A vast wasteland of blackened grass stretched across the horizon like a foul piece of charred hide. Aldren Socres would have liked to never set his eyes on this forsaken place again. Since becoming War Games Champion, he shouldn't have had to. But for some reason, his brother had been sent out here on an expedition that failed to go public.

And expeditions never failed to go public.

They were meant to display which teams among the Seven Militaries were lacking in the War Games. Anyone sent to skirmish with Demons beyond Kingdom borders was essentially serving detention.

If anyone deserved such a detention it was not his brother, Miron.

Yet the message from Miron was displayed in front of him, hanging idly in the air. It asked Aldren why General Voldenic would send one of his top Captains out on such a pointless quest.

That was exactly what he intended to find out.

“Sir Aldren!”

A gatekeeper ran towards him, winded from the chase. “Sir, please. You shouldn’t be out here. You would need to submit a request–”

Aldren raised a hand and the gatekeeper cut his plea short on command. Power carried respect. He planned on exploiting that at the moment.

“How long ago did Miron’s team from Third Military leave for Black Valley?”

“Sir…”

Sensing hesitation, Aldren turned to face the man. He flared his Halo to cast them both in purple light, burning Artima for sheer intimidation. Thin streaks of electricity arced around him and the gatekeeper’s hair rose to stand on end as he paled.

“About two hours ago,” the frightened man said.

Good. Not too far off. Since the gatekeeper seemed obedient, he considered trying to get more information out of him but decided it would be pointless. If General Voldenic was covering something up then there was no chance that common fodder would have any information.

Aldren calmed his Halo, returning it to its regal purple glow behind his head. He nodded to the gatekeeper. “Excuse me. I know you’re just doing your job. But this is a personal matter for me.”

Aldren faced the black line of the horizon as a plume of smoke erupted to block the setting sun. Something tugged at his heart when he saw it. It wasn’t fear, it couldn’t be fear. He hadn’t felt that in ages. And he wouldn’t feel that for his brother.

His brother had become strong, and he wouldn’t dishonor him by fearing for him.

He reached into his Halo by stretching his awareness beyond the back of his mind. The message from his brother vanished. In its place, he summoned his quick selection of Casts. Ten options hung in front of him like icons stamped onto air. He burned Artima and selected his Electro Step Enhancement Cast.

At least the smoke gave him a clear destination.

The Cast triggered. Within the instant that power coursed through his muscles, he leaped towards the battlefield like a bolt of lightning.

In a clap of thunder, he arrived in hell.

His landing singed a wide radius of earth. He must have landed on an unfortunate creature since charred remains sprinkled over black grass.

All around him was chaos. Black Valley was tinged red with flame as Demon’s clashed with Battlemages. The Demons blended into their surroundings with their black rags and vivid red veins pulsing through their bodies. They were humanoid in shape, but devoid of soul in their eyes.

They fought with crude use of the Fell Arts: Absorbing unpurified mana into themselves for immediate, terrible power. They transformed their own flesh and blood into hideous weaponry, deforming themselves for any chance to kill.

It was sad.

To go to such painful lengths in an attempt to battle the Kingdom, who sent only their weakest to trim their numbers like weeds.

He felt especially sad for these poor Demons. For they had to face a force that was considered strong by the standards of the Kingdom. They faced a Socres.

Aldren dismissed his Enhancement Cast and equipped his helmet before striding out onto the battlefield. Red and orange mana drifted everywhere like a thick tinted fog. But his helm prevented him from breathing it in, allowing him instead to suck it up into his Halo and purify it into Artima–the power behind Casting.

A Demon gurgled with insanity and exertion as it tried to pummel its opponent with massive club-like limbs. The battlemage deftly parried each attack with her spear as if directing the Demon through a choreographed show of humiliation. Once the Demon had clubbed its own feet out from under itself, the battlemage skewered it through.

Aldren approached, looking for a distinguishing set of colors or emblem on the battlemage’s robes and armor. Curiously, there were none. He couldn’t tell what team she belonged to much less which Military. He could only tell she was female by the style and shape of her armor.

The battlemage spun, spear leveled at Aldren, her Halo a radiant blue. The girl was tense. Strange, considering the skill she showed.

Recognizing him as no threat, she lowered the spear. But she didn’t relax.

“Report! What team are you from?” she said with the authority of a captain.

“Team Silk Fang, led by Miron Socres,” Aldren lied. He wasn’t wearing his brother’s team colors or crest, but seeing as this battlemage wore none of her own, he figured they may all be fighting covertly. Which was very strange.

“Silk Fang?! What are you doing here?! Your team’s responsible for securing the objective so that we can get out of here!” She glanced at his Halo through the eye slit in her helm. “I didn’t see a Silk Fang with your Halo typing earlier, are you late?!”

“What’s the objective?”

The battlemage captain looked about ready to strike Aldren with her spear when a horn sounded.

Both of them turned their attention towards it. Three armored chariots burst over a blackened hill steered by more battlemages in plain gray armor and robes.

“Guess you lucked out and let the rest of your team finish up without you.” She unequipped her helm to spit at his feet. She glared at him a moment before her helm began to rematerialize. Apparently, she considered a breath of toxic mana worth sharing her disgust.

Aldren’s hand gripped her throat before her helm could fully equip. Her eyes went wide with shock, either at the exposure to mana or the speed of Aldren’s hand. Probably both. He hated being forceful like this, but something wrong was happening. He needed answers.

“What is the objective?” He said again. This time each word was sharp as a blade.

She struggled against his grip but couldn’t get free. Not at her level.

“You’re not Silk Fang–who are you?”

“Answer me!” Aldren yelled, letting Artima spill from his Halo to distort the air around them.

“I–I don’t know! My team and many others were ordered to clear a path and defend it for the cargo to travel back to the Kingdom! Silk Fang was sent to secure that cargo and no, I don’t know what it is.” She pointed at the armored chariots.

Aldren dropped the battlemage. She staggered back and her helm quickly materialized while she coughed and wheezed.

Wild cries sounded around them and the battlemage captain cursed. Demons charged for the chariots from all sides like a crazed sea. There were so many. From where?

The battlemage didn’t spare Aldren another glance. She charged towards the approaching army, barking orders as more battlemages gathered on her flanks. Similar teams gathered to meet the rows of Demons and defend the chariots. A lot of them.

This was no skirmish. This looked like real war.

But what bothered Aldren the most was that he saw only one battlemage steering each chariot, and none of them had Miron’s golden-orange Halo.

So he started running.

He bound past the chariots and fixed himself on the path they came from. On the chariot's tail were dozens of Demons, each fuming with mana. Aldren Cast his weapon, Zeldus. The black sword formed in his hand as he swung, its blade glowing as it hungrily consumed Artima.

The fearsome weapon tore through the Demons like sheets of paper through a turbine. Slashes of deep violet light decimated the ranks pursuing the chariots from behind.

They were all so weak.

But they kept coming. What looked like dozens now seemed like hundreds. Aldren triggered his Force Multiplier, then even used his Alteration Cast: Black Lightning. His movements became a blur, only traceable by the echo of his image and the carnage that followed it. Like a concentrated thunderstorm, the ground cracked and sizzled as Aldren wrought destruction.

If they were all so weak then why hadn’t his brother cleared them out?

Miron, where are you?

Miron.

Miron.

MIRON!

Aldren had dismissed Zeldus now. With his bare fists, fueled by electrified Artima and rage, he pounded the bloody pulp of a Demon into the black earth until he couldn’t tell it apart from mud.

That was the last of them.

He could still hear the battle in the distance, but it followed the chariots towards the Kingdom. He frantically scanned the scene around him. Death covered the valley like a layer of soil.

He wandered this way and that, turning over bodies and boulders alike. But he found nothing but Demons.

Eventually, he began to calm. What was he looking for? His brother or a body?

Suddenly he realized that at some point he had assumed his brother dead, and had been searching for him amongst corpses!

He sighed and rapped a knuckle against his helm. He was doing it again. As much as he tried not to worry about his little brother, he could hardly help it sometimes.

There were so many battlemages out in this fight that he must have missed him. Chances were that Miron was already on his way back to the kingdom to find Aldren and tell him about the mission. Clearly, this was not some small shameful quest after all. Miron was likely the only one capable of getting this job done.

Aldren swelled with pride at the thought. He was at first saddened when his brother joined Third Military instead of joining Aldren in the First, but he later understood. Miron wanted to challenge Aldren as a rival. And here his brother was getting sent on specialty covert missions.

He couldn’t wait to hear all about it. But he would need to hurry back before Miron noticed that he’d gone after him.

A hand grabbed Aldren’s ankle.

He spun, Artima surging. Then all his power seemed to leave him as he looked down on a man emerging from a hole in the ground. He wore the same gray shades of armor and robes as that of the other battlemages. But he had no helm to cover his head, backlit by the faint glow of a golden-orange Halo. His brown hair was dirty and matted and his golden eyes looked a faded yellow compared to their usual glow.

Miron.

Aldren pulled his brother free from the hole, which seemed to close on its own after him. He dropped to his knees, softly laying his brother on the ground.

He was missing a leg. Blood soaked his robes. There seemed more gashes on him than skin.

Shock robbed Aldren of any words.

Miron wheezed. He was trying to speak, but the mana was so dense here it would be like trying to breathe underwater. Still, Miron was writhing in pain, desperately trying to speak.

Aldren wanted to stop him. Wanted to equip his helm for him. But he remained frozen in an eternal moment.

“Real,” Miron squeezed out, “Demons. We’ve made… a mistake… She’s coming.”

After getting the words out, Miron sunk into the ground.

Finally, Aldren was able to do something. He still didn’t move, only unequipped his helm, which dissipated in specks of dull light. The mana closed in on him, the liquid smoke burning his skin, lungs, and eyes.

But Miron’s glossy eyes found his. Once they met, his eyes cleared in recognition, looking as golden as he remembered them. Miron’s eyes were as bright and ambitious as eyes could ever be.

But now those eyes were full of nothing but fear. Regret. Pain. Suffering.

Neither of them said a word.

Until Miron’s eyes looked onto nothingness.

Only after his brother had passed was he finally able to move. And all he could do was press his forehead to his.

His best friend, his rival, his brother, his blood, his pride, his glory. Was gone.

Tears stung at Aldren’s eyes more fiercely than any mana could.

For what purpose was this?

For his brother to die out in the Periphery without even the honor of his own crest on his chest. For him to die to Demons! That was impossible. None of this made any sense.

Aldren's helm reformed to cover his tears. He scooped up his brother’s body and held him over his shoulder. The same way he used to carry him home for supper when he’d refuse to stop training.

He faced the Kingdom of DeMors, a silhouette of towers scraping the heavens.

Real Demons. We’ve made a mistake. She’s coming.

Aldren was going to find out what General Voldenic was up to.

He was the one who made a mistake.