As I reached the courtyard, the knights assembled in perfect formation, their movements crisp and disciplined. I took my place at the center, my gaze sweeping over them.

Some were seasoned Paladins, their hands steady as they gripped maces or holy relics. Others were younger—novice knights wielding spears and swords honed through years of training. Among them were those already bloodied from battle, their armor bearing the scars of combat. A limp here, a scar there—testaments to the trials they’d faced.

But they were still standing. They were still alive.

“I will protect them,” I vowed silently. These knights were more than soldiers; they were my brothers and sisters in arms. We would fight as one. We would claim victory together.

Beyond our formation, I could see hundreds of castle knights and guards standing at attention from the castle’s rafters. Their posture was tense, their expressions far from confident. They didn’t look to me with respect but with desperation, as though staring at death itself. If we fell, they would be next to face the butcher’s block. I couldn’t blame them for wanting to run, their hearts wavering in the shadow of what was to come.

Farther still, my eyes caught movement on one of the castle’s inner balconies. Figures stood shrouded in smoke and distance—spectators, no doubt. Perhaps nobles eager to witness history in the making, or even the king and queen themselves. It was impossible to say, but their presence, however faint, added weight to the moment.

“We don’t know their numbers,” I began, turning to face the towering iron-wrought gate ahead, the bridge stretching beyond it. My voice cut through the tension like a blade. “It simply means we’ll struggle to count how many we’ve defeated when we win.”

A cheer erupted from the Holy Knights, crisp and unified, their faith unwavering. The castle guards joined in hesitantly, their muffled voices an afterthought against the certainty of my knights.

“I caught a good look at their commander,” I began, letting my tone dip into mock disdain. “Big brute of a thing. Ugly as sin. I’m starting to think they rank up based on how hard they are to look at.”

A few novice knights chuckled nervously, the strain of battle easing for just a moment.

“But once my sword finds his knees and then his neck, he won’t be so big anymore,” I continued, smirking. “In fact, I think his skull will make a fine addition to the tapestry at my favorite tavern.”

“Aye, and we’ll drink from it, too!” an older Paladin called out, his gravelly voice laced with humor.

“You’ll be on your back moaning from a hangover before you finish the first sip, you old fool!” another knight shot back, earning a round of laughs.

“When we finish this fight and drive them out,” I interrupted, raising my voice to reclaim their focus, “I’ll be pulling out the wine from the deepest cellar to toast our victory.”

“You can’t mean the Sacred Louvinere, Lord Adrian?” Samuelle, one of the senior knights, asked in surprise. “It hasn’t been touched since you drew Chandrabolg!”

“The very same,” I confirmed with a grin. “Just as we drank when I drew the sword, we’ll drink when I bury it between the eyes of that hideous bastard.”

My words echoed across the courtyard, drawing a thunderous roar of approval from the Holy Knights. Even the castle guards, emboldened by the declaration, raised their weapons in solidarity.

“We’ll make sure they rue the day they dared set foot in our kingdom!” a female Holy Knight declared, drawing her sword with a flourish, her stance resolute and fierce.

“We’ll show them the full weight of justice when we send them flying off that bridge!” another knight added, raising his shield as if to punctuate his point.

“Gyahaha, who’s going to keep count? I want to know how many I take down!” a grizzled knight bellowed, his laughter rumbling like distant thunder.

The banter rolled on, their voices rising with anticipation and determination. Their shouts and cheers reverberated off my armor, filling the air with a palpable energy that seeped into my very bones.

Yet, even as their spirits lifted, a cold truth lingered in my mind. Most of them would likely die here, their lives sacrificed in the name of honor and kingdom.

As true as it felt, though, I had to make sure that didn’t happen. I had to be strong enough to change our fate.

Gripping Chandrabolg tightly, I raised the blade high, its gleaming hilt resting against my chest. The sudden gesture silenced them, their chatter fading as if snuffed out by the weight of the moment. They knew this pose. The Paladins mirrored it, their hands steady as they prepared their oaths.

The faint clink of armor and leather broke the stillness as each knight bowed their heads in solemn prayer. Tradition dictated that we gaze into our swords’ reflections, drawing resolve from the warped images staring back at us. But I never followed that custom.

I didn’t need to, or perhaps I couldn’t. Instead, I envisioned the battle ahead—the chaos, the bloodshed, the unrelenting will it would take to emerge victorious.

Closing my eyes, I channeled mana through my body, feeling its surge as it flowed into Chandrabolg. The greatsword glowed with an otherworldly light, its aura spreading outward like a ripple across a still pond. Scratches healed. Bruises faded. The fears etched into my knights’ faces softened, replaced by quiet resolve.

The murmurs of prayer grew steadily, like a swelling tide, but the time for quiet reflection had passed. Drawing every ounce of strength into my voice, I bellowed, “Open the gates, and witness our triumph, my King and Queen! My Princess!”

Lowering Chandrabolg to my core, my grip firm and unwavering, I braced myself as the massive iron gate groaned to life. Its gears churned and creaked, a sound that felt both ancient and unrelenting, as the barrier began to rise. My heart pounded in time with its ascent, the weight of destiny pressing heavy on my chest.

As the gate reached its peak, I stepped forward, the haze of smoke and the stench of blood inviting me to its deathly dance floor. Behind me, the synchronized echo of my comrades’ boots rang out—a resounding war drum, heralding our arrival.

We crossed onto the bridge, each step deliberate, every movement steeped in purpose. The iron gate groaned shut behind us, slamming with finality. There would be no retreat, no surrender. It would not rise again—not for cowards, and certainly not for defeat.

Our march continued, slow but resolute. The Paladins moved ahead, clearing paths through the rubble, their sharp eyes scanning for traps or hidden enemies. Behind them, the Holy Knights followed, their discipline unwavering as they stepped into the void of smoke and ruin, poised for battle on a moment’s notice.

And then we heard it. The invitation into the gaping maw of hell itself.

The sound began as a faint tremor beneath our feet, subtle enough that only the loose stone pebbles at our boots noticed it first. But the vibration grew, resonating through the earth like the pained groan of the world itself.

Then came the pitch, low and guttural, rising steadily until it roared like an enraged deity, whose single command was to destroy. It was a declaration of devastation that could travel for miles, and it pierced through the thick haze of smoke that cloaked the other side of the bridge.

A horn. A massive one, its cry a deafening herald of death. As the smoke began to thin, we saw it—the monstrous instrument, some three meters long. Its body, crafted from rotted oak, was reinforced with spiked iron bands and adorned with trophies of human skulls. The grotesque relic hung heavy in the hands of its wielder, who stood towering at the other end of the bridge.

The horn’s bellow lingered for a moment before tapering off, its echoes haunting the air like the dying wail of a dragon. And then, as if emerging from the echoes themselves, the commander stepped into view.

He was colossal, nearly ten meters tall, encased head to toe in golden armor that gleamed with an unsettling light. His helmet, brutal and imposing, bore massive tusks jutting from the sides of its mouth guard. From beneath the helm flowed a mane of gray fur, cascading down his broad shoulders like a lion’s crown, adding to his savage majesty.

The creature’s hands—and feet, if they could even be called that—were more akin to great paws, with their jagged claws protruding from them gouging deep into the stone beneath them with each subtle shift. In its free paw, it gripped a club of unimaginable size, the weapon’s bulk rivaling that of a castle turret. Even at rest, the club seemed to radiate menace, its surface scarred and dented from battles past. One swing of that monstrosity could obliterate the bridge, the front gate, or even the castle entrance.

I grimaced, unwilling to linger on the thought of what it would mean if that weapon made contact with me—or anyone, for that matter.

But as the smoke continued to clear, my attention shifted. The towering commander was a terrifying sight, yes, but he was merely the figurehead of something far more foreboding.

Beyond him stretched a sea of demons and monsters, their ranks an endless tide. The entire opposing wall was packed with them, writhing and shifting like the gears of some nightmarish machine. Thousands upon thousands flooded the region ahead, their movements precise and coordinated, their collective menace suffocating.

Archers and artillery nested in the rafters, their dark forms clinging to the shadows like spiders in a web. Above them, winged creatures circled, their twisted silhouettes stark against the smoke-filled sky.

A dozen or so beasts flanked the commander—dogs? Wolves? No, something worse. I squinted through the haze, my stomach sinking as I drank their details in. They had two heads, each more hideous than the other, their matted fur hanging in filthy clumps. These mangy creatures were nearly the size of the brown bears I’d seen in the forests to the north, but their presence was far more sinister.

One of them could pose a serious challenge to even my most seasoned Paladins. A dozen? They would tear through our ranks like paper unless we coordinated perfectly.

They stood unnervingly still, leaning over the edge of the far gate. Their mouths hung open, slack-jawed, revealing rows of crooked, yellowed teeth dripping with black ichor. The viscous fluid sizzled as it hit the stone beneath them, leaving pockmarks in the surface. Their raspy breaths filled the air with a guttural, choking rhythm, and their eyes—two pairs on each head—scanned the battlefield with ravenous intent.

These beasts weren’t just waiting. They were hungry. They were preparing for a hunt, and they looked certainly ready to dig in.

Were we ready?

I glanced at my compatriots, their reactions a silent reflection of their thoughts. Some stood with mouths agape, their eyes darting nervously across the sea of enemies. Others clenched their jaws, brows furrowed as they calculated the impossible odds. A few, mostly the veterans, bore a different expression—a quiet, almost serene acceptance that this might well be their final stand.

A wry smile tugged at my lips as I pieced it together. They were cycling through the stages of accepting death. Denial lingered in some, anger burned in others, but acceptance had already settled in the eyes of the seasoned fighters. What struck me most, though, was the absence of bargaining. None of them faltered, none of them dared to flee. Not with so much at stake.

I half expected one among us to rip off their armor and leap into the river below, seeking escape and another chance at life. But no one did. Perhaps I was the only fool to entertain such a thought.

Then again, I wasn’t the only fool here.

We were all fools, every last one of us. Fools ready to fight. And that was precisely what made us dangerous. The odds were staggering—two hundred demons and monsters for every knight in our ranks. Insurmountable, by any rational measure.

But if we triumphed here, our legend would echo through history, enduring long after our bones had turned to dust.

“We will be the ones to decide this war,” I said, my voice firm and unyielding.

“Aye, as long as we’re not the ones stuck cleaning up the mess afterward,” Samuelle muttered, his graying beard twitching as he scratched his chin thoughtfully. His eyes lingered on the massive hounds by the demon commander’s side. “Those mutts are trouble. Barricades might slow the Ogers, but those beasts will leap right over them—and over us too, I reckon.”

“If they come close, the polearm knights will gut them midair,” Clara, one of the Holy Knights, interjected. She jabbed her elbow into the side of her halberd-wielding comrade with a sly grin. “We’ll toss them over the ledge and let the river sort them out. Bet the fish will get their fill once the blood spills. And the crocs? They’ll smell it from the delta and come crawling for seconds.”

“Assuming the damn things don’t skewer themselves on the rocks below first,” another knight quipped, his tone as dry as his patience. “Wouldn’t mind seeing them end up like shish kebabs, honestly.” He let out a low scoff, clearly more eager to get this fight over with than to trade banter. Yet, like the rest of us, he was ready.

They were all ready.