The first blue portal cracked open like a wound in the sky, bleeding unnatural light onto the battlefield. Icariel stood frozen as its yawning mouth unfurled before him, the air thickening with the stench of rot and iron. Two more spheres—the cursed orbs hurled by the invader—landed with precision that felt like fate: one near the crumbling main doors of the castle, the other amidst the smoke-veiled homes where elves still clung to the illusion of rescue.
A heartbeat passed. Then came the second disaster.
From the newly torn portal, Crogs surged forth, crawling and clawing like nightmares made flesh. They started to pour out now, one by one.
"No!" Virethiel screamed. Her voice cracked as she turned to the invader, eyes burning. "You bastard!"
"Your mistake, not mine," he said with a serpent's grin.
Virethiel's face twisted in despair, lips mouthing what her heart already knew. "Master…" she muttered, now beside him, dagger trembling in her hand. "Our soldiers are exhausted… our strongest people are either dead or broken. We need time until they are healed."
Her voice fell like a funeral bell. "This… This is the endgame."
But Aelar's eyes refused to die.
Aelar inhaled sharply and said, "Cheer up. As long as we kill this one"—he glanced at the invader—"we can handle those beasts. They're nothing but roaches underfoot once their master falls."
Her lips curved into a sad, sharp smile. "Always the type to spit in death's eye. Thanks for clearing the fog."
They turned to face the enemy again, shoulders squared like dying stars bracing for collapse.
The invader sneered. "Still not giving up? Good. I'd hate for this to end too soon."
On the ground, Icariel trembled.
Crogs spilled into the world like bile, their feet gouging the soil, their screams like bones breaking under skin. The scent of burning wood and blood hung in the air like a funeral veil.
"Is this… a dream?" Icariel whispered. His voice cracked under the weight of disbelief.
Elif stood behind him, pale and shaking. "This is a nightmare," she said, her voice no louder than ash on wind.
Elena's face was frozen in terror, her hands clenched so tightly they drew blood.
"There's no way to stop them," said Calven, the royal guard, voice hollow as a crypt. "There's no way."
Then came the voice—soft, cold, inside Icariel's skull like a whisper from the grave.
"Listen. You have two choices."
"Either kill those who come for you and run, or stand. Not all of them are through yet. They are passing one by one. If you strike fast, without rest, you might stem the tide."
Icariel's breath caught. The taste of copper filled his mouth.
"What's your advice, Voice?"
"If you stay, you'll be dragged into horrors you're not prepared to face. The two above are holding the invader—barely. For now, either path remains open... but your heartbeat already knows the answer."
Icariel's eyes widened. The air around him felt thick, like the mountain's breath before a storm.
"I'll run," he muttered. "I won't fight them. Not again."
He turned, glaring back at the others. "If you want to follow me, then do it. I'll cut us a path. I said I'd go. That's what I'll do. I don't want to die here."
His voice cracked like frost breaking underfoot.
"You refused to come before," he said to Elena and Elif. "But if you stay, you'll become a burden. A liability. You'll drag the teacher and the soldiers into your graves."
They hesitated.
"I'm sorry, Icariel," Elena said. "I'm not running anymore."
Elif shook, her whole frame quivering like leaves in a blizzard. But she managed to choke out, "Just go, jerk! You've done enough! We'll… we'll handle it somehow!"
Icariel screamed. It wasn't a sound of rage—it was the sound of a boy being torn open.
"You'll bring ruin on the ones trying to protect you! Can't you see that!?"
Elena raised her voice, steel and sorrow in equal measure. "Enough. I said—we're staying just go."
Even the three royal guards faltered, stunned by the force in her words.
Some of the Crogs who had come through the portal before them surged closer. Their howls now formed a twisted chorus of hunger.
"You really plan on dying here?" Icariel hissed. "Damn it…"
His gaze snapped to the portal. The blood in his veins turned to frost.
"So," the voice murmured, "you've chosen."
"I don't want another nightmare," he whispered. "Not one with different faces."
He raised his palm.
"Wind Slash."
Fwoom.
A horizontal blade of howling wind tore through the Crogs, splitting them open like fruit.
Elif blinked. "Icariel…?"
"I said you were making it harder," he muttered, jaw clenched. "But I'll cover this portal. Until not one more of those bastards crawls through."
He turned to the guards. "Protect them. I won't stop casting until it's done."
Calven and the others nodded, weapons drawn. Calven clenched his fists—his sword now belonged to Aelar. Their faces were pale but resolute.
Icariel inhaled sharply, his lungs rasping like torn cloth.
"I'll need to breathe a hell of a lot…" he muttered.
"Wind Slash!"
Fwoom.
More Crogs died—split apart in shrieks and viscera—but more kept coming, as if the abyss had no bottom.
And still, he stood.
Wind swirling. Heart pounding.
The castle grounds trembled under the weight of panic and steel.
The remaining soldiers—those who had been helping civilians, those barely clinging to rest—now formed ranks once more. Blades were drawn. Spears kissed the wind. No orders were given; the air itself screamed what needed to be done.
Floon was absent from the chaos. He had sprinted to the elven village, where he'd found Tessara—barely alive, blood soaking the roots of the Tree of Life. The healing magic had stopped the bleeding, sealed her wounds, but her eyes had not opened. Her stillness haunted him.
He carried her on his back, flanked by his soldiers, feet slamming against the forest road. The Tree loomed above them, no longer a symbol of serenity but a ghostly monument.
"I don't have a good feeling about this," he muttered, eyes scanning the treeline. "Whoever did this to her... they're still out there."
"Faster," he growled, and the soldiers broke into a desperate run.
Back at the castle, near the portal Icariel guarded, more Crogs pushed through. The soldiers stationed there held firm, forming a wall of flesh and steel. Their blades clanged like tolling bells.
One elf soldier raised his sword, voice hoarse from battle. "They're not as strong as the Yetis! Their numbers are their strength, not their blades! We protect our home here and now!"
The soldiers roared in unison, planting their boots at the castle's edge.
And still, Icariel stood before the gaping wound in space, flinging spell after spell.
"Wind Slash!"
Fwoom. Five Crogs torn in two.
His breaths came in jagged gasps, more animal than human. Sweat poured like rain, soaking his shirt, his body trembling as if each muscle was locked in fire.
"I can't stop… I can't stop… I have to replenish my mana—fast—"
Another surge of beasts.
"Wind Slash!"
Fwoom. Bodies split, black blood spraying the ground.
Elena saw him—his hunched shoulders, his wild breath, the madness in his eyes—and she fell to her knees.
"Why…?" she whispered. "Why are you still standing…? Just run…"
Elif stood frozen, mouth ajar, unable to believe what she was seeing. Icariel was no longer a boy—this was final. His desperation was carrying burdens his shoulders weren't built to bear.
Behind them, Calven and the royal guards kept watch. Any Crogs that escaped the portal met their blades. But Calven's eyes were locked on Icariel.
"He's trying to kill every last one the moment they step through," he muttered.
He noticed Elena, crumpled on the ground like a wilted flower. Her shoulders shook with grief.
He knelt beside her, placing a hand on hers. "Please, my lady. Get a hold of yourself. He's doing this for you. He could've run—he said he would—but the moment you refused to leave, he chose to stay."
She raised her head.
Her face was drenched in tears, her lips trembling. The expression she wore could shatter stone.
"He's only sixteen…" she whispered, voice trembling like a frayed thread. "Sixteen. And here we stand, asking him to carry the burden we were too broken, too cowardly to bear. I can't do this. I can't watch. It's like watching my brother die all over again."
Calven froze.
The name was never spoken, but it didn't have to be. Everyone knew the story. A boy who threw himself into the jaws of hell to save his sister. The sister who tried to follow him into death. And the gods only knew how Aelar had managed to pull her back.
She had survived because of him. Barely. And somehow, piece by piece, she had built something again—found safety, found love. When her daughter Elif was born, the darkness seemed to loosen its grip. The memories dulled. The nightmares faded. For the first time, she believed she had made it out.
But now—now that she saw Icariel shouldering a burden that didn't belong to him—it all came rushing back. The panic. The helplessness. The taste of ash and blood. It was happening again.
And Calven understood.
Not with words, but with the sudden weight in his chest. With the look in her eyes that begged the world to stop repeating itself.
He stepped back, as if struck. Bowed his head—not out of formality, but out of something far deeper.
"I understand, my lady," he said quietly.
Elena dropped her head again, sobbing silently.
And still… Icariel stood.
Spell after spell, slash after slash. His arms ached, his veins screamed. He cast not with pride, not with hope—but with pure, feral will.
"Damn it!" he roared. "Stop coming! Stop! How many of you are there!?"
The portal pulsed like a wound refusing to close.
But so did he.
He would become the blade.
He would become the seal.
His arms no longer hurt. His fear no longer screamed.
He was not casting spells.
He was the spell.