The acrid stench of smoke and battle clung to my nostrils, sharp and unrelenting. Sweat was an old companion, its salty tang second nature by now as it bristled the air like the lesser aroma of a sea breeze. Blood, too, had long since lost its novelty—whether spilled during sparring with my students or shed by the battalion of Holy Knights under my command. The iron tang that joined the scent was less inviting, but not wholly unexpected from where I stood.

But this smoke was different. Rising from the burning ramparts in the distance, it draped the battlefield like a funeral shroud, blurring the silhouettes of warriors caught in a fragile lull between bouts of carnage.

Smoke. It wasn’t always so grim. Once, I cherished the scent curling up from a campfire after a day’s march or the satisfying crackle of wood succumbing to the flames on a soft summer evening. That aroma had always meant safety and camaraderie, a promise of rest earned after hours of grueling training or an expedition into the northeast valley. Familiar. Comforting. Unmistakable.

This was not that smoke.

This was acrid, vile, a mixture of overcooked meat and sulfur, a sickening cocktail that churned my stomach. It was the smoke of burning flesh—comrades and foes nearly reduced to ash in the same funeral pyre. A choking miasma that clung to the throat, it spoke of death, not rest. Certainly not the kind I’d welcome.

The sprawling scene before me was nothing short of a bloodbath. I leaned against the battered stone edge atop the castle’s front gate, my fingers tightening over the weathered ledge. Old bandages covered hastily dressed wounds I hadn’t yet found the time—or strength—to heal. As I peered out, the carnage beyond stretched into the horizon, each detail more grisly than the last.

This battlefield– this freshly paved graveyard… there were no words to fully capture its horrors.

Beyond the gate lay The Queen’s Path, a grand bridge that once symbolized unity and love. It connected the royal castle to the eastern district of the capital: the noble’s enclave, which gradually tapered into the bustling merchant district. Decades ago, before the bridge’s construction, a noble girl would sneak across the river’s scattered stones to visit the castle. The River Mistura below whispered her secrets, but it couldn’t keep them.

Through a secluded entrance, she’d slip inside to spend her nights with the young crowned prince. Together, they shared tales—hers of the city’s lively streets, his of the castle’s somber halls. To him, she was a fairy from another world, spreading whimsy and joy. His love for her became legend, so fierce that he fought his own parents, the king and queen, to make her his bride. Their story lived on, etched into history as the bridge itself, a testament to their bond.

But now… it was nearly destroyed.

Through the latest bout of battle, the bridge had been blown half apart, smoldering in its own wreckage and threatening to collapse into the River Mistura below. Once a marvel of engineering and a landmark of my travels, it was now torn asunder—a masterpiece defaced by fire and death. Like a painting ripped in half, its edges were scorched, bearing the scars of agony and destruction.

But it wasn’t the bridge itself that held my attention. It was the bodies. Hundreds of them, scattered like grotesque decorations on the battlefield. Allies and foes alike lay lifeless, twisted into unnatural poses as though death had arranged them with an artistic cruelty. Some were sprawled on their backs, broken spears impaling their chests, shattered swords discarded at their sides. All joined the reaper’s canvas.

Others were worse off. Ripped into pieces like broken dolls, soldiers had their upper and lower halves separated in brutal testament to the strength of their enemy. Spines and sinew lay exposed, mocking the clean brutality of a blade. No, this wasn’t the work of a sword. These soldiers weren’t cleaved apart; they were ripped limb from limb, like toys ruined in the jealous hands of a child.

The larger demons, the ones we called Ogers, hadn’t even bothered with combat against some of them. To these monsters, the battle was no contest. They had simply grabbed their victims by the arms or legs and pulled until flesh and bone gave way. What remained of their handiwork now littered the ground, a grim reminder of the power we faced.

The enemy’s corpses were just as numerous, scattered among the carnage like grotesque splashes of red and black on a macabre display. The Ogers made up most of their fallen. Towering humanoid demons, they stood over two meters tall and nearly as wide, their bodies built of nothing but slabs of muscle encased in dark, crudely bolted iron armor. Sculpted flesh barely contained beneath their grotesque plating, they were beasts of war.

If not for their savagery, I might have admired their strength, perhaps even found their forms handsome—provided they kept their heads under bags. Some wielded weapons—spears, swords, and axes—each as crude and unrefined as their makers. Many of the blades were chipped or outright broken, a testament to the ferocity of the recent clash.

Yet, for these brutes, precision and craftsmanship were meaningless. Where we humans prized masterfully forged weapons meant to endure countless battles, Ogers relied purely on raw, uninhibited power. Their tools didn’t need to last; they only needed to kill. If a weapon broke before its wielder died, it mattered little. The Ogers would simply grab another—be it a comrade’s spear, a dying soldier’s sword, or even a shattered piece of debris—and keep going.

Sometimes, they didn’t bother with weapons at all. Their bare hands were enough, as evidenced by the dismembered bodies scattered across the battlefield. The sheer savagery of their methods set my nerves on edge.

A hundred Ogers had charged headlong into our defenses during the last wave. A hundred mindless brutes, devoid of strategy, their only thought to kill anything that wasn’t one of their own. They didn’t even pause to consider tactics, charging in with nothing but sheer force.

Fools. Dangerous, brutal fools. And yet, for all their stupidity, they left devastation in their wake.

I grimaced, the weight of realization pressing heavily on my chest. The civilians in the district beyond the bridge—the merchants, the peasants—they didn’t have the luxury of escape like the nobles who fled to the castle at the first sign of trouble. For them, survival meant staying put, barricading themselves with whatever they could find, even as war surged around them.

I didn’t know what the Ogers did to the people they captured. Death was a certainty, but how it came was another matter entirely. Did they butcher them like livestock, turning humans into some grotesque delicacy? Or did they have baser, more vile intentions? The thought of what might happen to the women—the horror of it—sent a sickening chill through me. No. I couldn’t dwell on that now.

I’ll grieve for the dead and the broken later. For now, I had to fight for the living.

I had routed enemy armies. I had stymied invasions. I was a god-blessed hero of our kingdom, adorned with accolades that each could write its own spin-off legend . This ground beneath me wasn’t just another battlefield—it was my stage. I didn’t come here to stand idle like some brooding gargoyle, a silent observer to this waking ruin.

I came here to fight. I came here to win.

“Lord Adrian,” a voice beside me called softly. “The Holy Knights are positioned and awaiting your command.”

I reached for the silver-adorned helmet resting near the ledge and fit it firmly over my head. My dark brown hair, disheveled from this gods-forsaken mess, was swept neatly into place beneath the snug weight of my warrior’s crown. Cramped as it felt, the closeness brought an odd sense of comfort—if only for the protection it offered against a stray arrow from a lurking sniper.

I turned toward the speaker and found myself staring at a radiant suit of silver armor, polished to a mirror-like sheen that seemed to catch and amplify every glint of light. It bore intricate engravings of celestial patterns and symbols, the craftsmanship screaming reverence and duty. The young face peering out from beneath the helm carried a striking mixture of innocence and hardship—youth touched by the unforgiving hand of war, yet not entirely dimmed by it.

A jagged tear gaped along the left side of his helmet, a stark souvenir from a recent encounter with an ax. The scar it left danced from his forehead to his cheek, an unkind reminder of how close he’d come to losing his life. And yet his eyes—deep brown and brimming with reckless excitement—belied any fear. This fool had nearly lost his head and was already itching for more.

I suppressed a sigh, placing my hand over his face and channeling a surge of mana. The Holy Knight flinched slightly as the magic flowed, his expression shifting to mild irritation as the open wound sealed into a clean scar.

“Uh, sir? We’re ready to fight,” he said, undeterred.

“Like hell you are,” I replied, my voice curt. “You show up looking like a piece of sliced ham and expect me to believe my battalion is ready for war? Stand still.”

My hand might have rested on his face with the gentleness of a father’s touch, but I was dangerously close to swinging my gauntlet and giving him a proper smack. Holy Knights were meant to be the squires of Paladins, armed with divine power to protect, heal, and fight. That included healing themselves. Yet here was this moron, standing before me like a stubborn brute too dense to use the gifts bestowed upon him. I grumbled inwardly as the young knight, undeterred by my own aggravation, stood with his hands on his hips, his stance dripping with insubordination.

The knight and I fell into silence as I finished healing him, though his stance—a wide-legged posture with hands firmly on his hips—bothered me to no end. Stubborn as ever, he stood there like a petulant teenager being scolded by his father. I sighed, exasperated.

This one was the runt of the group, the class clown. I had poured countless hours into training him, using myself as an example, yet he never quite absorbed the lessons. Still, there was potential buried under that cocky grin and impulsive nature.

“I’m trying my best, sir,” he said at last, breaking the silence. “You know I’m at my best when I’ve got my sword in my hands.”

“I know, boy. I know,” I replied, my tone softening. “But you still need to take care of yourself. We’re the shining light of His Majesty and Her Highness. When we step forward—”

“We do so to leave a path for others to follow. I get it,” he interrupted, a bit too eagerly. “I’ve got all the scriptures memorized, sir. I’ll say the prayer before I start lopping off demon heads.”

“Oh? Which one?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “The rite of passage or the rite of justice?”

It wasn’t an idle question. The demons that spilled forth from the rift to the far North were bloodthirsty invaders, yes, but they weren’t mindless. They spoke in guttural tones, roared in fury during battle, and even cried out in pain as they fell. Could they find penance in death? The thought lingered as I waited for his answer.

He pursed his lips, then said with a gleam of determination in his eyes, “I’ll recite the rite of protection. My comrades and I are fighting to protect the castle and the kingdom. It’s the perfect oath for this battle.”

“Aye, that’s a fine choice,” I said, a faint smile tugging at my lips. “Go on, then. Gather with the others and tell them to shake off the dust. We’ve a victory to claim.”

“Yes, sir!” he said, his voice bursting with enthusiasm. The itch for battle was clear in his steps as he turned toward the stairs leading to the gate below. But just as he reached the first step, he paused, glancing back at me with aching curiosity.

“Lord Adrian… what rite will you swear to for this fight?”

I suppressed a sigh, his question catching me off guard. “The rite of patience, if you keep wasting my time. Now go!” I barked, pointing sharply toward the gathering troops.

He scowled but said nothing, rushing off with the same eagerness he’d shown before. Once he was out of earshot, I let out a deep breath, steadying myself. In truth, I would be taking the rite of protection for this battle. It was the only vow that felt right.

Adjusting my ocean-blue scarf—the small cape that draped over my armor’s bindings—I turned toward my waiting knights. My steps were heavy, not from the weight of my armor but from the prayer I carried in my heart.

“Your Majesty, Princess,” I whispered under my breath, “grant my wish. Make it out of this night alive. Make it safe.”

I am Adrian Legend. Perhaps you’ve heard my name before, though if you’re reading this tale, then maybe not. I’m 28 years old—though I stopped keeping track the day I could drink the temple’s wine without reprimand. For over a decade, I’ve commanded the Holy Knights, succeeding my master, who passed on from old age.

My rise to leadership was cemented the day I drew the legendary greatsword, Chandrabolg. A colossal weapon forged of mithril and imbued with sacred magic, its two-meter blade seemed almost impossible to wield. When it rested in the pedestal at the northern shrine—a place dedicated to the balance of nature—most men needed to stand on a chair just to grip its hilt.

But I held it. Through years of training and unshakable resolve, I proved myself worthy. The blade, the title, the responsibility—they all became mine. Becoming something beyond a Master-Class Paladin, the highest rank among my order, I earned the title of Hero-Class from His Majesty.

Now, Chandrabolg and I are the kingdom’s last line of defense. My Holy Knights and I are the final hope to reclaim the capital from the abyssal tide that threatens to consume it.

“Fall in line! Lord Adrian approaches to address us!” a Holy Knight’s voice rang out as my heavy boots echoed on the wooden stairs. Thump. Thump. Thump. The rhythmic clink of chains securing my armor accompanied each step, like the steady percussion of a war march.