Diomede took five deliberate, heavy steps forward and planted himself at the ragged edge of the flickering torchlight. The twisted beasts, grotesque abominations of sinew and malformed flesh—skin stretched tight over jagged bones, faces warped into eternal snarls—jostled and shoved each other, their claws scrabbling desperately on the damp earth as they surged into a frenzied sprint toward the office.
Lily's bow sang sharply through the air. Her arrows thudded deep into the snarling horrors at the front, piercing throats and cracking skulls. The beasts howled—a wet, guttural sound—shaking the night. Francisco's fingers danced expertly over his pan flute, releasing a haunting melody that crawled into the beasts' minds. Their frantic charge slowed, muscles trembling beneath mottled hides as they staggered against the creeping paralysis of the music.
Diomede's greatsword came crashing down with brutal precision, cleaving through four writhing homunculi at once. Their limbs spasmed, dark ichor spraying the mud. One wild-eyed creature slipped past him, swinging its grotesque, clawed arms wildly like a cornered beast. Clayton seized the moment, his longsword arcing overhead in a deadly sweep that split the creature's head in two—thick blood dripping as it collapsed.
But the enemy pressed on relentlessly. Through the gate, more shadows poured like spilled ink. Arrows zipped past Clayton's head, embedding themselves with sickening finality in throats and shattered skulls beyond. "What are these things?" Clayton shouted, voice tight with tension.
Diomede's breath was steady, grim. "Does it matter right now?"
"Yes!" Clayton snapped, irritation cutting through the chaos.
Diomede's hand rose slowly, fingers splayed wide. A violent pulse of energy exploded outward, ripping through the mass of creatures—blowing chunks of flesh and bone into the air like shredded leaves. The ground shook beneath their pounding bodies as many fell, but more surged from the darkness, desperate to overwhelm.
Six of the beasts lunged at Diomede, their twisted limbs grappling him, dragging him down into a kneeled, bruising hold. His greatsword lay heavy in his grasp, but the weight of their snarling bodies pinned him firm. Clayton charged, desperation fueling his stride, but the shadows birthed more. One lunged at him with a jagged blade, its cruel edge swinging low—Clayton parried and drove his sword deep under its left armpit, then ripped the blade free with a savage swipe across its chest.
Two more seized him, claws tearing into his sword arm, another biting deeply into his left hip. From the dark, two more emerged, grotesque and relentless, yanking weapons—broken spearheads and rusted axe blades—from wounds embedded deep in their own bodies. One thrust a jagged spearhead at Clayton's exposed side. With grim focus, Clayton snatched the spear mid-thrust with his free arm and twisted it violently into the skull of the beast clutching his waist.
An axe swung in a brutal arc toward Clayton's face, but an arrow sang true, piercing the beast's right eye and halting the blow. The creature shrieked, staggering back as Clayton drove a brutal knee into the stomach of the one holding his sword arm. Pain cracked through the enemy's shriek. Free now, Clayton's sword swung in a devastating arc so forceful it spun him on the spot, decapitating two beasts standing before him.
He glanced back to Diomede just as the larger man pushed the pack off with a titanic effort, swinging his greatsword in long, crushing arcs. Each stroke cleaved bone and sinew, sending severed limbs and torsos raining to the ground in a sickening symphony of destruction.
Gasping for breath, Diomede locked eyes with Clayton. "They are homunculus—twisted abominations sewn from parts of men and beasts." His voice was low, laced with disgust. "Why they are here, I do not know."
Clayton's mind worked fast, filing away the grim information. Together, they stepped back into defensive positions before the office.
"More coming!" Francisco's shout cut through the brief lull.
The two turned, spotting a colossal silhouette advancing—massive and imposing, the ground trembling beneath each step. Diomede's eyes snapped shut for a moment, then opened glowing molten orange, piercing the night. The giant was Panagiot.
"It's not more of them," Clayton breathed with faint relief, "but the Elite."
Diomede's jaw tightened; no relief touched him.
Panagiot strode over the carnage with brutal ease, crushing mangled bodies beneath his armored boots without a flicker of hesitation. Torchlight revealed deep, raw cuts running across his scarred arms and battered armor—blood still weeping—but he showed no sign of pain or weakness. His gaze swept cold over the ruined ground.
"So, these weak bastards died," Panagiot sneered.
"Good," he spat, "It means our ranks have been culled of the weak."
A burning ember of rage kindled deep within Clayton. Raising his voice, he called out, "How fair are the survivors at the temple?"
Panagiot's grim gesture pointed toward a distant building, its roof engulfed in roaring flames. "They have been dealt with."
Confusion furrowed Clayton's brow. "What do you mean 'dealt with'?"
Panagiot's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Exactly what I said."
Clayton's thoughts shattered; words fled his mind. Diomede's grip tightened on his greatsword. He knew Panagiot would not allow them passage. Not while the Elite still drew breath.
Panagiot's voice cut the cold air. "Why do you fight with this man?" He gestured toward Diomede.
Clayton remained silent.
"A traitor then?" Panagiot pressed, voice venomous. "To your king, your country, your fallen brothers?"
Fueled by righteous fury, Clayton stepped forward. "I am no traitor!"
Panagiot laughed—a deep, mocking sound. "Please, boy, you stand with beasts and enemies of the king. I can smell their filth from here."
He advanced on them like a mountain unleashed. "I see I will have to kill you... and all inside."
Clayton's heart hammered as it had when facing the Gultonk, but this was no fear. It was the fierce fire that blazed when his greatsword had split the beast in two.
Rushing Panagiot, he shouted, "You killed them?!" His blade crashed against the massive battle axe wielded by the Elite. Sparks exploded into the night air with each strike.
Panagiot laughed after every clang. Diomede stood ready, watching intently as Clayton struck again and again.
"They were under my protection! Our protection!" Clayton roared. "The King's protection!"
Panagiot's iron grip seized Clayton's wrists, crushing. "Protection?" he snarled. "These outcasts, living on the edge of Umar beyond the King's shadow, are not worth saving!"
Clayton's hands began to buckle beneath the pressure. With a yell of pain, he bit down hard on Panagiot's massive fingers.
At that, Diomede exploded forward, every heavy step shaking the ground as he sprinted toward the fray.
Still laughing, Panagiot hoisted Clayton into the air and flung him like a ragdoll toward Diomede.
Clayton soared through the air as before when thrown by the Gultonk, but this time he flipped and landed on his feet. The momentum carried him forward in a roll, mud splashing.
Diomede swung his greatsword in a towering upward arc, missing Panagiot but knocking the Elite's helmet off with a thunderous clang.
The laughter died.
Panagiot raised his axe to meet Diomede's blade—sparks flew, crackling like lightning in the storm.
Clayton sat back, breath held, watching what seemed a myth brought to life.
Diomede planted his feet firmly in the mud, his breath slow and steady as the massive silhouette of Panagiot loomed from the darkness. The air thickened, charged with an almost electric tension, as if the very earth braced for the collision of two titans.
Panagiot's heavy boots sank deep into the soaked ground with each step, sending tremors through the earth. His armor was battered and scarred, blood seeping from the ragged wounds, yet his movements held the precision and power of a living mountain. His battle axe, nearly as tall as a man, swung with deadly grace and crushing force.
Diomede's greatsword felt like an extension of his arm—a weighty, living thing he wielded with the calm authority of a storm. His eyes burned with orange fire as he locked gazes with the elite knight, unflinching, unyielding.
The clash was cataclysmic.
Panagiot swung his axe in a wide arc, the heavy blade cleaving air with a roaring whoosh. Diomede met the strike head-on, greatsword crashing against axe with the sound of thunder. Sparks flew, lighting the night like lightning bolts in a storm.
Each strike sent shockwaves through the ground and rumbled through their bones. Diomede's arms trembled under the sheer force, but his stance never wavered. With every blow, he drove Panagiot backward, carving slashes across the elite's battered armor, drawing dark lines of blood and grime.
Panagiot roared—a deep, primal sound that shook the night—and charged forward, his body like an unstoppable juggernaut. He slammed his shoulder into Diomede, the impact like being hit by a boulder, nearly knocking the greatsword from his hands. But Diomede planted his feet again and shoved back, muscles straining, refusing to yield.
The two warriors circled, neither willing to give an inch. Panagiot's grip tightened on his axe handle until knuckles whitened, eyes burning with ruthless intent. Diomede's fingers curled around his sword's hilt with equal ferocity, veins standing out beneath his skin.
Then, with a sudden burst of speed that belied his size, Panagiot swung his axe low, aiming to cleave Diomede's legs. Diomede leapt back, the blade missing by inches, splintering the earth where he had just stood.
Without pause, Diomede retaliated with a devastating overhead strike, his greatsword crashing down like a falling tree. Panagiot caught the blade barehanded—fingers closing around the cold steel as if it were no more than a twig. His laugh was low and mocking. "You're strong, stranger, but not strong enough."
With a guttural grunt, Panagiot shoved the sword upward, trying to pry it free, but Diomede's grip was ironclad. Their muscles bulged, eyes locked in an unbreakable stalemate. The ground beneath their feet was churned to mud, footprints sinking deep.
Diomede's breath came hard, but he refused to relent. With a surge of power, he drove the sword forward, pressing the blade deep into Panagiot's flesh—tearing armor and muscle alike. Blood blossomed from the wound, but Panagiot's grip remained firm.
Then, as if shedding a cloak, Panagiot extended his left leg back, bracing himself. His feet slid against the wet earth, trying to leverage his immense bulk against Diomede's assault.
The two titans locked in place, locked in raw strength and willpower. Neither gave ground. Neither blinked.
Panagiot's lips curled into a cruel smile. "You wield a strange sword, stranger. But strength alone will not save you."
Diomede's eyes narrowed. He released his hold on the sword and stepped back, muscles coiled like a spring. Panagiot's confusion was brief—then pain exploded across his fingers as the greatsword sliced through, clattering heavily to the ground.
Seizing the moment, Diomede charged, axes drawn in each hand, swinging in a relentless barrage. Panagiot dodged with surprising agility, but the heavy blows still cut through armor, biting into flesh and drawing streaks of blood.
Diomede's right axe dropped to his belt; he threw the left in a wild arc, missing by inches, then closed in with a crushing punch aimed at Panagiot's jaw.
The elite knight raised his forearm to block, but the force shook him. As Panagiot's guard lowered, Diomede rolled back, snatched up his greatsword—and vanished like a shadow swallowed by the night.
Clayton's eyes darted wildly. Did he roll into the shadows?
Panagiot scanned the gloom, panic flickering in his eyes.
Diomede descended like a falling hammer, greatsword pulled back, crashing deep into Panagiot's chest.
Clayton watched breathlessly as the Elite staggered, coughing blood.
Panagiot, eyes wide in shock. "You… landed a hit…" he gasped.
Diomede pulled the blade free without a word.
Panagiot sank to his knees, wounded but defiant. "They will find you. They always find you…"
Diomede turned away and strode to Clayton, leaving the defeated elite behind.
The young knight looked up, feeling as if Diomede towered on a mountain cliff above him.
"Get up, little cub," Diomede said, hauling Clayton to his feet.
"How bad are your hands?"
Pain crashed through Clayton in waves—burning, bones grinding like shattered pebbles beneath skin.
"Come. Kira should be able to help you."
Inside, Clayton cast one last glance at Panagiot, who slumped, head bowed low.
Francisco burst forward, eyes shining with excitement. "I can't believe what I just watched! A clash of titanic warriors!"
Kira placed her hands gently over Clayton's aching ones. Her touch felt like one of a mothers concerned embrace. Warm light spilled, easing the fire and stiffness. His side loosened, the pounding subsided.
She turned to Diomede with a hesitant look, but he pulled away. "No aid for me."
The five shook off the rain and stepped inside.
"What now?" Lily asked.
Diomede crossed his arms, nodding toward Kira. "Well? Are we done here?"
Kira closed her eyes, silence thick. Then, she spoke calmly: "We are done. Whatever was here… causing all of this is no longer present."
"What of the undead?" Francisco asked, tone drenched in fear.
Kira shook her head, "I don't sense they are still active. The knight must have dealt with them."
Lily scoffed at the mention of the knights.
Clayton sheathed his sword, relief leaking out in a breath.
"Then I should tell the survivors."
He led the group toward the mess hall.
Clayton knocked, voice steady. "Don't be alarmed. It's Clayton."
Locks clicked, footsteps shuffled, and the door creaked open.
A woman peeked out, drenched and trembling. "Are the monsters gone? Are they dead?"
Clayton nodded, a faint smile. "They've been dealt with."
"And the knights? Are they still outside?"
A shiver ran through Diomede, Kira's face clouded. Lily's skin prickled with unease.
Clayton opened his mouth, but Diomede shoved him aside, kicking the door wide open.
The sight inside froze the group where they stood.
Clayton's rage flared, heart pounding so fiercely he felt it might burst his chest plate.
Kira collapsed in panic, clutching her head as sharp pain cut her core.
A wave of horror slammed into Kira like a physical blow. The room was a tableau of carnage—the torn bodies of survivors twisted into a grotesque mound, flesh and bone fused into a living nightmare.
The stench was suffocating—a thick, iron-laden fog that clung to her lungs and made her eyes water.
Kira's knees buckled instantly, and she collapsed, clutching her head as if to keep the screaming silence at bay. The pain was not just physical—it was something deeper, a crushing grief that clawed at her soul.
Images flashed behind her closed eyelids: the faces of those lost, the hope they once carried, now shattered beyond repair.
A terrible ringing filled her ears, drowning out everything but the agony that shattered her mind into a thousand shards.
Her breaths came in ragged gasps, each one stabbing like a knife.
Francisco wrapped his arms around her, a fragile anchor in the storm of her despair, while Lily instinctively positioned herself between Kira and the horrific sight, as if her presence alone could shield them both.
This was not just loss.
It was a wound carved into the very essence of her being.
Diomede's eyes darkened to molten orange, his frame swelling, shifting with primal power.
The woman who opened the door was no longer whole—just a severed head, suspended by some cruel magic.
A chilling chuckle echoed from the mass.
From the shadows, a hooded figure emerged, face obscured beneath a heavy hood.
"Just in time for the fireworks," the figure said, raising long, skeletal fingers and snapping them sharply.
Diomede whipped around, voice bursting with urgency as he cast a spell.
A blinding light erupted, engulfing the room in pure, searing radiance.
Walls shattered and exploded outward; splinters and debris tossed skyward.
The light spread beyond the village, devouring everything in its path.
When the gnarly radiance finally faded, the entire settlement lay consumed—wiped clean in a furious blaze of white fire.