The march began under a sky burning with crimson clouds. The air trembled with echoes of distant roars and the hiss of molten winds blowing across the Abyssal Plains. Draven's army moved in a disciplined formation, their armor glinting under the distorted light, a sea of shadow, beast, and steel stretching across the horizon. The plains themselves were treacherous—patches of blackened earth cracked beneath their feet, releasing fumes that shimmered with corrupted mana. Every step closer to the Demon King's inner domain felt like walking into a storm that was alive and watching.
Draven rode at the front, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the land began to twist unnaturally. His senses were sharp, the shadows whispering to him, warning him of movement beneath the ground. The air grew heavier, as if the world itself held its breath. Behind him, the coalition commanders—Lyssara of the flame beasts, Korath the iron-scaled demon, and Ardyn the strategist—watched the terrain warily. Even the beasts had gone silent, their usual snarls replaced by low growls of unease.
A ripple of energy shivered across the plain. Draven's hand twitched toward his blade, but before he could react, the ground erupted. A monstrous roar split the silence as black spikes burst from below, impaling several soldiers in an instant. Columns of molten energy shot upward, and from the fissures emerged abominations—creatures of flesh and shadow fused together, their eyes glowing with crimson hate. They charged with impossible speed, tearing through the front ranks before the soldiers could form defense lines.
"Hold the formation!" Ardyn shouted, drawing sigils in the air that expanded into glowing shields. Flames burst around Lyssara as she summoned a storm of fire to drive back the attackers, her eyes wide with shock. These were not ordinary demons; they moved like soldiers, precise and tactical, coordinated as if they shared one mind.
Draven's blade sliced through one of the creatures, its body dissolving into smoke before reforming again behind him. The shadows whispered louder now, chaotic and restless. He narrowed his eyes, realizing what they were. "These things… they're built from my shadow essence." The truth hit him with a cold wave. The Demon King had found a way to weaponize his own power against him.
The battlefield became chaos incarnate. The corrupted beasts crashed into the defensive lines, roaring as they trampled the ground, while the shadow-born ones melted in and out of existence, attacking from impossible angles. Draven expanded his aura, tendrils of pure darkness swirling around him like a living storm. The shadows bent to his will, forming spears and barriers, cutting through the enemies with ruthless precision. Yet each one he destroyed seemed to multiply, rising again from the darkness cast by his own soldiers.
Korath roared, smashing his hammer into the ground, creating a shockwave that flattened a dozen enemies. "There's no end to them!" he bellowed. Lyssara's flames burned hotter, her wings igniting the air, but even fire struggled against the regenerating swarm. The corrupted generals appeared next—towering figures of armor and decay, once proud commanders of other realms now twisted into puppets of the Demon King.
Draven met one of them head-on, his blade clashing against its massive cleaver. Sparks burst between them as their power collided. The creature's voice was a distorted echo, speaking in tones that made the ground vibrate. "You cannot stop what you are, Shadow King. You only feed us." The words came from its hollow mouth, its body cracking with dark energy.
Draven's eyes burned red as his power flared. Shadows surged outward, shattering the corrupted general's blade and tearing through its body like a storm. But as it fell, its remains dissolved into smoke that seeped into the battlefield, spreading to the other creatures, strengthening them.
The realization hit him—each kill made the swarm stronger. The Demon King's trap was complete.
"Everyone fall back!" Draven ordered, but the ground split open again before anyone could retreat. From the chasm below rose something colossal—a mass of moving darkness, shifting and writhing with countless faces. The Shadow Colossus loomed high, its form made entirely from the merged essence of fallen soldiers and demons. Its roar sent shockwaves across the plain, throwing entire battalions into the air.
Draven clenched his fists, feeling the pull of the shadow within it, the link to his own power. He knew what this was—a living manifestation of his failure, a creation born from his own essence used as fuel. The Demon King was mocking him, turning his gift into a weapon. The air around him rippled as he drew more power, the shadows beneath his feet spreading outward until they blanketed the entire battlefield.
His commanders watched as the darkness began to move on its own, forming an army of phantom warriors that mirrored Draven's movements. "He's doing it," Lyssara whispered, shielding her eyes from the glow. "He's merging with the battlefield itself."
Draven's voice carried across the plains. "No shadow exists without a master. Return to me!" His power exploded, and the phantom army surged forward, crashing against the Colossus in a wave of pure darkness. Every movement he made became mirrored a thousandfold—each strike a rain of blades, each breath a storm. The sky darkened completely, the crimson light swallowed by the clash of shadow and fire.
The Colossus fought back, forming limbs of molten stone and corrupted flame, swatting aside armies like dust. Draven teleported through the darkness, striking from all directions, cutting deep into its body, yet every wound simply reformed. The Demon King's voice echoed faintly through the storm. "You think you command the shadows, boy. But I am the night that birthed them."
Draven ignored the taunt. He closed his eyes, feeling the battlefield through his power—the pulse of every soldier, the echo of every dying scream, the flicker of every fading flame. He reached deeper, past fear, past exhaustion, into the core of his being where the first spark of his shadow mastery was born. The darkness answered him—not as a weapon, but as an extension of his will.
When his eyes opened again, they burned white instead of red. The shadows rose like an ocean, devouring the Colossus whole. It screamed, the sound shaking the sky as the light of its body dimmed and shattered. Draven's body trembled as he absorbed the last fragments of corrupted essence, sealing it within himself.
Silence followed. The plains were a ruin of smoke and broken bodies, the air heavy with the scent of magic and ash. The coalition stood stunned, their leader still standing at the center of the devastation, his aura dim but unbroken.
Lyssara approached cautiously, her wings flickering with ember light. "Draven… what did you do?"
He looked toward the horizon, where the crimson clouds churned faster than before. His expression was cold, unreadable. "I won a battle," he said softly, "but I've just felt his gaze. The Demon King knows I'm coming."
The surviving soldiers began to regroup, gathering the wounded and fortifying what remained of their ranks. The shadows stretched long behind Draven as the sunless sky flickered above. The war had taken another step deeper into darkness. The plains would be remembered as the first true trial of his command—a field where the boundary between master and shadow had blurred forever.
As the night closed around them, Draven's eyes lingered on the distance. The fortress of the inner realm glowed faintly, waiting. His power was evolving, but so was the enemy's. And somewhere in the storm ahead, the Demon King smiled.