Chapter 9: Three Fronts and the Rise of the Bloodhound
The once-proud capital had become a city of screams.
The battlefield had split like cracked glass into three critical fronts, each bearing the weight of blood, steel, and fire.
[City Square – Duke's POV]
Duke Roseviver stood in the heart of the City Square, his armor slick with blood—some his own, most not. Around him, his knights panted, the last of the local cultists and low-rank demons dead at their feet. A spear was embedded in the wall behind him, still quivering. A young knight leaned against it, gripping his wounded shoulder, but nodded with silent resolve when he met his Duke's eyes.
Roseviver turned slowly, golden eyes scanning the carnage.
"Form up," he ordered, voice quiet but resolute.
A dozen men straightened instantly.
"There's no time to rest."
"Sir?" one knight asked, still panting.
The Duke didn't answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the cracked cobblestones beneath their feet. Something… moved. A ripple, like breath beneath the stone.
"I feel it," he murmured.
A pulse. A presence.
Something ancient is waking up beneath this city.
"We move," he said, louder now. "West. To the church district. There's something coming. And it's not done yet."
[Main Streets]
The main roads fared little better. Smoke blurred the sun as reinforcement guards surged through, flanking battered mercenaries and rogue adventurers in a desperate bid to restore order. Screams echoed down alleyways, punctuated by the clang of steel and the snarls of beasts not of this world.
Civilians were herded down secured paths, flanked by shields and pushed behind warded barricades. Children cried. Mothers clung to husbands. Guards cursed and charged forward again.
"Watch the roof!" someone yelled. A cultist leapt down, blade in hand—only to be skewered mid-air by a young guard's spear. Another two followed, cut down before they touched the ground.
It was organized chaos—but chaos nonetheless.
And yet…
Hope held.
Because they had not broken.
[Guard Camp – Elena's POV]
At the Guard Camp, the chaos had not yet reached full scale—but it would.
Elena stood at the edge of the refugee ring, casting the final sigil in the dirt with glowing fingertips. Her eyes burned bright gold as she slammed her hand into the center of the rune.
"Aegis Sanctum: Bastion of the Guardian – Rank 6."
A shimmering dome of pale gold sprang into being around the outer edge of the camp, humming with a melodic pulse. It wasn't unbreakable—but it would repel most Rank 5 and below creatures, and slow even stronger threats long enough for a response.
Behind her, Hundreds of civilians huddled in makeshift tents. Cries of fear mixed with muttered prayers and hollow laughter.
And then—shouts. Roars.
From the perimeter, two massive demonic beasts—both Rank 7—charged the wards.
Before the guards even reacted, Bernard moved.
He didn't yell. He didn't roar. He simply… stepped forward.
And the earth cracked.
His blade moved in a wide arc, humming with raw aura. The first demon's head didn't just fall—it exploded, the neck cauterized in an instant. The second demon barely had time to register what happened before Bernard was behind it, his foot crashing into its back with thunderous force. It slammed into a tree and didn't rise again.
Elena barely blinked.
As expected of Bernard.
Guards rallied. Knights swept through the ranks, cutting down lower-tier cultists and twisted beasts that had managed to crawl near the dome. The defenders held their line—but the Storm wasn't over.
Two young refugees passed Elena, whispering.
"…He killed them with one hand—did you see?"
"The golden-haired man? He's not human…"
Elena tilted her head, amused.
"Oh, Leon," she murmured, a faint smirk playing on her lips. "Still flashy, I see."
Her gaze turned upward for a moment, remembering.
Leon—unlike his cold, stoic brother Dragonguard—had the air of a golden flame. Short golden hair tousled wildly, sharp cheekbones, and a devil-may-care smile. His body was sculpted like a predator: lean, muscular, honed by years of combat and survival. He fought not with restraint—but with sheer, chaotic brilliance.
While Dragonguard had the dragon tattoo that allowed him to summon Valdora, Leon's mark was on his forearm—a flaming sword, etched in red ink, glowing faintly whenever he drew his weapon.
That sword—his Demon Slayer—was legendary.
But it wasn't just how he fought. It was what he did while fighting.
Kicking demons into one another mid-air. Impaling one with another's horn. Luring a pack into a collapsing building and detonating the foundation with a barrel of sacred oil. Using a demon's severed arm to beat another to death.
Leon fought like a man possessed—gleeful, arrogant, dramatic.
And yet…
Despite the ego, the mockery, and the relentless gloating…
He was the first to protect the helpless.
Because he hated bullies.
Elena never forgot that.
But her thoughts were cut short as a bone-rattling roar shook the entire camp.
She looked up.
And stared.
Dozens of demons surged into view—massive, snorting, dripping blood and ichor. Most were Rank 7, but among them…
Three of them.
Rank 8.
Bernard stepped forward again.
"So be it," she whispered. "Here they come again."
[City Square – Duke POV Again]
The knights had barely made it to the edge of the district when the city trembled again.
Roseviver looked back.
All the demons… gone.
And yet his skin prickled with rising dread.
"It's not over," he muttered.
He stared at the streets, then the stone beneath his feet.
Something stirred in the deep.
A heartbeat.
Wrong.
Dark.
[Alleyway – Leon POV]
Leon laughed like a madman as he vaulted off a rooftop and brought his blade straight down into a winged demon's skull, pinning it into the alley's stone wall.
"Splat!" he said gleefully.
Behind him, a Black Dragon Knight followed silently, recording the destruction he caused with a crystal lens embedded into his gauntlet.
Another demon leapt from the shadows—Leon sidestepped, sliced its leg off, then kicked it off a rooftop onto the head of a cultist mid-spell.
"Two for one," he grinned.
But then—
His smile vanished.
He froze. His golden eyes narrowed.
So did the Black Knight.
From beneath the city, a presence awakened.
An aura.
Monstrous.
Endless.
Wrong.
Leon's fingers rested on the hilt of his sword as he flashed a grin.
"Oh hell, seems we got a powerful uninvited guest".
[Underground – Barog POV]
The ritual chamber stank of blood.
Barog stood at the edge of the altar, eyes wide with delight.
The gate behind him pulsed—massive and jagged like a wolf's maw. Blood rivers flowed into its open mouth as cultists chanted in frenzied ecstasy.
"Finally," Barog whispered, voice giddy and cracked. "FINALLY!"
He raised both hands to the gate.
"Come, my Bloodhound. Feast."
With a sickening crack, the gate split.
And out of the darkness crawled a creature of nightmares.
Massive.
Lupine in shape—but wrong. Too many joints. A face split by a vertical maw. Eyes burning like coals in a frozen pit.
Its growl shook the chamber.
it stepped through.
And then—
Its aura hit.
A wave of sheer terror, the pressure of something not meant for this world. The very stones cracked beneath its feet. The air froze. Torches snuffed out. A dozen lesser cultists collapsed, eyes rolling into the back of their heads, foam frothing from their mouths.
Even Barog staggered.
His legs buckled.
He fell to his knees—not in reverence, but from raw fear.
And then he laughed.
Manic.
Wild.
Tears rolled down his face as he stared up at the abomination he had summoned.
"Yes… YES! You're real—you're perfect!"
The Bloodhound turned its head toward him slowly.
And growled.