Shadow Slave

Below the fierce bloodshed of the battle for the ramparts, the core forces of the Steel Horde poured into the breach. Their advance was barred by Nightwalker, who twisted space to slow them down... but after a year of besieging the stalwart city, Azarax had come up with enough countermeasures against this insidious power.

The foremost warriors of the horde carried long metal spikes, each of them engraved with a complicated weave of ancient runes. As they entered the mire of twisted space, they drove the spikes into the mud. Those who followed behind them raised heavy sledgehammers, ready to push the spikes deeper into the ground.

Few of them survived more than one blow, pierced by dozens of arrows and toppling into the mud. But there were more soldiers behind them, each picking up the sledgehammers to continue the task.

After half a dozen blows — each costing numerous human lives — the runes on the spikes ignited with ethereal glow, anchoring and stabilizing the space around them. The area each spike anchored did not extend far, but the warriors of the horde were already advancing to drive the next row of spikes just beyond its border.

Like that, in the span of several minutes, the Steel Horde had built a bridge across the treacherous expanse of twisted space. Countless soldiers died to achieve that feat, but their lives were like a drop in the ocean of the great conquering army.

Standing among the soldiers in the dry riverbed, Nightwalker grimaced and summoned a pair of beautiful sabers. Then, he glanced at Morgan, who was already moving forward.

He flashed her a grin.

“Don’t you miss the days we only had to fight mindless abominations?”

Facing the tide of enemies, Morgan shrugged without looking back.

”Were there ever days like that? I don’t recall.”

With that, she turned into a river of liquid steel and rushed forward.

The vanguard of the invading force, who had just broken through Nightwalker’s barrier, exploded with cries of horror and reeled back. But it was already too late — the steel river washed over them, eviscerating every single one.

A moment later, it turned into a spinning maelstrom of liquid metal and collapsed on itself, absorbed into the figure of a towering sword demon — a tall, terrifying being with six flexible arms, each hand holding a sharp blade.

Just as it did, seven looming shapes broke through the bloody haze, rushing to destroy the steel apparition. Those were the Transcendent generals of the Dread Warriors — the strongest among Azarax’s elite forces, each a terrifying legend in their own right.

The sword demon spun, its limbs lashing forward and extending unpredictably to repel their assault. There was a thunderous boom, and a cloud of shrapnel tore through the air, threatening to eviscerate the front rows of the city defenders. Nightwalker clicked his tongue and twisted space to protect them, then lunged forward — there, more enemy Saints were advancing through the breach, countless warriors flowing between them.

”Prepare!”

Morgan fought the Dread Warrior generals, while Nightwalker clashed with the lesser Saints. The world quaked from the furious violence of their battle, but the riverbed was wide — wide enough for the Awakened and Ascended soldiers of the Steel Horde to bypass the terrifying clash of Transcendent champions, rushing toward the line of defenders like a tide.

Soon enough, the two forces collided, plunging the world into complete chaos. Both Azarax and Effie had sent their best warriors to fight in the riverbed, so these were no ordinary soldiers — they were seasoned, highly skilled Awakened elites who knew how to keep their cool in the midst of the most fearsome battle, coldly summoning death and destruction upon their enemies.

The deadly valor of two warring sides clashed, resonating in a conflagration of mayhem and carnage, and elevated the bloody terror of the battle to truly chilling heights... or abyssal depths, perhaps.

The defenders held an advantage due to the fact that they had received a bit of time to prepare. They stood on solid wooden flooring that had been hastily laid atop the mud, for example, while the attackers had to wade through viscous sludge — naturally, that made it far more difficult for them to fight.

However, the Steel Horde held the greatest advantage of all — its inexhaustible vastness. Azarax could afford to lose thousands of soldiers without feeling the strain. Soon enough, the mud would absorb rivers of blood. Then, it would be covered by a morbid carpet of corpses, and once the Dread Warriors had something solid to stand upon, the tide of the battle would turn against the defenders.

“Kill them all!”

The Dragonslayer’s voice boomed above the hideous slaughterhouse of the ruthless battle, making the defenders roar and push back against the crushing flood of subjugated thralls. Every second, hundreds of bodies were falling into the mud, and every second, countless Awakened powers were unleashed, shredding the very fabric of the world.

Far ahead, among the ruins of the barricade and the wreckage of the great iron grate... the Saints were dying, as well.

Nightwalker was like a cunning eel, elusive and viciously deadly, his two sabers moving as if possessing minds of their own. More than that, his skill was eerily flawless, tempered by decades spent in the dreadful crucible of the Eternal City and the hungry jaws of the Nightmare. Even facing multiple Saints of the Steel Horde, he was pressuring them instead of being oppressed.

Morgan, meanwhile, was cold and ruthless, fighting the seven Dread Generals with terrifying composure. One of them was already lying in the mud, dead, while the rest were covered in cuts, both shallow and deep, all bleeding. Her own steel body, meanwhile, remained pristine... for now. Funnily enough, the two of them — Morgan and Nightwalker — were the only two people in history who had conquered the Third Nightmare alone. Nightwalker had managed that impossible feat due to the strange nature of the Eternal City, but Morgan had received no aid in her solitary trial.

The Princess of War had been forged to be a deadly weapon, but fashioned herself into a peerless user of weapons instead.

Now, she was facing the strongest champions of the Steel Horde — not only refusing to be thwarted, but making them feel threatened and uneasy instead. The form of the Sword Demon she had assumed was deadly and unpredictable, infused with lethal sharpness. Every centimeter of her body was like a blade, and no amount of armor could protect her enemies from being severed and cut apart.

The terrifying devastation of their clash echoed across the riverbed, instilling the warriors killing each other on its muddy expanse with hope and terror in equal measure.

The battle in the riverbed reached a state of bloody equilibrium despite its demented frenzy, rivers of blood pouring into the crimson mud.

The battle for the walls of the city was in a stalemate, as well...

However, all of it was about to change. Because the most dire force of the Steel Horde — the Plague of Steel, the King of Kings himself — had not joined the battle yet.

He was moving forward now, though.