery."
Delmar fell silent. It was the kind of silence more terrifying than any attack—a silence born from fear, creeping into everyone's heart.
Stillness hung over the walls of Delmar. Nirzagal's last words kept echoing in every soldier's mind. "Your souls will be mine…" It wasn't just a threat—it was a curse. A dark shadow that reached deep into their bones.
Gavin stood tall in the middle of the fortress. He stared straight at the two figures outside. His left hand clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
"I'll say this only once…" his voice was deep and calm, but everyone heard it. "Delmar… will not surrender. Every stone, every drop of blood, every arrow… will bear witness. We will fight to the end. My people will never be slaves."
Below, the soldiers stood straighter. They gripped their swords tighter. Some were still afraid—but in their eyes, something new began to burn: pride and the will to defend their dignity.
In the distance, Varkas turned to Nirzagal and smiled slightly.
"So stubborn," he muttered.
Nirzagal let out a soft laugh—it didn't come from his mouth, but from everywhere at once, like the sound of a shadow.
"Just the way I wanted it…" he said coldly. "I will feast tonight."
The two of them turned around and slowly walked back to their camp. They weren't in a hurry. They weren't afraid. They knew—the fear they brought was more powerful than any sword or arrow.
"Keep the gate closed," Gavin ordered the guards below.
Soon, the fog returned. The enemy troops went back to their base, far out of reach of Delmar's catapults. Their tents stood like giant shadows in the distance, making the battlefield feel less like a place of war… and more like an altar where darkness was being prepared.
The day slowly passed. The sun never came out, just a dim light pushing through the grey clouds. On the watchtower, guards began changing shifts. The tension was still there, but Gavin's words had started to bring back some strength and courage.
Meanwhile, Aria stood alone on the eastern side of the wall. Her hands still held her bow, but her eyes looked empty.
The air around her felt heavy. Not cold, but like something invisible was pressing on her from inside—like something was crawling into her thoughts.
Then she heard quiet footsteps behind a pillar.
"You feel it too?" Kai asked softly as he stepped out from the shadows.
Aria turned. "What is this?"
Kai looked out over the field. "I've felt this before… when the village I grew up in gave up hope even before the enemy arrived. This isn't magic that hurts your body. This… is magic that kills courage."
He paused, then looked straight into Aria's eyes.
"That's what it does—it doesn't go after your body, it goes after your bravery… until it's gone."
Aria took a deep breath. She held her bow tighter. And in her eyes, for a moment… the fire came back.
The sky turned a dull orange-grey as a new sound echoed—one more terrifying than the scream of war: the beating of giant war drums.
Boom.Boom.Boom.
The deep, heavy sound of the drums beat in a slow, steady rhythm. Each hit seemed to shake the air, pound in people's chests, and pulse through their veins. Delmar's soldiers stood on the wall, eyes fixed on the open field beyond the gate. The black lines of the Dravern army began to move—their footsteps matching the ruthless rhythm of the drums.
They didn't run. They didn't shout. They just… marched forward. As if even death didn't scare them.
Gavin stood on the lookout balcony on the west wall, watching with a tense face. His hands gripped the edge of the stone railing.
"Report when they're in catapult range," he told the catapult commander beside him.
"Yes, sir," the commander replied. He wore light leather armor with an arrow insignia on his shoulder. His eyes were sharp, judging the distance like a seasoned warrior.
The Dravern army kept advancing. The drumbeats grew faster.
The enemy's slow steps turned into something more aggressive—faster, heavier. Dust began to rise from the ground, like a thin mist crawling from the earth.
"Five hundred meters left!" shouted the commander.
Lans stood on the left side of the wall, at the western catapult. His hand rested on the launch wheel, eyes locked forward. His breathing was calm, but cold sweat ran down his temple.
A few meters away, Aria stood at the center, near the eastern catapult. Both of her hands reached toward the large stones that had been prepared. A soft fire began to coat the surface of the rocks. The flames burned gently, controlled—ready to unleash destruction.
"Three hundred meters!"
Behind the wall, the civilians helping carry arrows, rocks, and water began to slow down. The tension felt like electricity in the air.
"One hundred meters!"
The catapults were aimed. Support crews pulled back the launch ropes. The massive stones, each weighing hundreds of kilos, were now in position.
Lans closed his eyes for a moment. He took a deep breath and placed his hand on the lever. A silver-blue light wrapped around the wheel. Time around him slowed—his movements became sharper, faster, deadlier.
On the other side, Aria stared forward. The fire in her hands now fused completely with the stone. The giant catapult arm began to tremble, waiting for the signal.
Then the commander shouted, "Now!!"
The ropes snapped forward.
A loud mechanical blast filled the air.
Whuummp! Whuuump!
Six giant stones shot into the sky—two of them burned like red meteors, two flew faster than anything anyone had ever seen, and the rest soared like the last desperate hope of mankind.
And Delmar held its breath.
The sky lit up with red flashes and the screech of metal as the catapult stones launched from the city walls. The six projectiles tore through the air with earth-shaking power—two burned like little suns, two hissed like arrows from a war god, and the other two flew straight and brutally, impossible to stop.
The first crash came as the fast-moving stone hit the front lines of the Dravern army. The ground exploded. Bodies flew. Bones shattered. Weapons flew from hands. Their formation broke apart.
The second impact—one of the fire stones—smashed into the left side of their line. Flames swept through the soldiers. Screams rang out. Armor melted. The smell of burnt metal filled the thick black smoke.
Behind the walls, Delmar's soldiers watched with wide eyes. Some gasped. Others shouted in relief. And then—one breath, one voice:
"LONG LIVE DELMAR!!"
Cheers exploded across the city walls. Soldiers banged on their shields, raised their swords, and shouted with everything they had. Even the civilians helping carry supplies cheered—hope, like a small flame in the middle of a storm, was suddenly alive.
But the joy didn't last long.
In the middle of the cheering, someone pointed at the battlefield. Their voice cracked.
"What… is that?"
Silence fell over the wall. Every eye turned to look at where the stones had hit.
A purple mist… softly glowing, slowly floating like morning dew, but with a wicked feeling—like poison creeping into your bones. It rose from the ground—right where the dead Dravern soldiers had fallen.
And then… something happened.
The broken bodies began to move.
Severed hands crawled toward their owners. Crushed heads started to piece themselves back together. Even soldiers who were still on fire stood up—flames still burning, but they walked… as if pain didn't matter anymore.
One by one, dozens of them rose again.
They didn't scream. They didn't groan. They just… stared forward.
Their steps were slow. But steady. Unstoppable. As if death was just a door they had walked through—and now they were back, with one purpose: to destroy Delmar.
The cheers turned into silence.
The tension returned—heavier this time. What they had just celebrated… was now turning into a nightmare.
"What… what did we just see?" whispered one of the soldiers.
Gavin stood still on the wall. His eyes were still on the battlefield, but his face had changed—from determined to deeply worried. His right hand gripped the stone railing so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
"Why are they getting up…" he whispered.
Beside him, Lord Renhal spoke in a rough voice, "This isn't a normal war…"
At another part of the wall, Aria was frozen, staring at the burning soldiers who still walked. Her breath was shaking. The fire in her hands now felt weak. It wasn't enough.
Lans stood on the other side, still holding the catapult's wheel. He said nothing. He couldn't believe what he was seeing.
And in the middle of the chaos, Aven—who had been standing quietly behind the guards—finally spoke.
"Nirzagal…" he said, his voice soft but clear, "…is a necromancer."
Everyone turned to look at Aven.
"What do you mean?" Lans asked quickly.
"He doesn't just kill," Aven said. "He controls death. And even worse… he binds souls."
Aven walked quickly toward Lans, his voice growing more urgent.
"It means, Lans… every person who dies in this battle—enemy or ally—their soul could be taken by him. Even… Delmar's own soldiers."
His words hung in the air like a knife.
Lans stared at Aven, his jaw tightening. "Then what can we do?"
Aven took a sharp breath. "I need to go to the sanctuary. There's an old book—about death magic. I can't fight him with a sword. But maybe… maybe there's something in it that can help me understand his limits."
He placed a hand on Lans' shoulder. "Hold them off. Don't let him take any more lives."
Without waiting for a reply, Aven turned and ran, his cloak flapping in the evening wind. He disappeared down the stone steps, heading toward the heart of the city.
And up on the wall, Lans stood still.
Staring at the army rising from the grave. Hearing the war drums that now sounded like the devil's heartbeat.
The war wasn't truly starting…And they still didn't know how to win against an enemy that couldn't die.
Aven's footsteps echoed as he ran through the stone corridors of the city. His cloak grew damp from the light rain. Every second felt like stolen time. Behind his sharp eyes, one mission filled his mind: to find the ancient book on necromancy before Nirzagal claimed more souls.
Meanwhile, the battle on Delmar's wall hadn't stopped. It had simply changed.
Catapults kept firing. Stones kept slamming into enemy bodies. But now, there was no cheering. Because no matter how hard the bodies were hit, as long as their souls remained inside Nirzagal's purple mist, they would rise again—less human each time, more empty.
"Look at that!" shouted a guard. He pointed to the Dravern soldiers still moving forward—arms hanging loose, heads tilted from broken necks, bodies still burning.
Aria looked at the scene, her jaw clenched. On the center tower, she readied her bow again. Fresh arrows were coated in fire, and the tube on her back with twelve arrows left felt like her final breath.
Lans, on the west side, stood behind the catapult. He spoke quietly to the unit leader.
"Make sure the next stones hit the middle of their lines. We won't kill them… but we can slow them down."
"Yes, sir!"
While more stones were launched, a voice rang out from the east wall.
The commander of the archers stood on a small stone platform, holding a red flag in his right hand.
"Archers, ready!"
Hundreds of bows were drawn at once. Rows of arrows lined up perfectly behind him.
"Wait for my signal!"
In the distance, the Dravern army had now come within 200 meters. They were running, dragging weapons, carrying giant ladders—and some were even crawling with what was left of their bodies.
The next second, the shout came like thunder:
"FIRE!!"
Dozens of arrows were fired, flying through the air like a rain of burning metal. They pierced chests, shoulders, and heads—many of the enemies dropped like broken puppets.
But… like a nightmare repeating itself, the bodies began to move again. Some stood up with arrows still stuck in their eyes. Some were still on fire from Aria's flames—but they kept walking.
"This… this is impossible…" whispered a young archer, his hands shaking.
Behind him, Lord Renhal gripped his sword with both hands. His eyes were red as he watched the enemies rise again.
"How…?" he muttered. "What do we do?"
Gavin stood nearby, still staring at the battlefield. His face was hard, but his eyes showed the truth—this wasn't about battle plans anymore. This was about the strength of the soul.
"We hold the wall," he said without turning. "We stand. Because if we fall… we'll rise again as something we no longer are."
Renhal slowly nodded.
The enemy's ladders were now clearly visible. Four huge ladders were being carried by the undead. The wood was black, covered in strange symbols—possibly magic from the land of Demmon—designed to be nearly indestructible.
"Shoot the ladders!" Gavin ordered.
Flaming arrows flew again, now aimed at the ladders. Some burned, but one—the biggest—remained standing. That's where the first enemy began to climb.
They climbed like wild animals—fast, silent, fearless.
Delmar's knights, who had been guarding the wall, stepped forward. They raised their swords and formed a line at the top of the ladder. The sound of clinking armor and heavy breathing filled the air.
When the first enemy reached the top, a knight charged and slashed it off the wall. The body smashed into the stone below and shattered.
But the next one came just seconds later.
"Kill them until they can't get back up!" one commander shouted.
But that was easier said than done. Many of the enemies who fell didn't break completely. They rose again at the bottom of the ladder—and started climbing once more.
And in the middle of the blood and sweat covering Delmar's walls, one thing became clear:
Death was not the end.
That day, Delmar wasn't just fighting enemies…They were fighting death itself.
Night slowly fell with no stars in the sky—almost as if the heavens refused to watch what was happening below. The choking purple mist still lingered, like spirits who hadn't yet moved on. The air smelled of metal, smoke, and something darker than death—a stench of ancient magic that bound souls and turned flesh into lifeless puppets.
Delmar's walls still stood—but were cracking under the weight of fear. Blood dripped from between the stones. Corpses—friend and foe—lay everywhere. But no one dared to touch them. Everyone knew… anyone who died here could rise again on the wrong side.
In the narrow rooms inside the city, the people prayed in silence. Children cried without sound. People held each other's hands—not to comfort, but just to know they were still alive.
On the tower, Aria stood frozen. Her hands were tired, but her eyes couldn't look away. Lans stood nearby, and for the first time since the battle began… he felt cold—not from the rain, but from something inside him beginning to break.
Far away, the sound of the war drums hadn't stopped. Slow. Steady. Still beating. Like a clock… counting down.
And in the darkness of the battlefield, Nirzagal's voice echoed—not in their ears, but deep in their hearts:
"You can fight… but I will still win. Because I don't need your life… I only need your death."