The Immortal General

The first light of dawn struggled to pierce the oppressive gloom that had settled over Bastion Cael Jena. The rugged peaks of the northern frontier were wreathed in a cold, unforgiving mist, mirroring the chilling uncertainty that had seeped into the hearts of its defenders.

The previous day's battle had not been a defeat in terms of casualties, but it was a catastrophic loss of morale. The taste of victory had been stolen from their mouths, replaced by the bitter ash of a revealed, insurmountable truth. Ghor-Thak was not just an Orc Hero; he was a Holder, and his army was a tide that grew stronger with every wave that broke against their shields.

Inside the keep's war room, the atmosphere was even heavier. The air was thick with the scent of stale ale, sweat, and the palpable weight of unspoken fear. Arlan stood before a large stone map table.

Across from him, General Voron stared at the map, his face a mask of hardened granite, but the dark circles under his eyes spoke of a sleepless night spent wrestling with the specter of their new reality. The proud Silvan General, a veteran of a hundred battles, looked like a man who had finally met an enemy he could not break.

Erin, Edgar, Lem, Savage, Frej, Yuna, and Niren stood at the edges of the room, a silent council of war. The usual pre-battle energy was gone, replaced by a somber focus. Even Savage, a warrior who lived for the clash of steel, was uncharacteristically subdued, his massive arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against a stone pillar. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until General Voron finally broke it, his voice a low growl that scraped against the stone walls.

"The scouts returned an hour ago," he began. "The horde has not advanced. They remain encamped before Gorgon's Maw. They are… waiting."

"Because we weren't just fighting an army," Arlan stated, his voice calm and analytical, cutting through the room's despair. He met the gazes of the weary Silvan commanders who lined the walls, their elegant elven features drawn and pale. "We were fighting a Holder."

The word, already spoken the night before, now landed with the full weight of a day's grim contemplation. The Silvan officers shifted uncomfortably. The initial shock had passed, replaced by a deeper, more chilling understanding.

One of them, a sharp-faced elf with the insignia of a cavalry leader named Lyren, stepped forward. "Grand Marshal, with all due respect," he began, his voice tight, "our only viable option is to hold these walls. We can bleed them for every inch they take. We must wait for reinforcements from the capital."

"There are no reinforcements coming," Voron said flatly, his voice devoid of emotion. "The Queen has made that abundantly clear. We are on our own."

Savage let out a low, dangerous chuckle. "Hold the walls? Against that orc army? They'll tear this fortress down stone by stone with the bodies of your own men. Orcs are relentless. They'll break any wall if you give them enough time." He jabbed a thumb toward the map. "He wants you to hide behind your walls. He wants us to die slowly until the time is right for him to strike."

"Savage is right," Arlan agreed. "He wants us to die slowly on these walls. We will not give him that satisfaction." He leaned over the map, his finger tracing a series of daring, unconventional paths through the rugged terrain surrounding the orc encampment. "A conventional war is a losing war. A war of attrition is suicide. He believes we have no choice." His eyes swept over the commanders. "So, we will not fight the war he expects. We're going to change the rules of the game."

A flicker of something other than despair ignited in General Voron's eyes. He had spent weeks watching his men die for inches of ground. Now, for the first time, he saw a glimmer of a different path. "What do you propose, Grand Marshal?"

"We will conduct a series of high-speed sorties," Arlan explained, his voice precise and confident. "Our objective is not to win ground, but to achieve specific, tactical goals. First, we need to understand the limits of his Regalia. The power it grants his soldiers must have a duration."

He turned to his strike team. "I will lead a probing force—the Vanguard and my team—to engage a segment of their army directly. The purpose is not to destroy them, but to test them. I need to know how long the empowerment from his Regalia lasts on his troops after they disengage from direct combat. Sophia and my [Heraldic Vision] will analyze its decay rate."

Erin stepped forward. "You want to find the window when they are weakest, when the buff wears off. A moment of vulnerability."

"Exactly," Arlan confirmed. "While we do that, Edgar and the Storm Riders will conduct a simultaneous lightning raid on one of their forward supply depots. We hit them on two fronts, inflict damage, and vanish before Ghor-Thak can bring his main force to bear. We wound them and, more importantly, we wound their pride. We will show them that their strength means nothing against our strategy. We will make them feel hunted."

The plan was audacious, a dance of feints and surgical strikes. It was a war of whispers and shadows, not of sledgehammers. The Silvan commanders murmured amongst themselves, their skepticism warring with their desperation.

"Grand Marshal," Lyren argued, "you are asking us to risk your elite units in open terrain against a superior force, all for the sake of… data?"

"I am asking you to trust in a strategy that is not based on brute force, but on intelligence," Arlan countered smoothly. "Every army, no matter how powerful, has a breaking point. We will find Ghor-Thak's. We will learn his rhythm, and then we will shatter it." He met the commander's gaze, his own eyes unwavering. "This is how we win."

General Voron looked from Arlan to his own commanders, a flicker of hope returning to his weary eyes. He saw the logic, the cold, calculating brilliance of it. He slammed a gauntleted fist on the table, the sound echoing with finality.

"Enough," he declared, silencing his officers. "For weeks, my men have been dying slowly on these walls, following doctrines that have led us to the brink of annihilation. The Grand Marshal has offered us a plan that is more than just 'hold until you die.' It is a chance." He looked Arlan in the eye, a silent pact forged between the two commanders. "And my army? What is our role in this… unorthodox plan?"

"You, General, will be our shield," Arlan said, meeting the veteran elf's gaze with unwavering confidence. "Your army will remain here, in reserve. When we retreat, the orcs will inevitably give chase. They will see us as a fleeing, broken force. That is when you will unleash hell. The ballistae Jovann delivered is our trump card. You will cover our withdrawal with a devastating volley from these walls. We will make them pay for every inch they advance, and they will learn to fear the name of the Silvan Army."

The plan was set. It was a risk, a gamble that pitted their precision and speed against the horde's brute force. Voron gave a single, sharp nod. "It is a risk. But it is a better plan than dying slowly on these walls." He turned to his commanders, his voice leaving no room for debate. "We will be your shield, Grand Marshal. Prepare the ballistae."

The council concluded, the air in the room no longer thick with despair, but with a tense, sharp energy. The plan was insane, but it was a plan. It was hope.

As the commanders filed out to relay the new orders, a heavy silence settled back into the war room. Only Arlan's core team remained. Erin was the first to speak, his professional demeanor a mask for the concern in his eyes.

"General, the men will follow you anywhere, but this… It's a high-risk maneuver. One miscalculation, and the Storm Riders could be caught and annihilated. The Vanguard could be overrun."

"Every battle is a risk, Erin," Arlan replied, not taking his eyes off the map. "But this is a calculated one. Our advantage is our mobility and precision. We will not give them a chance to bring their full strength to bear. We strike, we gather data, and we withdraw before they can properly react. It is a test of discipline as much as strength."

Savage let out a low chuckle, the sound like rocks grinding together. He walked over to the map, his massive frame casting a long shadow. "I don't like the idea of running," he admitted, his voice a low rumble. "It feels… cowardly. The Hek-Jefah way is to meet the enemy head-on, to break them with pure strength."

"And you'll get your chance to break them, Savage," Arlan said, finally looking up. "But a true warrior knows when to strike and when to wait. Think of this as the hunt. We are not bludgeoning the beast; we are tracking it, learning its weaknesses, waiting for the perfect moment to deliver the killing blow."

Frej added her own thoughts. "The hit-and-run tactic is sound, from a cavalry perspective. But the orcs will adapt. They may be brutes, but Ghor-Thak is not a fool. He will anticipate our movements after the first or second raid. He will set traps."

"I'm counting on it," Arlan said, a cold, calculating light in his eyes. "His traps will reveal more about his strategic thinking than a direct assault ever could. We will learn how he thinks, how he commands. And then we will use that knowledge against him."

Yuna, who had been quietly listening, finally spoke. "The Regalia… its power must have a source, a limit. If it feeds off battle, what happens when there is no battle? Does it weaken? Does it drain him?"

"That," Arlan said, "is what we are going to find out."

Niren stepped forward. "The orcs are not just empowered by his Regalia. They are filled with a fanatical rage. Some form of cultural or religious fanaticism."

The team looked at each other, the initial shock of the plan giving way to a focused determination. They understood the risks, but they also understood the logic. This was not a mindless charge into the jaws of death; it was a carefully orchestrated campaign designed to dismantle an impossible enemy piece by piece.

Erin nodded, his own resolve hardening. He looked at the faces of his fellow commanders—Savage's primal ferocity, Frej's disciplined pride, Yuna's sharp intellect, and Niren's unwavering faith. They were a disparate group, a collection of clashing philosophies and fighting styles. But under Arlan, they had become something more. They were a single, cohesive weapon.

"Then we prepare the men," Erin said, his voice now firm. "They need to understand the strategy. They need to trust it."

The group began to file out, each of them moving with a renewed sense of purpose. The despair of the morning had been replaced by the sharp, cold clarity of a new plan. It was a dangerous path, but it was a path forward.

Arlan remained in the war room, his gaze fixed on the map. He looked out from the high window of the keep, toward the distant, smoldering campfires of the orc horde. The aurora borealis still danced in the sky, its ethereal light a stark contrast to the brutal reality below.

The weight of the coming week, of the lives that would be wagered on his strategy, settled on his shoulders. He felt the familiar pressure, the cold certainty of command. This was his battlefield now, and he would not lose.

'Sophia,' he thought, his mind turning to the silent partner in his core. 'Run the probabilities. First sortie.'

Her voice resonated in his mind, calm and analytical as ever. 'My liege, based on the known strength of the enemy and the unpredictable nature of Ghor-Thak's Regalia—defined as the loss of more than thirty percent of the deployed force—is approximately forty-seven percent.'

Arlan allowed himself a small, grim smile. Nearly a coin toss.

'And the probability of success?' he asked.

'If the objective is limited to data acquisition and a successful withdrawal, the probability of success is ninety-eight percent,' Sophia replied. 'Your strategy mitigates the greatest risks by avoiding prolonged engagement. It is sound.'

"Good," Arlan murmured to himself, turning away from the window. "Then let's begin."

The courtyard of Bastion Cael Jena was a hive of controlled activity. The Banner of the Claw was already preparing for the first sortie. Edgar was overseeing the Storm Riders, their warhorses stamping impatiently as their riders checked saddles and sharpened lances. The air crackled with a new kind of energy—no longer the heavy pall of despair, but the sharp, electric tension of a predator preparing for the hunt.

Arlan found Savage with the shock troopers, the massive Hek-Jefah warrior demonstrating a brutal axe-fighting technique to a group of wide-eyed Hatchets. He swung his blacksteel greataxe in a deceptively fluid arc, the weapon whistling through the air.

"Speed comes from the hips, not the arms," Savage growled, his voice a low rumble. He stopped and pointed the axe head at a young trooper. "You're swinging like a panicked farmer. A warrior's blow is deliberate. It is an extension of his will. Every movement must have a purpose."

Erin, who was overseeing the Vanguard's preparations nearby, walked over to Arlan. "He's taken to them," Erin observed, a faint smile on his lips. "Roderic would have been proud to see him leading them."

"Roderic chose his men well," Arlan replied, his gaze on the troopers. "They're disciplined, but they need a leader who understands their ferocity. Savage is that leader."

"The men are ready, Arlan," Erin said, his tone shifting to a more serious note. "They trust the plan because they trust you. But this… it's a dangerous game we're playing. The line between a feint and a slaughter is razor-thin."

"Every battle is fought on that line, Erin," Arlan said quietly. "The difference is, this time, we choose where the line is drawn." He clapped a hand on Erin's shoulder. "Your Vanguard will be the anchor of this operation. When we engage, they need to be an unbreakable wall. Can they do it?"

Erin's gaze hardened with resolve. "They'll die before they break, General. You have my word."

A short distance away, Frej was in deep conversation with Yuna. The Gryphon Knight was tracing lines in the dirt with the butt of her spear, illustrating a flanking maneuver.

"The orcs fight in a disorganized swarm," Frej explained, her voice sharp with tactical insight. "They rely on overwhelming force. If we can break their charge with a disciplined spear wall, we can create openings for Yuna's magic to exploit. But the timing has to be perfect."

Yuna nodded, her golden eyes focused intently on the diagram. "If you can give me a three-second window, I can cast [Static Wave]. It will paralyze any unshielded targets in a twenty-meter radius. It won't kill them, but it will leave them vulnerable."

"Three seconds is a lifetime in a melee," Frej countered, though a grin touched her lips. "But for you, I think we can manage it. Just try not to electrocute me."

"No promises," Yuna shot back with a smirk. "Sometimes a little shock is good for morale."

Arlan drew Eternus and caught the eyes of everyone in the courtyard. The adamantium weapon was a rare and powerful weapon. It was also a symbol of morale.

"Banner of the Claw!" shouted Arlan. "We form up and leave in fifteen minutes!"

Miles away from the rugged desolation of the northern frontier, in the ethereal, glowing halls of Lord Thalion's estate in Sylabell, a different kind of preparation was underway. The afternoon sun cast long, elegant shadows through the crystalline windows, illuminating a scene of quiet, deadly focus. An Umbra, a living shadow, materialized silently beside Emmeline, who was pacing her private study, the rich heartwood floor cool beneath her slippers. The agent knelt, a single, sealed scroll held in a gauntleted hand.

"A message from the Grand Marshal, Your Highness," the Umbra whispered, her voice a dispassionate murmur that barely disturbed the air.

Emmeline took the scroll, her fingers breaking the wax seal of House Reeve with practiced precision. Her eyes quickly scanned the contents—Arlan's familiar, concise script detailing his plan and his timeline. A faint, relieved smile touched her lips, though it was tinged with worry. "He has a plan," she announced to the others gathered in the room. "He will be engaged for one week but will return swiftly afterward." She turned to the team—JD, Marie, Chrysta, Lucius, Yanie, and Thalion. "We are on our own for the next week. We must assume the Queen will make her move tonight."

"She already has," Thalion said, his voice cold. He held up a scroll sealed with the royal crest of Firane, its obsidian wax gleaming ominously. It had arrived only moments before. "This arrived an hour ago. The Queen has publicly denounced the Southern Houses for treason, using our 'secret council' as proof of a conspiracy against the throne. She is consolidating her power, preparing to strike."

The news hung in the air, a declaration of open war in the heart of the capital. Marie's eyes narrowed, a flicker of purple fire dancing in their depths. The demonic power of her Lucifer's Regalia stirred, sensing the imminent conflict. "So the viper has finally shown her fangs. Good. I was getting tired of the waiting."

JD, who had been silently sharpening one of his mithril longswords with a whetstone, paused. He looked up, his expression unreadable. "A public denouncement… She's not just trying to kill us anymore. She's trying to erase us, to make us traitors in the eyes of the people."

Just as the weight of Thalion's words settled, Archmage Jin Albera swept into the room, his presence unannounced but immediately commanding. He wore the formal blue robes of the Royal Court, but his face was a mask of urgency.

"Forgive the intrusion," he said, his gaze sweeping over the group. "I was sent by Queen Margaret to support you, but my own agents have just confirmed your fears. The Queen's Inquisitors are more than just soldiers; they are infused with demonic power from the seal beneath the Arborea. They are faster, stronger, and far more resilient than any normal elf."

Marie's lips curled into a grim smile. "Demon cores."

"Precisely," Jin confirmed. "And Nightingale's report is correct. They will strike tonight, under the cover of the new moon. Four of her most elite. Do not underestimate them. They will be aiming to kill Lady Yanie, but they will not hesitate to eliminate any of you who stand in their way."

The team began to discuss their revised defensive strategy. Lucius, ever the artificer, unrolled a schematic of the estate. The intricate lines and symbols detailed not just the physical layout of the manor, but the very flow of mana within its warded walls. "My traps are already in place," he stated, his voice calm and analytical, "but they were designed for common assassins, not demon-infused elites. We need to amplify them." He pointed to a location in the grand hall. "Chrysta, if you can lay a field of concealed ice spikes here, I can link them to a kinetic trigger. When they step on it, the floor will not only erupt, but the kinetic force will amplify the piercing power of the ice."

Chrysta nodded, her frost-covered hands already tracing the pattern in the air. A faint mist swirled around her fingertips. "Consider it done. The ice will be thin enough to be invisible, but strong enough to cripple them."

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"JD," Lucius continued, turning to the Tempest Blade. "The main entrance is your kill zone. I've placed a gravity trap just beyond the threshold. It will trigger on the first one through, separating their point man. You and Akasha will need to eliminate him before the others can recover."

JD's hand rested on the hilt of one of his mithril longswords. "He won't last five seconds."

As they finalized their counter-ambush, Emmeline remained quiet, her mind racing. Jin's warning, combined with Lucius's findings about the demonic seal, had sparked an idea—a daring, dangerous gambit that could turn the Queen's own power against her. A subtle, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. She saw a path, a move on the political chessboard that Alveri would never anticipate. She held the idea close, a secret weapon for the coming storm.

The preparations were a symphony of deadly purpose. Marie and Chrysta stood in the upper gallery of the grand hall, the vast, open space below them a carefully prepared killing field. Marie traced a line in the air with a fiery finger, a map of molten energy hovering before them.

"If I create a wall of fire here," Marie said, gesturing to the left corridor, "it will funnel them directly into your line of sight. You can hit them with a [Glacial Barrage] from the flank while they're focused on JD."

"And if they try to break through the flames?" Chrysta asked, her tone pragmatic.

"Then they get burned," Marie replied with a predatory grin. "Either way, we win." She looked at Chrysta, her expression softening slightly. "You've gotten stronger, Chrys. Your control over the Skadi Regalia… It's impressive. You're not just freezing things anymore; you're shaping the battlefield."

Chrysta allowed a rare, small smile. "I've had a good teacher," she said, her gaze flickering to Marie. "And a good reason to fight. We can't let what happened to our family, to Miss Petrah, happen to anyone else."

Marie's grin faded, replaced by a shared, somber understanding. "No," she said, her voice low. "We can't."

Down below, JD stood with Akasha in the shadows of the grand staircase, the two of them a silent promise of violence. The vampire was almost invisible, her form blending seamlessly with the darkness. Only the faint, crimson glow of her eyes gave her away.

"You take the left, I'll take the right," JD murmured, his eyes fixed on the main entrance. "The one Lucius traps is yours. I'll handle any who try to support him."

Akasha's crimson eyes gleamed in the darkness. "It has been a long time since I've had a proper hunt," she purred, her claws flexing slightly, the sound a soft, metallic scrape. "Do try to leave some for me."

"Just try to keep up," JD shot back, a familiar, competitive edge to his voice.

Akasha let out a low, seductive chuckle. "Oh, I will. But a word of advice, Tempest Blade. Don't let your emotions cloud your judgment. These are not common thugs. They are infused with a power that does not belong in this world. They will not fight with honor."

"Neither will I," JD replied, his voice cold.

The team finalized their plan, each member knowing their role to perfection. Yanie and a small contingent of Thalion's most loyal household guard took up positions in the upper corridors, their bows drawn, ready to rain down arrows on any Inquisitors who broke through the initial traps. Fiala, with Emmeline and Yanie's mother-in-law, Lady Odian, were in the most secure, warded chamber of the estate, Fiala's holy magic reinforcing the protective seals.

As the sun set, casting long, elegant shadows through the crystalline windows of Thalion's estate, a quiet, deadly focus settled over them. They were ready. The air grew still, the usual melodic hum of the city's magic fading into an expectant silence. The new moon had risen, and with it, the time for whispers was over.

The first sign was a flicker of movement on the rooftops, a shadow detaching itself from the silhouette of a nearby spire. Then another, and another. Nightingale, positioned on the highest point of Thalion's estate, watched them through a small, enchanted spyglass. Four of them, moving with an unnatural, synchronized grace. They were not just silent; they were voids in the night, their presence masked by the same corrupt energy Lucius had detected.

She gave a silent hand signal to the Panthers positioned on the surrounding rooftops. Crossbows were raised, their bolts tipped with a rare, silver-laced poison.

The Inquisitors landed on the estate's roof without a sound, their black armor absorbing the faint starlight. The leader, a woman with eyes that seemed to burn with a cold, internal fire, gestured to the others. "The target is in the study. We move through the main gallery. Expect resistance, but do not be delayed. The Queen wants this done by sunrise."

As they moved across the roof, a crossbow bolt, fletched in black, hissed from the shadows. It struck one of the Inquisitors in the throat, the man collapsing with a choked gurgle before he could even draw his weapon.

The leader spun, her own blade drawn in an instant, but the Panther who had fired was already gone, a phantom in the night. "They knew we were coming," she hissed, her voice a low, dangerous whisper. "No matter. Stick to the plan. We go through the front."

The remaining three Inquisitors dropped from the roof into the gardens below, landing as silently as falling leaves. They moved towards the grand entrance, their confidence unshaken. They were the Queen's most elite, infused with a power that made them far superior to common soldiers. They did not fear traps; they were the trap.

Inside, JD tensed, his grip tightening on his swords. He could feel their approach, a subtle shift in the air, a coldness that had nothing to do with Chrysta's magic. "They're here," he whispered to Akasha.

The grand doors to the estate did not burst open. They swung inward slowly, silently, as if moved by an unseen hand. The lead Inquisitor stepped through the threshold, her eyes scanning the seemingly empty hall. She took one step, then another.

On her third step, the floor beneath her lit up with a flash of arcane energy. Lucius's gravity trap activated.

The Inquisitor was instantly slammed to the ground, the force of the trap pinning her in place. But to Lucius's surprise, she did not cry out. With a guttural roar, she pushed back against the gravity, her demonic core flaring as she fought against the spell's hold. The other two Inquisitors, seeing their leader trapped, lunged forward to assist her.

"Now!" JD roared.

Akasha was a blur of motion, a streak of black against the dim light. She was on the trapped Inquisitor leader in an instant, her vampiric claws slashing at the woman's exposed neck. But the Inquisitor was faster than expected. Even pinned, she managed to twist, her own dagger coming up to block Akasha's strike. Sparks flew as their weapons met.

JD engaged the other two, his twin longswords, a whirlwind of steel. He met their charge head-on, his Hurricane Regalia flaring as he spun into a [Trifecta] attack, forcing them both back.

From the gallery above, Marie and Chrysta unleashed their coordinated assault. A wall of sapphire fire erupted, blocking the corridor and funneling the two Inquisitors directly into a barrage of [Glacial Shards] from Chrysta. The Inquisitors were skilled, moving with demonic speed to dodge and parry, but they were caught between two powerful forces.

The battle for Thalion's estate had begun, a chaotic symphony of steel, magic, and shadow. But even as the team fought with perfect synergy, they all felt it—the chilling, overwhelming power of their demon-infused foes. This was not just a fight for survival; it was a battle against the encroaching darkness that threatened to consume all of Sylabell.

The sortie began at dusk. The Banner of the Claw moved with the silent speed of ghosts, a shadow against the rugged northern terrain. The air was sharp with the scent of pine and cold stone, and the only sound was the muffled crunch of their boots on the rocky ground. They were deep in orc territory now, the land itself feeling hostile, alien. Every rock and twisted tree seemed to watch them with a malevolent stillness.

They found their first target in a narrow, winding canyon: a large orc war party of at least five hundred, making camp for the night. They were a disorganized mob, their crude armor a patchwork of stolen steel and scavenged leather. Fires dotted the canyon floor, the orcs' guttural laughter and drunken shouts echoing off the stone walls. They felt safe here, deep within their own lines, utterly oblivious to the storm that was about to break over them.

Arlan's force took positions along the canyon rim, a line of disciplined, shadowy figures against the fading twilight. He raised a hand, the signal rippling down the line. Erin and the Vanguard braced their shields, while Savage and the shock troopers hefted their axes, their knuckles white with anticipation.

"Remember the objective," Arlan's voice was a low murmur through the sending stones connecting the commanders. "We strike hard, we gather data, and we are gone before they can mount a proper response. This is about precision, not annihilation."

"Tell that to my axe," Savage rumbled back.

The engagement was a brutal, surgical strike. Arlan gave the signal, and the attack began not with a chaotic charge, but with a perfectly timed volley. Yuna, standing beside a stoic Niren, raised her staff. A web of arcane lightning, amplified by Niren's channeled holy energy, arced down into the center of the orc camp. The spell wasn't designed to kill, but to disorient. It struck the largest bonfire, sending a massive shower of sparks and embers across the camp, momentarily blinding the orcs and throwing their sentries into confusion.

In that instant of chaos, the Banner of the Claw descended.

The vanguard, led by Erin, moved down the slope like a silent, unstoppable river of steel. They didn't shout war cries; their advance was marked only by the quiet efficiency of their movements. They hit the camp's perimeter, their shields forming an unbreakable wall that absorbed the first panicked swings of the orcs. Spears thrust out from behind the wall, each one finding its mark with deadly accuracy.

Arlan fought at the forefront, Eternus a blur of adamantite and mithril. His true focus was his [Heraldic Vision], a constant stream of data flooding his mind as he carved a path through the enemy ranks. He wasn't just fighting; he was analyzing, measuring, and learning.

"Buff flaring, my liege," Sophia's voice echoed in his mind, cool and precise amidst the chaos. "Essence output on the enemy has increased by three hundred percent. The Regalia's effect is active. The orcs in the direct vicinity of the chieftain are receiving the most potent amplification. Recommend disengagement in ten seconds."

"Vanguard, fall back! Maintain formation!" Arlan's voice cut through the clash of steel and the roars of dying orcs. His command was instant and absolute.

They disengaged as swiftly as they had attacked, leaving behind a scene of carnage and confusion. Over a hundred orcs lay dead or dying, their war party shattered. The survivors, enraged and disoriented, roared in fury, but the attackers had already melted back into the shadows of the canyon, leaving no trail.

A few miles away, a different kind of storm was breaking. Edgar and the Storm Riders descended upon a forward supply depot like an avalanche of steel. Their charge was a thunderous, unstoppable force that shattered the crude wooden barricades and scattered the orc guards. Edgar's spear was a blur, piercing through the chest of an orc brute who had been foolish enough to stand in his way.

"Burn it all!" Edgar roared, his voice carrying over the chaos. "Leave nothing for these bastards!"

The Storm Riders moved with ruthless efficiency. While one contingent engaged the guards, another set fire to the massive piles of supplies—crates of weapons, barrels of ale, and stacks of dried meat. The flames rose high into the night sky, a beacon of defiance in the heart of enemy territory. They were gone before the main horde could even be alerted, leaving behind a pillar of smoke and the scent of burning spoils.

The tactic worked flawlessly. Twice more they struck throughout the night, probing and retreating, their movements a symphony of controlled violence. At each engagement, Arlan and Sophia gathered more data, building a precise model of Ghor-Thak's Regalia. They learned that its power was tied to the emotional state of the horde; the more enraged the orcs became, the stronger the buff. But they also learned that the empowerment was not instantaneous. It took several seconds to fully manifest, and it faded just as quickly once the direct threat was gone.

"He's a conduit," Arlan murmured to Erin as they observed the aftermath of their third raid from a safe distance. "His Regalia channels their collective rage and focuses it. If we can break their emotional momentum, we can break his power."

By the time the sun began to rise, Ghor-Thak had been thoroughly humiliated. Reports of scattered war parties and burning supply depots had reached his command tent in Gorgon's Maw, each one a fresh insult to his pride. He had been outmaneuvered, his massive army made to look like a lumbering, blind giant swatting at ghosts.

Finally, his rage boiled over. He emerged from his fortress, not with a calculated response, but with a roar of pure, unadulterated fury. He gathered his elite guard—a legion of his largest, most ferocious warriors—and charged out into the canyons, determined to hunt down the "cowards" who had dared to mock him.

"He's taken the bait," Arlan said, watching Ghor-Thak's banner move on the map projected by his [Heraldic Vision]. "He's not just hunting; he's trying to trap us." He turned to Edgar, who was already mounting his warhorse, a grim smile on his face.

"Edgar, you know what to do. Lead them on a chase. Do not engage. Just keep them moving."

Edgar nodded, his face a mask of cold determination. "We'll run them ragged, General."

The retreat was a masterclass in disciplined withdrawal. The Storm Riders, with their superior speed and knowledge of the terrain, led Ghor-Thak and his elite guard on a wild goose chase through the treacherous canyons. Their movements were a carefully choreographed dance of feints and retreats, always staying just out of reach, their arrows and skirmishers picking off the orcs' forward scouts. The orcs, driven by fury, followed blindly, their formations stretching thin as they struggled to keep pace.

The chase lasted for hours. The sun climbed high in the sky, beating down on the pursuing orcs. Their initial rage began to curdle into frustration, their movements growing sluggish. Ghor-Thak, at the head of the charge, roared in anger, but even he could not force his warriors to move faster than their bodies would allow.

By the time Ghor-Thak realized he had been led into a trap, it was too late. He found himself and his warriors in a narrow pass, the walls of Bastion Cael Jena looming above them, silent and imposing. The canyon was a perfect kill zone.

General Voron stood on the battlements, a grim smile on his face. He had watched the chase unfold, his initial skepticism replaced by a grudging admiration for Arlan's strategic brilliance. He raised a hand, his voice a low, powerful command that echoed across the walls. "Now."

The ballistae, newly delivered by Jovann and manned by expert Silvan crews, unleashed hell. Massive, rune-enchanted bolts screamed through the air, their trajectories a perfect, deadly arc. They slammed into the trapped orc formation with devastating force. The ground erupted in explosions of rock and metal, and the roars of the orcs turned to cries of pain and confusion.

Ghor-Thak, his pride shattered and his elite guard decimated, was forced to retreat, shielding himself from the deadly barrage. The first sortie was a stunning success, a victory won not with brute force, but with a strategy that had turned the enemy's own aggression against them.

As Arlan watched the retreating orcs from the battlements of the bastion, a cold, calculating look in his eyes, he knew this was just the beginning. The first move on the chessboard had been made. But the game was far from over.

Back within the safety of the bastion, Arlan met with his commanders in the war room. The mood was cautiously optimistic, a stark contrast to the despair of the morning.

"It worked," Erin said, a hint of awe in his voice. He looked at Arlan with a new level of respect. "We hit them hard and lost no one. Their morale must be shattered."

Sophia's voice confirmed their success in Arlan's mind. "The tactic is viable, my liege. Analysis complete: the empowerment from Ghor-Thak's Regalia takes approximately three minutes to decay after a unit disengages from direct combat. We have found the window. However, the Regalia's power is also tied to his proximity. The closer his warriors are to him, the stronger the effect. To defeat him, he must be isolated."

"We must destroy four more of their primary supply depots to cripple their logistics," Arlan announced, relaying Sophia's strategic conclusion. "This will force Ghor-Thak to either attack us here at a massive disadvantage or accept a challenge to end the stalemate. It will take a full week of these sorties."

He looked at his men, their faces flushed with the thrill of a successful operation. "One week," he declared. "Prepare yourselves. In one week, we will end this."

The grand hall of Thalion's estate had transformed into a deadly, intricate battlefield. The air, thick with the scent of ozone from Marie's fire, the sharp tang of Chrysta's ice, and the metallic smell of spilled blood, crackled with the energy of a battle fought on a razor's edge. The last of the lesser Inquisitors fell, his body dissolving into ash under a concentrated blast of Marie's [Trueflame], leaving only the leader, Vael, standing against the full might of the Sylabell team.

Vael, her face a mask of cold fury, pushed Akasha back with a surge of demonic power. The vampire landed gracefully, her crimson eyes gleaming with a mixture of frustration and feral excitement. "She's stronger than the others," Akasha purred, her claws flexing. "This one is almost entertaining."

Marie, her Lucifer's Regalia pulsing with a steady, dangerous rhythm, landed on the gallery railing above, looking down at the lone Inquisitor. Her [Hellborn] wings cast an imposing, demonic silhouette. "Entertaining? She's a cornered rat, Akasha. And she's about to get burned." Marie's eyes narrowed as she focused her senses, the demonic core within her analyzing Vael's power. "Fifth-tier… white-core," she announced, her voice echoing in the tense hall. "She's hiding her true strength well, but she can't hide it from me."

JD, his Hurricane Regalia swirling around him, took a position opposite Akasha, his twin mithril longswords held at the ready. He and Akasha now formed a pincer, cutting off Vael's escape routes. "Fifth-tier or not," JD growled, "she's not leaving this room."

Vael's lips curled into a sneer, but her eyes darted between her opponents, assessing the trap she was now caught in. The Tempest Blade with his disorienting speed, the vampire with her unnatural ferocity, and the two powerful mages watching from above like vultures. From the shadows, Lucius's artifact wand hummed with latent arcane energy, ready to unleash another trap at a moment's notice.

"You Midlanders fight with the crude efficiency of butchers," Vael spat, her voice dripping with contempt. "You have no elegance, no finesse."

"We'll be sure to write that on your tombstone," Marie shot back from the gallery.

The final confrontation began with a blur of motion. Vael, realizing she was outmatched in a direct confrontation, feinted towards JD, her black steel dagger a streak of light. JD moved to intercept, his [Echo] clones flickering into existence, but it was a feint. Vael spun, using the momentum to hurl a series of smaller, poison-tipped throwing knives at Marie and Chrysta above.

Chrysta reacted instantly, a wall of shimmering ice erupting before them, the knives shattering against its surface. But the attack had served its purpose: it had bought Vael a precious second. She lunged not at JD, but at Akasha, her movements a desperate, chaotic flurry. Akasha met her head-on, their blades a whirlwind of sparks and shadows.

"She's trying to break our formation!" Lucius called out, his analytical mind seeing through the chaos. "JD, don't let her isolate Akasha!"

JD surged forward, his blades a blur as he moved to support Akasha. But Vael was a master of close-quarters combat. She used Akasha as a living shield, her movements fluid and unpredictable, forcing JD to hesitate, lest he strike his own ally.

From the gallery, Marie's frustration grew. "She's too fast to pin down with a large spell. Chrysta, can you slow her?"

"I'm trying," Chrysta replied, her hands glowing with a frosty mist as she attempted to cast [Frostbind] on Vael. But the Inquisitor's demonic core seemed to radiate a corrupt energy that repelled the ice magic, causing it to dissipate before it could take hold. "Her core is resisting my spells. It's like trying to freeze a bonfire."

The battle in the hall was a stalemate, a deadly dance of feints and parries. Vael was a cornered viper, her strikes venomous and precise, but she was slowly being worn down by the team's relentless, coordinated assault. Her breathing grew heavier, and a thin sheen of sweat glistened on her pale brow. She was losing. And she knew it.

It was then that her expression shifted. The desperate fury in her eyes was replaced by a chilling, triumphant calm. A slow, cruel smile spread across her face. Suddenly, a sickly purple aura flared around her, pulsing with a corrupt energy that was far greater than before. Her movements became faster, her strikes more powerful, her eyes glowing with an even more intense demonic light.

Lucius, watching from his position near the staircase, adjusted his artifact goggles, his eyes widening in alarm. "Her core… it's being amplified!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the din of battle. "It's the demonic seal in the Arborea! She's drawing power directly from it! She's acting as a conduit!"

Vael let out a guttural laugh as she effortlessly parried a combined strike from JD and Akasha, sending them both skidding back. "Did you truly think the Queen would send her finest without a contingency?" she hissed, her voice now layered with a demonic resonance. "This entire estate is within the seal's domain. Here, I am more than just an Inquisitor. I am a vessel of the Queen's will."

The amplified power was immediately apparent. Vael moved with a speed that was almost impossible to track, her dagger a blur of motion as she pressed the attack. Akasha, for the first time, was forced onto the defensive, her vampiric speed barely enough to keep up. JD's [Echo] clones were shattered as soon as they appeared, Vael's strikes too fast and powerful for the illusions to maintain.

"Marie! Chrysta! We need to break her connection to the seal!" Lucius commanded, his artifact wand glowing as he created a series of overlapping kinetic barriers to protect JD and Akasha from the onslaught.

Marie and Chrysta unleashed a storm of fire and ice, but Vael now moved through their spells with an unnatural resilience, the purple aura around her seeming to absorb or deflect the worst of the damage.

The tide of the battle had turned in an instant. The team, which had been on the verge of victory, was now struggling to survive against a single, empowered foe.

A sudden, sharp pain lanced through JD's mind, a psychic shriek that had nothing to do with the battle before him. He stumbled, his vision blurring for a moment. At the same time, Marie cried out, her fiery aura flickering as a wave of unseen energy washed over the room. It was a feeling of pure, unadulterated chaos. A feeling of a city screaming.

Just as the team was reeling from the unseen psychic assault and Vael's amplified power, the main doors to the estate burst open, not with force, but with a sense of frantic urgency.

It was Thalion, his face a mask of pure panic, his usual composure shattered. His eyes were wide with a terror that went beyond the immediate danger in the hall. He was followed by a handful of his household guards, their faces pale and their armor spattered with blood.

His voice cracked with desperation as he roared, his words a death knell to their victory.

"It was a diversion! Lord Finian's and Lady Elara's estates are under attack by Royalist forces! They're trying to decapitate our new alliance!"

The words struck the team like a physical blow. Marie's fire faltered, and Chrysta's ice barrier flickered. They had been so focused on defending themselves, they hadn't seen the larger board.

Nightingale appeared in the hall, a phantom of black leather. She knelt, her face grim as she cursed herself under her breath for her intelligence network missing the larger feint. "My apologies, my lords. Their movements were masked by a secondary demonic ward. I did not detect them."

Vael, the empowered Inquisitor, began to laugh. It was a chilling, triumphant sound that echoed through the grand hall, a sound of victory snatched from the jaws of defeat. "The Queen knew you would be prepared here," she hissed, a bloody grin spreading across her face as she looked at Yanie, who had just emerged from the upper corridors with her bow drawn. "She sent us to die, to keep you busy while her true forces strike at the heart of your rebellion. You have won this little skirmish, but you have already lost the war."

With a final, defiant cry, Vael threw a small, black orb to the ground. It erupted in a cloud of thick, disorienting smoke, a mixture of shadow and alchemical reagents that choked the senses and blinded them.

"Don't let her escape!" JD roared.

When the smoke cleared, Vael was gone. The team was left standing in the silent, echoing hall, the victory turning to ash in their mouths. They had been masterfully outplayed. The real battle for Sylabell had just begun.