A city besieged, a city battered, and a city finally breached. Its ancient stone walls lay tattered, its fertile fields flamed, and its bustling streets barren. Bodies and blood coat the once-polished marble streets; with no time to bury or burn their neighbors, pestilence ails the few that still live.

The scent of blood hung heavily in the morning air. Its pungence clung particularly to a man riding an Onyx Wolf. His amorphous red armor swirled around him as he cantered across the front line, inspiring his troops.

“No matter the cost, we must hold!

No matter the sacrifice, we must not fold!

We may never be able to claim our gold!

We may never be able to grow old!

But OUR story will be told!!

Even when our bodies grow cold!

Our story will be extolled!!

Yivlä nobiscum!!”

Smashing their swords against their shields, almost a thousand soldiers roared back.

“Yivlä nobiscum!!!

Yivlä nobiscum!!!

Yivlä nobiscum!!!”

The clanking of steel and impassioned shouts of the soldiers did nothing to dissipate the looming air of death. For three whole months, these men stood stalwart against insurmountable odds. Bravely holding against ghastly monstrosities and terrible siege equipment. They watched as their comrades died in their arms and their families were butchered. Now those few that remain, block the city's breach. Behind them, the elderly, mothers, fathers, children, and the infirm stood trembling, equipped with hastily forged armaments.

‘What gives people strength in times like these? Is it duty, a belief in something higher, or simply desperation?’ the man pondered before pushing these thoughts away to focus on the upcoming battle.

Soon the man’s golden locks transformed into a deep and dreadful black, and his piercing blue eyes shifted into an ocean of blood. Alone a man and his mount charged forward, the wolf's powerful muscles rippling under its black coat. Alone they faced a sea of steel.

The pair crossed the desolate wasteland. Once-vibrant forests and farmland were now churned and trampled; its trees stripped for siege weapons and crops plundered.

“Ue ad Impulsum” an officer yelled in a foreign tongue. Even before he finished his command, hundreds of disciplined soldiers began to embed their shields into the soil, poking their swords through the slits.

Despite their efforts, the wolf tore into the porcupine formation like a knife through butter. Its maw-crushed heads and its gigantic paws swatted soldiers with enough force to crush not only their armor but also their spines. However, the wolf’s rider was far more sinister. Each time he swung his blade, the sickle of death claimed another life. Dancing on his mount’s back, he ducked, weaved, and dodged what most would consider unavoidable attacks. The few that hit him ricochet from his armor with little consequence.

As if the autumn rains had come early, the burnt soil began to glisten.

But it wasn't from rain; it was from blood. The more Leonis split, the greater his powers became. With each swing, his armor shone more brilliantly, and his attacks became stronger, fueled by his indomitable will to protect his people.

The taste of blood lingered in Leonis' mouth as he sliced his way through the enemy lines, his sword now slick. Sweat poured down his face, mixing with the grime and dirt that covered him. He felt the weight of his sword in his hand, the heat of battle coursing through his veins. His hulking body was on autopilot; his mind only focused on the next target and the next swing of his sword.

"Come on, you bastards! Is this all you've got?" Leonis yelled, his voice hoarse from battle.

The battle raged on, and for hours it seemed that Leonis would not falter. Summoning crimson tendrils that snaked through the air, Leonis impaled enemy after enemy, but even the most powerful warrior had their limits. Soon his movements began to slow, his breaths grew ragged, and his once-impenetrable armor began to crack.

Suddenly, a flaming spear ripped through Leonis’ blood barrier and impaled his lifelong companion through his neck. The beast let out a vicious howl and charged in the direction of the attacker, but with each step, his legs began to falter, and his body accumulated more wounds. Soon the beast collapsed, its eyes lifelessly staring up at the sky, its fur matted, and its body an unrecognizable mess of wounds.

With a guttural growl, Leonis lunged toward the man who killed his companion. As he ran towards the son of the enemy general, the earth shook and crumbled beneath his feet. His heart crescendoed and pounded in eager anticipation as he got closer.

The sun glinted off the man’s armor as he stood proudly atop a small mound, watching as Leonis advanced with a placid expression. His eyes, the color of dying embers, were somehow more cold and unfeeling than the frigid Kingdom of Glasis. His sword grip was loose and indifferent. It was only at the last moment that he bothered to draw his weapon towards the Duke, a lazy smile playing across his lips.

The deafening clash of their swords echoed across the battlefield. Each subsequent blow landed with the force of a thunderbolt, their shockwaves pulverizing the internals of all the surrounding soldiers and sending those in a radius of over one-hundred meters flying.

Each of Leonis’s swings was sharp, systematic, and calculated, contrasting his opponent's relaxed and fluid style of combat. His opponent erratically dodged his attacks like the flame that danced along the length of his blade.

Their swords clashed together again and again, each blow ringing out like a church bell. Leonis felt his muscles strain with exhaustion, his breath coming in short gasps. He knew he had to end this fight quickly before his body collapsed. With a burst of desperation, he created a false opening.

Taking the bait, the man lunged forward with his sword skewing Leonis through his abdomen. Feeling the searing heat of the metal against his flesh, Leonis knew his opponent had struck true, but this was precisely what he desired. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Leonis drew his hidden dagger in one swift motion and plunged it into his opponent's exposed neck.

The man stared at him in shock and coughed blood. “It seems you have bested me…” he wheezed, a faint smile crossing his lips. “My father always said a desperate man was a dangerous man. Haha, for once, I wish I had listened to that old bastard. Sol..” The man's sentence was cut short by a vicious bought of coughing. “Sol will find”

Before the man could finish his sentence, Leonis retrieved his dagger and once again impaled it into his enemy's neck; however, he knew that this would be the last enemy he bested in the field.

Breathless and bleeding, Leonis looked over the battlefield, his gaze resting on his wife in the distance, a bittersweet smile plastered across his wan face.

Sanguine sorcerer, fallen in battle,

His life force spent, his power rattled.

Surrounded, he knew it was the end,

But he refused to yield or to bend.

With a gesture, he summoned a sphere,

A ball of blood, his last resort clear.

He pulled the liquid from the ground,

A force of nature, so violent and profound.

The orb grew and pulsed a crimson hue,

A symbol of his fury, his pain, and his due.

He held it close, his grip firm and strong,

A last stand against a merciless throng.

The surrounding soldiers panicked, already imprinted with a deep fear of Leoni's blood magic.

“Run AWAY,” “Retreat,” “Leave the fallen, save yourself.”

He whispered a word, a final verse,

To Yivla and his kin, a prayer, and to Sol, a curse.

Then he let go, and the ball took flight,

A weapon of vengeance, a wretched sight.

The sphere exploded, a bloody rain,

A shower of death, a gruesome stain.

The enemies fell, their fate sealed,

The warrior's legacy, its end revealed.

His body shattered, his soul at rest,

A hero's end, his final conquest.