CHAPTER ONE

  The bitter chill of Polysia bit through their armor as the heroes and their army approached the entrance to the floating castle, the final stronghold of Krantu’s forces. Towering before them were the menacing gates—tall, black iron adorned with dark inscriptions that seemed to pulse with ominous energy. Without warning, the gates screeched open, and a gust of air, warm yet frigid, swept through, bringing an unbearable sense of dread. Echoing from within were the sounds of tormented screams and roaring beasts, as if the very ground beneath their feet were soaked in the cries of the damned.

  Fear rippled through the heroes' army, a wave of terror threatening to overwhelm them. However, their leader, Bentle, refused to falter. His voice rang out, a battle cry that cut through the fear like a blade.

  "Onward!"

  With that single word, he marched forward, his twin blades—one aflame with fire and the other coated in frost—gleaming in the dim light. His comrades followed him without hesitation, each taking their place for the battle that was about to unfold. The gates slammed shut behind them with a deafening crash, trapping them in the heart of Aesmodes' domain.

  The ground trembled beneath their feet, and the air thickened with malevolent energy. From the shadows emerged the twisted forces of the Agroth: the undead soldiers, corrupted acolytes of Krantu, and horrors beyond mortal comprehension. They ambushed the heroes' army with savage ferocity, striking without mercy.

  But the five heroes were not so easily overwhelmed.

  Sylf, the lithe Elf with her sword, nimbly danced between the enemy ranks, her sword forming streaks of lightning, she tore through the enemy lines with her strength, she came down crushing skulls and sending bodies sprawling. Her sword, tore through armor like paper. Her earth-shaking battle cry that echoed across the battlefield.

  Beside her, Gurlan the Beastkin warrior equipped with her bow and arrows sent a barrage of arrows raining down on her enemies. Each one was imbued with mana that caused explosive bursts upon impact, sending enemies flying in every direction. She was a whirlwind of death, her keen eyes never missing a target. Killing any enemy that came close within her striking range, skillfully with her dagger.

  Melgril, the stout Dwarf knight, stood like an unmovable mountain. His enchanted shield glinted with enchantments, deflecting blows that would have split any other warrior in half. His axe, a massive weapon carved from the heart of an ancient tree, cleaved through foes with a deadly precision that sent limbs flying and enemies scattering in terror.

  Aldain, the Alcateen mage, stood at the rear, his fingers tracing intricate runes in the air. He summoned firestorms and tornadoes, hurling wind and flame at the oncoming tide of enemies. His magic was a perfect blend of destructive force and defensive utility, keeping the swarm at bay and aiding his allies.

  Bentle led the charge with unmatched ferocity. His twin blades, one blazing with the heat of a sun, the other cold as the heart of winter, moved in a fluid dance of destruction. Each strike he made cleaved through enemy after enemy, his blades cutting through the night like a storm of fire and ice.

  But despite their strength, the enemies kept coming. Wave after wave, the Agroth's twisted forces seemed endless. Even as the heroes fought valiantly, the numbers of the enemy were overwhelming. The air grew thick with the stench of blood and death. Their army had dwindled, and soon it was only the five of them left, standing in the midst of a battlefield littered with the fallen.

  Then, the ground shook violently, and a deep, unnatural darkness spread across the field, blotting out the stars. A voice boomed through the air, a deep, resonant growl filled with malice.

  "You cannot win. You are already dead."

  Aesmodes, the last guardian of Krantu, emerged from the shadows. The beast was a creature of nightmare—an abomination of shadow and death. His form was ever-shifting, like smoke in the wind, but there was no mistaking the aura of pure evil that radiated from him. His eyes, two pools of burning black, locked onto the heroes.

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  With a twisted laugh, Aesmodes raised his hand, and the very world seemed to warp around them. "Necro Fade."

  The light in the world vanished in an instant. Darkness, thick and suffocating, swallowed everything. The five heroes found themselves unable to see, hear, or even feel. Their senses were gone, replaced by a cold, mind-numbing void. The oppressive silence was broken only by the sound of Aesmodes' cruel laughter, echoing through the blackness.

  Bentle gritted his teeth, struggling to find his bearings in the overwhelming darkness. His blades ignited with fire and ice, but even the magic that had once been his ally seemed useless in the face of the all-consuming blackness.

  Aesmodes' form loomed over them, his claws raking through the air with unholy speed. A strike landed, and Bentle felt the cold, sickening pressure of something ripping through his side.

  "You're all weak," Aesmodes taunted, his voice like a thousand whispers.

  "Pathetic."

  Then, through the chaos, a brilliant light flared.

  Melgril’s shield, once dim, now radiated with a blinding glow. The enchantment woven into it erupted with power, and the light cut through the darkness like a blade. He was the first to regain his senses, and his voice rang out like thunder.

  "Now! Aldain!"

  In that brief moment of clarity, Melgril charged forward, his shield held high and his axe ready. He barreled into Aesmodes with all his might, buying Aldain the precious seconds he needed.

  Aldain’s hands moved in a blur, runes spiraling around him as he gathered the last of his strength. His voice, faint but resolute, muttered an incantation.

  Aesmodes, furious, turned toward them, his claws reaching out to strike. But before he could land a blow, Melgril collided with him, driving his shield into the creature’s chest and pinning him in place. Aesmodes snarled in fury, his claws sinking into Melgril’s armor, tearing through his side. The dwarf’s blood poured, but he didn’t let go. He held Aesmodes in place with every ounce of his remaining strength.

  "Do it!" Melgril rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. "Now, Aldain!"

  Aldain’s magic surged to its peak, a torrent of energy coalescing in his hands. With a final cry of determination, he thrust his hands forward, and a spear of pure mana pierced the heart of Aesmodes.

  The beast let out a deafening scream, its body writhing in agony as the light consumed it. In the final moments, its form collapsed, lifeless as he laid on the cold ground, leaving behind only the silence of the void.

  The world seemed to hold its breath for a moment before the light returned, bright and blinding. The darkness that had once consumed them faded away, and the heroes found themselves standing in the aftermath of their victory.

  Melgril, bloodied but alive, fell to his knees, breathing heavily. Aldain staggered forward, his energy drained. The rest of the heroes stood in stunned silence, their bodies heavy with exhaustion.

  But the battle was over. The Agroth forces had been vanquished, their twisted army crumbling into dust. Krantu’s resurrection had been stopped. The world had been saved.

  But victory came at a heavy price.

  Melgril, the stout and fearless Dwarf, had sacrificed himself in the battle, ensuring that Aldain could cast the spell to defeat Aesmodes. The price was steep, and as Aldain stood over the crumpled form of the last guardian, breathing a sigh of relief, the weight of the world seemed to lift from his shoulders.

  For a moment, it seemed like the world could begin to heal.

  But then, the unimaginable happened.

  A sharp, cold pain pierced through his chest. Aldain’s eyes widened as he looked down, only to see the blade Drugmund—the sacred weapon of his companion, Sylf the Elf—protruding from his chest. The woman he had loved, the one who had shared his bed in the quiet moments before the battle, stood behind him, her face twisted with cold malice. The woman who had been his greatest joy in a world engulfed by darkness had betrayed him.

  As he fell to his knees, his life force fading, flashes of his past flooded his mind—memories of his childhood as a slave, of the battles he had fought, of the dungeons he had crawled through, of the moments when he thought he would never escape his fate. The pain of betrayal cut deeper than any wound. His mind screamed in anguish, ”This can’t be how I die!”

  Aldain’s vision blurred as he looked up at his friends—once his comrades, now his executioners. They laughed and grinned, watching him bleed out, their faces betraying nothing but contempt. His body shook with rage as his eyes gleamed red with fury. ”This is not my end!”

  Then, it was revealed to him—Malthios, the Goddess of Love and Harvest, had orchestrated his death. She had been the mastermind behind his betrayal, guiding Sylf’s hand. Why? The answers were unclear, but the devastation of it all was enough to break Aldain’s heart.

  Just as he was about to fade away he heard a voice saying "Do not fret child!", a strange light emitted from Aesmodes’ body. It resonated with a rune on Aldain’s chest—one that had never activated before. At that moment, the magic surged through him, unlocking a spell of unimaginable power, one he had never seen. Malthios bellowed from the heavens to Sylf and the rest of the party "Stop him! It's dangerous, that's a spell I've not seen before" and just then the light exploded outward in a cataclysmic burst, sending shockwaves across the battlefield.

  Aldain’s body was consumed by the explosion. His last thought was of the world he would never see again.

  But then… everything went dark.

  Suddenly, a voice called out to him, familiar and urgent: “Al! Al, get up! We need to hurry before the master comes!”

  Aldain’s eyes fluttered open. The familiar warmth of the four walls surrounding him. The sound of cicadas and chatter filled the air—this was where it had all started. He was back, in the quarter where his life as a slave had begun.

  Confusion gripped him, but as the realization settled in, a surge of rage washed over him. This was not how I died. This is my second chance.

  With his memories of the future intact and vengeance burning in his soul, Aldain swore that he would make the most of this new life. Those who had wronged him, those who had betrayed him, would pay. And this time, the world would not be saved—it would be reshaped by his hand. The battle for revenge had just begun.