The sun shines brightly above the host of Lycans marching across the land bridge. No longer collared, these armed men and women march with a surety they never before held. They blink at the bright light, agog at the ridiculously blue sky, one which they have never seen before.

Ambrosia smiles at them from within her carriage. She doesn’t join them under the light for reasons most would consider self-explanatory. Sunlight is anathema to a vampire, weakening the strong ones and outright killing the young or weak. No, she’ll remain in her enchanted carriage, where light is weakened enough that it causes her minimal discomfort.

Instead, she imagines their wonder at the other beauties of the world. Towering grey and white snow-capped peaks brushing against the blue skies, sprawling forests of green coyly veiling glittering lakes, frothing ocean waves crashing against the shore…

And the stars, forever out of reach beyond the firmament, cold, impassive, glorious.

She closes her eyes and imagines the Lycans telling their tales to their children, their heroes’ epics illustrated and immortalized in the unchanging sky.

Her musings are cut short when the carriage door opens and Garn enters, fully armored in enchanted gear. Light follows him in before getting sealed away by the door. The ferocious, lupine armor was a gift from her vault. It was made for Lycans long ago, and it fits him rather handsomely. Garn takes a seat opposite her and she studies him curiously. Powerful, deadly, high-level, and oddly loyal to her. At this moment, while she is in a weakened state, he could end her. He has the might, and a standing army ready to fulfill his orders. Granted, she would kill many and leave scars that may never heal, but it would still be her death. Her servant has grown far more than she had ever anticipated.

“We have a problem, mistress,” he announces.

Ambrosia raises an eyebrow. “We are abandoning our home and running away from demons. Other vampires are going to pursue us if they can. We’re going to march an army south across half of Orbis, subsisting only on what we hunt, and that’s assuming no humans rally an army against us. Problems are going to arise.” She folds her legs underneath herself. “Now tell me, what is this problem?”

Garn speaks. “At the end of the bridge await three armies whose combined troops are double ours. The [Scouts] report three [Generals] leading those armies. They also report large contingents of [Light Mages], [Water Mages], and a great many silver weapons. I-,” he pauses, “-am not sure what to do.”

Ambrosia tilts her head and once more stares out the window, the sun is shining at full strength. This indeed is quite the dilemma. Neither he nor she were expecting an army to already be in position, especially not one so well prepared to fight Vampires, Demons, and Lycans.

It might be possible to attempt to bargain, but they are not necessarily in a position to do that against a superior foe.

The enemy’s armament is not really a problem. The average levels of her army are far higher than the average levels of the enemy. It would be bloody and there would be many deaths because of the silver weapons, which counteract the Lycans’ incredible regeneration, but her army would prevail.

No, the real problem is the three [Generals]. Her army is, in a sense, a leaderless mob. The Lycans have no [Tacticians] nor [Generals] who can wield skills that boost their units.

If they could wait for night, then she would be able to fight, but time is not on her side. The [Coven Heads] will know of her betrayal, and they will attempt to hunt her down so long as she remains.

“You’ll be needing my help.” She holds her wrist above her empty glass, and with her other, extends her nails and she slices her wrist, spilling her pitch-black blood into the goblet.

“Mistress,” Garn says in subdued alarm, but she ignores him. The glass fills before she lets her wrist heal.

“[Boon of Blood],” she mutters and her essence flows with her blood.

Where before, her body merely felt like it was cooking, now it smokes and blisters. The pain is... bearable.

Slightly panicked, Garn quickly stands up and reaches for her but pauses when she proffers her cup.

“We can win,” she states, “but to do so, the enemy [Generals] must be killed.”

Slowly, Garn takes the grail.

“My strength, my power… Almost all of it is in that cup. For a day, and only a day, the drinker will be empowered with it. Eighty percent of my stats will be yours, including my ability to regenerate from wounds.”

She grunts. Weakened, even the rose tinted light seeping through the lace curtains causes her pain.

“Go, drink my blood and wage war. Hunt down and slaughter the [Generals] and then call your brethren to attack.” She coughs, expectorating a bit of blood. “I will endure.”

________________________________________________________________

Garn swallows his spit, shocked by his mistress. Never has he seen her so weak or frail. Never would he have believed she would gamble so dangerously for their lives. At this moment, he holds her life in his hands.

Without hesitation, he bows. “I will return,” he tells her, and takes the cup filled with the stygian liquid.

He could never betray her. Never. Not for what she’s done, for all the kindness she’s shown him, for the salvation she’s offered his people.

Garn considers the blood. He’s heard of the technique, or rather, he’s read of it in old scriptures. Those that offer the gift are weakened for weeks. That she would trust him with this…

“Garn,” a lycan walks up to him, his eyes glancing at the carriage with apprehension and barely concealed malice.

“Ferris,” Garn tells him, “if you or anyone attempts to take her life, know that I will feed upon their corpse and dine upon their young till the extinction of their line.”

Ferris pauses. He looks at Garn and flinches. His tail flicks downward and his posture shifts to servile.

Garn surveys all the Lycans nearby. They too react the same way. Garn is the pack leader, and his orders are absolute. If they wish to take his position, then they can wrestle it from his cold, dead paws.

After a moment, Garn lightens his aura.

“Now, what is it?” he asks.

Ferris gulps. “Alpha, we are nearing the enemy army. What are your orders?”

Garn glances up into the sky. The sun shines brightly, still on its path to its zenith. If Garn had the time, he would have waited for night to set.

“Prepare to attack immediately. Highest levels in front.” He glances at the cup of blood in his hand. “I will lead the charge.”

________________________________________________________________

[General] Emilia watches the incoming army, nay, incoming mob; for she sees little order to those armed men and women. She wouldn’t even consider them a threat if not for their fluffy wolf ears and bushy tails.

Lycans, an army of them. Humanoid beast-kin that can transform into massive monsters which are both powerful and difficult to kill… or would be if not for the silver arrows wielded by her archers. All it would take is one arrow and their regeneration is halted. From there, normal weapons should be easily able to dispatch the beasts.

At least, that is what she was told. Lycans have not been seen for a very long time, so information is rather sparse.

Emilia turns her head towards Matheus, the [Mage General], and currently the highest leveled in the army; an old fart nearing two hundred years, but a powerful leader still. He is already shifting his units, positioning his [Water Mages] and [Light mages] at the back. A smart move as neither will be very effective against Lycans.

Further out is the youngest and lowest level of the three. Amorphous, a forty-year-old [General] who only obtained the class six months ago. Low level, but the man shows promise. His positioning is textbook correct, shield wall and pikes set with the archers ready to fire, though it is not as optimal as she nor Matheus would have had.

“They’ve stopped,” her [Tactician] announces.

She looks back at the incoming horde. They indeed have stopped and have started spreading out. They are, annoyingly, outside the range of her [Archers], even if she boosts them with a skill.

“Do you think they will want to speak?” she asks her [Tactician], a man older than her.

The [Tactician] shakes his head. “We have orders to prevent anyone from the island from leaving. Considering we have silver on full display, they probably know we plan to use it.”

She nods. She had come to the same conclusion, but it is always good to hear her thoughts confirmed.

“Archers, draw your bows! Use the silver arrows,” she orders.

Now, she waits for them. Will they retreat or will they charge?

Neither. Instead, a single lycan walks out from the mob. His armor is resplendent and weirdly designed. The plate seems extra layered in some places but bare in others. Fabric hangs loose.

“He has something in his hand,” her [Tactician] announces and she immediately spots it, a goblet filled with a pitch-black liquid.

She snorts. Does he wish to offer me a drink?”

The man stops just outside her archers’ maximum range. He then, in one full motion, drinks the contents of the glass.

“What is-,” her words are cut short as the man’s eyes turn pitch black and his body starts convulsing. It even looks like the Lycans behind him are confused.

Then, it happens. The man starts to grow hair. His boots and clothing rip as the body expands. Only his armor does not rip. Fabric once hanging loose is now tight against his skin, the armor plates now in their proper place.

“[Werewolf],” Emilia whispers the name of the Legendary skill.

“[Grand Alpha Werewolf],” her [Tactician] corrects as the Lycan continues to grow larger and larger. By the time his transformation finishes, the monster towers, larger than a carriage. A pitch-black coat of fur covers his body wherever the armor does not. From its void-like eyes, glowing, jagged red lines trace across his body, the light pulsing like blood. On its shoulder, a yellow wolf’s head glows. The mark of a god, one Emilia is unfamiliar with.

Just as she opens her mouth to ask to which god belongs the mark, an overwhelming sense of dread crushes her. The monstrous lycan looms in her vision; his shadow stretches over her, smothering the morning light under a pall of death. An avalanche threatening to come down on her.

And just as fast as it came, it disappears as she feels a comforting aura dispel the fear effect. She blinks and turns to the source. Matheus stands firm and resolute, as though he had expected such a thing.

Blushing at her lapse, she releases her own aura to bolster the troops as well.

“It’s going to attack,” her [Tactician] announces, not that she needed him to. The monstrosity has lowered itself into a hunter’s crouch.

“Prepare to eng-,” her words are cut short. The thing bolts forwards, the ground exploding under its fleet as it sprints towards them.

“Shit, [Archers]! Release!”

The arrows fire, a large volley directed at the beast. Even with its impressive speed, it can’t evade a thousand arrows at point-blank range.

It doesn’t even try..

The bodkin points hit… then bounce off the fur.

Damn, I should have used a skill to strengthen the arrows.

“[Discarding Sabot], Second Line, Release!” she yells.

They fire another volley. This time, the arrows actually penetrate the hardened fur, but to her surprise, the thing doesn’t slow down. With another ground rending bound, the monster speeds up.

No! She won’t get another volley!

“[Earthen Escarpment],” she hears [General] Matheus shout and feels the ground rumble. In front of the army, the ground pulls itself upwards as several dozen mages combine their magic to create a fifteen-foot earthen wall in front of the troops.

Then she watches as his [Soldiers] raise their silver-tipped piked into the air.

“He’s blocking our vision!” her [Tactician] exclaims, but she ignores him.

Emilia can see the plan. Matheus is forcing the beast to jump the wall and he plans to impale it when it lands. For an improvised plan, it’s excellent.

She feels the ground shake under the beast’s tread. She looks up, awaiting its leap. Then the earthen wall explodes as the monstrosity continues undeterred.

“[Shield Wall],” she hears Amorphous activate his skill. The front line [Soldiers] raise their scutum shields. Their efforts matter not as the beast’s body rams through them without slowing down.

The next moment, she hears dozens of soldiers activate their skills as they attack the monster. The monster doesn’t even fight back, ignoring the flesh wounds inflicted by the soldiers. Deeper and deeper behind the lines it rushes, an unstoppable juggernaut.

Not a moment later, an explosion rocks the beast as [mages] release their powerful spells.

“No!” she yells as the magic strikes and halts the monster while dozens of [soldiers] die in the crossfire.

“Matheus, what the fuc-,” she begins, then her eyes widen when she sees the man’s panicked expression.

The beast roars, blowing away the smoke and ash around it. Its wounds heal as Emilia watches the silver weapons expelled from its body.

“Impossible,” Emilia hears her [Tactician] echo her own thoughts.

Suddenly the beast moves again, sprinting once more, deeper into the army. But not randomly as she expected.

The elite mancers next to Matheus release another powerful spell, but the beast is prepared. It jumps into the air, dodging the attack, and lands right on top of the aged [General]. Matheus’ body is crushed and she feels the old man’s Aura disappear.

The beast stands up. Its head turns, sniffing the air, ambivalent to the attacks striking its body. Then its gaze falls on her. It bares its fangs in a bestial smile.

For a moment, her mind stops as a sense of dread causes her heart to beat faster. Her skin prickles and sweats as her body starts to tremble. The abyss stares at her, and it now awaits her death.

“[Tactical Retreat]!” she screams as loudly as she possibly can.