Lord Of The Lost

The ground trembled violently, the entire Black Forest shaking as though a colossal being were stirring in its grave, preparing to rise.

But just as suddenly as it began, the movement ceased.

A stillness fell over the world, eerie and absolute, as if someone had pressed a cosmic pause button.

The wind stopped. The sand no longer rolled.

In this unnatural silence, a single sound emerged.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

It was a low, rhythmic pulse, deep and resonant, like the heartbeat of the earth itself.

At first, there was only one. Then a second.

A third.

The sounds multiplied, growing louder, heavier, and more defined, until they rolled across the land like the distant roar of thunder.

Under the pale moonlight, a shadow emerged from the depths of the Black Forest.

A cavalry force materialized, silent and vast, marching in perfect unison.

At the front rode a towering figure clad entirely in golden armor, his spear raised high above his head. The spear's shaft bore a banner fluttering in the still air, its emblem barely visible; a spear entwined with a crown.

The golden knight led the formation astride a massive warhorse, his presence commanding and unyielding.

Behind him followed a hundred knights, their armor gleaming under the moonlight, their lances rising like an iron forest into the sky.

The formation was precise and orderly, the knights' postures upright and rigid, their expressions grave and solemn.

Each knight appeared identical in height and build, as if they had been forged from the same mold. Even their warhorses matched in size and stride, their movements synchronized with an eerie perfection.

The ground quaked softly with the rhythmic pounding of hooves.

---

William shook his head, still dizzy from the previous battle. A faint tone rang in his ears; the voice of the sequence game.

[Hint: You encountered the King's Third Guard.]

[The King's Guard: The King's elite personal guard, tasked with suppressing the disaster in the Black Forest ten years ago. They were completely wiped out. On every full moon night, the souls of the guard awaken.]

[Hint: You encountered Helka.]

[Helka: Commander of the King's Guard, a loyal knight who met his death in foreign lands. Bound by the law of his oath, his soul can never rest.]

---

Helka, at the head of the cavalry, was impossible to miss. His golden armor radiated a ghostly brilliance under the moonlight, and the ten-meter knight's flag he carried billowed high above him.

The knights followed in a grim procession, the sound of their horses' hooves growing louder as they closed in.

One moment, they were emerging from the Black Forest. The next, they were already standing on the devastated battlefield, their sudden arrival defying all logic.

It was as if the world itself had frozen to accommodate them.

The wind, the clouds, even the moonlight seemed paralyzed, the entire scene locked in place.

Helka's cold, emotionless voice cut through the frozen air, sharp and chilling like a blade of ice.

"Iris, you have abandoned your post. The Black Forest has fallen into chaos, and a new calamity is on the horizon."

From the shattered remains of Iris, her half-skull stirred. The broken jaw moved with great effort as her weak voice responded.

"I… acknowledge my sin. I am prepared to offer my soul to atone for this failure."

Her words echoed faintly, carried by the stillness of the battlefield. The knights stood unmoving, their presence like a judgment passed down by an unrelenting law. The air grew heavier as the scene unfolded, the weight of destiny pressing down on all who remained.

Helka's cold voice resonated from within his golden helmet, sharp and unyielding. "Your sacrifice cannot make amends, Iris. Your death holds no worth."

Iris's broken voice rose in response, steady but frail. "I wouldn't have lasted much longer anyway, even without the werewolf's interference. You know my state, Helka."

Helka inclined his head slightly, his tone almost curious. "How much time?"

Iris replied firmly, "If I sacrifice my soul, I can hold the Black Forest for one more full-moon night."

Helka's tone didn't soften. "One month? That is far from enough!"

"I have given all that I have," Iris said, her voice trembling with both defiance and resignation.

Helka's gaze shifted, first to Sophia, her tear-streaked face a portrait of grief. Then to William, his battered form still standing firm despite his injuries.

Finally, Helka turned his cold eyes toward Mott, the defeated Wolf Lord.

"Wolf Lord of the Werewolves," Helka said, his tone laden with authority. "You trespassed into the kingdom. On behalf of the king, I pardon your crime and consider your promise fulfilled."

Mott snarled, his voice filled with madness and outrage. "The King's Guard?! No! The werewolves never agreed to any such deal! If you want vengeance, find the witch!"

Helka's voice remained calm, his demeanor unshaken. "And yet you stand with the witch, Wolf Lord."

"No!" Mott roared. "The king has no authority over the werewolves! You're nothing but dead souls! How dare you command me, the Wolf Lord? I refuse!"

With a violent surge of power, Mott shattered the knightly aura binding him, his immense strength breaking the suppression like glass. His massive form bolted from the battlefield, a frenzied escape resembling a wild beast in panic.

But Helka's golden gaze did not waver. His voice cut through the stillness like steel. "In the name of the king, I claim your body, your soul, and your strength. Your consent is irrelevant."

Helka reached for the halberd strapped to his warhorse and, with a powerful swing of his arm, hurled it with devastating precision.

The weapon became a streak of blazing light, tearing through the battlefield like a comet. Its momentum carved a deep trench in the earth, three meters wide and stretching for over a kilometer. Dust and debris erupted in its wake, the ground sundered as if by a god's hand.

The halberd struck true, embedding itself in Mott's massive form. The Wolf Lord roared in pain as his immense body collapsed to the ground.

Before he could recover, two knights in silver armor charged forward, their warhorses galloping like a tempest. With synchronized precision, they drove their elongated spears into Mott's shoulder blades, pinning him in place.

Together, the knights crossed their lances and lifted Mott's mountain-like body into the air, suspending him like a wild boar caught in a trap.

"Human knights! Iris! I curse you!" Mott bellowed, his voice raw with fury and desperation. His struggles grew more frantic as he twisted and thrashed, but the knights held firm.

Finally, his rage turned to pleading. "Iris… Iris! Don't do this! Don't drag me into the abyss! I beg you! You can't treat your brother like this!"

Iris's voice, steady and resolute, delivered the final blow. "Mott, it's over. The era of the werewolves has ended."

"No!" Mott's voice cracked with despair. "No! I refuse! I would rather die than become your fuel!"

Desperation gripped him, and he prepared to self-destruct, his body trembling with violent energy.

But before he could act, the halberd embedded in his chest erupted with a blinding light, its radiant energy surging through him and cutting off his power.

Mott's body went limp, suspended in the air, caught between life and death.

His voice, once filled with rage and arrogance, now dripped with despair. "I want to live… I cannot die…"

His screams echoed across the battlefield, a tragic cry as if he were a car teetering on the edge of a cliff, unable to fall yet incapable of escape.

The Wolf Lord, Mott, who had once brought despair to the border town, was now reduced to a pathetic sight in the blink of an eye.

Suspended in the air like a wild boar on display, his massive body was pinned by two knights in silver armor. Their lances crossed through his flesh, holding him high as he writhed and roared in futile resistance.

In the distance, the sounds of battle echoed through the wilderness, growing louder as they approached.

Karon, an elite werewolf, led a pack of thirty or forty werewolves who had finally broken through the border town's defenses. They had come to support their Wolf Lord, ready to fight to the death.

But what they saw stopped them in their tracks.

Their once-mighty Wolf Lord, the leader they had followed with unwavering loyalty, was now helpless, impaled and immobilized, like a captured trophy.

---

The wolves' growls mixed with the sound of hooves as the two groups finally clashed.

The remaining werewolves met the solemn formation of the King's Third Guard—a line of knights who moved with precision and purpose, their golden armor gleaming under the full moon.

Schwip!

Without hesitation, the ten knights in the front row drew their lances in perfect unison and charged forward like an unstoppable whirlwind.

Ten knights, spaced evenly apart, advanced as if bound by an invisible chain. Their synchronization was so flawless it seemed supernatural, their presence like a sandstorm sweeping across the earth.

Karon, a battle-hardened elite werewolf, felt an uncharacteristic chill creep up his spine. His individual strength might surpass that of any single knight, but this was no ordinary charge.

This was a force capable of splitting rivers.

The reflection of the charging knights gleamed in Karon's wide eyes. His muscles tensed, his instincts screaming danger. For the first time, the fighting spirit of the werewolves faltered, gripped by a primal fear they couldn't explain.

Three elite werewolves stepped forward to counter the charge, but their confidence wavered. Instead of advancing, they hesitated.