The Immortal General

The arrival of the Banner of the Claw at Bastion Cael Jena was like a surge of fresh, invigorating air cutting through the stale scent of despair. Three thousand strong, they marched into the fortress courtyard in perfect, disciplined columns. Their steel armor, polished and well-maintained, gleamed under the harsh northern sun, and their movements were sharp, precise, and filled with a latent energy that seemed to push back against the oppressive gloom of the fortress.

They were a stark contrast to the weary, battle-worn Silvan soldiers who stopped their work to watch them, their own elegant armor dented, chipped, and stained from weeks of brutal fighting. On the faces of the elves was a mixture of awe, relief, and the faintest hint of prideful envy.

At the head of the force rode Captains Erin and Lem, their faces etched with the fatigue of a long march but their eyes sharp and focused. Beside them, Edgar sat astride his warhorse, his five hundred Stormriders a picture of coiled, restless energy, their mounts stamping impatiently.

And a much familiar companion rode towards Arlan immediately, it was Kage. The war mount nuzzled his head against Arlan's face as if to express his love for the Grand Marshal. The reunion was a moment of quiet relief amidst the ever-present tension of the front lines.

Erin swung down from his horse, his salute sharp and precise. "Grand Marshal," he said. "The Banner of the Claw has arrived. The march from the Ruins of Eisanyr wasn't too long, but the men are rested, their blades are sharp, and their spirits are high. They're ready to spill orc blood."

"I see that, Captain," Arlan replied as he looked past Erin to the disciplined ranks. "You've made good time. Any trouble on the road?"

"Nothing we couldn't handle," Erin reported. "A few territorial beasts, but it was good practice. Kept the men on their toes."

Lem dismounted with a characteristic grin, clapping Erin on the shoulder. "What he means to say, Grand Marshal, is that the men are practically buzzing. Been listening to Edgar's war stories the whole way here."

Savage, who had been quietly observing, let out a low chuckle. He looked from the eager faces of the shock troopers to Arlan, his eyes gleaming with a fierce light. "Our brothers are here now, Arlan. Will blood be split today?"

"That's the plan," Arlan said, turning the conversation into an impromptu briefing. He gestured for his commanders to form a semi-circle. "The situation here is worse than we thought, but the enemy's overconfidence is a weakness we can exploit. To do that, I need everyone moving with speed and precision."

He looked directly at Savage. "You're fit for the role, Savage. It's only right you lead them. The five hundred shock troopers are yours to command. Roderic would've wanted you to lead them in his honor."

Savage's chest swelled with pride, and he slammed a fist against his breastplate. "Honoring the fallen is the Hek'Jefah way. Through a blood shed shall we honor his memory."

Arlan then turned to Frej and Yuna. "Frej, your experience as a Gryphon Knight makes you the ideal leader for our specialty spearmen. You understand flanking maneuvers and how to counter a heavy charge."

"Me? In command?!! I've only studied how to lead." Frej said nervously. "But this is a chance that even my own father never had given me. I won't let you down Arlan!"

"I've got your back Frej," Yuna added.

"Good," Arlan said, his gaze settling back on his captains. "Erin, Lem, as usual, the Vanguard is all yours along with the three hundred rangers. I'm trusting your judgment to hold the line when things get tough."

"You can count on us, Grand Marshal," Erin and Lem said in unison, their expressions a mixture of pride and the heavy weight of responsibility.

"Edgar," Arlan continued, looking to the stoic leader of the Stormriders. "I will personally ride with you and the Stormriders. Be ready to keep up with me."

Edgar simply nodded. "The highest of honors to have the Immortal General himself with us.."

Finally, Niren stepped forward, his silver armor seeming to glow even in the dim light of the courtyard. He had been quietly observing, his presence a calming anchor in the sea of warrior energy. "And me?"

A serious, focused look entered Arlan's eyes. He looked from Niren's calm face "You," he said. "Will be with the Vanguard."

Just as Arlan finished outlining the new command structure, a commotion at the fortress gates drew everyone's attention. A Silvan soldier, his face gaunt from weeks of meager rations, pointed a trembling finger. "Look…" he whispered, his voice cracking.

A long caravan of heavy wagons, flying the unmistakable gold-and-black banner of the Eastvale Trade Company, was making its way into the bastion. Leading the caravan was a man whose fine merchant clothes couldn't hide the elegant, pointed ears and sharp features of a Silvan Elf. The weary soldiers stared, first in disbelief, and then in dawning recognition. This was not just a foreign merchant; he was one of their own, returned.

General Voron himself emerged from the keep, his weary eyes widening at the sight. He watched as the elf dismounted and approached Arlan's group, bowing with a practiced flourish.

"Jovann," Arlan greeted with a nod, the relief in his own voice palpable. "You're a sight for sore eyes. I'm surprised you came personally."

"Grand Marshal," Jovann replied with a business-like grin, though his eyes held a deep, personal intensity as he took in the state of the fortress and its beleaguered defenders. "I hope you know, this little venture has half my accountants tearing their hair out. But if it's a delivery for my kin and you, I had to personally see to it. The Eastvale Company always delivers." He gestured proudly to the long line of wagons overflowing with food, water, and gleaming new elven weapons. "First shipment, as requested."

Voron strode forward, his gaze fixed on Jovann. "A Silvan Elf from Midland," he said, his voice a low rumble of disbelief. "You must be one of the refugees who fled years ago. Your family… they were farmers from the village of Oakhaven, were they not? I thought there were no survivors."

Jovann's cheerful merchant mask fell away, replaced by a flicker of deep, old pain. "There were survivors, General," he said quietly. "Me and my little brother, hidden away in a cellar. We were one of the few who survived." He swallowed hard, his gaze distant. "My parents were not so lucky. I swore that day that if I ever had the chance to take revenge on the orcs, I would." His eyes found Arlan's. "The Grand Marshal has given me this chance. This is not just a contract for me, General. It is a promise kept."

The revelation hung in the air, heavier than any weapon. The Silvan soldiers looked from Jovann, the boy who had survived their shared nightmare and returned a wealthy merchant prince, to Arlan, the man who had inspired such profound loyalty.

Voron was speechless. He walked to a wagon and ran a gauntleted hand over the polished wood of a new spear shaft. He looked at Arlan, his voice now raw with emotion. "You don't understand what this means. My men… they were prepared to die with empty stomachs and broken swords. You've given them more than food. You've given them back their hope."

Arlan shook his head. "Your countrymen should've never forsaken you to death, General. This isn't just a gift; it's a chance at victory."

The sentiment resonated through the courtyard. Savage, having liberated a smoked ham, paused mid-bite, giving Jovann a nod of grim respect. Frej, who had been admiring the new spears, now looked at them as instruments of vengeance.

Just as the wave of hope and righteous anger reached its peak, an Umbra materialized from the shadows beside Arlan. Her appearance was so sudden and silent that even Jovann jolted in surprise. She knelt, her form a mere whisper against the stone.

"Master Arlan," she breathed, her voice so low only he and those closest could hear. "We've located the first of many orc supply depots. It's nestled in a fortified canyon, not far from the left-wing base camp as you anticipated. Guarded by only 1,500 orcs and an Aspirant who we believe is an orc shaman. The supplies seem to be elven in nature. Either stolen or… somehow supplied."

Arlan allowed himself a small, cold smile. The pieces were all in place. He had his army. He had his supplies. And now, he had his target. He turned to General Voron, whose face was now alight with a fierce, rekindled hope.

"It's time," Arlan said, his voice ringing with quiet command as he mounted Kage. "General, prepare your men for battle. We ride out within the hour."

The vast, windswept plains before Bastion Cael Jena became a chessboard for a brutal, high-stakes gambit. General Voron, his expression a mask of grim resolve, led a formidable force of twelve thousand elves onto the field. They moved with the silent, disciplined precision of their people, a shimmering wall of green and silver steel against the desolate landscape.

"Are you certain about this, my Lord?" his second-in-command, a sharp-featured elf named Lyren, asked quietly as they rode at the head of the column. "To meet them in the open? It goes against every doctrine of our people."

"The old doctrines have led us to a slow death behind those walls, Lyren," Voron replied, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "The Grand Marshal's plan is unorthodox, but it is the first plan that offers a path to victory, not just survival. We must trust in the anvil he has asked us to be."

As if summoned by his words, the ground began to tremble. A low, guttural roar began to build in the distance, a sound that was less a collection of voices and more a singular, terrifying expression of pure rage. Over the rise, the orc horde appeared. It was a chaotic, churning sea of fifteen thousand warriors, a tide of crude iron and snarling fury.

A lone elven outrider galloped back towards their lines, his horse lathered in sweat, his face pale with alarm. "General!" he shouted, reining his mount sharply beside Voron. "It's the Skull-takers! We saw his banner—a dozen elven skulls hanging from a crude iron pike! Kroggnar himself is leading the charge!"

Voron's jaw tightened. He and Lyren exchanged a grim look. Kroggnar Skull-taker was a name known and feared throughout the north, a brutal chieftain infamous for his savagery and his personal collection of trophies. This was not just a random war party; this was one of the horde's most ferocious legions.

"So, Ghor-Thak sends his favorite dog to test our defenses," Voron muttered. He raised his voice, his command ringing across the ranks. "Hold the line! Plant your feet! They are nothing but filth, and we are the mighty Silvan! Let them break themselves upon our shields! For Firane!"

The two armies clashed with a deafening, thunderous roar that shook the very ground. The sheer kinetic force of fifteen thousand charging orcs slammed into the elven shield wall like a tidal wave. The air was filled with the splintering of wood, the shriek of metal on metal, and the guttural roars of orcs mixed with the sharp war cries of elves.

Laeron, a young Silvan spearman on the front line, grit his teeth as a massive orc brute slammed its crude axe against his shield for the tenth time, the impact jarring him to his bones. His shield was cracking, his arm trembling with exhaustion. To his left, his friend fell with a choked cry, an orc blade finding a gap in his armor. Fear, cold and sharp, began to creep into Laeron's heart. He was faltering. The line was faltering.

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It was then that Arlan, observing from the distant cliffs with his strike team, unleashed the full might of his Monarch's Regalia.

A wave of pure, golden energy, visible only to those with the keenest senses, washed over the elven army. For Laeron, it was a miracle. The fatigue that had seeped into his bones vanished, replaced by a surge of vigor he hadn't felt since he was a youth. The deep gash on his arm knitted itself closed, the pain evaporating into nothing. The cold grip of fear was replaced by a divine courage, a righteous fire. He felt his core burn with a power that was not his own.

With a defiant war cry that was echoed by thousands of his brethren, he shoved the surprised orc back and thrust his spear forward, finding his mark.

All across the front line, the same miracle was happening. The faltering elven army, on the brink of collapse, suddenly held firm.

"What is this sorcery?!" Kroggnar roared in disbelief, watching as the bending elven line suddenly became an unbreakable wall of steel, pushing back against his warriors with renewed, supernatural vigor. "More! Push them back! Crush the elves! Why do you falter?!"

"Archers, focus fire on their champions!" Voron bellowed, his voice now filled with a triumphant confidence. "Light cavalry, charge now!"

The battle turned into a brutal, grinding stalemate. The empowered elves held their ground, refusing to yield an inch. They slew over a thousand of Kroggnar's orcs, a staggering number for such a short engagement, but the cost was still immense. The relentless, fanatical assault of the orcs continued to hammer against the Silvan lines.

From his vantage point, Arlan felt the strain. Sweat beaded on his brow. Yuna, standing beside him, noted, "The energy expenditure is immense, Arlan. Your Regalia is empowering twelve thousand soldiers at once. It can't sustain this level of output indefinitely."

"It doesn't have to," Arlan replied, his eyes never leaving the battlefield. "It just has to hold them long enough for us." But even as he spoke, the essence barriers he had projected over the vast army, the source of their miraculous endurance, began to flicker and crack under the constant, overwhelming pressure. The anvil was holding, but it was beginning to crack. It was time for the hammer to strike.

While General Voron's army held the line in a brutal, grinding war of attrition, Arlan led the Banner of the Claw in a swift, silent rush toward the orc's supply depot. They moved efficiently through the canyon, a stark contrast to the roaring horde on the plains.

Then the depot came into view. It was nestled in a fortified canyon, just as the Umbra had described. It was a chaotic scene of stolen livestock, barrels of looted ale, and crude fortifications.

The fifteen hundred orc guards were complacent, celebrating their recent spoils, their laughter and jeers echoing off the canyon walls.

Arlan looked to his men and then drew Eternus and gave the attack order. Erin and Lem's Vanguard sealed the canyon entrance, their shield wall a silent but enclosing slowly. The first orc guards to notice them died with surprised grunts, arrows from the 300 rangers sprouting from their throats before they could sound a proper alarm.

Then with a roar that was pure, primal fury, Savage led the 500 shock troopers in a devastating charge into the heart of the depot. His [Bloodfury] was already active, his skin flushed red, his eyes burning with joyous rage. His greataxe became a blur of blacksteel, cleaving through orcs as if they were made of damp wood.

"For RODERIC!" his troopers roared, following their champion into the fray, their own axes rising and falling with brutal efficiency.

Behind them, Frej and Yuna advanced with their spearmen. "Left flank! Target the brutes with the larger axes!" Frej's voice cut through the din, her experience as a Gryphon Knight allowing her to read the flow of battle from the ground.

Her spearmen moved as one, their long weapons piercing through the disorganized orcs. Yuna, a calm epicenter in the storm, gestured with her staff, and chains of arcane lightning leaped from her hands, stunning a pack of orcs and leaving them vulnerable for the follow-up strike. Frej happily obliged Yuna and dispatched them with precise thrusts. The momentum generated with Frej and Yuna at the focal point rallied the spearmen forward.

Following the flow of battle, a thunderous sound of hooves echoed. It was Arlan on Kage leading Edgar and the Stormriders into a cavalry charge. Their approach, noticed by all as orcish archers, reign arrows upon them from the depot. But as the arrows found their mark, they couldn't penetrate the essence barriers.

This symphony of tactics created a one sided slaughter of the orcs, only minutes had passed when Sophia's voice echoed inside Arlan's mind, "My liege, our forces have killed 1,025 orcs. The remainder are still holding formations towards the middle."

At the heart of the depot, a powerful Orc Shaman, his face painted with grotesque symbols of power, watched in horror as his forces were annihilated. His body trembled with rage. Seeing the battle was lost, he stepped forward, raising his gnarled staff. "You! Warrior Chieftain!" he shrieked, pointing a clawed finger at Arlan. "Face me! Let us decide this with honor!"

Arlan reigned Kage in and signaled for everyone to hold, forming a perimeter. "Let him," he said calmly to Edgar. "The orcs value single combat. This will save us time and send a message."

The shaman grinned, a horrifying sight, and began to chant in a guttural tongue. The air grew heavy and cold. He unleashed a torrent of sickly green energy, a fifth-tier spell [Pure Decay] that flew towards Arlan, designed to rot flesh from bone.

Arlan didn't even react. He simply stood his ground. The Black Draconian Cuirass he wore flared to life, a faint draconic visage appearing for a split second as it absorbed the powerful spell completely, leaving Arlan untouched.

The Shaman's jaw dropped in disbelief. That moment of shock was all Arlan needed. He moved, closing the distance in an instant, a blur of black armor. He swung Eternus once in a clean, silent arc. The Shaman's head, his expression of disbelief frozen on his face, tumbled from his shoulders.

And just like that, the duel was over. But as the last of the depot guards fled, Arlan felt a sudden, alarming drain on his Monarch's Regalia, far greater than what empowering Voron's army should have cost.

"My liege! This is way beyond what we can handle. Your essence will be depleted to null in minutes!"

His [Heraldic Vision] flared, his focus snapping back to the main battle on the plains. His blood ran cold. A new army, a massive wave of twenty thousand orcs, was pushing towards General Voron's position. And at its heart was a single, blazing signature of immense power—a tenth-tier yellow core.

"It's Ghor-Thak and the orc center of 20,000! They've moved way faster than we anticipated!"

"Sophia, I thought Ghor-Thak was only an eighth-tier? Why is he a tenth-tier?!"

"His core was an eighth-tier but there was an essence burst coming from his core! It's… IT'S A REGALIA! Ghor-Thak has activated his Regalia!"

As Arlan focused, he detected the reason for the parasitic drain. The orcs fighting Voron, who had been third-tier red-cores, were changing. An oppressive aura, emanating from Ghor-Thak himself, was washing over them.

Their cores flared, intensifying, their essence levels surging as they were pushed from red-cores to powerful white-cores. They fought without tiring, their strength growing with every passing moment.

"My liege, Ghor-Thak is empowering his army through his Regalia's passive, they gain more essence and strength as they fight!"

"Well shit! And we lose essence and strength as we fight!"

Arlan now understood the dreadful truth. The anvil he had asked to hold the line was about to be smashed by a force far greater and more terrifying than any of them had ever imagined.

On the plains, the stalemate shattered into a desperate struggle for survival. The Silvan elves, who had been holding the line through the miracle of Arlan's Regalia, now found themselves being driven back by a force of possessed monsters. The orcs before them fought with a new, terrifying strength. Their eyes glowed with a malevolent red light, black veins bulged on their green skin, and their movements became unnaturally fast and strong, shrugging off wounds that should have been fatal.

"General, what is happening?" Lyren yelled over the din, his fine elven blade chipping as he parried a wild, empowered swing from an orc. "They've become possessed!"

"I don't know," Voron grunted, his own shield arm trembling from the sheer force of the blows he was deflecting. They were no longer gaining ground; they were being swallowed by a tide of frenzied rage. "But we will not break!"

Just then, an Umbra shimmered into existence beside him, her form flickering like a dying candle. "General Voron," she yelled urgently. "The Grand Marshal recommends an immediate retreat! The Unbroken One, Ghor-Thak, is here! The Banner of the Claw will hold the line!"

Retreat? The thought was anathema to him, a stain on his honor. But he looked at his men, at the finest soldiers of the North being overwhelmed by demonic power, and the trust he had placed in Arlan won out over his pride.

"Lyren," Voron commanded. "Sound the horns! All forces, tactical withdrawal! Maintain formation! We will make them pay for every inch!"

As the disciplined elven army began its fighting retreat, a new sound cut through the chaos: the thunder of thousands of marching feet and a unified, defiant war cry that shook the heavens. "LIVE FOREVER!"

The Banner of the Claw arrived on the orcs' flank like an avalanche of steel. As they crashed into the enemy lines, Arlan, riding with the Stormriders, retracted his Regalia's power from the vast Silvan army.

The golden light that had sustained them vanished, and in its place, an intensely brilliant, near-physical aura of golden energy enveloped his own three thousand soldiers. The effect was so potent that it raised them each a whole tier. They were now averaging 4th-tier red-cores.

Erin and Lem, at the head of the Vanguard, formed the new wall of steel. "Hold, you bastards and don't give these fucking green skins any ground!" Lem roared, his shield groaning under the impact of three empowered orcs. Erin, calm amidst the chaos, directed the rangers. "Focus fire on their rear ranks!"

But the fight was shockingly difficult. Savage, his [Bloodfury] at its absolute peak, roared in frustration as he swung his greataxe, cleaving an empowered orc nearly in two, only to see the beast fight on for several more seconds before finally collapsing.

Two more immediately took its place. "Arlan, it's no use!" he bellowed. "Even with your Regalia, these bastards are fighting even harder than the dark fiends! They're not dying! We'll be overrun!"

From the flank, Frej led her spearmen in a desperate charge to relieve the pressure on the main line. "Yuna, now!" she screamed. Yuna, her face pale with effort, slammed the butt of her staff into the ground, and a wave of thunder erupted, momentarily paralyzing a charging pack of orcs. Frej and her spearmen capitalized on the opening, their long weapons finding purchase, but they too were being pushed back.

Niren, seeing a section of the Vanguard about to collapse, slammed his shield into the earth. "[Numen's Bastion]!" he cried out. A shimmering dome of golden light erupted around the faltering soldiers, deflecting a dozen crushing blows and buying them precious seconds to reform.

Arlan saw it all, the desperation, the slow, grinding failure of his lines. He spurred Kage forward, leading Edgar and the Stormriders in a hard-hitting charge, Eternus a blur of light and death at his side.

But even as he cut down orcs, he knew Savage was right. They were buying time with blood, and they were running out of both. I could use the [Dragonlord], he thought, but not now. Not yet. It would reveal too much to an enemy I don't understand.

It was then that Ghor-Thak and his twenty thousand warriors crested the hill. The oppressive weight of his aura slammed into them, a palpable force of pure rage and domination that choked the air. The orcs fighting them went from frenzied to utterly ecstatic, their power flaring even brighter.

The Banner's vanguard, even with Arlan's amplified Regalia, finally broke, not from death, but from being physically subdued by the sheer, overwhelming force of the horde.

'My liege!' Sophia's voice screamed in his mind. 'The drain on the Regalia is critical! We are being overpowered!'

Arlan saw it all with dreadful clarity. They could not win this fight. "ALL FORCES, RETREAT!" he commanded, his voice ringing with an authority that cut through the roar of battle. "Edgar, with me!"

He spurred Kage forward, leading the Stormriders in a desperate charge to relieve the trapped Vanguard. Arlan raised Eternus and swung like a tornado of slashes. His adamantium blade now a blur, cutting into the orcs and killing them. Then as he closed in, he raised his left arm and cast a 6th-tier [Arc Flare].

A column of searing fire vaporized a hundred orcs in an instant and created a momentary gap in their lines. It was the opening they needed. The Banner of the Claw disengaged, pulling back in a disciplined, if battered, retreat.

But to Arlan's astonishment, Ghor-Thak did not give chase. The massive Orc Hero raised a hand, and his own army halted its advance. The battlefield fell into an eerie, ringing silence, broken only by the cries of the wounded.

A voice, impossibly loud and filled with an ancient, intelligent malice, boomed across the blood-soaked plains, a voice that spoke not to the soldiers, but directly to Arlan.

"YOU CANNOT RUN FROM YOUR PAST!" Ghor-Thak pointed a massive, clawed finger directly at Arlan. "ASHRA! WE WILL CROSS BLADES WHEN IT'S TIME."

Arlan froze mid-retreat, the name echoing in the deepest parts of his soul. Ashra… He looked at the titanic figure of Ghor-Thak, at the terrifying, intelligent light in the Orc Hero's eyes.

That name… his power… his Regalia... It can't be.

The dreadful truth settled in his mind, cold and heavy as a tombstone.

He knows who I am so… That means… he's fought me before.