A soldier entered the tent in which not all, but a few captains were present.
"Huff, huff… demons have started to move…"
A captain said
" Inform others."
Another captain said
" Ready infantry and other units."
The first captain said again
" Inform the commander and the lord."
One of them asked
" The one leading this time....have anyone spotted him? "
Everyone looked at soldier.
He shook his head and said
" No but the density is varying along the length so our scouts and spies have gone to investigate."
---
Kaelen Varys POV
The first screams tore across the plains before I even had a chance to steady my spear. Ground demons surged over the low rise, claws tearing the dry grass, while flying demons wheeled above, shrieking as they dove toward our line. The air stank of smoke, burning flesh, and miasma, thick enough to make my lungs seize. I barely had time to yell orders before the first wave crashed into us. Shields rattled, spears splintered, and men fell screaming into the grass. Torren, towering beside me, swung his axe with terrifying precision, tearing through any creature that came too close.
We had no time to think. Chaos became our rhythm. Screams, the clash of steel, and the shrill cries of flying demons merged into a single monstrous chorus. A man fell beside me, torn in two, and I shoved his body away with my shield, barely noticing. The plains that had seemed endless and calm yesterday were now a battlefield soaked in blood and smoke. I shouted to my squad, and they responded with the only language we knew: discipline, survival, repetition.
By mid-morning, the first wave had been repelled, but casualties were heavy. Then whispers spread among the soldiers: the demon general who had slain our previous lord was dead. He had succumbed to injuries inflicted in a smaller skirmish before this assault. Relief rippled through the ranks briefly, a flicker of hope among the horror, but it was fleeting. Soon came word that a stronger, more strategic demon general—the thirteenth demon general—had taken command of the enemy forces. A chill passed through every soldier. The threat was renewed, sharper, and far deadlier than before. The previous memory was still fresh and now someone stronger have come?
The first day of battle escalated rapidly. The thirteenth general orchestrated waves of attacks with terrifying precision. Ground demons pressed relentlessly, while flying ones struck from above, coordinating assaults to isolate pockets of resistance. Our infantry line wavered under the pressure, and shields splintered like dry twigs. Torren moved through the ranks like a living berserker, cutting down anything that slipped through, but even he could not be everywhere. We fought with grim determination, pushing forward inch by inch, every foot a battle won against overwhelming odds.
The death of the previous lord hung over us like a shadow. Every soldier bore the memory, etched into their faces and movements. Mixed-race infantry like myself, horned beastmen, and humans all relied on each other's strength and endurance. Fear ran like an undercurrent, constant and gnawing. Torren's amber eyes scanned the battlefield, steadying us, yet even he could not banish the knowledge that we were alone, waiting for leadership that had yet to arrive.
By midday, the demons had adapted. The thirteenth general studied our movements, probing weak points, testing formations. Flying demons circled above, diving at openings with calculated precision. Ground forces struck where our defenses faltered, pushing men aside or crushing them underfoot. Screams filled the air, a relentless symphony of panic and pain. Shields shattered, spears snapped, and still we held. Torren roared, rallying soldiers, driving them back into formation, while I thrust my spear into the flank of a demon, feeling it convulse and fall. This feeling now felt normal. Maybe I have changed?
Exhaustion mounted. The heat of the sun and the acrid smoke made breathing a chore. Soldiers whispered prayers, some cursed, others fought in silence, eyes fixed forward. A young recruit beside me, barely fifteen, trembled as he held his shield. I clapped him on the shoulder. "Focus. Fear is natural, but panic is fatal. Control it." He nodded, swallowing hard, hands gripping tight. The weight of responsibility pressed on all of us, even those at the lowest rank. Every movement mattered; every hesitation could topple the line. I looked at others for inspiration and others looked at me.
By evening, we withdrew slightly to a shallow ridge for rest, a defensible position in the chaos. Fires flickered, casting shadows across exhausted soldiers. Torches were more for marking positions than illumination. Torren moved silently among us, inspecting, guiding, offering quiet words of encouragement. Even he bore the fatigue, yet he remained a beacon of strength. Above, flying demons circled, waiting, testing, threatening. Ground units pressed at intervals, and the sense of being hunted was unrelenting.
The second day dawned with deceptive calm. The thirteenth general had learned from the previous day's assaults. Attacks were now coordinated, simultaneous across multiple fronts. Ground demons pressed our flanks while flying units harried our line, probing for openings. Casualties mounted quickly. The sheer scale of the enemy—over a million strong—was staggering. Our captains shouted orders, moving through the ranks, but the strain was visible. Even experienced men faltered under the pressure. Discipline became our only lifeline.
Every hour brought new horrors. Shields splintered under the force of coordinated charges, spears snapped, men fell screaming. Torren moved tirelessly, his strength and presence inspiring those around him. The mixed-race infantry leaned on one another, feeding off small sparks of courage. I stabbed relentlessly, my spear biting into demon flesh, the wet sounds of rending and snapping filling my ears. The plains, once calm, were now a storm of fire, blood, and chaos.
By midday, whispers spread among the soldiers: the new demon general was stronger than the last, more cunning, more cruel. Relief at the previous general's death was replaced with dread. Every movement we made was calculated, measured, cautious. Flying demons swooped, ground forces pressed forward, and every inch of terrain became a contested battlefield. Soldiers prayed, cursed, fought, and screamed. Survival depended on coordination, discipline, and endurance.
Night fell again, but the enemy did not rest. Sporadic assaults continued, testing our lines, probing our readiness. Fires lit the ridge, shadows dancing across the exhausted faces of infantrymen. Torren moved among us silently, checking positions, ensuring cohesion. We could not afford mistakes. The plains were unforgiving, flat and exposed. Every lapse could be fatal. My thoughts returned constantly to the previous lord, fallen and revered, and to the young lord who had yet to arrive. Would he survive the coming days? Could he inspire hope where doubt reigned? Would he free us from this hell?
The third day began with the steady beat of horns, signaling the resumption of battle. The thirteenth general had refined strategies, attacking in coordinated waves that stretched our endurance. Flying units descended in sudden dives, while ground demons pressed forward with brutal strength. Our infantry line held, shield to shield, spear to spear, but the strain was universal. Torren carved paths through the enemy, cutting down multiple attackers at a time. I thrust again and again, adrenaline keeping exhaustion at bay, even as the weight of the last two days pressed on every muscle.
Casualties were heavy. Every soldier bore the marks of relentless fighting. Shields battered, spears broken, wounds bleeding, yet we held. We adjusted, countered, adapted, inch by inch, breath by breath. Morale was fragile, yet we could not afford collapse. Even the youngest recruit had learned to keep his line, eyes forward, hands gripping tight. Fear had become a constant companion, yet so had determination.
And then, as the sun began to set on the third day, a new sound reached us across the plains: the thrum of hooves, the glint of banners, the unmistakable presence of command. Riders appeared on the horizon, growing larger, more defined with each passing second. Soldiers straightened, faces lifting from fatigue and despair. The commander had arrived, flanked by the new lord. A young figure, unknown to all, rode with authority, bringing a new glimmer of hope. Torren's amber eyes flicked toward them, and a cautious relief passed through the line. Reinforcements and leadership had finally arrived, just as exhaustion threatened to break us.
I adjusted my grip on my spear, bracing for the next wave, yet aware that the tides of battle now had guidance, strategy, and authority at last. Over three days, the plains had become a crucible of fire, blood, and chaos. The thirteenth demon general pressed relentlessly, yet our line, battered and bloodied, still held. The arrival of the commander and the new lord promised hope, coordination, and perhaps survival.
I am Kaelen Varys. Infantry soldier. Survivor. And now, with leadership finally at our front, the war would continue—but the next phase would be different.
Whether it would be in favour or in some completely different direction is yet to be seen. But the arrival of new forces is like a healing potion to our mind.
The news would spread and speculation would start . The end is yet to come but a new phase have started.