Back to Dravenloch city.
The battle continues to rage on....as more beasts came...but the city did not fall.
Not yet.
Just as Dravenloch teetered on the edge of annihilation, a sudden change occured...the air itself split— not with another Wormhole, but with pressure so dense it crushed the screams into silence....a pressure of a higher being.
A Hellforged aura descended.
Zex arrived first.
He did not announce himself. He simply appeared and joined the battle—one moment the street was drowning in beasts, the next it was carved open by a sweeping arc of crimson force. His armor was a blackened steel that was fused with living runes, his right arm was replaced entirely by a forged limb etched with burning sigils. When he struck, the ground cracked beneath his feet.
A Maker's beast lunged at him—an enormous thing of bone and writhing mouths.
But Zex punched straight through it.
The creature exploded into black mist and shattered fragments, its death scream cut short like a snapped string.
Then came Sax.
Where Zex was brutal force, Sax was precision. He landed ontop a broken tower, his Hellforged spear humming with restrained violence. He hurled it once—and the spear split midair into seven identical copies, each one impaling a different beast through the skull.
And immediately the battlefield shifted.
And then—four more presences descended.
Four additional Hellforged Wardens, each radiating power that bent the streets beneath them. They were veterans of real wars, monsters shaped by endless bloodshed. When they entered the fray, the Maker's beasts—mindless as they were—hesitated....as surprising as that may sounds.....they Indeed hesitated.
For the first time since the Wormhole opened, the tide slowed.
Mabel felt it immediately.
She turned, her breath ragged, eyes wide as she watched the devastation unfold in reverse. Beasts that moments ago had overwhelmed her Dreadmarks were now being torn apart with terrifying efficiency.
"Zex…" she whispered.
He did not look at her. He was already moving again, ripping through another cluster of creatures, his forged arm glowing brighter with every kill.
Sax's voice rang out, sharp and commanding.
"Regroup! Drive them away from the civilians!"
The surviving Dreadmarks rallied instantly.
With Hellforged warriors at the front, the defense lines reformed. Beasts were driven back, crushed, impaled, burned to ash. The streets ran black with ichor, but for the first time, people were surviving.
Dravenloch still burned—but it was no longer helpless.
From far above, hidden within a fracture of shadow and warped space, Don Skull watched.
He stood calmly, his hands clasped behind his back, his bone mask reflecting the carnage below. Around him, the air shimmered faintly—the distortion of advanced concealment Hellforging.
"So they came," he murmured. "The Maverick Wardens… predictable."
A faint chuckle escaped him.
"It won't be enough."
Behind him, one of the Damned Ones shifted. "Should we intervene?"
Don Skull shook his head. "No. This is still data. Let them struggle. Let them believe they're winning."
His gaze sharpened, focusing on the Hellforged warriors cutting through the beasts.
"And more importantly…" he added softly, "…let the Hollowborn feel this despair."
On a shattered rooftop within the city, the Masked Ones remained still.
Sané stood at the edge, his knuckles white, his shadow writhing violently beneath his feet. The arrival of Zex and Sax had eased the slaughter—but the city was still dying. Screams still echoed. Fires still raged.
Number 111 exhaled slowly. "They're holding."
"For now," Number 123 replied.
Sané said nothing.
He was hoping the city would not fall.... atleast not yet.
He hadn't done that in years—not since the streets, not since he learned how pointless it felt. But now, silently, desperately, he hoped...that Dravenloch would not fall.
Around him, the others did the same...though none of them would ever admit it.
Number 12 watched the battlefield with cold focus. But even she, for just a moment, tightened her grip on the railing.
"Hold," he whispered. "Just hold."
At the highest tower of the Maverick Stronghold, Lord Alaric Maverick stood rigid, his hands gripping the stone balustrade so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
He could see the fires.
He could hear the distant roars.
And he could do nothing.
Beside him stood Fen, calm on the surface but burning inside. Around them were the strongest warriors of the Maverick clan—men and women who could have turned the tide entirely if unleashed.
But they did not move.
They could not.
"If we step onto that battlefield," Alaric said hoarsely, "the other families will strike us from behind."
Fen nodded grimly. "The Falcons. The Skulls. Even the Vermins.....those vipers. They're watching."
Indeed, unseen eyes were already tracking every movement within the Stronghold. Spies. Observers. Predators waiting for weakness.
"If we fall," Fen continued, "Dravenloch dies anyway."
Alaric slammed his fist against the stone. "My city burns while I stand here like a coward."
"You stand here like a ruler," Fen corrected gently. "One who understands the price of survival."
Alaric closed his eyes.
Down below, a tower collapsed. The sound echoed like a death bell.
"Mabel is down there," Alaric said quietly. "My daughter."
"She is not alone," Fen replied. "And she has never been weak."
They watched in silence as Zex tore a massive beast in half, as Sax redirected a collapsing street away from fleeing civilians, as the Hellforged Wardens slowly, brutally pushed the Maker's curse back.
Dravenloch bled.
But it endured.
Deep beneath the city, the Wormcall Core pulsed, its light flickering—not failing, but straining.
The Maker's beasts continued to emerge… but slower now.
Don Skull smiled beneath his mask.
"Interesting," he murmured. "Very interesting."
He turned away from the carnage, already thinking ahead.
"This city survives today," he said softly. "So it can suffer more tomorrow."
And in the shadows, the game continued.
---
Ban Skull reached Dravenloch on the kind of afternoon that made cities look honest....
The sun sat high enough to expose every crack in the road and every stain on the broken stone on the road. The wind carried dust, ash, and the faint metallic sting that always lingered after a wormhole closed.
There was no dramatic lightening strike in the sky....no ominous eclipse....Nah nothing like that...just daylight, plain and unforgiving—revealing the truth Dravenloch could not hide.
That suited Ban.
I mean.....He preferred to see the world clearly. And he preferred other people to be seen clearly too, especially when they were bleeding.
But ofcourse he had not come alone.
Twenty Wyrmscourge experts rode behind him in a disciplined line, spaced evenly like that of a blade's teeth. Their armor was built for beast-hunting rather than ceremony: layered plates over leather, light enough to move fast, yet strong enough to take a hit from claws or fangs. Each carried weapons that looked used rather than polished, because this group was not made of parade soldiers.
These were specialists—fighters who had survived wormhole-born creatures, who knew how to cut down monsters that did not die the way normal beasts died.
And in the shadow of Ban's presence, almost silent, were his two Hell-forged wardens.
They were not loud men, for they did not need to be. Their armor had a scorched sheen, as if it had been dragged through fire and decided to keep the heat. Thin seams of dull crimson ran along their gauntlets and breastplates. Their helmets covered most of their faces, leaving only narrow slits for their eyes.
Ban Skull never introduced them...for he didn't see any reason to. They were his protectors.
But ofcourse the most amazing thing is that....
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TO BE CONTINUED....