The evening sun, low and slanted, cast a fiery glow over the blood-drenched battlefield, as if the very heavens themselves mourned the slaughter. Amidst the carnage, a solitary figure stood, shining like a silver star in a sea of crimson—Adric. His white armor, once brilliant, now clung to him like a second skin, heavy with the cold, still blood of demonic beasts. The air around him hummed with the echoes of the battle, the very ground beneath his boots scorched by the fury of the fight. To any who witnessed, it was as if a war god had descended upon the earth, cutting a path of destruction through the tides of madness.
Adric, nearly a nine-star sword master, was a living legend—a name whispered with reverence and fear. In the history of the world, the number of those who had reached nine stars could be counted on a single hand. And he was the youngest to ever achieve such a feat, an iron-blooded prodigy whose reputation struck fear into even the bravest of warriors.
His army, a colossal force of one hundred thousand soldiers, moved in a rhythmic harmony, like a well-oiled machine, each one a blade honed to perfection. All of them stood at least five stars in strength—enough to rule kingdoms of their own. But their leader? A being whose power dwarfed them all.
Beside him, Ray Belberg, his trusted second-in-command, couldn't suppress the tremor that ran through his body. Fear lingered in his chest, not for the enemy, but for the untamable beast of a man walking beside him. Adric was a war machine, a relentless force of nature, and today, something darker had awoken within him. Today, he had become a maddened hound, unleashed upon the wild. His eyes, usually cold and calculating, were now fierce with a primal hunger, as though the battle itself had consumed him entirely. He tore through the ranks of demonic bosses as though they were mere prey, each one falling before his fury like a moth to the flame.
As the final boss crumbled under the weight of his blade, Adric stood amidst the destruction, breathless but unmoved, as though he were part of the very storm that had ravaged the battlefield. He turned, his armor slick with the blood of the vanquished, and began his march back to the fort—his fortress in the heart of the demonic forest.
The journey back was a silent one, with only the occasional snap of twigs beneath his boots as he walked through the forest's ancient, twisted trees. The silence, however, did not last long. Upon entering the grand throne room, Adric was met by the soft sound of footsteps—calm, yet purposeful. Elisa, his ever-loyal maid, stood before him.
Her eyes softened as she took in the sight of him. She, too, had seen him return from battle countless times, but never like this. Never so… fractured. The bruises, the gashes, the subtle signs of wear on his once-immaculate armor spoke volumes of the ferocity of the fight. The claw marks on his stomach told a story of a battle fought on the razor's edge, and Elisa's heart clenched at the sight. She was his closest confidante, a silent observer of his battles, and today, even she could feel the weight of the madness that had overtaken him.
"Welcome back, my lord," she said softly, her voice a gentle balm against the turmoil that seemed to swirl around him. Her words, as always, were an anchor in the chaos.
Without a word, Adric allowed her to guide him to his quarters. She carefully removed his armor, each plate falling away with a soft clink. His skin was marred, covered in bruises that looked like the aftermath of a storm. Elisa, with a steady hand, cleaned and treated the wounds—her touch practiced and delicate. As she worked, she studied him, her brow furrowing. In all the years of battle, she had never seen him return so battered, so… human. The fierce warrior, the legend, had been peeled back, leaving only a man—vulnerable, raw, and not invincible.
The claw, lodged deep in his flesh, was removed with practiced precision, and she murmured words of healing, knowing that the scars of battle were not just physical. But even she understood that the most dangerous wounds were those that could not be seen—those that festered in the soul.
Once he was clean, new clothes were draped over his form, and he stood, his expression as unreadable as ever, though the storm within him had not yet calmed. Elisa gave him one last look, before nodding softly and stepping aside.
Adric made his way to the throne, where the weight of command awaited him. He motioned for his commanders to gather—every decision now carried the lives of thousands. Deaths, injuries, strategies, resupplies—all these things needed to be addressed.
The battle was over, but the war, as always, continued. And in this world of blood, steel, and magic, the echoes of his decisions would shape the fate of all.