Chapter 68: Shield of the Empire
Ash and smoke billowed across the battlefield like stormclouds rolling in from a cursed horizon. The stench of blood and burning flesh clung to the wind, fouler than any miasma. Crimson soaked the ground, turning once-fertile soil into a mire of pain and death. Screams, some human, others not, rose in a chaotic dirge beneath the shattered skies.
Yet amid the carnage, Kael stood motionless—a lone figure atop a ridge of cracked stone, his crimson cloak fluttering behind him like the banner of defiance itself. His eyes, cold as a winter storm, surveyed the chaos with terrifying clarity. Around him, his elite forces rallied what remained of the center line.
"They've broken through the second line," barked Varok, one of Kael's elite soldiers. His massive axe dripped gore, and a deep gash ran down his left arm, soaking his leather and iron bracers. Yet his eyes—fierce, unwavering—still burned with loyalty.
Kael's gaze swept across the battlefield. Dozens of his men lay scattered across the ridgeline, their bodies broken in the desperate clash against the Obsidian Vanguard—a ruthless force clad in dark, rune-etched armor, their faces hidden behind helmets shaped like snarling beasts. These weren't mere soldiers. They were war-hardened zealots. Their armor drank blood like sponge, absorbing it into the blackened steel to empower their next strike.
Behind them marched monstrosities—war beasts the size of siege engines, their bodies plated in black chitin, curved spines jutting out like jagged mountains. Four-legged and low to the ground, their maws glowed with infernal light. These were bred in the depths of abyssal pits, corrupted and molded for one purpose—destruction.
The Empire's formation was faltering. If they pushed through here, the central defense would collapse. The flanks would be surrounded. It would be a massacre.
"Sound the command," Kael said quietly, his voice as cold and resolute as steel drawn in moonlight. "Initiate Shieldfall."
A moment later, a deep horn sounded across the valley—a signal lost to time, known only to the highest ranks of Kael's forces. It did not summon retreat. It called upon legends.
A thunderous roar answered it.
From the haze of smoke, five towering figures emerged, racing into position like gods descending into mortal conflict. Their footsteps cracked the earth. Their presence drew the eyes of both ally and enemy alike.
The Seven Generals—Kael's immortal champions—had arrived.
"Form the wall!" bellowed Commander Eryndor, his massive tower shield slamming into the ground. Runes carved in ancient dialects glowed gold, anchoring him like a mountain in the storm. "We hold the line, or we die as the Shield of the Empire!"
The others followed suit.
Varka the Juggernaut, the largest among them, drove his twin tower shields into the ground with a growl that rumbled like thunder. His armor, dented and bloodstained, bore battle marks from a hundred wars. Nothing short of a god could move him once he planted his stance.
Beside him, Lady Seris of the Sapphire Flame stepped forward. Her long coat burned with ethereal fire, sapphire flames dancing off her fingertips. She drew wide arcs with both hands, the fire hardening into a radiant wall of shimmering heat.
To her left, General Thorne, silent and grim, muttered an incantation. Dark runes crawled up his arms, slipping across his armor like shadows alive. His armor was obsidian black, pulsing faintly with red—a testament to the forbidden magicks sealed beneath it. From the ground beneath him rose jagged obsidian spikes, creating a killing field before the wall.
General Kaelen, the youngest of the Seven, stepped forward with narrowed eyes. Pale and focused, blood trailing down his brow, he activated his signature kinetic barrier. Layers of condensed mana shimmered around him like rings of flowing glass, bending incoming force away in perfect arcs.
The line was drawn.
The Shield of the Empire was formed.
And then, the enemy crashed into them.
The first wave of beasts hurtled toward Varka. Their bulk slammed into his shields—and stopped. With a defiant roar, he heaved forward, throwing them back with shattering force. Bone splintered. Chitin cracked. One beast flipped end over end and slammed into its kin behind.
Arrows rained down—cursed bolts fired by the Obsidian Vanguard's twisted archers. Kaelen's barrier caught them midair, redirecting the storm into harmless dispersal. Mages unleashed bolts of black lightning, but Seris's flame wall absorbed the energy, glowing hotter with each impact.
Infantry surged in, screaming oaths to forgotten gods. They rushed the sides—but Thorne's obsidian spikes surged upward, skewering them mid-charge. Their bodies twisted and shrieked as tendrils of shadow consumed their essence, dragging them beneath the soil.
Behind them, Kael stood like a sentinel—watching, calculating, and waiting.
"Do not falter," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "This is where legends are carved."
The wounded, inspired by the Seven's stand, began pulling themselves to their feet. Healers, emboldened, moved between the bodies, wrapping wounds, reviving warriors who'd lost hope.
Near the rear, Lord Baelric, a noble of minor influence, watched with disbelief from atop his warhorse.
"This is madness!" he shouted to Kael. "They can't hold that front alone!"
Kael turned, his voice calm but ironclad. "They're not holding it alone. They're holding it together."
Varka let out a thunderous laugh, ramming his shield into another beast. "You want a piece of me? Come get it, filth!"
Seris's voice rang out like bells over a pyre. "I could do this all day. Burn, scum!"
Thorne remained silent, but his power pulsed—more runes unlocking as he bled. The shadows under his feet twisted unnaturally, like they were sentient, eager for release.
Kaelen gritted his teeth. The strain of maintaining his kinetic focus caused veins to bulge across his temple, but he did not yield.
"Keep it up," he growled. "We can't break. Not now."
Then the battlefield trembled.
A deep, guttural chant echoed across the battlefield. From the rear of the enemy horde, the Vanguard began to part—creating a corridor of blackened earth and ritual smoke. A cloaked figure emerged, flanked by twelve armored cultists bearing staffs crowned with writhing serpents.
Kael's eyes narrowed. "A warlock… they're invoking an abyssal rift."
The ground cracked. A jagged portal began to bloom behind the warlock, spinning and folding reality like tearing paper. Within, nothingness churned—a gateway wide enough to swallow a fortress whole.
"Seris, cover the sky. Kaelen, prepare a directional focus. Thorne, suppression. Varka, brace. Eryndor, with me."
No hesitation. No fear. The generals obeyed.
Seris hurled her arms skyward, flames expanding into a dome of blazing heat, sealing the sky from what might emerge. Kaelen focused his barrier forward—turning it into a funnel of mana, channeling power directly at the gate.
Thorne slammed both palms into the ground, sending runes crawling like centipedes toward the rift, anchoring counter-magic. Varka roared and crouched, shields raised like an iron fortress.
Kael stepped forward, his sword humming.
"Eryndor, hold the line," he commanded. "I'll deal with the summoner."
His blade, forged by the system, glowed with silver runes—anti-abyssal enchantments, unlocked secretly through a hidden milestone. It hummed with power only Kael could access.
He moved.
Like a phantom, Kael tore through the field—ducking shadowy tendrils, vaulting through cultist flames. He moved like war incarnate. His sword struck down two cultists mid-chant, dispersing their magic.
The warlock turned, but it was too late.
Kael's blade pierced his chest.
The chant ended.
The rift screamed and collapsed, drawing everything inward before exploding in a burst of light and shadow. Kael was thrown back—his body slamming into the dirt. But Seris's dome absorbed the shock, shielding the Seven.
For a moment, the battlefield went still.
Then Eryndor raised his shield and roared, "Now! Push forward!"
Kaelen unleashed a directed kinetic blast—his entire focus slamming into the enemy line. Varka and Eryndor charged like titans, shields smashing through corrupted bodies.
Thorne's spikes turned into writhing tendrils, dragging enemies down screaming. Seris narrowed her flames into precise javelins—each one finding a heart or skull.
The Obsidian Vanguard—once confident, once victorious—shattered.
Kael stood, blood streaking his face, dirt on his lips. He looked to his generals—all bruised, bloodied, burned—but unbowed.
He gave a single nod.
"We do not fall," he said quietly. "Not here. Not ever."
And as the first rays of sunlight pierced the smoke, it lit the ridge where the Seven stood firm—the line that refused to break.
The Shield of the Empire—unyielding.
And Kael, Emperor-in-the-making, knew this moment would echo through time. Not just for the blood shed…
…but for the stand that held against the abyss.