Symbiotic Ascension : A Progression Fantasy Adventure

Daryl's knees buckled beneath him, and he collapsed in his seat. The map before him and the tiles representing each side's forces left no doubt.

In a few hours, the enemy would be upon them. Again. And there would be nothing they'd be able to do to save themselves.

The official war against the Celestial Gods had kicked off in high gear. Compared to the Dark Wall's War, this was at least ten times worse. Daryl had heard that at least two-thirds of Munirp's military had been thrown into this war to try to push back against the enemy.

Truly, the Dark Wall's War could barely be considered a skirmish when compared to the War for the Horizon. That was the unofficial name the soldiers had given to this war for the control of the Horizon Gates, the passage that led to the Beyond, the world of demons and monsters. Rich in resources, the two countries were putting everything on the line to take control of the Beyond. Daryl had seen them, these Horizon Gates.

Large, twisted holes in the air, each as tall and large as castles, replacing where the Dark Wall once lay before taking flight. Munirp had control over them and was already engaged in negotiations with the demons, but it wouldn't stay this way for much longer.

The war had been ongoing for half a year, and Munirp was losing. Daryl rubbed his forehead weakly, exhausted. The Orcs all moved in knit-tight formations of at least a hundred warriors. All who were at Knight ranks were Aura users. Munirp would have been capable of flaunting superior numbers, at the very least, but even that was taken away from them. With each Orc detachment was sent a powerful necromancer capable of controlling hundreds and hundreds of corpses. The worst Daryl had seen was an Expert Magi Necromancer who commanded a five-thousand-strong army. They'd been forced to abandon their positions and retreat, giving up more and more ground to the Celestial Gods.

Thankfully, they had powerful allies on their side. The Cleaner's Workshop brought powerful fighters, such as the Reaper Veil, Reginald the Gentleman, or Tom Delora the Steel Devourer. That last one was terrifying—a kid-sized monster who could turn the battlefield into a grave of swords.

But the Workshop wasn't the only one throwing its weight in. The Church of Onnea, while refusing to fight on the front, helped from the back by treating the wounded. He knew a few Iron Brotherhood warriors, but they had come of their own free will, searching for powerful enemies to duel with. The Brotherhood had refused to implicate itself in the war so far.

Daryl closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat, the whispers of his lieutenants and officers muffled. He wasn't the only one who understood the data. To make it short, they were fucked. Utterly and completely fucked.

And to make matters worse, they couldn't even escape. If they abandoned this position without trying to hold on, there would be a breach in Duke Noir's defensive line. That breach, like a broken link, would destroy their entire defense. The only thing they could do was to sacrifice their lives and buy time for the defensive line to prepare for the hole.

If only they had one of the Duke's comrades with them...

"Captain! Captain!" A soldier heaved as he intruded into the tent, his face pale and covered in sweat. "T-They're coming!"

Daryl dismissed his fears and worries. As a captain, he had the responsibility of inspiring his men and keeping up the correct face. "Very well!" He grabbed his helmet and glaive, a spear with one large, cleaving blade instead of the usual spearhead. A weapon of the Eastern Continent he'd come to enjoy.

His lieutenants followed him, their faces grave. A heavy atmosphere pushed down on Daryl, but he held on. This was his duty. For the ones behind him, his family and other civilians in Munirp, he couldn't afford to lose. He couldn't afford to be the one who let the Orcs in. Black sand swirled beneath his feet as he stood on the dune, his eyes sharply staring down at the incoming enemies.

He led a thousand men, fifty of those who reached the Knight rank. There were a couple of mages, but they were nothing much, just True Initiates. He himself was a Grand Chevalier, a rank four Aura user. The strongest man in his detachment, and the most important as well.

Captain Daryl clenched his glaive tightly as he watched five thousand undead running at them in a violent onslaught. He could distinguish Orcs in the wave of walking dead. Powerful warriors, that was for sure.

'It's over,' he thought. And yet, he gave his orders.

"Ludo, Miriam, firepower NOW!" he roared, pointing his glaive at the wave of enemies. The two true Initiates gulped but complied, Mana surging around them as they muttered up spells. Thick stone spears rose from the ground before flying at the Orcs. Blades of Aura strike at the spells, destroying most of them. A few spears still took down enemies, but it wasn't enough.

Daryl took a deep inspiration before turning to his second. "Lieutenant, take the men and retreat to the next position. I'll hold them back and buy you time."

"But Captain—"

Daryl's eyes hardened. "This was an order, lieutenant. Leave, now!"

The lieutenant clenched his teeth and darted away to give his orders. The two mages looked at each other before running away as well. It was a beautiful day, with no clouds obscuring the bright sun. The Ink Dunes were as dark as ever, dust rising from the incoming tsunami of orcs.

'The perfect time for one last stand,' thought Daryl. He smiled gently as he recalled his family's faces, knowing that he kept them safe for another day. Aura surged around him, the black sand beneath his feet exploding violently. An Aura blue like his wife's eyes.

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Finally, the undead were upon him. He took one step forward, roaring as he met the enemies. Time seemed to slow down as he watched twenty or so Orcs jump out of the undead ranks, short swords in their hands and eyes glistening with bloodlust. He could see his life unfold before his eyes, the first time he met his wife, the birth of his children, his promotion...

A hand suddenly grabbed his shoulder warmly, walking beside him calmly. Daryl looked to the side, confused. 'That... What?'

Wait.

Was the slowed world not just the product of his imminent death? The entire battlefield was frozen, a chill cover of ice covering the black sand in white.

"Five thousand, huh? I'm sure you could take them down yourselves, but I'll have to steal the glory from you. Good job nonetheless, Captain."

Black hair tied in a ponytail, a purple left hand, and eyes as calm as the surface of a lake. He wore a luxurious black suit that fluttered behind him. The grin on his face told of immense recklessness, courage, or both. A legend whose appearance was enough to turn the tides of entire battlefields.

The youngest ducal Patriarch in history.

The Devil's Hand waved slightly, the sky suddenly turning dark. The sun disappeared, obscured by a great layer of darkness. An unnatural silence fell upon the world, watching them.

'Are those... stars?'

"That's for slipping out of my hands for weeks, Golrik the Necromancer," the young man muttered. "Starfall."

The stars in the sky suddenly shone brighter, one becoming incredibly large. A massive fireball crashed among the Celestial Gods' army, destroying hundreds and turning the sand to glass. The strength of the blow broke what had frozen time, and the Orcs sent blades of Aura toward the sky in a pitiful defensive attempt, but it was too late.

Daryl's jaw dropped as he watched the sky fall upon his enemies and incinerate them to ashes. The night sky disappeared, and the young man dusted his hands off with a relieved smile.

"Phew! That's one good thing done. I'm sure the geezer will be happy to hear Golrik is dead."

Daryl's eyes filled up with tears, and he fell to his knees, crying. He hadn't swung his glaive even once, nor endured a single wound.

This was the strength of one of Munirp's legends, one of the strongest being in existence.

"Hey, Captain, you good?"

The Duke of the Stars, Glenn Starborn.

***

'Heh, Glenn, look at this loser crying!' Diamanes cackled mockingly. Glenn ignored him and turned his gaze the the Ink Dunes, searching for any remnants of the Celestial Gods' infantry with Mana Sight.

'That guy stood at the forefront to protect his men. He considered himself already dead. I don't really see what makes him a loser here.'

'Because he cried, of course!'

'Then I'm a loser too.'

'Of course you are!'

'...' Glenn stretched out his hand and aimed, pulling with Gravity Manipulation. A figure suddenly shot out with a pained grunt into his hand, armored with bones and wearing a skull on his head.

"Well, well, well, who do we have here?" Glenn clenched the necromancer's throat tightly. "How are you doing, Golrik?"

"Y-You!" The necromancer's eyes were opened wide and bloodshot. "What is the Devil's Hand doing here?! You were supposed to be stuck with Cerimius!"

Glenn grimaced. "Well, I'm sure that was a sound plan in your head, guys, but no. Cerimius was, unfortunately, not enough. Now, bye-bye!"

"W-Wait—!"

Crack!

'You're too cold for us, Glenn. Too cold,' Diamanes exhaled.

Glenn threw the corpse aside emotionlessly and brought up the magic map given to all Commander-ranked fighters in this war. A mix of technology and Mana engineering, the small ball-shaped Observer lit up with a digital map, telling him of objectives to claim and heads to behead. He entered the data of Golrik's death and checked on his friends' positions.

Lucian was fighting the main fight, of course. The Crown Prince's presence was a big plus for the morale of their fighters, and he was himself an incredible powerhouse. Liara was taking advanced positions with a cohort of Aura fighters, while Sahro was navigating the battlefield just like Glenn to save the asses of important spots. As for Milena, she was conducting some sort of black-op-sounding mission, infiltrating the enemy and squeezing intel out of them. Her mind magic was incredibly useful in this war, even more so when considering that Orcs were particularly weak before mind powers.

Rumors had even begun drawing her up as some sort of evil Witch that tortured her enemies and made them kill themselves or something. Which wasn't far from the truth, admittedly, but still a little too violent for who Milena really was.

"It's already been six months, huh?" Glenn closed his eyes and sighed heavily.

After his and the others' official ennobling ceremony with the King, Exan had taken them back to the Royal Library, where they trained relentlessly for three weeks. These weeks went by in a flash, with all of them coming out of it stronger than ever. No one had broken through to a higher level, but that was expected. Glenn was almost certain that for them to break through meant fighting some sort of unwinnable fight again.

That was the only way they knew how to grow, after all. Through blood, pain, and tears.

'I wonder how she's doing...' he thought, his fists clenching.

The more time he was spending on this ridiculous war, the more he desired to return to the manor on Longhorns Street, to his family. The Ink Dunes could be renamed to the Scarlet Dunes, with how much blood had been shed there. Every day, he slaughtered low-ranked Orcs and undead like cattle. It didn't feel bad from it. After all, every life he took from the Celestial Gods was one less lost for Munirp.

There were occasional skirmishes with powerful opponents. Glenn was constantly hunted by strong Orc warriors who ranged between Crusaders and Saints at the very least. Grand Chevaliers couldn't even hope to see him before they died, after all.

Sahro was in a similar situation if he trusted the reports in the Observer. But the Black Heir and his fox were ravaging the enemy's forces like some sort of natural disaster. Nobody could stop them.

Just like nobody could stop him.

After all, their might was much higher compared to the usual Saint or Archmagi. With Primal Aura for Sahro and Astral Sorcery for Glenn, the two were threats almost comparable to Newborn Rulers, though they lacked that 'Country-ruining' parameter that Newborn Rulers possessed.

'You really came a long way, from weak, wimpy loser to... toe-level loser, didn't you?' Diamanes remarked with an overly emotional tone. Glenn chuckled and turned away, returning to his 'transport'.

'I certainly did. Can you just imagine me, almost dying to some low-ranked Corrupted? What even was his name, the tentacular father...?'

'Who cares?! Now, now, let's go find a stronger necromancer or a good Orc team to wrack!'

Glenn shook his head with a smile when a notification appeared on his Observer.

Oh? It seems we're finally going to see the others. "It's been months. I wonder how they've been doing."

His transport looked down at him with one beady eye, each flap of his wings raising massive clouds of dust. Pebble pressed his head against Glenn's chest with a low growl.

"Yeah, yeah, I know you big oaf. Let's go." Glenn jumped on, his chest filling up with the same sense of wonder as the first day he became able to do this. Pebble, as large and tall as a house, roared defiantly before taking up to the sky, his brown scales rustling slightly under the sun.

Indeed, he had come a long way.