A realm of darkness, far removed from hell itself, silence ruled. There was no fire, no rivers of flame, no screaming torment. Instead, the space was warped and distorted, as if reality itself had been wounded long ago and never healed. The ground twisted unnaturally, and the sky held no stars, only a heavy void that pressed down like an unseen weight.
Countless demons stood within this realm. Their forms were unnatural and varied. Many bore multiple horns branching from their skulls like twisted crowns. Their bodies did not burn like common demons; their flesh was cold and pale, their presence calm yet deeply unsettling. Flying demons circled above, some shaped like massive snakes with wings, others resembling enormous insects with hardened shells and glowing eyes. None spoke. None needed to.
At the highest point of this distorted world stood the ruler they served.
Vorthak the Rendmaw.
He was not a giant, but his height was overwhelming, towering far above all others. His body was a grotesque fusion of sinew and shadow, skin a sickly grey-white stretched tightly over immense muscles scarred by ancient wars. Across his chest, a crimson sigil burned constantly, pulsing like a living brand of dark authority.
From his skull rose massive, gnarled horns that curved outward like twisted branches. His face was split by a monstrous maw, wide enough to swallow a warrior whole, lined with countless jagged teeth. A blue tongue writhed within, alive with hunger. His eyes glowed with terrifying awareness, not wild or feral, but calculating and hateful. His wings spread behind him, leathery and vast, casting a suffocating shadow across the skull-strewn ground.
He did not sit upon a throne. Half of his body was buried within the realm itself, as if laid in a living grave. The ground clutched him tightly, binding him in place. Yet this burial was not weakness. It was power. The realm fed him, restoring what had been lost long ago.
Vorthak had lived for twenty million years. And for all that time, he had never forgotten his defeat at the hands of the Ninth Sentinel. Even now, the memory burned hotter than any flame. He had retreated, buried himself within this dark realm, drawing strength once more, waiting.
Through sheer will, he commanded Infinite dimensional realms. Each contained vast planets and blazing stars, connected by wormholes so immense they dwarfed even the highest calculations of space and matter. His influence stretched beyond comprehension, touching all without moving from his buried throne.
Suddenly, his deep voice thundered through the realm, echoing like a trumpet of war.
"I smell it."
The demons below trembled.
"A new Sentinel. Young. Fresh."
His maw twisted into something like a smile.
"I have seen him in my mind."
The air vibrated as his presence intensified.
"My demons. You carry a fraction of my strength. You are many."
His voice rose, shaking the distorted sky.
"Go. Attack the Vastyrion Realm. I cannot move yet. I must regain more strength."
Without a single spoken reply, the demons bowed in unison. Portals tore open across the realm, vast and violent, and the demonic forces began to march and fly through them, answering their lord's command.
Far away, within the winter grounds of the Vastyrion Realm, Michael stood beside Baldrick. Snow covered the land, crunching softly beneath their feet. The army of Aldervain was positioned far from them, spread across strategic points. Baldrick had kept Michael's identity as a Sentinel secret, even from most of his own commanders.
Michael's gaze was distant, focused beyond the horizon.
"They're coming," he said calmly.
Baldrick did not ask how he knew. He trusted him.
Michael's ability to perceive possibilities had already confirmed it, and because of that knowledge, Baldrick had prepared more than ever before. Across Vastyrion, nations had united under a single banner. Troops from many kingdoms gathered, ready to defend their world.
As Michael and Baldrick stood atop a hill, the air suddenly trembled. Portals tore open in the sky and across the land. Countless demons poured through, dark shapes against the pale snow.
Baldrick immediately activated his signal ability, connecting his mind with his generals across the battlefield. Information flowed rapidly. The flying demons had already reached the flanks, positioning themselves for a devastating strike.
"Strike now," Baldrick commanded. "Use strategy. Retreat when needed. Lead them into the traps."
Across the battlefield, his generals responded without hesitation.
On the hilltop, Michael drew his glowing sword. The blade hummed with restrained power. Though only sixteen years old, his presence was calm and unwavering. His cloak and Baldrick's royal mantle both whipped violently in the cold wind.
"I'm ready," Michael said.
On another flank, the allied forces of Aldervain and neighboring nations stood in full formation. Over forty-five thousand soldiers held defensive positions. Cannons were loaded and aimed. Archers stood ready. Cavalry waited for the signal. Pike and sword units formed tight ranks. Trenches had been dug, supplies secured.
From the hills above, elite soldiers known as the Big stood ready. Towering at two hundred twenty centimeters, their bodies were massive, built for strength and endurance. Each wielded a long pike with deadly precision.
As flying demons swept toward them, the Big struck with brutal force. Pikes pierced wings and bodies alike. Some soldiers were dragged briefly into the air, but the demons could not lift them fully. The creatures were cut down, burned, and sent crashing to the ground.
By the riverside, demons clashed violently with shielded knights. Steel met claw and fang. Knights fell into the rushing water, yet their formations held. Their shields absorbed brutal blows, and their blades struck down demons larger than themselves.
The battle for Vastyrion had begun. And this was only the beginning.
The knights with swords and shields at the riverside continued to fight without retreat. They pushed forward step by step, cutting down demons with precise slashes and clean stabs aimed at vital points. Shields slammed into claws and fangs, forcing openings. Demons fell into the river, their massive bodies sinking as blood mixed with the water. Despite the size and strength of their enemies, the knights held their ground through discipline and formation.
At the center hills, the flying demons kept charging in waves, but they were met by the Big soldiers. Fully armored and massive in build, they stood firm like living fortresses. Each swing and thrust of their long pikes was lethal. A single accurate stab pierced wings, skulls, and torsos, sending flying demons crashing down from the sky. The hills were littered with fallen demonic bodies, yet the Big soldiers did not fall back.
Meanwhile, the Aldervain generals and allied forces had engaged heavily on the eastern front. Steel clashed violently against claws in a relentless barrage of close combat. The allies managed to crush several demon lines, but many demons forced their way through, killing numerous soldiers. Some demons were so large that their steps cracked the ground and caused small earthquakes. Even so, cannon fire roared across the battlefield. Explosions sent demons flying apart, their bodies torn and burned. Countless demons were wiped out by the cannon barrage alone.
Archers fired continuously from the rear lines. Their arrows were coated with deadly poison, and when they struck, even massive insect demons collapsed moments later. The sky darkened as arrows rained down, piercing wings and armored hides.
In the middle lines, knights charged again and again, blades flashing as they cut through demon ranks. Cavalry units thundered forward, slashing and trampling demons beneath their mounts. Among them was the young captain Fred, leading a fierce cavalry charge. Clad in full knight armor, his expression was focused and unyielding. He cut down large demons, struck flying demons that swooped too low, and shattered claws and horns that reached for him. Several demons attempted to drag him away, but he fought them off without hesitation, striking with controlled fury.
The battle raged across countless fronts. Generals from other nations coordinated their forces with precision, holding lines and counterattacking despite being heavily outnumbered. Their determination did not waver.
Far away on open flat ground, Michael and Baldrick stood together against the demonic tide. It was two against countless demons.
Michael did not use his full speed. With a single controlled slash, he sent a tremor through the land, careful not to damage the Vastyrion Realm itself. He followed with a wind shock, slicing through demons at a distance. Then he unleashed a massive barrage of energy, blasting demons apart as if fired from a colossal launcher.
Beside him, Baldrick fought like a legend. His long hair and beard whipped violently in the wind, his appearance that of a man in his forties despite his true age of one hundred twenty. Wielding his knight sword, armored and cloaked, he moved at massively faster than light speed. Thanks to his potions, he could fly briefly, striking demons from above. His strength surged beyond its limits. With a single punch, he shook the Vastyrion Realm itself, erasing thousands of demons in an instant.
Michael noticed and calmly warned him to be careful.
Soldiers far across the battlefield felt the shockwave ripple through the land, unaware of who had caused it.
On the hills, the flying demons were close to collapse. The Big soldiers, only eight thousand strong, continued to dominate without suffering losses. Their formation held perfectly even as rain began to fall heavily, turning the battlefield slick and cold.
Michael moved through the chaos, cloak and hair whipping as he fought. His fists pierced through demonic bodies, his kicks detonating explosions within them. He restrained his power deliberately, holding back enough to avoid tearing the realm apart.
As blood and rain soaked the ground, Michael remained calm.
This war is bloody, he thought.
And it was far from over.