Part 44

When the battlefield was drowned in the crimson glow of sunset, the great warriors of Samardun raised their hands toward the sky.
Their voices merged together into a deep chant—words so powerful they could pull stars down from the endless abyss of the cosmos.
“O fire-stones of the Upper Realm, descend upon the mortal world!”

The sky seemed to tear apart.
Countless meteors—each like a blazing mountain peak—came crashing down with thunderous force, shaking the earth like an earthquake.

Each meteor streaking over the heads of the enemy soldiers felt like a sword strike from the heavens.
The ground trembled, mountain tops swayed, and fear began to throb inside the hearts of the enemy.

From the mouths of Samardun’s commanders poured an arcane web of sound. This was not merely a battle cry—it was an eruption of ancient power. Their voices fused with the air, forming invisible waves that pierced deep into the minds of the enemy, scattering their awareness.
“In the name of our ancestors, spread the web of confusion!”

The serpent warriors of the Malth suddenly looked at their own swords and saw them writhe like living snakes.

The lion warriors of Kavanruth felt as if their armour was melting away.

The mountain warriors of Thanlas felt the ground sliding out from beneath their feet.

Such was the strength of this sorcery of sound that the enemies began to see even their own shadows as foes.

The eldest generals of Samardun gathered their combined power and sent it deep into the earth. Their force awakened the primal energy sleeping in the planet’s core.
And then came the great calamity—the land split apart, forming a massive rift, as if a river had torn through the heart of the world.
“Feel the heartbeat of the motherland, enemies!”

From this vast rupture rose a mysterious light, and with it emerged memories of an ancient age—when monsters once roamed this land.

The enemy soldiers saw figures rising before them—the great warriors of the past. No. Only their armour and their swords.

From the depths of darkness came the armies of the Malth. In their eyes lay a silence deeper than the night itself. Each breath carried the poison of death, and their movements were as silent and deadly as snakes.

But before the armies of Samardun’s light, their darkness slowly began to fade.
“Your poison will not stain our souls!”
roared the warriors of Samardun.

The fire-maned flame-lions of Kavanruth were a storm of raw emotion. Every strike carried the force of an erupting volcanic mountain. Wildfire lived in their breath, lava flowed in their rage.
But the warriors of Samardun knew—true heroism lies in mastery over emotion.
“Your fire will die before our patience!”
roared the warriors of Samardun.

The iron-skinned mountain giants of Thanlas were as unmovable as mountains themselves, thunder crashing with every hammer strike. But most terrifying were the tears in their eyes—tears of sorrow filled with centuries of pain. To be touched by those tears was to have one’s heart shattered by despair.
“Your sorrow cannot touch us, for we carry the light of hope!”
roared the warriors of Samardun.

The battlefield had become an epic stage. Under the light of falling meteors, the mysterious glow of the earth’s rupture, and the unseen power of spoken spells—the entire horizon seemed to come alive.

In the heart of every Samardun warrior burned an unyielding love for the motherland. Their swords carried not only steel, but the blessings of their ancestors. Their armour bore not only metal, but the touch of their homeland’s soil.
“We are not merely warriors—we are the children of this land!”
roared one of Samardun’s heroes.
In every strike, every step, every breath lived a single purpose—not only victory, but liberation. Not only war, but the establishment of justice. Not only power, but the triumph of love.

******

Darkness.
A crushing darkness descended upon the Twelve Kingdoms.
With every step against the monstrous forces, they seemed to be retreating. The ground was soaked with blood from relentless battles, hope fading with every passing moment. It felt as though defeat was near, as if everything would soon end.
Countless brave soldiers of the kingdoms fought with all their strength, yet they could not halt the enemy’s unstoppable advance.

Everywhere there was only despair and screams.

Just then, tearing through the silence, a sound of laughter drifted from the forest—a cold, cruel laugh that froze blood in the veins. The trees trembled.
“The King of Darkness has arrived,”
someone said.

Everything went still.
Everyone strained their ears and listened.

From the fourth direction came the forces of Orlan Balan—but they could not be seen. Only shadows, vague shapes, hiding in concealment. His soldiers were perfect hunters—they vanished in daylight, and only at night did their eyes glow like wolves. There was no sound of footsteps, no sound of breath—they were the shadow of death.

Orlan Balan himself was invisible—only his voice could be heard, drifting from deep within the forest.
This was the edge of fear.
But at that very moment of terror, something impossible happened.

Orlan Balan’s laughter echoed in all directions. That laughter created ripples everywhere. It seemed to stir everyone to the core.

That blood-chilling laughter of Orlan Balan set fire to every heart in the kingdoms. They felt it—walls at their backs, death in front of them. There was no path left to retreat.

And then, as if a wheel had turned. A miraculous force fell upon them, or perhaps the buried defiance within them finally awakened.
“No more retreat!”—initiated by this mantra, they roared once again.

Each warrior found new strength, the fire of vengeance blazing in their eyes. United, they hurled themselves upon the enemy.