Chapter 19: The Gates of Hell Open
Fort Tervaille had become a battlefield of fire and blood. The sky above had turned dark, as if mirroring the darkness pouring out from the cracked earth where demons were emerging.
Xebec stood alone at the northern gate of the fortress. His body was wounded, his cloak torn, but his silver eyes still burned with determination. Around him, shadows of demonic creatures moved swiftly, led by elite traitor soldiers who had once sworn loyalty to the kingdom.
"For Phillipe!" shouted one of the loyal nobles, Marquess Gadrien de Luthien, as he leapt into the horde of demons and sliced a horned creature in half with his sword, which glowed with a blue light.
From the other side came Countess Seraline, a warrior woman wielding light-shield magic. "We will not let them destroy hope!"
One by one, the nobles still loyal to the throne began arriving, strengthening Xebec's line.
But that was only the beginning.
From the cracked heart of the fortress emerged Grand Duke Theral, his dark cloak billowing and eyes as cold as steel. Beside him stood Duke Malefic, a devilish smile on his lips and an aura of dark magic swirling around his steps.
"Stop resisting, Xebec," Theral said calmly. "Your time is over. The world will change."
"Not as long as I still stand," Xebec replied, then leapt forward, his sword glowing with ancestral power—the Flame of Ancestral Souls igniting across his body, summoning the strength of knights of the past.
The battle exploded.
Xebec's aura clashed with Malefic's magic and Theral's dark swordsmanship. The three forces collided, destroying walls, splitting the ground, and shaking the entire fortress.
Blood spilled. Explosions of magic tore the sky apart. But as Xebec began to falter, a familiar, deep voice filled with authority rang out.
"That's enough, Theral."
Everyone turned. From the palace gates, King Phillipe walked forward, clad in his old war armor—covered by the royal mantle. In his left hand, a silver sword engraved with the royal sigil; in his right, the king's staff glowing with sealing magic.
"It's been a long time since we fought, my old friend," King Phillipe said softly, gazing at Grand Duke Theral.
Theral narrowed his eyes. "You came… finally."
"This isn't about power," Phillipe continued, "this is about regret. And I've come to atone… with my sword."
King Phillipe stepped forward and fought—not as a king, but as the knight who once battled in the first Dark War alongside Theral.
Xebec watched his father move with astonishing speed and strength. The old body had weakened, but every motion of Phillipe spoke of discipline, experience, and decades of pain. For the first time, Xebec saw another side of his father—a true warrior.
But age is unforgiving.
Grand Duke Theral, aided by Malefic's magic, finally drove his sword into Phillipe's chest.
"Forgive me…" Theral whispered, though there was no regret in his eyes. King Phillipe collapsed, blood pouring, but before he drew his last breath, he looked at Xebec.
"My son… don't let them win. You… are the last hope… of my blood…"
And King Phillipe died, in the final embrace of honor—as a king and as a father.
---
Elsewhere—in the skies above the southern border—a magic carriage sped toward the Holy Empire of Ari. Inside, Nanea sat silently, cloaked in disguise, clutching a small pendant engraved with a silver-winged phoenix.
She finally arrived at Ari's outer palace. When the guards saw the pendant, they bowed in reverence.
Soon after, she met someone: Archduke Tristan von Ari, a young man with platinum blond hair and sapphire eyes, dressed in the empire's military robes.
"Tristan," Nanea whispered, eyes glistening with tears, "our kingdom… my brother… we need you. Help us. Use the Holy Sword… for the world that still seeks the light."
Tristan looked at her with eyes full of love and resolve.
"If darkness has descended," he said softly, "then the Empire of Ari shall light its final torch."
And from the holy chamber of Ari, the light of the sacred sword began to shine.
---
Silence blanketed the battlefield after King Phillipe fell. The loyal nobles and royal troops could only stand still—some with heads bowed, others screaming in grief. Xebec knelt beside his father's body, blood and dirt soaking his knees. He grasped the king's cold hand—the father he once believed never cared, but who now had proven to be the final shield of a crumbling kingdom.
"Thank you, Father…" he whispered softly, his voice nearly drowned by the howl of the night wind and the distant crackle of flames.
Meanwhile, Grand Duke Theral stood still, his face grim. Though he had slain his old friend, a deep sorrow lingered in his eyes—as if part of him had died that night, too.
But Duke Malefic showed no such sentiment. He stepped forward, dark magic pulsing around him. "One king has fallen. Only the crippled prince remains," he sneered.
Xebec slowly rose. In his silver eyes, there was no anger—only resolve. Blood still flowed from his wounds, but the aura of four ancestral powers began to cloak him—golden, deep blue, sacred violet, and pure white merged into a radiant aurora.
"I may be crippled… but I am the last hope of Phillipe's blood. And I am not alone."
From the mist emerged the loyal nobles, standing behind Xebec, raising the ancient banners of the kingdom, emblazoned with a crowned, winged lion.
Then, a beam of sacred light shone from the northeast sky. A golden holy bird soared through the clouds, carrying mounted warriors armed with radiant weapons.
From the air formation descended a young man with a stern yet noble face. In his hands he held a sacred cross-shaped sword, glowing with white flame.
Archduke Tristan von Ari.
"I have not come for the Kingdom of Phillipe," he declared, "but to fulfill my promise to the woman I love, and to stop Baal's darkness before it touches the world."
Behind him stood Nanea in a silver cloak, gazing at Xebec with a faint smile and eyes full of hope.
The Ari army now joined with the Kingdom of Phillipe—and for the first time, the two great powers of the world stood united against the Demons.
The war was far from over. But hope… had begun to burn.
---
As the sacred light of the Holy Empire's army lit the dark skies, Duke Malefic took a step back. His gaze flickered to Archduke Tristan, then to Nanea. His face hardened.
"So the girl succeeded… the Empire truly sent its golden son," he muttered, no longer hiding his discomfort.
Meanwhile, Grand Duke Theral did not move. He stared at the silhouette of the holy cavalry descending, then drew his sword once more. But this time, his hand trembled slightly.
"I'm not afraid of the light," he said, though his tone hinted otherwise. "I've walked too far down the path of darkness to turn back. Baal will rise… and you all will be swept away by his curse."
But before he could step forward, something shook the ground. A red crack spread across the battlefield—like the heartbeat of hell itself. From the fissure, a thick black mist seeped out… accompanied by a hissing sound from within.
Xebec clenched his teeth. He knew—this was no longer about power or the throne. This was the beginning of a war between the old world and an ancient darkness.
Then, from within the mist emerged three towering silhouettes.
The Three Great Generals of Baal.
—Mor'grath, the Soul Butcher, dragged a long chain glowing with dark memories and hysterical whispers.
—Vel'Setthar, the Will-Eater, hovered silently, and in his presence, mentally weak soldiers began crying, even hurting themselves.
—Zaar'Thurel, the Endbearer, did not move, yet the aura around him cracked the very air.
Xebec stared at the three. His heart pounded—not from fear, but because his body was responding. The ancestral lights within him ignited one by one, each demanding to be unleashed.
Tristan stood beside him. "You don't have to carry this burden alone, Prince."
Xebec turned, and for the first time smiled on the battlefield. "I know. But allow me… to avenge my father's blood with theirs."
At that moment, the skies split once more with the sound of holy trumpets from the Empire of Ari. Behind them, the banners of the Kingdom of Phillipe were raised high again by the loyal nobles. The great war had begun, and the history of the world would be rewritten tonight.
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To be continued