As the sun cast its first golden rays over Warm Oasis, Jhon stood at the head of his gathered forces—330 men in total—a formidable yet woefully outnumbered force against the Ashblood horde. The assassins, raiders, and mercenaries who had pledged their loyalty to him stood ready, their armor wrapped in desert cloth, their weapons gleaming in the morning light. Sayf took command directly, his piercing gaze sweeping over their ranks, ensuring every warrior was prepared for what lay ahead.
Rahotep stepped forward, arms crossed, and eyed the assembled soldiers with skepticism. "Is this all of them?" he asked, his voice laced with doubt.
Jhon adjusted the belt of his sword and exhaled sharply. "Yes. Every last one."
Rahotep shook his head. "You're aware that the Ashblood aren't just some scattered warbands, right? Their numbers should be thousands, if not ten thousands."
Jhon smirked but didn't waver. "Which is why we can't rush in headfirst like fools."
Sayf nodded in agreement. "We strike smart. We strike fast. We bleed them bit by bit."
The scorching sun hung mercilessly over the endless dunes, turning the sands into a sea of molten gold. Jhon and his men rode onward, their cloaks billowing behind them like banners of war, their steeds kicking up waves of dust with every thunderous stride. The Red Wastes loomed ahead—a land of death and silence—but the journey itself was a crucible of its own.
By midday, the heat had become unbearable, beating down upon them like the wrath of an angry god. Lips cracked, throats burned, but Jhon did not slow. He had no choice. The Wastes were cruel to those who lingered.
Then, without warning, the sky darkened. A sandstorm rose on the horizon, twisting like a living beast. "Ride hard! Keep your faces covered!" Jhon shouted over the howling wind.
The storm struck with terrifying force. Sand slashed at them like a thousand tiny daggers, turning day into night. Horses reared in panic, and one of the men was thrown to the ground, swallowed by the raging tempest. Jhon leapt from his saddle, dragging the fallen warrior up just before the sands could claim him.
By nightfall, the storm had passed, leaving them battered and half-buried. But rest was a luxury they could not afford. A low growl echoed from the dunes—eyes like burning embers emerged from the darkness. The Dune Wraiths had found them.
Massive feline creatures, their sand-colored hides near invisible against the desert, stalked in a half-circle around the men. Their fangs dripped with venom, their tails lashed in anticipation of the kill.
Jhon drew his blade, its steel glinting under the moonlight. "Hold formation. Let them come to us."
A wraith lunged—Jhon sidestepped, slashing across its throat in one swift motion. The beast gurgled, collapsing in the sand. The others charged. Swords clashed against claws, cries of pain mixed with the roars of dying monsters. Jhon saw one of his men pinned beneath a beast, its fangs sinking into his shoulder. With a furious cry, Jhon drove his sword through the creature's skull, pulling the wounded man up.
The battle was over in minutes, but the price was blood. Three men lay dead, their bodies cooling beneath the unforgiving stars.
Dawn broke over the dunes, but with it came a new threat. Silhouettes appeared at the crest of a distant dune—Sand Reavers, desert bandits who thrived on preying upon the weary. They rode in fast and without mercy.
Jhon's men barely had time to draw their weapons before arrows rained upon them. "Defensive line!" Jhon roared, yanking his shield up as an arrow shattered against its iron rim.
The bandits closed in, curved blades gleaming. Jhon met their charge head-on, his sword dancing in the rising sun. He dismounted in a single motion, driving his knee into a bandit's gut before running him through. Another came at him, swinging wildly—Jhon caught the blade with his own and twisted, sending the attacker stumbling forward before slicing his throat open.
Chaos reigned. The air filled with the clang of steel, the screams of dying men, the panicked whinnies of horses. Jhon saw one of his warriors—Rennar—fall beneath two bandits. With a furious roar, Jhon hurled his dagger, striking one in the eye. Blood sprayed as the man collapsed.
The battle ended as quickly as it began. The Sand Reavers lay scattered, their blood soaking the dunes. Jhon wiped his blade clean, looking at the handful of men he had left. They were fewer now. Weaker. But still, they rode on.
As the second day waned, the sands shifted beneath them once more, revealing jagged red rocks rising from the horizon—the border of the Red Wastes. Jhon breathed heavily, gazing at the cursed land ahead. They had survived the journey.
Jhon and his 330 warriors crouched behind the jagged cliffs, their breaths shallow, their hands gripping weapons wrapped in cloth to keep them from glinting in the sun. The Ashblood Legion, nearly a thousand strong, marched below, unaware of the hunters lying in wait. Their crimson-plated armor shimmered like molten iron beneath the desert sky, their spears rising like a forest of death.
Jhon exhaled slowly. He had fought the Ashbloods before. They were disciplined, ruthless, and unforgiving. But their greatest strength—their rigid formations and heavy armor—would be their downfall in the shifting sands of the Red Wastes.
He turned to Sayf, his second-in-command. Sayf's golden eyes reflected the battlefield like a predator analyzing prey. Jhon gave him a nod. Sayf lifted the war horn to his lips and blew.
The deep blast echoed across the dunes. From the ridge, 50 riders broke from cover—the Phantom Vanguard. Fast-moving archers, mounted on desert coursers, they surged forward, loosing arrows as they went.
Twang—thud! The first row of Ashbloods staggered. The arrows found gaps in their armor, striking throats and exposed joints. They had no time to react.
The Ashblood commander roared orders. The legion shifted, ranks moving like clockwork to counter the sudden ambush. Shields locked, spears lowered—exactly as Jhon had predicted. And exactly what he wanted.
The Ashbloods surged forward to engage the riders. That was their mistake. Sayf dropped his hand. From the dunes and ravines, 180 warriors burst forth—the Sandstorm Line.
They had buried themselves beneath cloaks of sand, hidden until the perfect moment. Now, they sprang to life like wraiths, swords flashing as they tore into the flank of the Ashblood formation. Chaos erupted.
Jhon watched as Ashblood warriors fell in waves, their rigid battle lines disrupting instead of protecting them. Their armor weighed them down, turning the sand into a deathtrap. And then, the final blow. Jhon unsheathed his blade, lifted it high, and charged.
Behind him, 100 warriors—the Iron Fangs—sprinted down from the cliffs, wielding spears and throwing axes. The Ashbloods, now caught between three forces, collapsed inward.
Jhon clashed into their ranks like a storm. His blade carved through steel and flesh alike. To his right, Sayf danced between enemies, his twin scimitars whirling as he cut down soldier after soldier.
The Ashblood commander barked orders, trying to rally, but an arrow struck his throat before he could finish.
More warriors fell. Blood soaked the sand. Horses screamed. Shields splintered. The disciplined ranks of the Ashbloods crumbled into panic and disorder.
By the time the final Ashblood fell, Jhon stood atop the dunes, breathing hard, blade dripping. His forces had won. But at a cost. Over a hundred of his warriors lay dead in the sand. Sayf stepped up beside him, wiping blood from his face. "We did it," he said.
Jhon nodded. But his gaze remained fixed ahead. Jhon stood amidst the fallen, his boots sinking into blood-soaked sand. His warriors had won the first battle, but the war had just begun.
Sayf, his golden eyes sharp as ever, stepped beside him. "We need to regroup," he said, wiping his twin scimitars clean. "Count the dead. See how many still stand."
Jhon gave a curt nod. "Do it."
His warriors gathered, weary but unbroken. Of the 330 who had stood at dawn, only 212 remained. Over a hundred lives lost—too many, yet not in vain. Then, a sound rolled across the dunes. A deep, thunderous war horn.
The sand trembled beneath their feet. The air grew thick with the scent of dust and iron. From the horizon, a crimson tide approached.
A sea of Ashblood warriors, thousands strong, their banners whipping in the wind. At their head, atop a beast of shadow and steel, rode a monster draped in crimson and black. Khargul. Warlord of the Ashblood Legion.
His armor, forged in the hellfires of the east, bore the scars of a hundred wars. His war axe—jagged, ancient, cursed—gleamed under the dying sun. His blood-red gaze swept the battlefield like a god passing judgment.
Sayf inhaled sharply. "Well. Now the real fight begins."
But Jhon didn't flinch. Instead, he turned to his commanders—the finest warriors left standing.
Gorim. A dwarf as broad as he was tall, his warhammer resting against his shoulder. He spat into the sand, unimpressed. "Pah! Just more skulls to crack."
Grumli. Wiry and wickedly fast, twirling his daggers with a smirk. "About time the real challenge got here."
Varnic. The mad dwarf alchemist, adjusting the vials on his belt. "Let's see how well their armor holds up against dragonfire."
Nadra. The youngest Silver Axe girl, clutching her bow so tightly her knuckles turned white. Fear flickered in her eyes, but so did determination.
Arianne. The seasoned Silver Axe huntress, already gauging the battlefield. "Their numbers mean nothing if we cut the head from the beast."
Rahotep. The veteran captain, his battle-scarred hands gripping his scimitar. "I've seen worse. We bleed, but we do not fall."
Hadeefa. The elder Silver Axe, her shield planted in the sand. "Stand firm, children. Let them break against us."
And then there was Khaltar. Most feared of the Silver Axes. First Hand of Torgo. His presence alone sent shivers through even the bravest of warriors. He cracked his neck, flexing his fingers, his twin sabers thirsty for blood.
Jhon smirked at him. "Ready to show off?"
Khaltar let out a dry chuckle. "After you, lionheart."
But before another word could be spoken—the air shifted. The sand trembled. The sky darkened. A deep, primal force surged through the battlefield as golden light erupted from Jhon's body.
The very air around him burned, warping with unseen power. Two colossal lion heads—radiant, untamed—emerged from the aura, their fiery eyes blazing with fury. Their roars shook the heavens, sending ripples through the earth.
Jhon's form pulsed with divine energy, his blade humming with raw might. The warriors around him took a step back—not out of fear, but awe. Even Khaltar, unshaken by death itself, clicked his tongue. "Tsk. Show-off."
He rolled his shoulders, exhaling, and suddenly—darkness swirled around him. Shadows slithered from his hands, forming twin spectral axes that crackled with abyssal energy. His presence grew heavier, as if the weight of a thousand slain foes bore down upon him. Khaltar grinned. "Just catching up."
The Silver Axes readied their weapons. The Ashblood horde thundered toward them. Jhon raised his glowing sword. "Let them come."