The roar of battle is deafening as Mikhail, Miyako, and the elite guard reach the crumbling perimeter of the outer wall. The scene is apocalyptic: the sky is streaked with erratic bolts of mage-fire, and the ground is a churning mire of mud, blood, and green skin.
Mikhail scans the chaos instantly. The defenders are fighting disjointedly, overwhelmed by the sheer mass of the Orc horde. He turns to his entourage, his voice cutting through the din.
"You all go ahead! Help the injured and push them back as much as possible!" he shouts, pointing his blade toward the thickest cluster of the melee.
Miyako doesn't hesitate. She spurs her horse, leading the soldiers into the fray. As she rides past him, she turns her head, locking eyes with him for one fleeting, intense second—a silent plea for him to survive—before she vanishes into the whirlwind of steel and violence.
Mikhail stands alone for a moment amidst the carnage. He takes a deep, steadying breath, the metallic taste of blood heavy in the air. He drops from his saddle, landing heavily in the mud, his blade gripped tight in his hand.
It is useless to keep fighting without clear ambition, he thinks coldly. Killing one by one won't stop a tide.
He breaks into a run, charging not away from the enemy but through them. An Orc grunt steps in his path, raising a crude axe. Mikhail doesn't break stride; he ducks under the swing and severs the creature's hamstring, finishing it with a thrust to the throat as he passes. He carves a bloody path through the melee, stepping over bodies of friend and foe alike. His objective is above: the wall.
He reaches the stone stairs, slick with gore, and sprints up two steps at a time, slaying a straggler Orc that has breached the upper defenses. He finally reaches the ramparts, giving him a god's-eye view of the disaster.
The mages are panicked, flinging fireballs and lightning bolts at random targets, exhausting their mana on single kills while the horde keeps pushing.
"Mages!" Mikhail bellows, grabbing the nearest sorcerer by the collar. "Stop trying to kill them! They are too many! Use your spells to corner them! Create earth walls, fire barriers! Funnel them so they cannot push any further!"
The mage, terrified by the sudden appearance of the Imperial Prince, nods frantically. "Y-Yes, My Lord!" The order ripples down the line. The bombardment shifts. Instead of erratic explosions, walls of stone rise to block breaches, and curtains of fire force the Orcs into narrow kill-zones.
Mikhail walks to the edge of the rampart, looking down at the thousands of soldiers below who are on the brink of breaking. He needs to be more than a strategist; he needs to be a symbol.
He fills his lungs, channeling every ounce of his authority, and screams over the noise of the dying.
"BROTHERS! IT IS NOT THE TIME TO DIE! OR DESPAIR! WE ARE MANKIND'S RIGHT TO RULE!"
His voice thunders across the battlefield, momentarily pausing the clash of steel.
"PUSH THEM BACK! DO NOT STOP! DO NOT FALTER! SHOW THEM WHAT IS MANKIND!"
The effect is electric. The soldiers, who seconds ago were contemplating retreat, look up to see the Crown Prince of the Great Empire standing fearlessly on the wall. A surge of adrenaline and fanatical pride washes over them.
"FOR HUMANITY!!"
The morale skyrockets. The exhaustion vanishes, replaced by a second wind of desperate ferocity. Down below, Miyako and Hilowat capitalize on the surge, leading a counter-charge that shatters the Orcs' momentum.
Within hours, the impossible happens. The Imperial reinforcements combined with the revitalized Eldrath defenders push the green tide back. Inch by bloody inch, the breach is reclaimed. By the time the sun begins to set, the gap in the wall is sealed, the Orcs forced to retreat to regroup.
Mikhail stands on the wall, watching the enemy pull back, his expression unreadable. Phase one is complete.