The wind didn't just blow across the jagged peaks of the Dark Continent; it screamed. It was a merciless, freezing gale that carried the scent of ash, sulfur, and three centuries of despair.
Marcus forced his boots through the knee-deep black snow. Every step was a war against gravity. His silver armor, which had once gleamed proudly under the High Priestess's blessing, was now dull, marred by claw marks, and caked in dried gore. His cape—embroidered with the Holy Kingdom's crest—had been reduced to a bloody rag, flapping pitifully in the storm.
Exhaustion wasn't just a feeling anymore; it was a physical weight, heavier than the plate mail bolted to his chest. His bones felt like lead, and his lungs burned with every inhalation of the thin, toxic air.
"Just... a little further," Marcus rasped. The taste of copper filled his mouth as his cracked lips bled.
He forced his head up.
Looming before him, piercing the crimson sky like a spear of obsidian, stood the Castle of Eternal Night. The home of the Demon Queen. The root of all evil.
It had taken him three years to reach this cursed place. Three years of sleeping in freezing mud. Three years of chewing on dry, moldy rations. Three years of watching good men and women die screaming in the jaws of eldritch monsters.
He tightened his grip on the hilt of Lightbringer, his holy sword. The blade hummed faintly in his hand, pulsating against the overwhelming malice radiating from the castle walls. That vibration was the only warmth left in his freezing world.
I'm here, guys, Marcus thought, squeezing his eyes shut against the biting wind.
Ghosts of a happier time flashed in his mind. He saw the gruff Dwarf warrior who died holding the bridge at Gargantua to buy them time. He saw the Elf archer who sacrificed herself to the poison of the Spider Matriarch so that Marcus could live.
And then... there was Elena.
His chest tightened, a pain sharper than any goblin blade. Elena, the beautiful mage with raven-black hair and a smile that could light up a dungeon. She had vanished six months ago in the Golden City, leaving behind nothing but a cryptic note saying she had "preparations to make."
He assumed she was dead. No mage survived the Golden City alone. Or worse, she had been captured and tortured by the enemy's spies. The thought alone was enough to ignite the embers of his rage one last time.
"Don't worry, Marcus," her voice echoed in his memory, sweet and teasing. "I'll be waiting for you at the end of the road. I promise."
"I made it, Elena," Marcus whispered to the frozen wind, a single tear freezing instantly on his cheek. "I'm at the end of the road."
He reached the massive iron gates of the castle. They towered fifty feet high, carved with twisting runes designed to induce madness in lesser men. Marcus didn't flinch. He had no fear left to give. He had emptied his soul of everything except duty.
According to the ancient prophecies, the Demon Queen was a monstrosity of rotting flesh and darkness—a beast that drank the blood of virgins and sat upon a throne of human bone. Killing her would likely cost him his life.
But that was fine. A Hero's life was currency meant to be spent.
He gathered the absolute last dregs of his Holy Aura. Golden light erupted from his broken body, instantly vaporizing the black snow around his boots into a circle of steam.
"Demon Queen!" Marcus roared, his voice cutting through the storm like thunder. "I am Marcus of the Dawn! I have come to claim your head!"
He didn't wait for an invitation. He channeled every ounce of his remaining life force into his right leg and kicked the massive iron doors.
BOOM.
The impact shook the tectonic plates beneath him. The ancient seals didn't just break; they disintegrated into dust. The heavy doors groaned in protest and swung open, revealing the consuming darkness within.
Marcus stepped into the abyss, raising his sword high, his muscles tensed to face the ultimate horror. He was ready to confront hell itself.
He had no idea that hell... smelled like lavender.