The journey to Sunstead was a blur of stone roads and burning skies. Soldiers marched with grim faces, their armor rattling like funeral bells. Every step carried them deeper into damnation.
In less than six hours, the eclipse would reach its zenith. When it did, the cursed mark Gareth bore would drag legions of horrors into the world. Sunstead—the radiant city of banners, towers, and bustling markets—was about to become the devil's den on earth.
"Damn it, why so sudden?" Gareth muttered, his wrists raw from chains. Captain Ryn's power had warped the journey—five days collapsed into two hours—but even that felt too slow, like sprinting into fire with oil for blood. His face was calm, but inside, every heartbeat screamed with dread. If this is the curse… then every death out there is on me.
Ahead, the first wave had already begun. The portal split open like a wound in the sky, and from its depths stepped a figure clad in blackened armor. Each movement was slow, deliberate, as if the world itself bent to his pace. He bore no banner, no shield, no companions—only the stillness of an executioner.
The clash came swift. Sunstead's warriors surged forward, but against him their steel was nothing but rain against stone. One by one they fell, their cries drowned by the rhythm of slaughter.
Then a young warrior broke through the line. His armor bore the golden crest of the Sun, his blade trembling in his grip though his eyes burned with faith. Celestial del Xenta.
"Why are you doing this? Answer me!" Xenta cried, his voice cracking under the weight of both fear and courage. "Who are you!?"
The dark warrior halted. His helm tilted slightly, and when he spoke, his voice was iron wrapped in abyss.
"Who am I…? I have fought for eons. I no longer remember my name. All you need to know"—his gauntlet clenched tighter around his weapon—"is that every battle births a demon. I am Shalkeer, the warrior of demons—the one battle itself fears."
"And I…" Xenta raised his sword toward the blazing sun, his voice trembling into a prayer. "…I am the warrior of light. By the will of the Sun, I will fight you, and I will save my people!"
The bystanders pressed against the walls. Pilgrims and townsfolk wept, their voices breaking between screams and whispered prayers.
"Luminara watches us… even here in Sunstead."
"Saints, save him…"
For a heartbeat, Gareth felt their faith press against his chest like a weight. Even now, with death before them, they still looked to the Sun. They still believed. And Gareth—shackled, cursed—envied them.
Shalkeer chuckled, the hollow sound echoing through his helm. "Fight me? You do not even deserve the mercy of death by my hand."
The clash was swift, merciless. Xenta struck with fury, the sun's light flashing along his blade. But each strike broke like glass against the mountain. In one final motion, Shalkeer's greatsword came down. A gasp, a thud—and Xenta's head rolled across the stones, the golden crest of the Sun sinking into blood.
The crowd screamed. Soldiers faltered. Gareth's stomach twisted. So that's the weight of the mark. This curse doesn't just summon monsters. It summons legends to kill me.
The gates of Sunstead groaned open. Gareth stumbled out with the soldiers, his chains finally cut. For the first time in days, the weight was gone—yet the mark still burned, etched into his veins like fire.
The battlefield sprawled before him, a graveyard waiting to be filled. Smoke clawed at the heavens. Corpses littered the earth. And at the center of it all stood Shalkeer.
The warrior of demons moved like a shadow given flesh, each strike deliberate, efficient, final. Dozens had already fallen, their blood seeping into the cracked soil.
"Gods…" a soldier whispered, voice breaking. "He's… alone."
Captain Ryn's jaw tightened. He stepped forward, planting himself between Gareth and the battlefield. His hand hovered over his sword, and for the first time since Gareth had met him, his voice wavered—not with fear, but with the weight of decision.
"I swore to protect this city, not drag cowards to judgment," he muttered, half to himself, half to his men. His eyes fixed on Shalkeer. "If that monster keeps walking, Sunstead won't last an hour."
His blade sang free of its scabbard, trembling—not from weakness, but from the sheer force of his own resolve.
"Captain, wait—" one soldier cried.
Ryn ignored him. He looked back at Gareth, and in that fleeting moment, Gareth saw something unexpected—trust. Or perhaps desperation.
"Keep him alive," Ryn ordered. "If I fall, he may be the only one who can end this."
Then he charged.
The earth shook as steel met steel. Sparks scattered like stars when Ryn's blade clashed against Shalkeer's obsidian greatsword. The shockwave tore across the battlefield, scattering dust and blood alike.
Shalkeer didn't move. His helm tilted, and a low chuckle rumbled beneath the black iron. "A captain dares to stand before me? Bold… or foolish."
Ryn gritted his teeth, pushing forward with raw willpower. "I don't need to win. I just need to make you bleed."
Black steel swung, tearing through the air like a guillotine. Ryn parried, stumbling back as the ground split beneath him. He spat blood, steadied himself, and lifted his sword again.
Watching from the ridge, Gareth felt his chest tighten. He was free, yet powerless. His freedom meant nothing. Every clash reminded him of his weakness. Run. Hide. Vanish. The thought echoed. But another voice whispered—The beholder holds the key.
Ryn's roar dragged his attention back. "If the sun sees me fall, it'll rise brighter tomorrow. Try me, demon!"
Steel crashed again and again. Yet for the first time, Shalkeer paused. His strikes slowed, his helm dipped, and a faint rumble escaped him—not rage, but something quieter.
"Monster…" he repeated, voice distant, almost questioning. "Once… I too fought for something. Now… all I hear is the echo of battle."
The soldiers faltered. Whispers rippled through the ranks. Had the warrior of demons just spoken with… doubt?
Ryn's gaze sharpened. "Then remember what you fought for. Because today, you fall here."
For a fleeting instant, Shalkeer hesitated. Behind the helm, a memory flickered: a battlefield under a blazing sun, a name long forgotten. A crack formed—not in his armor, but in his certainty.
Gareth saw it. His heart lurched. He hesitated. Even demons can hesitate.
Ryn pressed forward, his sword blazing like sunlight. "If you've forgotten who you are," he roared, "then let me remind you with steel!"
The clash rang out, steel shrieking against steel. Shalkeer's blade wavered, if only for a breath.
"Do you think steel can remind me of what I was?" he muttered, almost to himself. "Or will it only bury me deeper?"
From the ridge, Gareth leaned closer to the guards. His voice was low, urgent, conspiratorial. "You see it too. Even the warrior of demons doubts himself. Sunstead might survive this day—but only if we keep watching. He's unraveling."
The guards stiffened. One muttered, shaken, "He's right… the demon faltered."
And for the first time, Gareth felt the smallest spark of relief. If Shalkeer can doubt… then he can break.
Ryn's breath came ragged, blood dripping from a cut along his cheek. His shield was split down the center, his sword chipped at the edge, yet his stance remained unbroken. All around him, the battlefield was a storm of screams and steel, but his eyes never left the dark figure in front of him.
"Move, Gareth!" Ryn barked, voice hoarse but sharp. "If you stay, you'll die with the rest of us!"
Shalkeer tilted his head, shadows rippling across his armor like living smoke. "Another insect standing between me and silence." His voice was calm, detached—yet with each word the very air trembled.
Ryn spat blood and raised his blade, the glow of faint golden runes flaring along his arm. Gareth froze—this wasn't the weary captain who had escorted him from the cells. This was a man reaching into the deepest part of his will, burning his life to buy just a little more time.
The runes flared brighter, his sword humming with restrained power. "You want silence, demon?" Ryn growled. "Then you'll have to take it from me!"
He charged, blade cutting through the air with golden arcs, clashing against Shalkeer's blackened greatsword. Sparks burst, light against shadow, as each strike shook the ground beneath them. The soldiers who could still stand watched with wide eyes—not a captain, not a weary commander—but a hero forcing himself past his limit.
Ryn's magic pulsed brighter, his body cracking under the strain. "For Sunstead… for my men… for the light!" he roared. He drove his broken shield into Shalkeer's chest, forcing the warrior back a step—the first time anyone had made the demon yield.
Even Gareth, usually cold and calculating, felt his chest tighten. Ryn wasn't fighting for himself. He was fighting for every life behind him, knowing full well this battle would be his last.
Shalkeer's voice rumbled low, almost… amused. "So you burn your soul to shine brighter. Admirable. Futile."
The two clashed again, light and shadow, life and death—and for the first time, Shalkeer wasn't simply slaughtering. He was engaged.
The battlefield had long since turned into a graveyard. Piles of broken steel, shattered banners, and bodies littered the earth. Yet, in the heart of it all, two figures still clashed.
Captain Ryn's armor was dented, his arms trembling with strain, but his blade never faltered. Hours had passed—what should have been minutes of survival had become an endless struggle.
Shalkeer, the dark warrior, pressed forward again and again, his blade sweeping with monstrous force. Sparks erupted each time steel met steel, lighting the night sky like fireflies. And still, Ryn stood.
The soldiers could no longer join the fight—they had all pulled back, forming a wide ring, watching in awe and terror. Whispers spread like wildfire:
"He's still alive…"
"Captain Ryn hasn't fallen!"
"He fights the demon alone…"
Magic swirled between their blades now. Ryn's runes glowed bright gold, burning his veins like molten fire, while Shalkeer's strikes trailed with shadows thick as tar, each swing a storm of curses.
At one point, Shalkeer's sword struck Ryn across the chest, sending him flying into the dirt. The soldiers gasped—but Ryn forced himself up, coughing blood, his face set with iron resolve.
"You think… I'll kneel?" Ryn spat blood onto the ground, gripping his flaming sword. "As long as I breathe, I stand!"
Shalkeer's helm tilted, his voice low and resonant.
"Hours… and still you rise. Do you not fear death, man?"
Ryn roared back, charging with a flame-coated strike that split the ground. Their weapons collided, shaking the very air.
The battle became legend in real time—each passing moment etching Ryn's defiance into the souls of his men.
And for the first time, Shalkeer felt something foreign stirring within him—not disdain, not rage… but respect.
The clash had raged for hours. Soldiers fell in droves, yet Shalkeer stood unmoved, his dark blade dripping with blood, his armor gleaming under the dying light. Captain Ryn, battered but unyielding, still fought on, refusing to let his men break.
Then it happened. The veil of shadow above began to fade—the eclipse was ending. A sliver of sunlight broke through, and with it came a fragile hope.
"Hold on!" Ryn shouted hoarsely. "The light is returning! Stand your ground!"
For the first time since the battle began, the men felt courage. Their breaths quickened; their swords lifted once more.
But Shalkeer froze mid-step, his helm tilting to the sky. Slowly, he lowered his weapon and stretched out one gauntleted hand.
The battlefield fell silent.
The air grew dense, crushing. Magic surged from him like a storm, twisting the heavens themselves. His voice rumbled in a tongue older than memory, and before their eyes, the moon trembled.
The soldiers gasped as the faint glow of dawn dimmed. The celestial body, The moon itself shuddered against his will, then with a pull that defied nature, Shalkeer dragged the eclipse back into place.
Darkness returned. The fragile hope of victory was ripped away.
Shalkeer's voice thundered across the dead-strewn field, mocking, merciless:
"Not yet. This night belongs to me."
The soldiers faltered, despair clawing into their hearts. But Captain Ryn planted his sword into the ground, using it as a pillar to keep himself standing. His chest heaved, his blood dripped, yet his eyes burned brighter than ever.
"You…" he spat, glaring at the figure who could command the very sky. "You think pulling down the heavens will break us? Then you've underestimated men who fight for more than themselves."
Shalkeer chuckled, slow and cruel, as he lifted his weapon again.
"Fight me then, Captain. Fight me until your body turns to ash. It will change nothing. The dawn will never come while I still draw breath."
And so the duel continued, two wills colliding beneath a stolen moon—the man who refused to fall, and the demon-warrior who refused to let night end.
The clash rang across the broken battlefield, steel against steel, magic against sheer will. Hours had passed, yet Captain Ryn stood. His armor was shredded, his blood pooling at his feet, but his eyes still burned.
Shalkeer's strikes were flawless, each blow carrying the weight of death itself. Yet no matter how many times the captain staggered, he rose again.
At last, Shalkeer paused. His blade hovered inches from Ryn's chest, yet he did not strike. For the first time in ages, the dark warrior hesitated. His voice came low, almost curious:
"Tell me… why do you fight? Your men are ash, your body broken, your sun chained. What drives you to stand before me still?"
Ryn spat blood, clutching his sword tighter. "Because…" he rasped, "a man's worth is not measured by how long he lives… but by what he refuses to surrender. I fight because if I fall here, so will the world behind me."
The words cut deeper than any blade.
Shalkeer tilted his helm, as if weighing them. For a heartbeat, the battlefield felt still. Then he chuckled, not mockingly this time—but with something darker, conflicted.
"Do you not tire of carrying burdens that will crush you? Do you not hate the gods who abandon you, the sun that falters, the life that fades? I have fought for eons, Captain… and all I have found is emptiness."
His gauntlet clenched, shadows curling around him. "I am what remains when hope dies. A warrior shaped only by war. Tell me, Ryn… is your resolve worth more than the centuries of despair that forged me?"
Ryn forced himself upright, bloodied but unbroken. His voice rose, steady and firm:
"Yes. Because unlike you, I do not fight alone."
The soldiers who still breathed cried out in defiance, rallying behind their captain.
For the first time, Shalkeer's silence lingered. Behind his helm, unseen, something old and buried stirred—a question he had long silenced. A sliver of doubt.
And as he raised his blade once more, his voice carried less mockery, and more… weight.
"Then show me, Captain. Show me a reason to believe the dawn is worth waiting for."
The battlefield had grown silent except for the clash of two warriors — Captain Ryn and Shalkeer. The soldiers dared not breathe too loud, for every sound felt like it would shatter the fragile balance of the fight.
But then, something changed.
Behind the helm, Shalkeer's gaze shifted. His burning eyes — not crimson, not gold, but something older, something that carried eons of ruin — locked on Gareth. For the first time, his voice carried something beyond mockery.
> "So… it's you. You're the one I must kill… to be free."
The words dripped with ancient weight, yet offered no answer to why.
Gareth's chest tightened. His legs trembled, instinct screaming at him to run. He did—stumbling back, eyes wide with terror as the dark warrior stepped toward him. The murderous intensity in Shalkeer's presence crushed the air, a predator finally marking its prey.
But as Gareth fled, memory struck him like a blade. Months earlier, in Aurensport… the three warriors. His comrades. He had left them to die so he could live. Their faces flashed before his eyes, twisted in pain, in betrayal.
His flight halted. Guilt dug into him deeper than any sword. He turned, shaking, and saw death descending. Shalkeer's great blade carved the air, black magic trailing like chains of night, aimed for Gareth's neck.
But steel rang against steel.
Ryn stood between them, his battered body taking the blow, his shield shattering under the force. His voice thundered with raw will:
> "You'll have to cut through me first!"
The impact sent cracks spidering across the ground, the sheer force of Shalkeer's strike enough to level ten men. Yet Ryn did not falter. He braced himself, blood dripping, his broken sword still raised high to guard the trembling boy behind him.
Gareth's eyes widened, not at Shalkeer, but at the man before him. The captain who refused to bend. The shield that still held when everything else had fallen.
And for the first time… Gareth felt the weight of what it meant not to run.
The battlefield roared, but inside Gareth's chest was only silence. His heartbeat drowned everything else out.
Ryn stood before him, shield splintered, blood staining the earth — and still, he fought. Every strike of Shalkeer's blade cracked bone and stone alike, yet the captain held his ground.
Gareth staggered back a step, his hands trembling. Why me? Why is he protecting me?
Shalkeer's words echoed like a curse:
> "You're the one I must kill… to be free."
His breath hitched. Why Me?
Then came the other voice — not Shalkeer's, but the ones buried deep in his memory. The screams of Aurensport. The three warriors he had abandoned to die. Their faces stared back at him in the darkness of his thoughts, eyes burning with betrayal.
I ran. I always run. And still… someone else bleeds for me.
His legs wanted to move again, to flee like before. But his chest burned with shame.
He gritted his teeth, fists clenching. For the first time, he dared to ask himself the question he had buried:
Am I a coward? Or am I something more?
His gaze lifted, meeting the back of Captain Ryn's battered frame. The man wasn't unbreakable. He was human, fragile, every breath earned through sheer willpower. And yet he stood. Not for himself… but for Gareth.
A weight pressed down on Gareth's shoulders, heavier than fear. Responsibility.
If I keep running… then Ryn dies for nothing. And Shalkeer wins.
Slowly, Gareth's trembling eased. His body straightened. The guilt of Aurensport did not vanish, but it began to shape into something sharper.
Resolve.
He stepped forward, voice unsteady but growing firmer:
"I won't run anymore."
Ryn's shield finally shattered under Shalkeer's crushing strike, the captain collapsing to one knee. The warrior of demons raised his blade for the finishing blow—
But another sword clashed against it.
Sparks flew. Gareth stood between them, his grip unsteady, arms shaking under the weight of Shalkeer's strength. His eyes were wide, brimming with terror—yet he did not move.
"Gareth…?" Ryn's hoarse voice broke through the clash.
The boy's lip trembled, but he forced the words out, louder than he thought he could:
"No more running. I'll fight too… teacher."
The word tore out of him like a confession, and in it was everything—his shame, his guilt, and his desperate hope.
Shalkeer's gaze burned through the helm, curious, almost… intrigued.
Gareth's knees buckled, fear clawing at his chest, and tears streamed down his cheeks. His voice cracked, yet it carried the weight of a vow:
"I… I mean something. I'll try to be more!"
He screamed through his tears, raising the blade with trembling resolve, and charged.
Shalkeer's laughter rumbled, cold and cruel, yet beneath it a shadow of recognition flickered—like the demon warrior had seen this fire long ago.
The clash echoed across the battlefield, and in that moment, the frightened boy began to break into someone new.