The distant sound of alarm bells echoed through the stone walls. Maps and reports piled up on the great central table, illuminated only by the bluish light of the crystals suspended in the air.
Phoebe stood over the map of the Marquisate. Her hands moved calmly, tracing invisible lines while the messengers waited in silence.
"Notify the priests of the second circle," she said, the voice serene but firm. "I want the barrier reinforced over the eastern sector of the silver wall."
One of the officers hesitated.
"Lady... and the bronze wall?"
Phoebe, in a serene tone, showing no emotion.
"It has already fulfilled its purpose." She closed the map slowly. "Let the men there know that the time they gain will buy everyone's salvation."
Before silence settled for good, the door opened abruptly. A servant entered, pale, chest heaving.
"The first wall has fallen!" he shouted. "The bronze wall... has been taken!"
The air seemed to freeze. But Phoebe only took a deep breath, maintaining the same almost sacred serenity.
"I understand." She turned to the commanders. "Pull back the units from the northern flank to the inner gate. Prepare the defenses in the underground passages. If they reach the silver wall, I want the sacred spears ready."
She walked to the window, feeling from afar the orange light of the flames rising from the distant wall.
"Tell the priests... that the hour of faith has come." A brief silence. "If the bronze wall has fallen, we will make of the silver and gold ones the shield of the gods."
The servant lowered his head, and the room returned to movement. Orders, running, steel clashing against steel. Phoebe remained still — calm in the midst of chaos — as if every heartbeat of the city pulsed under the command of her voice.
Meanwhile, in the ruins of the city of the bronze wall, the ground trembled with each explosion. Balls of fire, amplified by enemy winds, descended from the skies like flaming meteors, swallowing towers and opening craters in the allied lines.
Even so, Haron remained at the front.
The muscles marked by effort, the gaze fixed on the enemy advance — he crushed those who approached with brutal blows, the blade tearing flesh, iron and air with the same ferocity. Each thrust was a silent command: do not retreat.
"Do not give up!" he roared, the voice echoing above the roar of the fireballs. "The wounded, fall back first! Those who can still fight, hold the line!"
Behind him, Karna moved like lightning.
The bow sang in his hands, a constant sequence of shots that cut the air and pierced throats, skulls and hearts with inhuman precision.
The wind seemed to obey his aim — each shot found its target as if the very air bent the path of the arrows.
They passed through two, three bodies before embedding themselves in the ground soaked with blood.
One of the young archers beside Karna staggered and knelt, face in panic.
"This is madness..." said the boy, almost breathless. "We could never face twenty thousand... with only a thousand knights..."
Karna drew a new arrow, adjusting the bowstring calmly. A tired smile crossed his face.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"M-Marcus."
Karna nodded, looking at the young man with seriousness and gentleness at the same time.
"In moments like this, Marcus... do you know what we must say to the god of death?"
The boy hesitated, heart beating fast.
Before he could answer, Karna advanced among the soldiers, moving with lethal precision.
The arrows sang in the air, piercing enemies who tried to surround them. Two soldiers who were retreating were saved at the last moment, moving back as Karna brought down the opponents with accurate shots.
The wind seemed to obey his aim, each arrow bending the fate of the battle, opening space where there seemed to be no hope.
He turned to Marcus, gaze firm, still amid the chaos of war:
"Now, tell the god of death..."
The archer swallowed hard, but Karna completed, with the same confidence that guided each of his shots:
"Not today."
The arrow was released.
It crossed the field like a flash of light, embedding itself in the forehead of the enemy commander advancing through the breach.
The impact made the nearby soldiers falter — and for an instant, the fire of the balls descending from the skies seemed to yield to the wind, giving a breath between the flames.
In the air heavy with smoke and the smell of blood, an imposing presence emerged among the ruins.
The dust raised by the previous impacts trembled around a shadow that seemed to absorb light, and the soldiers stepped back slightly, feeling the superhuman weight of the Count advancing, each step marking the ground as if announcing the destruction that followed him.
He advanced among the ruins, firm steps, the dark overcoat swaying slightly. The eyepatch reflected the light of the burning city, and the eye that remained pierced each soldier who dared to face him.
Stopping before Haron, the Count leaned slightly, studying him.
"How long, Haron…" he said, the voice deep, filled with control and threat. "The last time we saw each other… Hundred War in 2028? Or its end in 2033? No matter. I see you have kept yourself well."
Haron maintained a firm stance, fingers clenching the sword hilt, eyes fixed on the adversary.
"Never imagined I would see you again."
The Count smiled, a cold and calculated gesture. He ran the fingertip over the eyepatch, as if testing the marquis's patience.
"Well... do you know what that means?"
"Yes," Haron answered, firm but without stepping back, "but, even if it's you, I will not retreat."
The Count tilted his head, absorbing every word, and said with weight:
"Ghatotkacha."
Haron felt the impact of that sentence like a cold shock. A demigod of the Hindu pantheon... the words carried history and threat.
"A demigod of the Hindu pantheon," continued the Count, stepping forward, gaze burning under the shadow of the eyepatch, "do you know the meaning?"
Haron gripped the sword, taking a deep breath.
"I know."
"I am telling you because, when you awoke, you told me about your divinity... Hercules. But there is a difference between us."
Before finishing, the Count advanced in a lightning movement, direct punch.
Haron blocked with the sword, but the impact made him step back two paces, the ground creaking under the force. Sparks of metal flew, and the nearby soldiers instinctively retreated.
The Count observing Haron, the black gloves holding the cigarette firmly.
The smell of gunpowder and burnt flesh burned the nostrils of the nearby soldiers, while sparks of metal jumped in the air, making them step carefully to avoid tripping on the dust that burned in their throats.
Each breath of wind brought heat from the flames and the smell of hot iron, reminding everyone that every second there could be the last.
"I reached resurrection and... I am stronger than ever."
Haron regained balance, breathing deeply, eyes fixed on the enemy who seemed to defy death itself.
"And what did you sacrifice for that?" he asked, voice firm but filled with curiosity and restrained disdain.
The Count smiled, almost without humor, and the ruined city seemed to hold its breath.
"Everything... and still, I was not punished."
The brief silence that followed the dialogue was enough for everyone to understand: it was not just a battle, it was the clash of two forces that could split the city itself.
The Count advanced first, fast as lightning. Haron held the sword firmly, and the impact of the enemy's punch reverberated through the air, echoing against stone and metal.
A wave of force pushed Haron a few steps back, and the ground cracked slightly under the shock.
Haron responded with a horizontal strike, so powerful that the air itself seemed to split.
The impact hit the Count's chest, who stepped back only for an instant, his eyes burning with challenge. Stones and debris flew around, cutting the soldiers who tried to watch closely.
Each of their attacks made the ground tremble. Each blow reverberated through the destroyed walls, throwing dust and shards in every direction.
A punch, a slash, a thrust — the air trembled as if the entire city were breathing with them.
The Count delivered a sequence of blows with supernatural strength. Haron blocked, spun, dodged, and each collision seemed to create a small explosion of physical energy, throwing enemies backward, destroying improvised barricades and spreading the fire of nearby flames.
"You have grown stronger..." roared the Count, the voice loaded with effort and determination. "But I will not retreat!"
Haron blocking the attack and responding with a strike that made the air crack like thunder:
"Neither will I!"
They advanced simultaneously. The impact of their arms and swords was so brutal that the wind bent around them.
A nearby soldier fell to his knees, covered in dust, while another felt an invisible burst of energy pushing him meters backward.
Haron jumped, spinning his body and delivering a cut that made the ground crack, while the Count dodged with the same grace and speed, returning with a sequence of blows that seemed to tear the air itself.
Each exchange of blows was accompanied by the snapping of metal, sounds of destruction, and the ruined city seemed to whisper before the pure force that clashed there.
Nearby soldiers crouched, eyes wide, some murmuring quick prayers.
"They are gods... they cannot be human," thought a young archer, trying to hold the line while feeling the force of each impact reverberate through the ground.
Neither of them retreated; each blow left visible marks — broken stones, smoke rising, flames pushed away by the wind created by their strikes.
Meanwhile, in the darkest corner of the castle, a crimson glow cut through the darkness. A single eye opened, gleaming and full of intent.
A smile began to form on lips hidden by shadows, cold and calculating.
"So... my turn is coming," he whispered, the voice echoing only in the gloom, filled with dark promises.
Silence reigned again, heavy, as if the whole city held its breath.