"Ifo, the Crimson Vanguard, struck down ten thousand undead beneath Elynthi's burning sky—not to silence them, but to give them rest. His blade sang lullabies of mercy, and the dead… finally slept."
— Memories of the Mana War, Chronicle III: The Sword Called Music
The Rot-Blessed Siege
Rain whispered above the thunder, a dull sheet of falling sky brushing over broken stone, rotted wood, and the tattered banners of the Haiden Company's outpost. The stench of wet decay—mold, blood, and mana-burnt corpses—clung to the air. Once a proud frontier guildhall under the Tropico Banner, the outpost now lay in splinters, overrun by the dead. Yet it stood like a ghost lantern in the forest, flickering faintly with the will to be reclaimed.
The Tropico Expedition Force, divided into five advanced parties, moved through the shallow mud with coordinated tension.
Parties 4, 5, and 7—the vanguard phalanx—took the lead. Behind them 2 kilometers away, Parties 1 and 2, spearheaded by legends like Julius Deterro, marched like sleeping giants—slow and decisive, moving forward to reinforce Seth Valcos' advance.
"Formation hold," barked Valcos, voice a growl in the rain.
He was drenched from brow to breastplate, but his cerulean sash still fluttered with discipline.
Steel clanged against shields as the shielder line made noise on purpose—distraction tactics. The undead responded like moths to flame. From behind, elemental mages fire and upon cast precise area-of-effect spells. Bolts of combustion, lances of gale, and stone cannons. Between the shielder's legs and over their shoulders, blade dancers lanced through with precise strikes, severing bone and rotting muscle.
Then came the rhythm: Clang. Clang. Clang.
Swords and maces slammed against shields, a metallic heartbeat to bait the horde.
Behind the second row marched Mina and Ashe, rain dripping from their hoods. They flanked Lotha, the soft-spoken priestess whose chants painted warmth against the cold. Ashe and Mina remained close behind her—vigilant, weapons ready, eyes darting.
Lotha, An aspiring Paladin and Priestess of Party 5, was pale from exhaustion but unwavering in her chanting. Her voice carried with unnatural clarity:
"Shield of Valor, grace our flesh. Ward the bite, burn the rot—bless the breath of life anew."
Golden rings of sigil-light spun from her staff, latching onto shielders and vanguard fighters, forming protective films over their armor. Occasionally, her other hand dipped into a reliquary at her side, anointing symbols of resistance against Dungeon Rot—the dreaded infection that turned bitten mortals into Blights.
"Listen," Lotha said, voice calm but firm, "If you're bitten, especially by a dungeon-born undead—there's a chance you'll be infected with Dungeon Rot."
Mina's brow furrowed. "Dungeon Rot?"
Lotha nodded grimly. "A mana-borne affliction. Slowly turns the living into Blight—half-dead, half-alive. Their soul stays screaming inside, but the body only serves the dungeon now. It's... worse than death."
Ashe's knuckles whitened around his blade. "Is it curable?"
"If caught quickly. Divinity Spells can purge it before the transformation finishes. But hesitate—" she hesitated herself, "—and we lose them."
The Blight Curse — A Half-Life
Just as her words sank in, a scream tore from the front ranks.
"MY FOOT!"
A blade dancer from Party 4 toppled backward, clutching his ankle in agony. Another pulled him to the rear as Lotha rushed forward. The man's boot was shredded, bone showing beneath bloodied flesh, an undead had crawled beneath the shielder's and sunk its jagged teeth into an exposed boot.
Lotha reacted instantly, sprinting forward. "Hold him steady!"
The man's veins began to blacken as a tendril of greenish rot pulsed under his skin, crawling upward like vines seeking a new host. His eyes started to fog.
"Dungeon Rot," Lotha muttered grimly. "A Viral did this."
She placed her hand above the gashing wound.
A golden radiance erupted from her palm. Warding Divinity.
"O' light that severs the cord between corruption and soul—purge and preserve—"
"Unbind thy will from rot—Break the Blight!"
The holy incantation flared—burning the infection out of the man's veins. Screams turned to gasps. Smoke hissed from his skin. The Dungeon Rot retreated like a snake scalded by sun.
Mina pressed her hands against the wound, sealing the muscle with practiced calm before tightly wrapping up the wound.
Ashe tore a scroll from his belt pouch and read quickly.
A white glow shimmered from the torn parchment. "Sanati: Tenēre Sanguinem."The bleeding stopped.
The man, pale and still shaking, whispered thanks before being hauled off by Party 4's rear guard.
As the advance reached the gates of the outpost, they met true resistance. No longer just stragglers, the forward undead were dense—ranks upon ranks of hollow soldiers, each dragging a weapon and wet armor, now animated by dungeon magic.
And at the front, cutting through them with terrifying ease—was Seth Valcos.
He hadn't even unsheathed the longsword slung across his back he moved like a siege tower given breath. Instead, he struck with A gauntleted fist shattered skulls, his cestus leaving trails of viscera. Bones cracked, eyes popped, and blood splattered on his cloak like fresh paint.. His form was brutal and direct, the battlefield bowing around his aura.
"Where is it?" Valcos muttered. His breath steamed from his nose like a beast. "Where's your damn master?"
He already knew.
Reports had reached him earlier from his scouts—that the Dungeon Master, a creature dubbed the Cuirassier, had left its dungeon and overtaken the Haiden outpost.A breach like that wasn't just irregular.
It was unholy.
"Hold the line!" Valcos shouted as they reached the crumbling wooden gates.
The gates had turned into a nest.
Undead poured out of windows, walls, and broken doors. The rotted banner of the Haiden Company sagged above, drenched in blood.
Valcos raised his fist. "Wreck Havoc"
Behind him, the wall of shielder's dismantled and surged forward.
Maces slammed into skulls, swords cracked ribs. Undead were forced back.
Fireballs from Party 5 exploded across the yard, lighting the mud aflame with magical fire.
The assault had begun. The undead would not relent. But neither would they.
And behind the chaos, somewhere within the center of the ruined outpost, the Cuirassier waited—its aura like a drumbeat of rage in the background of the rain.
The Crimson Cuirassier
The storm wept over the blood-slick ruins. Where once laughter and chatter echoed between timber walls, now the wind howled through splintered beams and broken windows, carrying the stench of rotted flesh and scorched mana. The Haiden Company's outpost had become a mausoleum, its heart overtaken by death.
And in that heart… It waited.
The Cuirassier sat motionless upon the edge of the broken fountain. The statue once in the center—an angelic knight—lay decapitated, its stone head half-submerged in the bloody basin. The red-eyed undead warlord sat in haunting silence, as if in contemplation, its posture almost meditative.
Its cuirass glinted with cursed mana—a dulled shimmer of once-holy steel now defiled. The engraved sigils on its chestplate were warped from age and corruption. The tall officer's headdress, reminiscent of the Blue Army's Vanguard Hats during the Mana Wars, still sat perfectly aligned on its rotting skull. Beneath that hat, a half-shattered face of splintered bone and ruptured muscle stared forward. Mangled lips curled into a mocking grin.
And at its side, locked in a holster stained black with blood, rested its heavy straight sabre—the weapon that Tropico scouts described in hushed voices. It had yet to draw it. It had no need to.
Not yet.
It could hear them—the intruders—the living.
Shields clashing. Magic humming. Voices barking orders. Swords cleaving.
The outpost's desecrated gates had been breached.
The undead general stood.
The Cuirassier's rising body made a horrific sound—not of armor creaking—but of decayed sinew snapping back into form. It lifted its arms with a rigid, unnatural motion. As it reached skyward, a wave of dungeon mana surged outward from its chest. The very walls of the outpost trembled. Its red eyes flared like beacons in the storm.
And then it screamed— An almost soundless silent roar that rippled across the outpost not through air, but through mana itself.
One by one, corpses around the outpost awakened.
From beneath floorboards, from beneath rubble, from inside overturned wagons and shattered stables—limbs twitched, eyes lit with crimson hunger.
Dozens—no, hundreds of undead responded to their commander's will.
Inside the shattered mess hall, skeletal archers reassembled their arms and gripped rusted bows. In the central barracks, mangled sentinels rose with dislocated necks and broken spines. In the watchtower, a long-dead sniper locked glowing eyes onto the gate with a bone-hiss.
The entire outpost came alive.
The Cuirassier stepped down from the fountain, slowly unsheathing its sabre with a deafening rasp—its mana pulsed through the blade, sending blood across the ground trembling like it recognized its master's wrath.
As it walked forward, it dragged the heavy blade along the ground, carving a glowing red rune trail behind it.
It was not just defending the outpost.
It was challenging the invaders.
Meanwhile, at the outpost's front gate—
Valcos halted as the rumble of awakening mana shook the earth.
He raised a fist, signaling the Parties to hold position.
"...It's awake!" he shouted.
Valcos activated his Technique: Thermo-Imbuement.
From his position at the vanguard, steam hissed and rose from his bare arms. Rain sizzled into vapor the moment it touched his skin, rolling off in tendrils of heat. The blood on his metal cestus had begun to evaporate, hissing violently as if refusing to cling to him.
His eyes were bloodshot, glowing faintly from inner combustion. Heat coursed through his bulging veins like molten iron.
Then, with a sharp metallic grind, he drew his longsword——now radiating an intense red-orange glow.It shimmered like a blade pulled from a forge.
Rain continued to fall, but it never reached him—every droplet that dared to touch him was met with a hiss and a curl of steam.
Valcos stood tall, a furnace in human form, no longer hiding the truth of his adventurer's path.
He was a Warlord.
Warlord (Class)
A rare frontline adventurer class that blends martial mastery with mana-fueled body enhancement. Warlords are not mere brutes—they are tactical juggernauts trained to dominate the battlefield through sheer presence, heated imbuements, and overwhelming aggression. Their Techniques often involve elemental infusion, field control, and personal enchantments that push their bodies far beyond normal limits. A true Warlord turns every inch of the battlefield into a crucible—and only they emerge unburned.
Valcos exhaled slowly and began walking forward alone.Toward the Outpost Square.
Toward the Cuirassier.
The Showdown
Behind Valcos, the shielders locked their stances—thick tower shields grounded into soaked, bloodied stone. Blade dancers stood just behind them, bodies coiled like springs. Mages, their robes fluttering with residual energy, rapidly traced warding glyphs into the air, forming a luminous semi-circle of layered enchantments.
And then it came.A pulse.Like a hammer against the stream of mana—raw, ancient, and deliberate.
It silenced the rain for a heartbeat.
The expedition force had reached the heart of the outpost, and in its center stood the Cuirassier—not charging, not howling—waiting.
The tall undead was no mere corpse. It was regal in stature, menacing in silence. Its red, shredded skull glowed from within, like a furnace of dungeon mana. The straight sabre in its hand gleamed unnaturally, heavy, subtly like a dueling blade, yet brimming with unholy weight. The armor it wore, an enchanted cuirass from the old Mana-Wars era, shimmered in the rain. Its headdress, mockingly stylish, was unmistakably fashioned after a Blue Army's Vanguard Officer Hat, worn by generals long dead.
It stood in a fencing pose—still, grounded, watching.
And behind it, the dormant undead stirred.
Thousands of them. Waiting.
A command hierarchy—unnatural, intelligent.
Valcos narrowed his gaze.The battle had not started.It was about to be conducted.
And the Expedition Force knew it.
Across the outer perimeter, members of Parties 4, 5, and 7 began triggering their Personal Techniques, the air thick with mana as color-shifted auras lit up the storm-washed Outpost. The Mages' chants grew louder, interweaving like a symphony of spells—spells layered with amplified enchantments, ready to withstand what came next.
Trevus, near Nira, raised his twin sabers high as he whispered a blessing taught only within the Legion's oldest sects, marking his past as a former Legionnaire.
"Ero Mar—Blue Flame, Guide My Blade. By flame and by oath, may the line hold."
Blue battle runes appeared across the flat of both blades, glowing like etchings from another age. His sabers hummed with mana—not for power, but for unity.
Lotha, a priest yet stoic holstered her staff then, activated her Southern Guardblade.
A broad blade unfolded from her gauntlet, like a blooming spear of metal, and her voice cut through the storm:
"Blessings of steel, thorns of light—protect us."
With a flick of her finger, her blade flared radiant yellow, prepared to burn curses and hexes on contact. She took her place near the front, anchoring the formation's right flank.
Nira, the rogue, let out a low breath.
Her mana darkened, becoming dense, weighty—as if the very light around her feared her presence.
Her spell Death's Embrace activated. An application of Death Speaker.
Shadow poured around her like liquid ink, forming a second skin of protective gloom.Offensive enchantments wouldn't land. Not now.
She held her twin daggers backward, crouched low—eyes glimmering silver beneath the hood.
This was her world: chaos, movement, and precision kills.
Then there was Mina, the Null, age sixteen, but already a soldier carved by iron.
She unsheathed her weapons:
Mischief — a straight-edged dagger pulsing with unstable mana, designed to destabilize enchantments with a single slash.
Ruth — a push dagger made for humanoid targets, made of matte iron and cold purpose.
She said nothing. But she was already moving—her footwork light, weaving between the others with the grace of a killer.
Ashe, the Illusionist, stood calmly in the backline.
He didn't raise his hands. He didn't glow. He simply closed his eyes… and let go.
His new Hallucination Technique slid into place like a silk curtain across the battlefield. The undead within the Outpost began twitching—breaking rhythm, looking in wrong directions, striking at illusions. Their movement became sloppy, misdirected. Perfect disruption.
He was the chaos in clarity.
And yet—
The Cuirassier did not twitch.
From afar, Ashe felt it. The illusion failed to cloud it's mind.
"W-what?" he muttered to himself in fear.
And when the Cuirassier slowly turned its cracked skull toward him—it grinned.Mangled teeth dripping ichor, its jaw unnaturally wide.
It knew.
It saw Ashe.
And somehow—it had chosen.
That Ashe would be last.