— CONTESTED BORDER, NAAH’MI MOUNTAINS, YEAR: 7298. SEASON: NEW BEGINNING.
“In.”
He took a deep breath, small hands tightly gripping the handcrafted bow his mother made. His eyes remained focused, quietly watching his target as he waited for her words.
“Hold it.”
Asan watched the running rabbit, his gaze trailing the sprinting creature as it nearly flew across the grassland. His mother’s voice guided him as the young boy, no more than six, calculated against his prey.
Everything went black, and there was nothing but him and the creature. This time it wasn’t running, but drawing closer and closer.
Alone… it danced in the darkness. The long blade in its hand moved through the air. A performance was happening—a private showcase between this sword dancer and Asan. Nothing else in the world mattered. In this space, only Asan, the creature, and his bow existed. Only one would be leaving.
His mother’s voice guided him. She was the one who taught him the Path of the Bow. She was the one who opened his eyes and guided his hand when taking his very first shot. His God-slaying Bow brought him back to that moment—that very first shot.
“When to shoot and when not to shoot.”
Asan listened closely; his mother’s voice tickled his ear, but the youth took her words to heart. The creature continued to run away, its long ears flapping in the wind. Its heart was accelerated, heightened from the scare Asan’s mother gave it.
“When to shoot is simple but entirely complex.
“You can shoot at any time, any point. From the moment you draw the bow, you can release that arrow, but hitting your target? Now that’s different.”
She laughed, bringing warmth and comfort to Asan’s little heart. His eyes remained on the target, its steps erratic as it hopped from side to side. Asan was confident. He’d practiced pulling bowstrings a thousand times before this. That wasn’t all, Asan had put at least a hundred arrows into stationary targets and moving ones.
This was the first time he’d shoot to take a life.
This was the first time his arrow was aimed at a living, breathing creature.
This was the first time Asan would kill.
He couldn’t mess it up.
“Hitting your target requires practice, something you’ve done for the last year. Killing your target requires will—Intent—a drive to accomplish a goal by any means. To do so means you are a warrior, recognized by our Yola clan and those of the Federation.”
Asan’s bow was steady, and the God-slaying arrow was knocked. His breath was held, unable to be released until his fingers left the bowstring. Darkness swirled at his fingertips; everything he had was to be put in a single shot—all his Energy… all his Stamina. Asan put everything but his life on the line.
He still had to see the results of his hunt.
The rabbit swayed, seemingly sensing its approaching doom; it jerked left and right at random, doing its best to disrupt his mind and force his shot to miss. Asan’s bow never hesitated, tracing every dodge, every hop, skip, and jump.
Asan felt the remnants of his power trickle into the God-slaying Bow and its arrow. Starlight exploded in that realm of darkness—his eyes on the creature as he prepared its just death.
The creature seemed to sense something, and its movements slowed. Its dance became unstable as if fighting some outside force.
A chance.
A single chance was all Asan held to slay this being. Outside of his darkness, his men fought for that chance—bodies put forward to halt the Chosen of Madris’s advance.
Red.
Blood.
Flowed.
Spilled in their attacks, yet none came from their enemy. Desperately they fought, Energy expended, Stamina drained, but… their Health Points remained sundered by a single blade.
The Chosen of Madris danced through their ranks, his Dragon Fear exuding from his body until fear turned to despair—leaving them weak and vulnerable.
The closer one was, the harder it was to resist. His display of Power, calculated risk, and overall showcase of abilities actively supported his Despair, forcing the minds of many to remain in that state.
“Focus, Asan,” his mother’s voice spoke, pulling him out of his revelry. “Take the shot—you’ve already locked onto your target. Don’t let it escape. Don’t let their sacrifices be in vain. They’re using their bodies to stop him, regardless of death. It’s all up to you, son. You must shoot!”
The darkness faded, the voice stopped. The light exuded from Asan and into others—slowly at first, then faster and faster. Racing from one man to another—showcasing their efforts—showcasing their desires, showing their sacrifice for him.
Bodies To Stop Bodies.
They piled before him, throwing their lives away even in the face of despair. In the middle of the army, a single man fought, and, Asan was going to kill him. Asan roared, a primal, savage thing—his eyes on the creature before him as it slaughtered his men. They’d sacrificed themselves, giving him precious seconds to prepare. He suddenly calmed, his mind never before clear. Their eyes met—through the bodies, through the distance.
The arrow released.
A thousand hands seemed to release it alongside Asan’s. Light burst forward, drained from the God-slaying Bow, and into the incredibly vast power that shot forward. Asan felt it… No, he knew it. The Gods, Demigod Isiro, no, the very world was on his side, radiating light that would disperse the darkness.
It was funny… his affinity that is. Darkness —or Dark for the layman’s term—Dark excelled at hiding, ambushing, lowering your presence, and being an assassin. Yet, here he was at the center of the light. A bright darkness leaving from his fingertips, shooting forward to slay the monster told in legends. Asan believed he would become a Hero—worshipped through the ages for his part in slaying the monster—the dragon—the magi—the man .
Asan was suddenly weak, nearly collapsing, but he forced himself to stay upright through sheer willpower— Intent . Asan intended to see the job finished.
The rabbit paused, seemingly sensing its fate. For the first time, the creature turned, its large, soft ears raised upward—its black, beady eyes meeting Asan’s.
He stared into them, staring hard until those black, beady eyes turned red.
Oh…
It wasn’t a rabbit at all.
Oh…
What he hunted was a monster.
And…
Monsters Do Not Play Fair .
The rabbit approached.
A shimmering, shining arrow vibrated intensely in the hands of the monster. Its gaze was lackadaisical, like it wasn’t in the middle of a slaughter but randomly found something it shouldn’t have.
Oh…
The monster truly turned, its eyes truly meeting Asan’s. Everything he fought before was just his machinations—an imagined plot that made light of his despair-addled mind. A mix of truths… and falsehoods.
Oh…
Red blood flowed.
This time it was Asan’s.
He glanced to his left, his arm missing.
God-slaying Bow…?
His God-slaying Bow?
His knees collapsed, haggard body failing as his Health Points drained away.
Notifications fanatically popped in his vision—warning of his impending doom, but Asan was unwilling.
Truly, he was unwilling.
His gaze trailed the figure, carefully examining his God-slaying Bow. Their eyes met, truly, for the briefest of moments.
Asan’s unwillingness, born from despair, against the emotionless eyes of the monsters. His parched throat opened, spewing words of denial, laced with resentment.
“Ma…,” he choked, red blood flowing from his lips.
…
“Monster.
…his vision grew hazy, but his unwilling gaze never faltered.
“Hiding among men… among mortals. You’re not a human.
…he was unwilling. There was so much left in life. Who would raise his daughter? Who would watch his cousin’s back… Who would…
WHO WOULD…?
Who… wou… ld.
…who…
“Mon…
“…sterrrr.”
*****
Mojo didn’t know what happened to his cousin, but…, but … those thoughts couldn’t remain right now. His eyes gazed upward, and his words formed his men into formations. Within each Battle Terrace, reinforcements were ready to pour in at any time. The keep held a hundred thousand men—elite soldiers with Rare classes. Most of the men were Uncommon themselves, but a large number were still elites—possessing both Rare classes and bloodlines for increased attribute points gain when leveling.
Mojo held confidence that these men would hold. His fingers tightened around his hammer, his gaze cocked upward in a confident, nigh-cocky demeanor. The approaching army carved through the Eranko, cutting down any of the feline creatures that dared get in their way.
A minute passed, then another, but Mojo was certain they’d reach the base before the shielding returned. Whatever spell they’d been hit with was powerful enough to shatter the defense instantly. Oh, how Mojo hated magic. You couldn’t do any of the sort with Energy, no matter how much you possessed—at least he couldn’t
Mojo’s expression turned grim, and he immediately jumped back and into the formation. His eyes stared upward as a detachment of fifty thousand soldiers left their accompanying golems and stepped into the air.
“Heh… haha, haha. These magi are…,” Mojo muttered, not finishing his words as he drew deep into the force.
Mojo gazed upwards, the short-barrelled cannons slow in their attempt to adjust for the sudden position change of their targets. The Imperius Army had abandoned their golems to continue the fight against the Eranko.
Mojo squeezed his hammer. Then, like a boat nearing the edge of a waterfall, the Imperius Army descended.
“Wizards—Fireball,” Mojo commanded as he retreated near the center of the platform. Hundreds of red flames appeared, shooting off into the sky toward the attacking force. It wasn’t much compared to their numbers, but it would certainly explode, taking out multiple soldiers near one another.
Mojo let out an internal laugh, pulling at his connection with the earth to construct a conjoined shield. He gazed upward, a hint of madness in his eyes as a responding wave of flame shot downward.
“Soldiers of the Keep—Earthen Shield!”
Every single soldier of the Imperius Army cast Fireball in response, obliterating their attacking spells while a dense wave of red rained upon Battle Terrace One. Mojo only caught a glance, watching the Imperius Army split into two—one to attack the forces on Battle Terrace One, the other for Battle Terrace Two.
The room on each was already limited, meaning combat would be in close range.
Bodies on top of bodies.
“SOLDIERS OF THE KEEP,” Mojo called as the earth consolidated around him—protecting him from the incoming barrage.
His voice entered the ears of every single soldier of Forger’s Keep except those on the top terrace.
“SIR!”
A roaring response came, invigorating Mojo and allowing him to understand that most on his terrace broke their state of fear.
“DEFEND THE FEDERATION—NO MERCY.”
“NO QUARTER!”
To the last man…
…to the last man.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Mojo was willing to fight to the very last man. His homeland lay behind him, his wife, Koko, their unborn child—all of it was something he had to defend. A madness flickered in his gaze. Then the fireballs hit.
Mojo’s body shook, notifications rapidly blinking back and forth. The earth crumbled around him, the screams of the dead and dying a symphony of pain. He used that noise to rally those still living around him, ordering more reinforcements to ascend from the keep’s interior.
His hammer shook, an ability activating as he slammed the weapon into the breastplate of a descending magi. Around him, chaos erupted, nearly collapsing all attempts at organization. The magi directly descended into the rubble, making the entire battlefield chaotic. Ash and flames were everywhere, and Mojo lost track of himself for several moments as a fierce battle erupted.
He bellowed, letting out an astonishing war cry that scattered the men before him. Energy poured into his weapon and armor, his size directly growing to appear like an earth elemental.
Soldiers poured from the keep, resounding to Mojo’s war cry. Yet every few moments, Mojo was forced to take a step back. The skill of these soldiers was incredible. Only now did Mojo realize that many of them held legendary classes and bloodlines. It was impossible for their strength to match his otherwise. He was nearly level 200 and had been Legendary since birth before soon advancing to Mythical. His clan spared little to no resources in cultivating him into a powerful warrior—a leader of the next generation.
“HOLD FOR ME!”
And the soldiers of the keep did. They held on, using their energy to cast shields of earth, wind, and more Nature aligned skills against the magic of the magi. Mojo took another step backwards, forced back by the spells of the magi.
Oh, how he hated magic.
Each one of these bastards was a Spell-Sword, able to wield magic as they did the blade—the exact reason why men in the continent took up the Energy attribute as its ability to counter magic was the only easily obtainable resource to the world, even if it meant losing additional strength by not being a complete physical class.
“EYANA’S LIZARD—FORMATION 12!”
The soldiers of the keep attempted to obey his commands, but the battlefield was growing far too chaotic. The magi had descended directly upon them—this was not a battle, confronting one another face to face. This was a chaotic, calculated measure that completely disrupted Mojo’s command and hold over his soldiers. His lieutenants kept order in small spots they could, but that order was limited to only a few hundred men.
Bodies piled on the ground, and Mojo was forced several meters back, towards the keep’s interior. Those very men pushed forward, but their strength seemed lacking. Mojo growled—frustration growing. He needed Asan to retake control over Battle Terrace Three, if not soldiers from Battle Terrace Two, to make calculated attacks on the figures below them.
Asan still hadn’t responded, and the soldiers of Battle Terrace Two faced their own problems.
Mojo reached out, grasping a wounded soldier before a finishing blow could be delivered.
“Theater Commander,” he gasped, blood flowing from the hole in his chest. “I can fight!”
“Retreat to the interior of the keep—get patched up and then return.”
Unwillingly, the soldier was forced back. Mojo wouldn’t deny the man his desire to protect their nation, but he still held a responsibility to ensure whoever he could save was saved.
Several small wounds appeared on him, his armor bloodied but not in a state of collapse. His eyes scanned the battlefield, and for the first time, Mojo was upset over the design of the Keep.
Each level could hold roughly ten thousand men on its exterior surface. That assumed every man held a space of a meter around him. Now there was nearly twice that number on the terrace, and a quick glance above showed that more Edryans were ready to descend.
There wasn’t room for any area of effect skills as Mojo held a much greater chance of hitting and killing his own men rather than just the Edryans. The invading force had thoroughly taken an area under their control, completely halting the bombardment of the cannons. The Eranko were without direct leadership and were no better than a pack of beasts without guidance. If he couldn’t push them back and allow the controlling wizards the space to perform their duties…
Mojo let out another frustrated growl.
“BOULDER CORROSION—FORMATION 9,” Mojo commanded, pushing forward with his hammer, attempting to clear a space.
Bodies pushed against one another; his surrounding men attempted to form a defensive formation that crumbled like rusted iron. Asigbonle were large, and many got in each other’s way in an attempt to obey his command.
With each chance, the Edryans would push forward, or a spell would descend from those waiting above.
“Good. Good. Very Good,” Mojo uttered, his eyes bloodshot.
Any move he attempted was countered. He glanced up, his gaze aligned on a small, petite woman casually floating in the air. She seemed to sense his gaze through that short distance and turned.
“Alexandria Indrius—very good. If given the chance, I will slay you.”
He stepped forward, red blood pooling underneath his soles—indistinguishable from Asigbonle or Magi.
He realized this chaotic battlefield was anything but. The only side experiencing the chaos was the soldiers of the keep. His eyes aligned on the Imperius Soldiers and saw small, but organized teams no larger than ten, usually moving together. What was occurring was a systematic breakdown targeted against their environment, abilities, and capacity. It was a brilliant, open-ended scheme that Mojo had no choice but to fall into. Regardless of whether he was unwilling to, his opponent had already calculated everything and formulated a plan that would cause the most chaos and destruction.
“ASAN?”
“THEDAN?”
Mojo called names one by one through the mental link, hoping to hear the response of one commander or another.
“JORN?”
“VELIS?”
“ASAN?”
Mojo growled. He realized he couldn’t even rely on the soldiers within the keep as the bodies piled up, and little to no room to maneuver was left. Even if the soldiers wanted to fight, they couldn’t escape to do so.
Forger’s Keep was a wall—one meant to keep out intruders. It didn’t occupy a large open-air space for a resting army. It was a wall placed between two mountains meant to keep out any intruders. Its design was very efficient in that regard. Mojo held no doubt that this would work against any enemy. So how did it fail against the magi?
The answer was obvious, but it was one Mojo wanted to refuse.
Mojo pushed forward, and his steps were blocked by someone familiar.
A man with oversized gauntlets stared at him lazily. Mojo couldn’t see his face, as his entire body remained covered, but his language and meaning were translated nevertheless.
Ade Oni beckoned forward—lightly waving his gauntlet-covered fist. Mojo hesitated, then ignored him—not out of a lack of desire but because he held heavier responsibilities.
Ade Oni scoffed, and flames erupted from his gauntlets—a familiar blue flame fist shot towards him.
The decision was not his to make.
Mojo snarled, but a small space of ten meters had already cleared between the two sides. With the minuscule amount of space available, it was clear the Imperius Army had purposely allocated this for them. A dividing line opened between the two sides, and the conflict lessened on both ends.
His eyes narrowed; perhaps he could use this as a chance to reorganize his troops and even allow his large-scale attacks to affect a large number of the enemies. Neither side had been able to use area of effect attacks due to the limited room and the chance of doing more damage to oneself than the enemy. Even dead and dying soldiers did their best to fight hand-to-hand in the limited room available. It was a brilliant scheme.
The earth responded to the Blue Lion’s Fist—a triangular pillar rose from the ground as Mojo struck it, dispersing the force to both sides of him. Grunts came from behind, and Mojo’s irritation grew worse. His men had been hit by the residual attack—the exact reason he had a problem with the current situation.
Mojo had to find a method to break out of this. He felt like an insect landing in the sticky web of a spider—an uncomfortable feeling as if a fishbone was stuck in his throat.
Mojo’s hammer sung. His body pushed forward, activating a skill as he did so. A plan was forming, but to execute it, he would have to end this quickly. He watched Ade Oni like a mantis stalking a cicada and struck in the moment he charged another Blue Lion’s Fist.
“Earthen Forge: Rumbling Strike.”
The properties of Chi were difficult to deal with, but not unmanageable. Ade Oni had grown stronger since their last battle, but so had he. Immediately, his foot stomped, sending an attack that penetrated through the ground and hit Ade Oni, disrupting the flow of Chi. His enemy’s attack fizzled out while Mojo’s body surged with strength. Mojo struck, his large hammer swung downwards in an attempt to flatten Ade Oni in one strike.
“Heh, you don’t believe I’d fall for that attack again—Oni Guardian: Fortification.”
A repeat of their previous battle happened, with both sides unleashing the exact same move they had used to confront one another. This time, Mojo wouldn’t take any chances.
A large scroll appeared in his hands—the low-Legendary spell scroll, Mechanism Dimension, that Mojo kept as a lifesaving treasure. Perhaps some may look down on him for bringing out such a move, but Mojo didn’t have time for honor. Honor is the leash placed on the obedient—it is a weak man’s defense. Mojo could disregard all of it if it meant he could create a chance, an opportunity.
All he needed was one. A single chance to turn things around and make wrong right.
The surroundings grew quiet, and his opponent seemed to be unworried as the scroll appeared in his hands. Instead, silently, he looked upward as if the sky held greater importance.
Mechanism Dimension was a low legendary spell that held the property of teleporting the surrounding space into what was known as Demigod Isiro’s Sudo-Divine Kingdom. It was a simple teleportation, but one that would actively target non-Asigbonle—a hidden trump card in case of situations Mojo found unexpected. This Sudo-Divine Kingdom, as called by the members of the Federation, was filled with nothing but mechanisms built by Demigod Isiro—his failed experimentations and whatnot, located deep underneath the Federation. His move wasn’t just a shot at banishing Ade Oni, but all the magi present in 100 meters.
It would effectively grab a great portion of the magi landed on Battle Terrace Three and give space and room—the opportunity Mojo needed was present.
With this, he could push back the Magi, regain control of the situation, and likely deal a devastating blow that could force the remainder into retreat. No—not could, Mojo needed to force them into retreat. The situation of Battle Terrace One, where Asan was stationed, worried him. Not a single lieutenant stationed there responded. Tens of minutes had passed since the opening attack, and still there was nothing. The situation on Battle Terrace Two also wasn’t well. Mojo was still in contact with his lieutenants there, but the situation on their side wasn’t much better than what he was experiencing. And, many of the mental links in his mind were beginning to disappear.
If he couldn’t act now, force the Imperius Army back, and control the situation, the Federation would suffer its first defeat in this grand game between the Twelve Thrones.
Mojo Kano could not be a name that suffered this defeat in history. Mojo Kano cannot be the greatest sinner of the Federation, failing to guard his post, allowing the magi to storm into the Federation of Farya.
He could not.
HE COULD NOT.
This sin could not be suffered underneath his name.
Space began to twist, pulling at the surrounding magi, while those of the Federation seemed to stand as firm rocks going against a rushing current. Mojo wondered if Ade Oni gazed upward because he understood what was coming. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t get the opportunity to properly spar with Mojo. This was a man’s game, a petty challenge like that could no-
“None of Magic is Mine.”
A voice, soft in the ears of the Imperius Army, but resounding like forging steel strikes in the hearts of every soldier of the Federation, spoke.
The space, once twisting upon itself, sucking at the magi present, vanished. Mojo paused, his mind, his body, his very sol seemed to completely pause in that instant. Then, he closed his eyes.
The battlefield of Battle Terrace One was silent. Mojo’s ears strained—his thoughts, body, and actions restarting.
He opened his eyes, his blink over.
The battlefield was silent—not because sound decided to disappear but because an apex predator forced all movement to halt.
Mojo’s ears remained poised, but he watched as the heads before him silently looked up. Then, sound returned. A single clatter, a single chuckle of disbelief, a single sigh as one’s final breath fades and the touch of death brushes against them.
Mojo glanced up.
Despair glanced down.
A man, dragon floated there. No—his form had not changed from that of a humanoid. Nothing distinguished him from the magi other than the two horns that emerged from his brow.
He was a man, a magi, but held the presence of a dragon, an apex predator that only allowed its prey despair.
For, in its presence, they were powerless without possessing the heart of a hero.
Mojo’s eyes shuddered, his mind, body, sol, fiercely resisting in the face of despair. Mojo knew he was affected by an abnormal status, but he could barely fight against it. Even his knowledge did not stop the primal terror that drew itself deep from his bones. But he resisted nevertheless. His eyes wandered searching that man— creature —looking for a target of focus that could grant him strength. Strength, and certainty that this creature before them could be faced and defeated.
His face was devoid of emotion, his eyes completely cold without a trace of humanity. He appeared to be a decisive Lord of War who would not hesitate to take a life. He was Lawruthian Imperius Koltius Edryani — Chosen of Madris.
Mojo could not glance at his dragon horns, pure black with a hint of iridescent color in their depths. He could not gaze into his red-gold eyes for the despair that would be reflected in his own. Nor could he glance upon a crown that appeared to be made from the knives of the fallen.
He glanced down, lowering his eyes—his hope of finding a place to rest his gaze and still give him the Intent to pass this test. This was nothing more than an Intent Check, a measure of one’s will against another. He knew this; he’d been trained on the multiple avenues of the Prime System. He knew this, and yet he could not resist its reality.
His gaze lingered on the long blade held in one hand, black gauntleted fingers rapped around a hilt of leather. It’s black seemed to be made of darkness and starlight, as if a piece of the sky was forged into that of a blade.
An inexplicable radiance spread from him, as if a demonic divine had appeared before them. Its purple aura was one that held the same cold indifference in his eyes.
Mojo’s gaze slowly traveled to his other hand, in its grip hung a limp figure.
No wonder his cousin hadn’t responded. It turned out he no longer possessed the life to.
That soft, soft voice in the ears of the Imperius Army spoke once again. This time, it was not a skill to save the life of a countryman but words that brought more despair to Mojo’s heart.
“Surrender, and he can live.”
Mojo trembled. A conflict in his heart that weighed upon his sol emerged. Yet, in his firm resolution, he found nothing to draw courage from.
A tear fell.
But Mojo’s heart could not waver in his decision—thirteen million sols. Thirteen million sols, including the entire Federation army, is what he guarded. A single life could not be traded for thirteen million.
“Surrender, and I will spare your lives. Resist, and I will remove my army and bury these mountains in flames with a spell beyond your comprehension. The Power of my Goddess is not to be seen as trifle. Your shield can’t return. I have completely neutralized it. You are defeated—I am not asking to spare the life of one man,” the Chosen spoke, throwing the body down on the ground before Mojo. “I am asking to spare the lives of your 100,000.”
?
*****
Ninjaro turned to Ai’esha, only to see a flash of white hair as the female version of a wall left. He knew she headed for Forger’s Keep, but Mojo feared she would be too late.
He looked back at the map, a dense wave of Edryans left from the City of Drumia, and was headed in the direction of Forger’s Keep. Ninjaro estimated 700,000 men were on the march.
“Ha… hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!”
Ninjaro stood, staring at the black display that once showed Forger’s Keep. His voice was hurried, words racing one another to the exit. Light in his brown eyes shone brightly, illuminating the Strategic Command Center.
“What a gamble, what a move. Is it General Alexandria? No, she’s good but not ruthless enough. General Ameri? Hmm, she possesses the ruthlessness but not the intellect. What Chess Player Am I Facing ?
“Who uses 300,000 lives of a million-strong army as a faux move—the head of a grand invasion? Who is calculating better than me,” Ninjaro mocked, pointing a finger at himself. “ NIN-JARO ? The one who possesses the Law of Calculation? Who is it? WHO IS IT?”
His voice echoed through the center, and those present kept their quiet. No one could answer him. No one possessed the intellect. No one possessed the prestige. Ninjaro had built his reputation through a showcase of abilities that no Arbitrator in their history, not now, not ever, could match. Precious seconds passed, and the light receded.
Ninjaro let out a mocking laugh and spoke with determination. “Fine then…”
…
…
…
“Let’s play chess.”
*****
End of Part 14 — Bodies to Stop Bodies.
Come join us at and our new and improved !
AN: Are you not entertained!
