The demon commander’s roar clashed with my own, his colossal club raised high, poised to obliterate our ragtag band of divine warriors. One swing from that weapon could have erased us from the battlefield in an instant. He could have leapt forward, crushed our defenses, and turned the tide of battle with terrifying ease.

But he didn’t.

I’d seen these demons at work before, and one thing was painfully obvious: they were lazy bastards. Over the past weeks of fighting their elites, I’d learned that they rarely exert themselves unless provoked—or to deliver the final, devastating blow.

This commander, clearly the leader of the horde, was no exception. He radiated an aura of malice, his oppressive presence like a miasma of death. Yet, instead of charging us, he stood there, picking his nose with an air of utter disinterest, as if we weren’t even nearly worth the effort as a rogue booger.

Perhaps he saw us as nothing more than insects to crush beneath his feet. Or perhaps, as absurd as it seemed, he was simply bored with this invasion.

The ogers, at least, were eager for blood. Their snarls and guttural growls filled the air as they surged forward, brutish bodies poised for a melee clash.

But before they could reach us, a ripple of green and black shimmered across the enemy’s ranks. The archers perched along their wall—dubbed “bogers” in our less-than-respectful banter—made their move. Hundreds of arrows arced into the sky, their jagged tips glinting like cruel stars before blotting out the sun.

The volley was hectic, fired with little regard for aim or target. Arrows rained indiscriminately, some striking their own advancing forces, others missing the bridge entirely and plunging into the river below.

Then came the catapults, their payloads launched high into the air. The burning debris trailed green and blue flames, foul and otherworldly. Felfire, I thought grimly. The blazing projectiles lit the sky like comets hurled from the abyss, adding to the terrifying display of carnage to fall upon us.

“Shields! Shields overhead, NOW!” Samuelle bellowed, his voice cutting through the din. He lowered his mace, raising a rosary high as his command echoed through the ranks.

The air crackled with magic as shimmering shapes of hexagons and pentagons materialized around the knights. These barriers, glowing with divine energy, fortified our defenses against the incoming storm.

Tower shields rose in unison, overlapping to protect the gaps between them. Even the smaller bucklers found their place, creating an unbroken line of defense. The Sacred Guardians hovered among us, their ethereal forms crossing their arms as they braced for impact.

Seconds stretched into eternity as the torrent descended. Iron and wooden spikes rained down in a relentless barrage, striking with the force of a thousand anvils. It felt as though the sky itself was collapsing upon us.

Ogers began collapsing in heaps, unspared by the mayhem of their own assault. As they charged, blissfully unaware of their own archers’ haphazard betrayals, the cries of their confusion gave way as they turned from invaders to meat filled sandbags.

The impacts rang out like a symphony of destruction—iron biting into stone, wood, and flesh. Most arrows glanced harmlessly off our barriers, their momentum spent as they slid to the ground. Others struck shields with a resonant thunk or pinged against the armor of those unlucky enough to be in their path.

One knight wasn’t so fortunate. An arrow slipped through a gap in our defenses, embedding itself between his shoulder and neck. He crumpled to his knees as his barrier dissolved, the Sacred Guardians immediately stepping in to shield him.

Before panic could set in, a nearby Paladin raised his voice in prayer, a healing spell already forming on his lips. Holy light enveloped the wounded knight, and the arrow fell away as the flesh knit itself back together.

For an ordinary army, such an assault would have been devastating. But we were no ordinary soldiers. We were warriors of the divine, blessed by powers the demons could never comprehend.

The barrage ended as abruptly as it began, the last arrows clattering uselessly to the ground. The shimmering shields dissolved, leaving only faint traces of magic in their wake.

I scanned the battlefield, taking stock. Some of the Sacred Guardians had been struck in their cores, their forms dimming or partially dissolving. Despite their losses, the spirits held firm. Other than the one knight already healed, we remained unscathed.

But the respite was fleeting.

The first chunk of felfire came crashing in, like stone chips from the devil’s lair. These weren’t projectiles we could block—they were boulders, massive and unforgiving.

“Scatter!” I roared, leaping aside as the first rock slammed into the bridge. It struck with a deafening crash, crumbling the stone beneath it and sending chunks of debris hurtling into the river below. Steam hissed as the water consumed the fiery fragments, geysers of boiling mist erupting into the air.

More felfire followed, crashing indiscriminately. Some overshot the bridge wholesale, slamming into the castle walls and leaving blackened scorch marks that refused to fade. One particularly massive projectile struck the leg of a statue guarding the castle gates. The proud, regal figure shattered, its pieces cascading into the river like a fallen titan.

“There’s no time to waste—casters, return fire!” I bellowed, my voice cutting through the roar of battle.

As if the castle itself had heard my command, reinforcements sprang to life on the walls behind us to respond in kind. Royal archers took their positions, their bows arcing toward the sky, while trebuchets creaked into action with practiced precision. The garrison had arrived at last, answering the kingdom’s desperate call.

A chorus of shouts echoed across the battlements as orders were barked, and the air thickened with the sound of release. Arrows streaked across the sky in coordinated waves, a stark contrast to the chaos of the enemy’s volley. Trebuchets launched payloads of heavy stone and fire, their trajectories calculated to strike where the enemy was most vulnerable.

The effect was immediate and devastating. Ogers screeched as arrows struck home, some tumbling off the bridge with ragdoll-like gracelessness. A direct hit from one of our trebuchets obliterated a group of enemy archers, their screams lost in the deafening explosion.

Even the demon commander wasn’t spared a close call. A well-aimed shot streaked toward him, but with a lazy lean to the side, he let it sail past, crashing into the reserve forces behind him. His indifference was infuriating, his smug composure a reminder of the challenge still ahead.

The air shimmered as my sacred casters unleashed their incantations, their voices weaving holy power into destructive force. Divine pillars erupted from the ground like spears of radiant light, cutting through the battlefield with unrelenting precision.

The Saint-Class Paladins, though fewer in number, channeled their energy into focused attacks. Each pillar they summoned punched clean through the hulking ogers, leaving gaping wounds in their wake. Meanwhile, the Master-Class Paladins unleashed a veritable storm of divine strikes, their sheer number of consecutive pillars reducing entire sections of the enemy’s ranks to ruin.

One particularly devastating spell struck a tower crowded with bogers. The structure groaned before collapsing in a cacophony of stone and splintered wood, obliterating part of the wall as it fell. The cascade of debris crushed dozens of demons below, their screams swallowed by the thunderous impact.

The winged creatures scattered in panic, darting through the sky to avoid the devastation. Their messy retreat left a temporary lull in the aerial assault, giving us a much-needed reprieve.

A smirk tugged at my lips as I saw the royal forces unleash their fury, every bit as hellbent on revenge as I was.

Taking their determination as my cue, I sprang forward, covering meters with each powerful leap.

The remaining ogers, still advancing, didn’t notice my approach until it was too late. I landed among them with a thunderous crash, my blade already in motion. Chandrabolg carved through their ranks in a single devastating arc, severing limbs and spilling blood in a violent spray.

A platoon of demons now surrounded me, their snarling faces lit with grim spite. Perfect. I had cut off a sizable chunk of their army behind me, leaving them vulnerable to my Paladins and Holy Knights. This was my role: the distraction.

With my aura shielding me, their weapons barely scratched my armor, but their relentless numbers would test my stamina. No matter. I shifted into a new stance, my blade sweeping in wide arcs. Heads, limbs, and weapons fell like wheat before a scythe. A murderous windmill, I tore through them with each breath I could muster.

As long as I could breathe, I would fight.

The battle settled into a grim rhythm—arrows raining down, shields rising to meet them, and our forces surging forward in relentless assault.

For twenty brutal minutes, I carved a path through the enemy ranks. My knights and spirits followed in my wake, finishing what I left behind. The bridge became a slaughterhouse, littered with the bodies of fallen foes and comrades alike.

Not all injuries could be healed in time. Some knights fell to catapult fire or were hurled screaming over the edge into the river below. Still, we pressed on, cutting down the ogers like guards breaking up a riot in a rowdy tavern.

I had to give the ogers some credit—they were crafty when the situation demanded it. Once they realized my blade could slice through iron and flesh with equal ease, they shifted tactics.

Instead of charging head-on, they kept their distance, hurling rocks and discarded weapons in an attempt to trip me up.

It wasn’t the honorable combat I had hoped for, and I stumbled more than once, forced to swing low as I regained my footing. Their strategy slowed my advance, forcing me to divide my focus. My eyes darted constantly, wary of an attack from a blind spot that might send me tumbling off the bridge.

The river might not kill me, but my armor is heavy enough that I don’t doubt drowning was a possibility, and the idea of trying to clamber by bulky ass back up in time to continue the battle was damn near laughable. I could run and swing for hours, but if anyone thought I was going to climb a pillar of rock sopping wet, hero or no, the tales of bards will be scornful indeed.

I steadied myself, preparing to face the next wave, my focus fixed on the ogers advancing around me.

And that’s when I made a critical mistake.

I had accounted for the ogers at my front and sides, even those farther off. But I had failed to account for the sky.

A shadow swept over me, and before I could react, claws sank into my pauldrons. My feet left the ground as I was yanked skyward, the wind rushing past my ears as the creature attempted to ascend.

I craned my neck to glimpse my attacker and froze. Wings. Talons. A vaguely humanoid shape.

An angel? No, this was no divine intervention.

A demon.

And she was bizarrely attractive for a creature trying to kill me. Blue, feathered hair framed a delicate face, and her figure, lean and wiry, was more reminiscent of a girl from the village than the monstrous fiend she was. The only signs of her demonic nature were the talons gripping me like a vice and the faint, otherworldly glow in her golden eyes.

“Let go, you underfed vulture!” I roared, clawing at the talons digging into my shoulders. The bridge’s edge loomed below, dangerously close as the demon angled to drop me.

I’d never encountered anything like her before. She was an abomination—a grotesque fusion of woman and bird.

Her body was mostly bare, save for strategic patches of feathers around her hips. Her perky breasts were in plain sight, as though shame held no quarter amongst her kind. The sight would have been amusing in other circumstances, but right now, all I cared about was not being hurled over the side of the bridge.

I couldn’t believe this slender demon had the strength to lift me, let alone drag my armored bulk toward the edge.

Her wings strained with the effort, each beat laborious as she fought to keep us aloft. Despite her ferocity, she looked… fragile. Barely more substantial than a town girl from the village market, she struggled with everything she had to carry me to my doom.

“Dada ayu, human man! Can’t you kick up a little to give me a lift?” she squawked, her voice high-pitched and mocking.

I managed to hook my foot into a crevice in the ground, halting her progress as I struggled to stabilize myself.

An oger, emboldened by my precarious position, charged at me with a roar. My swing was awkward but effective, the blade cleaving through its chest and sending it tumbling over the edge.

I shifted my focus back to the demon, ready to strike her down, but every time I raised my sword, she jerked abruptly to the side. Her erratic movements forced me into awkward, mismatched poses, each swing coming closer to failure than success.

“I’m going to rip those cursed wings off, demon! Let GO!” I roared.

She wouldn’t, so I made her.

Using the crevice as leverage, I hauled myself downward, then kicked up with both feet. The sudden motion sent her flailing into the air. As she struggled to stabilize, I swung Chandrabolg in a powerful crescent arc.

The blade met its mark.

Her lower half separated cleanly, blood and entrails spilling in a gorey cascade. The demon shrieked in agony, her wings flapping desperately to keep her aloft. But her strength failed, and she plummeted, her screams fading into the depths below.