The tremor rolled through the earth like a low, guttural growl. Birds scattered. Trees shook. In the heart of the village, the few remaining villagers stumbled, clutching fences and each other, eyes wide with rising fear.
Seraphina Moonwhisper stood over Rael's unconscious body, her black hair glinting in the evening moon. The air pulsed with magic—unsettled and wrong. She glanced toward the horizon, where a crimson haze had begun to seep into the blue sky. Something was coming.
"Silas," she said, voice sharp as a blade, "Scout the source of that tremor."
Without a word, Silas Shadowwalker nodded. His lean form shimmered into the shadows, vanishing like smoke into the trees.
Bjorn Stonehand tightened his grip on his warhammer, eyes scanning the treeline. "That wasn't a normal quake. Felt like the gods themselves were stomping across the land."
Roric Drosen, tall and silent, stood guard at Rael's side, one hand on the hilt of his blade. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, jaw clenched.
Minutes passed like hours.
Then Silas reappeared—breath short, expression grim. "A horde," he said. "A sea of demons. Orcs, goblins, things I've never seen before. Marching toward us."
Seraphina's face paled. "How many?"
"Millions. Stretching beyond the hills. They're not wandering... they're organized."
The words hit harder than the quake itself. For a moment, the four warriors stood in silence.
"...We can't fight that," Bjorn said quietly.
Seraphina's voice trembled as she gave the only order she could. "We evacuate. Now. Everyone."
---
That Evening
The sun bled into the sky as the villagers gathered their belongings, dragging carts, holding crying children. Seraphina directed them into formation while Bjorn led the first line of defense. Roric carried Rael on his back—his body still unmoving, but warm with faint mana.
They left Elwynd Village behind—its peaceful cottages and fields now shadows in the twilight.
---
Day One of the Journey
The forest loomed around them, ancient trees whispering secrets with every gust of wind. The march was slow. The elderly stumbled. Children cried. But they pressed on, the heroes flanking them like living walls.
Seraphina's magic glowed faintly as she maintained a protective barrier against potential attacks. Each spell drained her, but she refused to show weakness.
"How's Rael?" she asked Roric during a brief pause near a stream.
"Still no change," he replied. "But... I think his heartbeat's stronger. Slower. Like he's gathering strength."
Seraphina nodded, hope flickering in her chest.
Silas reappeared beside them, eyes scanning the ridgeline. "Demon scouts are getting closer. I saw wyverns in the sky. We need to move faster."
Bjorn grunted. "We're moving as fast as these folk can manage."
By nightfall, they reached a sheltered cave. The villagers huddled together, exhausted. Fires flickered in the darkness.
Roric sat beside Rael, watching the young man's chest rise and fall. "Come on," he whispered. "Wake up. We need you."
---
Day Two
The road grew harsher. The terrain turned rocky, forcing them to cross shallow rivers and climb steep paths. Seraphina's boots bled from blisters, her mana reserves dangerously low. But she kept going.
That afternoon, a low rumble echoed again—this time not from the earth, but from the skies.
Dark shapes moved above the clouds—massive beasts flying toward the south.
Silas returned from his latest scouting, his face more grim than ever. "The demon army has split. Half of the continent is under their control. They're building camps. I saw burning banners bearing a red flame… the mark of the Fire God."
Seraphina's heart sank. "Ifrit."
"Looks like he's starting his conquest early," Silas said. "We might be the last pocket of resistance left in this region."
As the sun set on the second day, the group finally crested a ridge—and gasped.
> Below them, sprawled across the scorched valley, was a monstrous demon encampment that stretched as far as the eye could see—an ocean of writhing shadows and flickering flame. Spiked barricades jutted from the blackened earth like the ribs of a dead god. Towering pyres burned with green flame, casting a sickly glow over the legions below.
Rank upon rank of demons stood in grim formation—armored ogres with molten chains wrapped around their torsos; towering centaur-like beasts with bone-bladed limbs; gnarled goblins with eyes like burning coals, darting between siege engines made of flesh and iron. At the heart of the camp, a massive obsidian tower pulsed with infernal energy, surrounded by winged sentries with skeletal wings and burning halos.
The air itself trembled with the weight of their presence. From the distance came the guttural chants of warlocks calling on forbidden gods, and the earth echoed with the rhythm of hellish drums—each beat a reminder that this army would not stop until the world was ash.
The air smelled of ash and blood.
They ducked behind rocks, staring in silence.
"...So many," Bjorn muttered.
"More than I've ever seen," Seraphina whispered. "This… this is no invasion. It's a conquest."
"We need to find allies," Roric said. "Anywhere. Anyone. If we don't—"
A sudden pulse of heat radiated from Rael's unconscious body.
They turned.
Golden embers danced around him, flickering briefly before vanishing. His eyes remained closed—but the ground beneath him had scorched slightly.
"Is he waking up?" Silas asked.
Seraphina stared, hope reigniting in her tired eyes. "Soon," she said.
"And when he does," Bjorn growled, "we bring the fight to them."
They looked down again at the army below, and though fear lingered in every heart, a new resolve had begun to burn.