The wind howls across the Great Wall's massive stones, carrying the metallic tang of impending conflict.
Orlando Campano, a mountain of muscle and menace, leans against the battlements, his armored bulk casting a shadow over the huddle of soldiers. His rolled sleeves expose arms thick as tree trunks, veins snaking like rivers under sun-leathered skin.
A jagged scar cuts through his unkempt mustache, twitching as he growls, "How long 'til those Zoastia rats beasts reach our gates?"
A young sergeant, clutching a scroll stamped with the Black's sigil, stiffens. "Sergeant Baraja's scouts report two days. The horde moves like a battering ram, we must be prepared".
Campano's fist clenches, gauntlets creaking. 'Baraja'. The name bites like winter frost in Campano's mind. His rival, no, his equal, had bested him once, fair and square. A fact that gnaws at him still. "And?" he barks, spitting into the wind.
The sergeant hesitates. "Buser's and his tribe has been spotted too. The Grand King of Destruction's banner flies at the front".
The air thickens. Campano's scar flares white as his jaw locks. Memories surge, the crunch of his sword snapping under Buser's maul, the bafolk's roar shaking the earth, his own blood pooling in the dirt.
Shame simmers beneath his rage, but he grins, feral and unyielding. "Fine. Let the bastard come. Those demi-humans will maul each others and we will take down the survivors. This time, I'll rip those golden horns from Buser's skull myself".
—
The Zoastia horde storms through the Abelion Hills like a living avalanche, their thunderous advance flattening forests and crushing stone beneath their clawed hooves.
For eight days, they have carved a scar across the wilderness, an historic event for the region, driven by the iron will of their ruler, Vijar Rajandala, a titan of muscle and ambition.
At dusk, the horde halts. Trees groan and splinter under their axes, and bonfires roar to life, painting the hills in flickering crimson. The Zoastia sleep sprawled on the ravaged earth, their breath steaming in the cold, only to rise at dawn's first light and surge onward, without wasting any precious second.
Vijar Rajandala, the present Demon Claw, title inherited by his father, towers above his kin. His lower half, a stallion's powerful body, ripples with sinewy strength, while his upper torso is that of a saber-toothed titan: broad shoulders sheathed in iron armor, grey fur streaked with battle scars, and jaws lined with dagger-like fangs.
His eyes burn in an orange amber, predatory and unyielding, reflecting a pride as vast as the hills he tramples.
Strapped to his equine flank hangs Edge Wing, a two-handed axe forged in the fires of conquest. Its blade, etched with a spider crest, glints wickedly even in shadow, a weapon whispered to cleave mountains. None in this world have survived its swing without grave injuries.
Vijar's mission is born of vanity, but also desire to prove his worthiness to the entire region cementing himself as one of the protagonista of history.
To cement his father's legacy and install his own, he marches toward the Holy Kingdom's Great Wall, lured by rumors of Buser, the Grand King of Destruction being near. To slay a legend, he believes, is to become one.
Vijar marches relentless, his bottomless stamina fueling his lower limbs to propel his run. To his left side there is his most faithful subordinate, Muar Praxua.
"Bafolks spotted" briefly informs his ruler Praxua.
Vijar Rajandala charges forward, his equine legs a blur strength, each stride shaking the earth beneath him. His stamina seems boundless, his muscles coiled like springs, propelling him with the force of a hurricane.
At his side, Muar Praxua, his most loyal lieutenant, matches his pace, his own form a testament to the Zoastia's ferocity.
"Bafolks spotted," Praxua barks, his voice cutting through the din of hooves and armor.
Vijar's lips curl into a fanged smirk, his amber eyes gleaming with predatory delight. "Good. Excellent".
His voice rumbles like distant thunder, carrying the weight of his ambition.
"When I crush the Mighty King, my name will echo through history. The true Demon Claw, no longer an heir, but a legend!"
The horde grinds to a halt, the air thick with anticipation. Weapons are unsheathed, armor tightened, and battle cries rise like a storm. The Zoastia prepare for battle, their eyes locked on the horizon where their destiny awaits.
"Rest tonight my valorous tribe. Tomorrow I, Vijar Rajandala, mark my claw in the tapestry of history!" roars Vijar followed by the roars, howls, trumpets and many other noises from his tribe.
—
The forest's edge lies silent now, the air heavy with the metallic tang of blood and the lingering smoke of extinguished fires.
Around them, the remnants of the ogres' desperate last stand litter the ground: shattered clubs, scorched earth, and the faint, fading echoes of their guttural roars.
Ren was about to do something himself when they found the ogres that attacked Humtoc's village, but Garm was faster than his owner and did the dirty job himself.
Sprout's towering form, woven from bark and blooming vines, stands motionless as Ren surveys the aftermath of Garm's slaughter. Humtoc, the small goblin, slumps against a tree, his green skin ashen with exhaustion.
'Summoning Garm was overkill' Ren chides himself, watching the guardian wolf sprawl lazily nearby, his obsidian fur matted with ogre blood.
'But better safe than sorry, right?' the thought is tinged with a strange sense of awkwardness, but the goblin's safety and his right to revenge had demanded swift action, to Garm's own opinion obviously.
He turns his gaze to the horizon, where the sun dips low, painting the sky in hues of amber and violet. A scenery straight out from a painting, especially for Ren who never saw such a view.
'No smog here. No choking gray. Just… light and the breathtaking art of Mother Nature' If Sprout's wooden face could mimic human expression, Ren imagines it would soften with awe in a satisfied smile.
Garm yawns, his massive jaws stretching wide, before flopping onto his side with a sonorous thud. Humtoc, sensing the shift, inches closer and nestles into the wolf's thick fur, his tiny frame dwarfed by the beast's protective bulk. The goblin's breathing steadies, his fears forgotten thanks to the divine protection of his God.
"Enjoying thyself, Garm?" Sprout rumbles, his voice a deep, resonant hum that stirs the leaves overhead.
"Garm protects pack of young Master" the wolf replies, his crimson eyes half-lidded as drowsiness claims him. A low, contented growl vibrates in his throat, part warning to the wilderness nearby, part lullaby for the goblin.
Ren's attention drifts to the distant silhouette of towering walls, their outlines jagged against the twilight.
'Two days' march. A flying mount could shorten it. A teleportation spell, even faster' thinks Ren, but the idea feels hollow to him.
Beneath Sprout's bark-like skin, Ren's human soul aches to savor this unspoiled world the rustle of wind through ancient trees, the earthy scent of moss, the symphony of crickets heralding nightfall.
'Why should I rush? It is also for Humtoc's well-being yeah'. Ren convinces himself that he is doing the right thing. He really wants to savour this time.
"Carpe Diem" he murmurs, the words blending with the forest's whispers.
As darkness blankets the land, the clearing comes alive in a different way. Birds roost on Sprout's outstretched horns, their feathers brushing his bark like grateful kisses.
Squirrels dart around his roots, chattering as they stash acorns in his crevices. Butterflies, drawn to the blossoms crowning his entire body, settle in a kaleidoscope of iridescent wings. Even fireflies emerge, their golden glow weaving through the air like living stars.
'An archdruid's aura' Ren muses 'a beacon for life'.
Yet the creatures' trust, their fearless closeness, stirs something deeper. On Earth, nature had recoiled from humanity's touch. Here, it embraces him.
Garm's snores rumble like distant thunder, and Humtoc stirs briefly, a small hand gripping a tuft of fur. Ren, through Sprout's eyes, watches the scene, a strange warmth blooming where a heart might beat. 'This… this is peace. Not the absence of conflict, but the presence of harmony'.
He leans back, roots anchoring into the soil, and lets the forest's pulse lull him into stillness.
—
The night presses down like a smothering hand. Platoon Sergeant Pabel Baraja moves like a wraith along the Great Wall, his frost-pale eyes scanning the void beyond.
All around him, archers nock arrows with trembling hands, each one a silent prayer, each quiver's rattle a dirge. These are not the best of soldiers; they are the ones available, their calloused fingers gripping bows that bear the weight of a kingdom's fragile hope.
"Status, Black?" an officer barks, his voice frayed at the edges as he steps toward Pabel.
Pabel doesn't turn. "Prepared. Not ready" he growls behind the black bandana covering his mouth. His cloak flaps like a war banner in the keening wind. "Skill won't save us when if their hordes break. Only numbers. Or miracles".
"We called for the Paladin Order," the officer says, his voice tight, "in case the demi-humans… in case there are too many".
His words hang in the air, brittle and unconvincing, as if even he doubts the reinforcements will arrive in time.
Pabel doesn't respond at first. His gaze is locked on the horizon, where shadows shift and writhe like a living tide.
The distant thunder of Zoastia's hooves reverberates through the ground, each beat a hammer strike to the chest. Beneath it, the deep, resonant thrum of the Grand King of Destruction's war drums pulses like the heartbeat of some monstrous beast.
"They chose the night?" the officer mutters, his voice tinged with disbelief. He stares into the abyss beneath the wall, as if the darkness itself might answer. "Do they mean to fight in this… this blindness?"
Pabel's lips curl into a grimace, though his icy eyes remain fixed on the encroaching storm. "Demi-humans don't fear the dark" he says, his tone low and steady, like the hum of a drawn bowstring. "Their senses are sharper than ours. Some see in the black as clearly as we see in daylight. The night is their ally, not ours".
The officer swallows hard, his hand instinctively tightening on the hilt of his sword. "Then what do we do?"
Pabel's voice is calm, almost unnervingly so. "We wait. We watch. And if luck favors us, we won't have to loose a single arrow".
He pauses, his face hardening as the drums grow louder. "But if it doesn't… we make every shot count".
As the battle between Zoastia and Bafolk starts Pabel's thoughts go to his daughter finding ease in his memories.
—
The moon hangs low, a pale witness to the carnage unfurling beneath its gaze. Silver light bleeds across the battlefield, glinting off the serrated edges of weapons and the wild eyes of warriors.
War drums from the Bafolk army pound like the heartbeat of a rabid beast, syncopated with the guttural chants of the Zoastia, a primal hymn that shakes the very air. At the epicenter stand the two titans leading these armies: Buser, Grand King of Destruction and Vijar Rajandala, the Demon Claw.
Buser snorts, steam erupting from his flared nostrils. His emerald eyes lock onto Edge Wing, the axe clutched in Vijar's clawed hand. Not for possession, never for possession. He licks his cracked lips, craving the metallic scream of the sword shattering beneath his fists.
Vijar, meanwhile, tenses, his equine legs digging trenches into the soil. Edge Wing hums faintly, its dark blade thirsting for blood, while his left claws flex, each talon a relic of countless battles. The air thrums.
Then, the battle commences.
"I AM DEMON CLAW! VIJAR RAJANDALA!"
Vijar's roar splits the night. He surges forward, Edge Wing arcing in a crescent of lethal black steel, but Buser is already moving.
The Bafolk Lord's hooves vanish, his body a blur of silver fur and golden horn-tips. He reappears inches from Vijar, horns aimed like battering rams, their gilded points glowing with [Charge Without Hesitation, thei item that adorna them. The air itself screams.
Vijar pivots, hooves skidding. His left claws snap up, veins bulging as [Fortress] erupts, a martial art that hardens his flesh to steel. Buser's horns collide with a thunderclap, sparks erupting where keratin and gold meets claw.
Buser's hooves dig into the earth, his massive frame steady as a mountain.
In his hands, his shield [Lanza's Merit] gleams under the pale moonlight, the white topaz at its center pulsing faintly with dwarven craftsmanship. The shield is more than a defense, it's a weapon he obtained trading with dwarves, its edges honed to a razor's sharpness.
Vijar charges, his claws a blur of silver and shadow. The first strike screeches against the shield, sparks flying as the metal-like talons meet enchanted steel.
The second comes faster, a diagonal slash that Buser deflects with a grunt, the impact reverberating through his arms. The third is a feint, Vijar's claws dart low, aiming for Buser's legs, but the Bafolk king anticipates, slamming [Lanza's Merit] downward to block.
Buser's emerald eyes narrow, his muscles coiling like springs. With a roar, he surges forward, his shield glowing faintly as he activates [Shield Bash]. The technique channels his raw strength into a single, devastating strike, the shield's edge cutting through the air like a guillotine
Vijar takes the hit head-on, the impact sending him skidding backward, his claws digging furrows into the ground to halt his momentum.
A guttural growl escapes his throat, pain flashing in his eyes, but he doesn't falter. His equine legs tense, his claws flexing as he prepares to retaliate.
"Weak!" Buser bellows, his voice a landslide. His fists blur, twisting like smoke to evade Vijar's retaliatory slash. A fist slams into Vijar's ribs.
Vijar grins, blood flecking his teeth. "You hit like a whelp" Edge Wing whirls, its edge singing. The blade cleaves downward with the force of a falling mountain.
However, the clash of titans halts mid-strike, the air itself recoiling as if the world holds its breath. Buser's horns, poised to gore, and Vijar's claws, ready to rend, freeze in place.
The two apex predators, kings of their respective domains, shudder as an ancient, primal instinct surges through their veins, a force older than arrogance, might, or intellect. Survival.
Time fractures. The battlefield, once a cacophony of war drums and battle cries, falls into a silence so profound it feels like the universe itself has paused.
And then, God appears.
"Enow".
Sprout stands at the edge of the fray, his towering form a living monument to nature's wrath and majesty.
His bark-like skin glistens under the moonlight, the bioluminescent lichen along his arms pulsing faintly, while the fiery blossoms at his joints smolder with an otherworldly glow.
His fungal eyes, glowing like twin suns, pierce through the darkness, casting an eerie, sulfurous light that seems to strip away all pretense of strength.
Beside him, Garm looms, a shadow given form. The obsidian wolf's fur drinks in the light, his serpentine tongue lashing as crimson as freshly spilled blood. Clenched between his jagged fangs is Helreaver, the monolithic zweihander, its verdant runes pulsing with a power that makes the very air tremble.
To Buser and Vijar, these beings are not mere intruders. They are forces of nature, gods made manifest.
The ground beneath Sprout's feet seems to bow, the air around him thick with the scent of blooming flowers and burning embers. Garm's presence is a void, a living abyss that threatens to consume all who dare meet his gaze.
The other demi-humans, despite all their numbers and the might of their leaders, feel their instincts scream in unison: Do not move. Do not breathe. Do not provoke.
—
One moment, Ren exists in a cocoon of stillness, the symphony of rustling leaves, the rhythmic snores of Garm, the warmth of Humtoc's tiny form nestled in the wolf's fur, and the next, the night erupts.
Distant war drums pulse like a diseased heartbeat, their vibrations crawling across Sprout's bark-like skin. Bestial roars follow, primal and guttural, tearing through the forest's serenity.
Garm is already moving. The obsidian wolf rises with predator's grace, his crimson eyes blazing as he nudges Humtoc aside with his velvet-soft nose.
The goblin murmurs incoherently, his uplifted form, once frail, now thrumming with latent magic, as the little goblin rolls into a ball continuing to sleep, the noises not even reaching his ears.
Helreaver materializes between Garm's jagged fangs, the zweihander's runes flickering like cursed embers.
"Garm" Sprout rumbles, his voice a low tremor that sends squirrels scattering up nearby trees, a strange suffocated anger in his voice. "Dost thou hearken to this sound?"
The wolf's growl is tectonic, a sound that makes the earth itself flinch, reflecting the mood of his dear master. "Garm feels Blood-smell. Danger-smell" he snarls, nostrils flaring as he drinks in the tainted air. "Ahead. Garm senses they are close".
Ren's consciousness thrums within Sprout's towering frame. Strange, how clarity persists, no fog of exhaustion, no ache of limbs. He was so used to being sore all his time that now ge feels a bit unease by how much good he feels.
His fungal eyes pierce the darkness of the night as Sprout pivots his head to take a look at the Wall on the horizon.
'A wall means there must be something to defend from' points out in his mind Ren. 'Then it's safe to assume the ones making these noises are the potential enemies of whoever is beyond that Wall... are they preparing to attack?'.
Memories flicker in Ren's mind. Memories of the corporative wars fought on Earth between the mega-corporations ruling the cities like kingdoms.
"Garm asks young Master's will" the wolf presses, though his gaze never leaves the tree line. Humtoc snores on, oblivious, his small chest rising and falling in time with the forest's stolen peace.
Sprout's roots withdraw from the soil with a sound like grinding stone. "We dost investigate" he declares, petals trembling at his joints as magic stirs.
Garm dips his massive head. One paw, careful, impossibly delicate, scoops Humtoc into the dense fur between his shoulders, where the goblin clings like a burr.
The wolf's movements are liquid shadow, silent despite his bulk, as they melt into the woods following Sprout silently.
Sprout stands motionless, his towering form blending seamlessly with the trees, his bark-like skin dappled with moonlight filtering through the canopy. Beside him, Garm is a shadow within shadows, his obsidian fur swallowing the faint light.
Ren's consciousness churn as he witnesses the battle between Bafolk and Zoastia.
'A battle between humanoids. Was one of them to build the Wall?' His fungal eyes narrow, locking onto the two figures at the heart of the chaos a goat-like humanoid and a bestial centaur. 'Goatmen weren't rare in YGDDRASIL, but what is that other creature?' questions Ren, studying the scene.
The scream of Vijar pierces the night, a sound that makes the leaves shiver. The clash begins, a storm of claws and horns, and Ren feels it. He feels something deep, primal stirring within Sprout's core. It's not just anger; it's outrage. The earth beneath his roots groans, as if mourning the desecration of its sanctity.
Every fibre of his arboreal being ask him to take action. Nature is calling its sacrosanct warden.
"Young Master?" Garm's growl is low, a rumble that vibrates through the ground.
"Foolish beings" Sprout murmurs, his voice a resonant hum that stirs the air like a gathering storm. "Audaciously bespoiling the sacred earth of Mother Nature with their witless skirmishes".
Ren's thoughts race. This isn't just a fight. It's a violation. An insult. The unnatural fury coursing through Sprout's body is almost overwhelming, a force that demands action.
'But is this me? Or is this… him?' the line between Ren and Sprout blurs, their wills intertwining like roots in fertile soil. 'In any case... I think this is the right thing to do. I am tired of seeing conflict, and I won't let this New World fall into a bottomless pit of hate'.
'Moreover I don't have much of a choice, my body is practically begging me to intervene' Ren realizes, his human rationality wrestling with Sprout's instinctive wrath. 'Well, if I'm stopping a war, I might as well do it properly'.
He reaches for the [Twig of Yggdrasil, its pale wood glowing faintly as he channels a series of defensive spells.
[Bark Skin] hardens his exterior, [Thorn Aura] bristles along his limbs, and [Nature's Ward] envelops him in a shimmering barrier of verdant light and finally [Aspect of the Elemental] gives him elemental resostances.
All these spells along with the [Fur of the Nemean Lion] that clings to his frame and his job class [Bastion] would even prevent him to take damage from almost an entire party of level 100 players for almost 6 seconds. Which, in YGGDRASIL's terms, were an eternity.
Sprout steps forward. The battlefield looms ahead, a maelstrom of violence and chaos. Vijar's cleaver hovers above Buser, poised to strike, but Ren's voice cuts through the din like a thunderclap. Stopping everything at his command, like he has casted a [Time Stop] spell.
"Enow".
—
The battlefield holds its breath, frozen by fear.
Buser's nostrils flare as he studies the intruders, a walking thicket crowned with blossoms and a wolf-shaped void gnawing at the edges of reality.
His grip tightens around his [Sand Shooter, the blade's yellowed steel catching the moonlight like a predator's bared fang. The weapon feels familiar in his calloused hands, its weight a comfort.
'A dryad' he thinks looking at Sprout, recalling the brittle snap of their branches beneath his hooves, the way their sap had pooled like tears at his feet. 'Weak, easy to crush'.
His gaze flicks to Vijar.
The Zoastia warlord stands unnervingly still, his prized [Edge Swing] discarded in the dirt like common scrap.
Around them, the air thrums with a tension Buser cannot, or will not, feel. His Bafolk warriors tremble, their horns dipping low. Even the Zoastia, those centaurian brutes, shuffle backward, their hooves carving anxious grooves in the soil.
'Cowards' judges Buser in his mind. The thought drips with contempt and self-satisfaction.
His lip curls, exposing his large teeth. How many battles had he won through sheer, unbridled force? How many so-called 'elementals' had he reduced to splinters and ash?
This overgrown shrub and its mangy pet were no different. He already imagines the fragments of their weapons falling to the ground, splintering in the air.
[Sand Shooter] rises, the blade's edge humming faintly as Buser channels his rage. He snorts, a derisive puff of steam clouding the air. The wolf, Garm, something primal in him whispers, locks its hellfire eyes onto his, something that should scream at Buser to run away, but Buser smirks.
'Let it stare. Let it learn the name of the Grand King of Destruction'.
"You" he growls, hooves stamping the earth, "You interrupted my hunt".
The words hang, unanswered. Around him, his army's fear is a stench, acrid, cloying. One Bafolk youth faints due to fear. 'Weak'.
—
Buser's charge unfolds in grotesque slow motion to Ren's heightened senses. The Bafolk's hooves pound the earth, each step kicking up plumes of dust, his yellowed blade raised high. 'He is a tank' Ren thinks, detached. 'All brute force, that explains why he's so slow'.
But as [Sand Shooter] arcs downward, something primal coils in Sprout's core, not anger, but disappointment. The kind a storm feels for uprooting tiny, harmless saplings.
"Garm, halt" Sprout comands, his human will making his way through his bark, straining against the wolf's bloodlust. Garm's growl vibrates the air, but he obeys, crimson eyes narrowing to slits
Buser's face twists in snarling triumph, inches away, until [Fur of the Nemean Lion] flares, activating its ability.
Golden light detonates like a supernova, searing the battlefield. The blast hurls Buser backward, his weapon clattering uselessly as he skids through dirt and gravel, coming to rest in a heap.
His horns, once proudly arched, now scrape the ground, [Charge Without Hesitation] now metal scraps. His chest heaves, not from exertion, but from the crushing weight of insignificance.p
Sprout looms over him, petals trembling with divine ire. "O wretched soul" he intones, the forest itself amplifying his voice into a chorus of creaking boughs and howling winds.
"Marred by the yearning for ruin, I shall lead thee forth upon the path of the Oak's Wisdom".
Ren's pity curdles into sorrow. 'Look at him. Just… broken'. The Bafolk king's eyes, once blazing with arrogance, now dart wildly, uncomprehending. His warriors kneel, faces pressed to the earth. Even Vijar bows his head, Edge Swing forgotten in the ground.
"Hearken unto me" Sprout commands as the wind howls to strengthen his authority. "Cease thy quest for battles. Mother Nature recoileth at her children's strife".
'But she's not merciful' Ren thinks, throat tight. 'I, however, must be'.
The ground quakes, vines snaking around Buser's limbs as if the earth itself binds him. Sprout's fungal eyes blaze brighter. "Should I witness thee ravage her beauty again…" The threat hangs, sharp as Garm's Helreaver.
"Garm asks young Master why did he spare that goat?" asks Garm, not understanding Spout, or better Ren's, reasonings.
'I can't just kill someone so easily, but I guess that for Garm isn't a rule' observes Ren as he thinks a valid answer. 'Sprout you aren't making things easy to me...'
"I am not the hangman of Mother Nature, but her governor. These twain species were no peril to her Verdant Grace; let them evolve. They shall glean wisdom from this folly" replies Sprout with immense wisdom making Garm to bark in agreement.
"Garm understands!" he barks wanting to please his master like a puppy.