— CONTESTED BORDER, NAAH’MI MOUNTAINS, YEAR: 7298. SEASON: NEW BEGINNING.

  The Gods are playing a game of Chess… and we… Mortals are the chess pieces.

  To describe it that way isn’t entirely accurate, but it isn’t wrong. Chess is only a synonym we Mortals use in understanding the actions of a higher power. What is certain, is that the Twelve Thrones use Mortal proxies to determine many things in the Astral Above—if not using their followers there to fight. This isn’t because they cannot act in a certain manner or that they do not possess the power to acquire the Prize of the Game. This is simply because should they act, then all of life as we know it ends.

  The Twelve Thrones are the most powerful Gods in Elrunian. Most Gods possess one law, while members of the Twelve Thrones control multiple, either through themselves or through the prowess of Gods underneath them. They do not act out of a desire to keep the balance and prevent the destruction of all that is left from a Greater Realm—a Realm which Elrunian was in charge.

  Or perhaps that is just our limited understanding of them. Who knows what dangers they face—perhaps the game between them is simply a way to pick a method to resolve such danger. A danger that has been around for thousands of years for Mortals or maybe a shorter time span for Gods.

  — Excerpt from the Thaedon Rapport in the Free City of Juston.

  *****

  “...ASAN?”

  Asan wasn’t the only one under this effect. He could see it in the eyes of his men. Grips on weapons faltered, bodies tumbled backward, moving aside to make room for the descending figure. The light of battle-hardened warriors was stripped away, forcibly snatched before being crushed in the hands of a higher power.

  Asan’s eyes told a story; reflected in them was a man in black armor, with protruding spikes on his shoulders and knees. He wore no helmet, but a crown grafted together from the blades of the fallen covered his head, as if a King of Killing appeared before them. The man had two curved horns, like a demon from the depths of the Underneath Below, ascended to drag back his victims’ souls. He bore no shield, but his blade was half his height. The weapon held a peculiar glow—one of starlight and darkness. The longer one stared at it, the more they felt enchanted by its presence.

  “COUSIN, CAN YOU HEAR ME…?”

  Death had descended in the form of a man.

  Vivid red-gold eyes stared, vertical pupils aligned on the men around him. His aura spread, and to Asan, it was not he and his men who surrounded the Chosen of Madris; it was the Chosen of Madris who surrounded them .

  “YOU MUST HOLD! THE IMPERIUS ARMY IS RUSHING TOWARD THE BASE! YOU MUST HOLD.”

  Ten thousand men were stationed on Battle Terrance One. Ten thousand men surrounded a lone figure. Ten thousand men appeared to be nothing more than chickens and dogs awaiting the slaughter.

  Voices entered his ears, but none registered. Asan no longer held room for much more. The figure before him consumed it all.

  “Ah…,” Asan uttered, his mind cluttered but years of training doing their best to do something —ANYTHING! “…ah.”

  Anything that could turn this situation around.

  “Ahh…

  “Attack…!”

  And the Chosen of Madris did.

  He moved forward, his blade finding purchase in the thin line between helm and armor, lopping the head of a man off. Blood shot up like a fountain, raining down on the faces of despair around the decapitated man. None seemed to land on the Chosen of Madris, his face—golden brown skin—pristine without a hint of worry, smiled . Asan felt his very sol tremble. The ma— creature —moved again, punching outward and denting a man’s breastplate—shattering a hole clean through. He shook his hand in disgust, dispersing the man’s intestines over the ground. The creature’s eyes moved left, then right, then his body vanished, reappearing deep within the flustered soldiers.

  Three golems appeared where he once stood, releasing area-of-effect attacks that killed tens of men in an instant. It was here that the order of Asan finally registered. Or perhaps seeing the deaths of their fellow countrymen had broken the spell of despair cast over some of them.

  The Asigbonle responded. Slow, the first few swiftly dealt with by the Chosen of Madris. Arms were lopped off, heads battered, and legs broken as he carved his way through the force. Belatedly, Asan realized he was headed directly for him.

  I am going to die.

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  I am going to die.

  I am going to die.

  Like a broken record, the thought replayed itself in his despair-addled mind.

  He was going to die. And, if he didn’t fight now, then that fate would be a certainty.

  Asan’s hands shook; the cherished bow within them suddenly felt heavy.

  Fight.

  Fight?

  That’s right, he had to fight. The enemy was before him, but his limbs moved so slow. They were heavy, as if he wore armor of ten thousand pounds. Perhaps it was some divine intervention, maybe it was some sort of internal strength, but Asan managed to raise the bow in his hands—his aim somewhat steady on the figure that fought through his men.

  Red blood flowed. Spilled to the floor in desperate receding waves—as if the blood itself ran from this creature that invaded their base. Final breaths were taken, some in relief as if the pain of mortality had finally been resolved for them. Skills were activated, flames imbued into hammers, axes growing heavier with earth, and swords faster with wind.

  The Chosen of Madris dodged, casually moving side to side as a desperate axe-wielding soldier chased. Asan recognized him, not the soldier, but what he belonged to.

  The Awon, Men of Means in their native tongue, meant to be the elite force that dealt with the Chosen of Madris and other Heroes of the Edryan Queendom.

  The man was past level 200 and was just shy of having the ability to travel to the Astral Above. Men of Means... meant to be a force that quickly accelerated past that threshold once those who entered the Path of Apotheosis left. Men… Of… Means… meant to rush towards Prestige and become new protectors of the Federation alongside the thirteen Arbitrators. Around 200 or so were stationed with Asan.

  The axe swung downward, countered by a blade that distributed the force within, negating any transferred damage. The soldier didn’t pause in his actions, his fist raised and punching forward as his blade was forced into the ground. The Chosen… no… the creature swung its neck to the side. Its red-gold eyes scanned the man. Asan blinked, and he was behind the man, both arms severed, body falling to its knees, and a blade was cleanly slicing his head off.

  Men of Means?

  What means do they have to fight against a monster?

  What means did they have to fight against something inhuman?

  Light shone in Asan’s hands, alleviating his Despair-addled mind but not breaking his state. What he suffered from was the highest grade debuff of its type. What he held was a bow made with divinity imbued into it; in its presence, errant thoughts were suppressed. He glanced at the raised bow, not even realizing how it got to that stage, but prepared to use it anyway. For that moment, the entire world went dark, leaving nothing but two sources.

  Asan, a man made of holiness and light, and the creature that would be slaughtered by his God-slaying bow.

  He drew an arrow, the creature dodged and weaved, its eyes glowing red-gold as it moved towards him. Asan took a deep breath, pouring everything he had into this shot.

  He would only get one .

  He would only get one.

  Mojo would only get one shot to turn this situation around. Fear gripped him, but likely not as inducing as whatever those on Battle Terrance One were hit by. The enemy had done something, perhaps it was an aura buff or some sort of magic, but Mojo knew when his mind was affected by an outside influence.

  All contact with his cousin and those on Battle Terrance One had ceased. No matter how he called, not one of the commanders on that level responded. No matter, those on Battle Terrance Two would know what to do.

  Mojo eyes aligned on the approaching army, the fear that radiated over him broken by his skills and Intent. His aura radiated outward, a strong, majestic presence that felt like the grandest shield. As he did, so did his soldiers break from the Fear-induced state.

  “Short-barrel cannons, fire,” Mojo commanded.

  “Theater Commander the Eran—“

  “ I SAID FIRE. ”

  The Imperius Army penetrated deep into the Eranko force, pushing their way like a seamstress through fabric—skilled with little mistakes and holes. In those short few moments of distraction, they’d push past the effective range of the long-range cannons and were steadily approaching the base.

  Mojo grasped at his back, pulling his hammer forward. It would taste Edryan’s blood today.

  “How long until the secondary keep barrier activates?”

  “Reporting to Theater Commander, it will take approximately 15 minutes.”

  “Heh haha haha,” Mojo laughed.

  He looked at the men around him, not those who operated the cannons but those who stood on the terrace as protectors of their nation. He’d been drinking with these men, playing cards, and more, within the last few years. He watched some form up, watched some close their eyes in prayer, others met his gaze, the resolution to die for something in them. That same resolution was in him.

  “Prepare to be siege.”

  Four simple words. It was four simple words that he’d said multiple times, but this time there was no barrier to block the invading force—only bodies to stop bodies.

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  AN: I HAD to cut this one much shorter, sorry. I’ll probably combine it in the official book with the chapter before hand. My reasoning is the very last 4 words. Bruh it’s sooo tough idc what anyone says I HAD to give the cliffhanger there. I spent two days contemplating and couldn’t come up with anything to add to the chapter, and I have a rule of moving on if I truly can’t find a method. The next chapter is the end of this part. 5k word special!