The desert trembled beneath them. Jhon and Khaltar surged forward, their auras burning like twin suns against the battlefield's chaos. Golden lions roared, silver-blue winds howled—unstoppable forces of nature crashing toward the immovable warlord.
Khargul braced himself, his bloodied axe raised high. The crimson light pulsing in his veins flared, turning his very flesh into unbreakable iron. He let out a final roar—one of defiance, one of madness—a warlord who refused to kneel. But even iron breaks.
Jhon struck first. His golden lion fists crashed into Khargul's chest with the force of a collapsing mountain, shattering armor, splintering ribs. The impact sent a shockwave through the battlefield, dust and blood whipping through the air as warriors stumbled from the sheer force of it.
Khargul gasped, blood spewing from his mouth—but he still stood. Then—Khaltar was upon him. "Stormborn does not kneel!" Khaltar roared, his silver-blue wind surging into a single strike. He spun midair, his twin axes coated in the blackest wind—a wind that meant death.
The air split as he struck. One axe tore through Khargul's side. The other buried itself deep into his neck. Khargul choked. For the first time—the warlord staggered. His fingers loosened around his axe. His knees buckled. And then—Jhon finished it.
His golden fist reared back—then slammed into Khargul's skull. A deafening CRACK. Khargul's eyes rolled back, his body swaying—then finally, his colossal form collapsed onto the bloodstained sand. The Warlord of the Ashbloods was dead.
For a moment, the battle froze. The Ashblood warriors saw their leader fall. Doubt flickered in their eyes. Fear. Then, as if a dam had burst—they turned. Some fought to the last breath, but many ran. Their will shattered, their army broken.
"Drive them out!" Sayf commanded, his assassins moving with inhuman precision, cutting down the remaining foes.
Varnic hurled one last firebomb, igniting a retreating warband. Rahotep, panting and drenched in blood, raised his sword. "Push them back! Make them remember this day in their nightmares!"
Arianne, bruised but unyielding, led the Silver Axes forward in a final charge, forcing the last remnants of Ashblood into a full retreat.
But the cost was heavy. Hadeefa lay motionless, her body slumped against the sand. Her wounds too deep, her strength finally spent.
Nadra knelt beside her, her face pale with grief, whispering, "We won… We won…" as if victory could bring her back.
Grumli had stopped moving, his lifeblood seeping into the ground. Gorim, battered and bloody, dragged his friend's limp form toward the others, muttering curses under his breath—curses at the gods, curses at fate.
Jhon stood over Khargul's corpse, his chest rising and falling, his golden aura flickering like a dying flame. His knuckles dripped with blood—some his own, most not.
Khaltar collapsed onto one knee, his axes buried in the sand, his silver-blue aura finally fading. He looked at Jhon and chuckled, breathless. "You hit harder than I thought."
Jhon smirked, wiping blood from his brow. "You got faster. Almost kept up with me."
Khaltar snorted. "Almost?"
They both laughed—a short, exhausted sound, filled with pain and triumph. But then Jhon turned, scanning the battlefield. His grin faded. The bodies of their fallen surrounded them. The dead, the dying, the wounded.
His hands clenched into fists. Victory tasted bitter. Khaltar exhaled, following his gaze. "This is the price."
Jhon nodded slowly. "A heavy one."
Jhon knelt beside Khaltar, pressing two fingers against his neck. A pulse—weak, but steady. The Stormborn had survived.
Khaltar's eyes fluttered open, a tired smirk forming despite the pain. "Heh… Thought I was done for?"
Jhon exhaled, shaking his head. "I wouldn't let you die that easy."
Khaltar let out a breathless chuckle, then winced. "Damn… Feels like I got trampled by a thousand warhorses."
Jhon grinned. "More like a warlord with an ego the size of the dunes." He stood, offering his hand. "Can you stand, or should I carry you?"
Khaltar grunted, gripping Jhon's arm. With effort, he pulled himself to his feet, swaying but refusing to fall. "I stand, or I die on my feet. No in-between."
Jhon gave him a firm nod before turning away. There was still more to do. Jhon walked through the battlefield, his boots crunching over broken weapons, shattered armor, and the fallen—both friend and foe.
Some of his warriors were still standing, tending to the wounded or gathering their dead. Others sat in the sand, too exhausted to move. The Silver Axes, bloodied but unbowed, regrouped with Arianne and Rahotep leading them.
Sayf approached, his face grim, his assassins standing behind him. Jhon met his gaze. "How many left?"
Sayf didn't hesitate. "Eighty-nine."
Jhon's breath hitched. They had started with three hundred and thirty. A hollow weight settled in his chest. So many gone. Jhon's steps grew heavier as he walked through the battlefield, his heart sinking deeper with each fallen warrior he found. His friends. He had to find them.
His golden aura flickered dimly, casting eerie shadows over the blood-soaked dunes. The air was thick with the stench of death, metal, and sand. Bodies littered the ground—some still gripping their weapons, others frozen in their final moments of struggle. Then, he saw them.
Jhon's breath hitched when he found them. Gorim was barely clinging to life, slumped against a rock, his warhammer still gripped in his trembling hands. His beard was soaked with blood, his armor dented beyond repair. His chest rose and fell—weak, but steady.
Beside him, Grumli lay still. The younger dwarf was gone, an Ashblood spear buried deep in his torso. His lifeless fingers were still wrapped around his axe, which was embedded in an enemy's skull.
Gorim's bloodshot eyes met Jhon's. "Damn fool… I told him to stay close." His voice was barely more than a whisper, thick with grief. Jhon knelt beside him, pressing a hand to Grumli's chest. No heartbeat. He clenched his jaw. Too many lost.
Rahotep knelt a few feet away, propped against a fallen Ashblood warrior. His sword was buried in the sand, and his hand clutched a deep wound at his side. His grizzled face was streaked with dirt and exhaustion, but his eyes still burned with defiance.
Jhon crouched beside him. "Still breathing?"
Rahotep coughed, a hint of a smirk on his lips. "Not for lack of trying, I assure you." His voice was hoarse, weak. "Damn bastards almost got me."
Jhon reached out, pulling him up. Rahotep winced but steadied himself. "Age catches up fast," he muttered. "But not fast enough to kill me yet."
Jhon gave a tight nod. At least he was still standing. Arianne sat on the ground, pressing a bloodied cloth against a deep arrow wound in her shoulder. Her bow was snapped beside her, and her breath came in uneven gasps.
She looked up as Jhon approached, her expression weary. "We lost too many," she whispered.
Jhon exhaled sharply. "I know."
She gave a slow nod, looking away. Then, Jhon's stomach twisted. Nadra was kneeling in the sand, her shoulders trembling. Jhon moved toward her, and his chest clenched when he saw why.
Hadeefa lay still, her lifeless eyes staring at the sky. Her curved blade rested across her lap, her wrinkled hands still gripping the hilt as if she had died fighting. Blood pooled beneath her, her body riddled with wounds.
Nadra sobbed beside her, her small frame shaking. Her hands pressed against Hadeefa's chest as if she could will her back to life.
"Hadeefa… please… get up…" Nadra's voice was cracked, broken. "You said you were too old for this, but you promised you'd live…"
Jhon clenched his fists, his breath shaky. Hadeefa had been the strongest among them. She had endured wars, led warriors, and survived wounds that would have felled younger fighters. Yet, even she could not escape death's grasp forever.
Jhon knelt beside Nadra, placing a hand on her shoulder. She flinched but didn't look up. "She wouldn't want you to cry," Jhon said softly.
Nadra sucked in a breath, her knuckles white as she clenched her fists. "I know," she whispered. "But I can't stop."
Jhon closed his eyes for a brief moment before standing. He turned his gaze toward the last of his friends.
Varnic was still standing, though barely. His axe was slick with blood, his armor cracked, and his face hollow with grief. Jhon didn't need to ask. Varnic had seen Grumli die.
The dwarf met Jhon's gaze, his voice rough. "It should have been me."
Jhon clenched his jaw. "No. It should have been none of us."
Jhon stepped back, taking in the devastation. His friends—some alive, some barely holding on, and some lost forever.
Sayf approached, his face grim. His assassins stood behind him, silent as shadows. Jhon took a deep breath, shoving aside his grief for now. There was still work to be done.
He turned to Sayf, his voice steady despite the weight in his chest. "Gather everyone. Prioritize the wounded. Get the fallen onto the carts—we bury them in Warm Oasis."
Sayf gave a curt nod and immediately relayed the orders. The assassins moved swiftly, weaving through the battlefield like ghosts, carrying the injured to the remaining healers. The dead were handled with solemn care, their weapons placed beside them as a final honor.
Jhon turned toward the shattered remnants of the Ashblood stronghold. Deep within the ruined outpost, glimmering veins of Azerite still pulsed with raw energy, reflecting the moonlight like liquid fire. They had lost many, but this—this was their prize.
He called out to the remaining dwarves, their faces still etched with grief. "Gorim, Varnic—take your kin and start loading the Azerite. We take as much as we can carry."
The dwarves exchanged a look, then nodded. If nothing else, they would not let their fallen comrades' sacrifice be in vain. Jhon scanned their remaining resources, quickly doing the calculations in his head.
They had begun the campaign with 330 men—warriors, assassins, Silver Axes, and dwarves. Now, after brutal combat, only 89 remained.
Many horses had perished in battle, their riders cut down before they could retreat. But some had survived. Counting the surviving warhorses and pack animals, they had 47 left.
Their supply carts had fared better—most of them had been kept behind the initial battle lines. Out of 25 carts, 19 were still functional. Jhon ran his fingers through his blood-matted hair, calculating their capacity.
Each cart, if loaded carefully, could carry three to four large crates of Azerite without risking the wheels breaking on the desert terrain. That meant around 60 to 70 crates in total. Each surviving horse could carry one smaller load strapped to its side, roughly 20 more crates in total.
It wasn't as much as they had hoped, but it was still a fortune in raw Azerite. Enough to fund more weapons, armor, and supplies for the coming war.
Jhon turned back to his men. "Load the Azerite fast, but be careful. We move at dawn."