Chapter 16. The Demon Lord. Part 2

A column of reinforcements left the gates of the recently recaptured castle: two formidable T-72B3 tanks, three BTR-87M maneuverable armored personnel carriers, three Typhoon MRAP vehicles, two Tiger armored vehicles and one SBMR (Specialized Combat Reconnaissance Vehicle). A reinforcement column rolled out from the gates of the recently recaptured castle. Their arrival instilled hope in some and terror in others. The retreating forces of the Kingdom of Topa, scattering in panic like a river breaking against a granite cliff, scrambled out of the way, desperate to avoid being crushed beneath the wheels and treads of these armored behemoths.

Minas Central Square, once a place of celebrations and bustling markets, had become a theater of chaos. The retreating soldiers weren't just fleeing—they were running for their lives. Some tore off their armor, discarded swords and shields, grasping for even a sliver of extra speed. Those too paralyzed by fear to notice the approaching column huddled behind the armored vehicles, hoping to find shelter.

Major Neverov, peeking out from the BTR's hatch, saw the golem up close for the first time. His breathing quickened, and his hands instinctively clenched at the edge of the hatch. The massive creature, nearly five stories tall and covered in cracks and layers of stone and grime, was moving toward the column. Each step sent a deep tremor through the ground, shaking not only the walls of nearby buildings but also the hearts of those daring enough to gaze upon the monstrous being.

"Goddamn…" Neverov exhaled, feeling a rising dread gnaw at him.

With each of the golem's steps, glass shattered, and dust and stone fragments crumbled from buildings, as if the very city was surrendering to its sheer power. Neverov felt an unsettling tingling in his fingers, as if his own body was trying to warn him of the mortal peril ahead.

He glanced ahead, where the Tiger armored vehicles—part of the column's reconnaissance team—were already in motion. They darted through the debris-strewn streets, circling the golem with calculated precision. Their machine guns roared, peppering the creature's legs with bullets to distract it and slow its advance, giving the tanks a clearer shot.

"Elephant-1, target at two o'clock. Aim the cannon. Hit its chest with a shaped charge!" he ordered, striving to keep the tremor out of his voice.

"Ready to fire!" the gunner barked, his voice cutting through the cacophony of battle.

"Fire!" the tank commander shouted, covering his ears.

"Shot!"

The 125mm smoothbore gun thundered, launching the shaped charge round. The shell struck the golem's chest with a deafening explosion, shattering its rocky shell with a loud crack. Shards of stone rained down on nearby buildings and cobblestone streets. Where there was once an impenetrable barrier of stone, a pulsing crimson glow now flickered — its magical core exposed.

But the golem did not falter. Its ruby-like eyes flared even brighter as it slowly turned its head toward the white-and-blue armored machine that had dared to challenge it. Ur-Garon, undeterred, began picking up speed, intent on crushing everything in its path.

"Elephant-2, direct hit! Finish it with high-explosive!" the first tank commander roared into the radio, his voice competing with the roar of battle.

"This is Elephant-2, copy that. Sending HE. Fire!" came the crisp reply from the second crew.

"Shot!"

The explosion of the high-explosive shell was devastating. The golem's magical core, the source of its existence, couldn't withstand the impact and shattered into hundreds of searing fragments. The construct froze for a moment, then collapsed onto its knees, its ruby eyes dimming. The remaining mana drained from its form like water from a cracked vessel. The once-mighty golem crumbled to the ground, reduced to a pile of worthless rubble.

"Command, this is Elephant-1! Command, do you copy?" The first tank commander barely concealed his excitement. "We took down 'Gargantua.' Do you read, Command?"

The response was swift:

"Elephant-1, this is Command. Roger that. Excellent work. Over." Major Neverov's voice was calm, though a note of relief was unmistakable.

But as the tank crews celebrated their victory, in a distant dimension, Nosgorath abruptly opened his eyes. He had felt the loss of Ur-Garon. Peering into the golem's final moments, he clearly saw the red five-pointed star emblazoned on the armored machine. His face twisted into a monstrous grimace of fury.

"Vermin! Miserable scum! You again and your pathetic messengers!" he roared, clawed hands clutching at the air as if ready to tear it apart. "Supreme God, I will wipe out your offspring!"

In an instant, the very fabric of space trembled, and Nosgorath appeared near the first tank. His demonic form materialized as a harbinger of doom. Wasting no time, he lunged forward, picking up speed like a juggernaut intent on obliterating everything in his way.

"Shit! Command, this is Elephant-1, visual on target 'Nosgorath'!" The tank commander's voice shook, but his words remained clear.

The crew plunged into frantic action. The breech of the gun was loaded with a shaped charge shell, every man realizing they might not get a second chance.

"Ready to fire!"

"Fire!"

The cannon thundered again, sending a deadly payload straight at the charging demon.

Sensing the incoming threat, Nosgorath abandoned his attack spell and, with a flick of his clawed hand, activated a defensive incantation. A golden-orange shield of energy flared to life before him, shimmering like sunlight. In the same instant, the tank shell struck and exploded with deafening force. The shockwave hurled Nosgorath ten meters away. His shield shattered into countless shards like broken glass.

"Wretches! I will destroy you!" he snarled, his voice dripping with hatred and raw power.

With a powerful leap, the demon landed atop the tank, crushing the armored vehicle into the earth as if it were made of wet clay. "Where are you hiding, offspring?!"

Nosgorath's blood-streaked claws slammed against the tank's hatch. Each strike bent the reinforced steel inward, the horrific screech of metal tearing through the air. A few more blows, and the hatch would be ripped open.

"Elephant-2! He's on our turret! Take him out!" the first tank commander shouted, panic creeping into his voice. "Command! We have direct contact with Nosgorath! Request immediate support!"

Typhoon MRAP vehicles, with their reinforced armor, maneuvered through the rubble-strewn streets, providing cover for the infantry advancing towards the epicenter of the chaos. "Typhoon-2, this is the Command," Neverov ordered. "Secure the flank and provide fire support to the tanks!"

"This is Typhoon-2, Understood, command, "the Typhoon commander replied. The heavy machine guns on board opened fire, increasing the onslaught on the demon.

"The command for the BTR is the same as for Typhoon"

"This is Command. Copy that." The dispatcher's voice cut through the battle noise. The armored personnel carrier maneuvered into position, closing in on the chaos. Its 30mm cannon roared to life, unleashing a relentless barrage at the demon. The rounds chewed into Nosgorath's flesh, tearing chunks from his body.

"Engaging now." The second tank commander locked onto the target. The coaxial NSVT machine gun spat a scorching burst of fire, hammering the demon. With a furious snarl, Nosgorath leaped away, his wounds rapidly healing before the soldiers' eyes, as if time itself had reversed.

The demon raised a clawed hand, tracing intricate runes in the air. A crimson glow enveloped his claws — Hellfire was forming in his grasp. As the brilliant white sphere of scorching plasma reached completion, he hurled it toward one of the tanks. In an instant, an explosion bathed the battlefield in searing light, engulfing everything in its wake. The second tank immediately retaliated, launching a high-explosive round. The shell slammed into Nosgorath's side, detonating with a devastating blast. Chunks of demonic flesh and clouds of black smoke filled the air. It seemed the demon was finally defeated.

Yet, even as his body was torn apart, his wounds began to mend. Bones reknit, muscles reformed, and his armored hide regenerated before their eyes. Nosgorath panted heavily, his fists clenched, pouring every ounce of mana into his recovery. His gaze burned with fury, his fanged maw twisted into a beastly snarl.

"A-A-A! HQ! Direct hit on us!" the commander of the first vehicle screamed in agony, clutching his blackened arm to his chest. His voice was breaking. "Two KIAs! I can't keep fighting! I'm... critically wounded."

"Arthur, hold on! We're coming! Stay with me!" Neverov snapped into the radio, his voice firm despite the fury burning within him.

A deafening explosion shook the air—the ammo cache of the first tank detonated, sending debris flying in all directions.

"Syka Blyat!" Neverov roared, as if breaking free of his leash, slamming his fist into the side of the radio console, causing the old device to rattle with a pitiful clang. His eyes blazed with rage, his jaw clenched so tightly it seemed his teeth might shatter. "Everyone, on my mark—three, two, one—suppressing fire! Tear that bastard apart! Leave him no chance!"

As if responding to an unspoken command, the entire might of the armored battalion was unleashed upon Nosgorath. Like an enraged beast, the tanks and armored vehicles opened fire. A storm of bullets, like a swarm of angry bees, rained down on the demon. Shells struck like massive boulders, and Kornet ATGMs streaked through the air like fiery arrows. The iron rain fell like a volcanic eruption, shredding through the battlefield, leaving behind only smoke and fire.

Through the chaos, Nosgorath, nearly healed, activated his final protective spell.

The deafening roar of gunfire, like the wrath of the heavens, momentarily drowned out even the soldiers' own thoughts. As the acrid smoke dissipated like a retreating fog, Nosgorath emerged from the swirling dust like a specter from hell. He was grotesquely disfigured, a beast writhing in agony. His armor was mangled beyond recognition, his flesh covered in blistering sores, like toxic flowers blooming upon his skin. Every movement was agony, yet he remained standing, an unyielding monolith. Limping forward, he let out a low, raspy laugh — like ice cracking beneath one's feet, sending chills down the spine. When he spoke, his voice rumbled like distant thunder, shaking the earth beneath them. Scarlet blood dripped from his mouth like a river from the depths of hell.

"Damn you all, you mindless apes of the Supreme God!" Nosgorath snarled, his words cutting through the air like a curse. His eyes blazed like molten coals, burning with hatred and fury. "Hear me, you pathetic mortals! The Ravernaal Empire will rise again, reborn from the ashes like a phoenix! Your rule, your feeble leaders, are finished. They will turn to dust and cinders! Hahaha—" The demon laughed again, his voice like a death rattle. "Before the might of the High Celestial Legions, you worms are powerless!" He gestured with what remained of his clawed hand, sweeping it over the tanks and armored vehicles as if marking them for slaughter. "Messengers of the Supreme God, pitiful champions of the light—kneel before the greatest Mage-Emperor, or be purged! You will be wiped from existence like mere specks of dust! Your lives will hold no meaning!"

With his final words, as though spitting out a last curse, the Demon King poured what remained of his mana into sustaining himself for one last, devastating strike. Like a beast preparing for a final leap, he unleashed his ultimate attack—a force so immense that even the reinforced armor of the tanks, as if fragile glass, shattered under its raw destruction. It wasn't a physical assault; it was a strike at the very core—the mind itself. A psychic onslaught, slithering into the depths of their consciousness like a venomous serpent. When it struck, Nosgorath, like a candle burning its last flicker, disintegrated into ash, leaving only an eerie silence in his wake. His physical form was gone, scattered like dust on the wind, but his mental attack lingered like a deadly toxin, poisoning the minds of those who had faced him.

Fifty meters from where he had stood, Russian soldiers—seized by an invisible lightning strike—jerked like marionettes on tangled strings, screaming in sheer agony. Their cries, filled with terror and unbearable pain, pierced the battlefield like desperate pleas for mercy. Their minds had been assaulted, torn apart like fabric shredded by claws. Nightmares, so vivid they seemed real, consumed them: horrifying scenes of torture—bones crushed like brittle twigs, limbs torn asunder like ragged meat, boiling oil and molten lead poured over them, their skin melting like wax. They saw their deepest fears brought to life, as if summoned from the abyss of their subconscious, feeling pain so real it twisted their souls and shattered their sanity.

And then, at the end of the torment—like stepping out of a suffocating nightmare—they saw it. In the barren wasteland of their minds, as if staring into an endless void, they beheld an enormous rift, a tear in reality itself. A portal.

From its depths, strange, otherworldly vessels emerged—monstrous, futuristic warships, like titanic whales gliding through the sky. Alongside them, hulking mechanical constructs, resembling tanks and aircraft yet unlike anything on Earth, and colossal armored beasts—towering stone golems, each footstep shaking the land like an earthquake. Their sheer presence was a harbinger of doom.

Behind them, wave after wave, legions clad in shimmering mythril armor marched forward—like warriors forged from silver, their plate engraved with runes that shone like constellations. They carried unknown weapons, chanting war cries that echoed across the battlefield like the whispers of death itself. They swept across the New World like an unstoppable hurricane, annihilating all who dared stand in their way, leaving nothing but devastation in their wake. The warriors of the Light Winged, like vengeful angels, praised the Empire of Ravernal and the Mage-Emperor as their gods. Their very presence struck terror into the hearts of those who dared to look upon them, like staring into the abyss itself. They brought death and destruction as if they were the embodiment of a plague, their fury boundless—an eternal fire consuming all in its path."

Major Neverov was the first to regain consciousness, as if waking from a frozen slumber. His head throbbed like a disturbed beehive, and a pounding drumbeat echoed in his temples. The sight before him was horrifying—his crew convulsing like they'd been struck by lightning, foaming at the mouth like puppets jerking wildly on tangled strings.

His heart clenched with fear and helplessness — he felt like the captain of a sinking ship. Desperately, he slapped his comrades' faces, trying to shake them free from the suffocating grip of the nightmare. He screamed into their ears, his voice so raw and strained it felt like it might tear his vocal cords apart:

"Kill yourselves in the dream! It's all an illusion, a trick! Wake up!"

His voice wavered like a taut string on the verge of snapping, thick with despair.

Five agonizing minutes dragged on—filled with sheer horror and flickering hope—before the entire crew of the armored vehicle finally came to, one by one, as if rising from the dead. Their eyes were haunted, their bodies trembling like leaves caught in a storm, clawing their way out of a dark abyss.

Then, as if searching for answers, the soldiers managed to pry open the hatch of the second tank—and what they saw sent a paralyzing shock through them, as though they had just stared death itself in the face.

"Command, this is Typhoon…" a hoarse voice crackled over the radio, as if speaking from the depths of hell. "They're all… KIA. All of them are dead."

His voice trembled like a wind-blown leaf, heavy with grief and horror.

"Goddammit, son of a bitch!" Major Neverov cursed through gritted teeth. His normally kind and open face twisted into a grimace—a grotesque mask of fury and anguish. A storm of emotions raged within him.

"HQ! This is Command Post! Mission accomplished, but we have six KIA… Six dead. We need a cleanup crew and a Black Tulip for body retrieval and damaged vehicles, ASAP! Do you copy? Over!"

A cold, bureaucratic response came over the radio, as detached as a death sentence:

"Command Post, this is HQ. Copy that. ETA—two hours. Do you confirm? Over."

"Confirmed, HQ. Standing by…"

Neverov, his spirit crushed, shut off the radio with a quiet finality. Climbing out of the armored vehicle, he walked toward the second tank as if approaching a gravestone. Turning to the officer in charge of Typhoon's combat unit, he gave his next order like it was a last will and testament:

"Captain, secure the entire perimeter. Not a single scavenger is getting their hands on anything—not even a shell casing. If anyone tries—shoot to kill. That's my order. Understood?"

"Yes, sir, Major!" The captain, taken aback by the steel in Neverov's voice, snapped to attention, his hand rigid against his helmet like a wind-up soldier.

"And one more thing," Neverov called out, as if suddenly remembering something crucial. "Tell Berkut-1 to watch the perimeter. Eyes on the horizon at all times."

His legs felt heavy, like those of an old man worn down by time. He trudged toward the burned-out tank as if approaching an execution site. Running his hand over the still-hot armor, he whispered, his voice barely audible, as a single tear slipped down his cheek like a drop of dew falling to the earth:

"I failed you, brother… I couldn't protect you…"

His voice cracked, like a wounded wolf's dying howl.

"You were so close… Just a little longer and you would've made colonel. We fought through Syria together, crushed those damn insurgents… And now this… Some goddamn demon… Like a cruel joke from fate…"

"And you, my brothers… I hope you're reborn in a better world. A place without this pain… Without this cruelty."

Reaching into his pocket, Neverov pulled out a flask as if it were a treasure chest. He took a couple of burning gulps, then poured a splash onto the tank's remains—like a sacred offering, a final farewell.

He turned and walked back to the armored vehicle, his steps slow and heavy with grief. And then… they waited. As if awaiting judgment.

Two long, grueling hours passed before the cleanup crew finally arrived, moving like grim reapers come to collect the souls of the fallen.

Zinc coffins were loaded onto trucks—heavy, unyielding, like slabs of stone. The soldiers' gear, silent reminders of lives cut short, was gathered alongside them. The wrecked tank's hatch was cut open, revealing the charred remains of Commander Artur Neverov, his driver, and his gunner—lifeless, like dolls whose strings had been severed.

The tanks were towed to a transfer base, a graveyard of steel where they would sit in eternal silence.

The frontline unit, its mission complete, returned to the eastern fortress of Tormeus.

This battle—this brutal, almost mythological clash—had been nothing short of legendary.

At first, the eastern fortress buzzed with anticipation, teetering on the edge of victory. But as news spread like wildfire—sweeping through Tormeus like a storm—the entire city erupted in celebration.

The air vibrated with joyful cries, an exultant chorus that rang like the voices of angels. Cheers for the victors echoed through the streets, their names immortalized in the city's collective memory.

Children tossed bouquets of flowers, showering the returning soldiers as if welcoming them home from some heroic odyssey. Young women rushed forward, stealing kisses from the warriors they owed their safety to—offering gratitude wrapped in love.

With a week of leave granted, the festivities began—an explosion of music and laughter, a carnival of pure, unbridled relief.

As his soldiers were released to enjoy their well-earned rest, Major Neverov sat alone in his barracks, flipping through photos on his phone, searching for solace in memories.

He drank himself into oblivion—but never lost control. Even in the depths of his grief, he carried himself as an officer should.

And when exhaustion finally claimed him, he slept not like a man at peace, but like someone too tired to fight anymore.

Excerpt from Moa's Journal:

"When Nur-Datar's oldest servant, Ur-Garon himself—like a mountain descending from the heavens—charged into battle, I felt a primal fear so overwhelming that my blood ran cold and sweat drenched my body. I ordered my squad to take cover inside the nearest building, like desperate souls seeking shelter from a storm, knowing that this was no time for heroics—we had to wait out the catastrophe.

With trembling eyes, I watched the battle unfold—massive steel beasts, like nightmares made flesh, clashing against an ancient golem, the very embodiment of primordial power. The sight of it seared itself into my memory, burning like an eternal flame. The Russians—like divine knights—managed to bring down the colossal construct, but only at an immense cost, as if they had wrestled with nature itself.

This, however, did nothing to diminish their might. And yet, when they stood against the Demon Lord Nosgorath himself, it was as if two titans had locked in mortal combat, evenly matched in a struggle that shook the world. This battle was far fiercer, far more brutal than the legendary clash five thousand years ago, when four mythical heroes—whose names have long since faded into legend—challenged Nosgorath.

But then… a revelation struck me like lightning. When Nosgorath spoke of the Envoys of the Supreme God—those mysterious beings—and the five-pointed star emblazoned on the steel war machines of the Russian forces, a symbol etched into their metal like some ominous omen… what did it mean?

Does the Russian Federation belong to the Envoys of the Supreme God—the ones foretold in ancient prophecies? What are they to them? Descendants? Heirs? Warriors and protectors?

I do not know the answer to this, and the uncertainty torments me. Who summoned the Russian Federation to our world? What is their true purpose? What powers stand behind them?"

Safehouse in the Nobles' District of Tormeus.

A safehouse located in the prestigious district of Tormeus, home to the wealthiest and most influential figures, became a temporary refuge for Lydolka. The intelligence officer of the Holy Mirishial Empire sat trembling in one of its rooms, carrying out his mission—observing the war between the Kingdom of Topa and the demonic legions of Nosgorath, and most importantly, monitoring the Demon Lord himself.

Lydolka had witnessed the return of Nosgorath, a relic of an ancient magical empire, and his task was to determine the extent of his power and the nature of his magical abilities.

The might of Nosgorath's two legendary generals—his left and right hands, the Red and Blue Ogres—staggered him. Brimming with magical energy, they used it to sustain a weak field of healing magic around their bodies, allowing them to fight with relentless fury. Watching them tear through the knights' ranks, flinging warriors aside like mere pawns, made Lydolka feel death's chilling breath on his neck. And yet, even these ogres were defeated.

Though Lydolka could not personally verify what exactly led to their downfall, he strongly suspected that it was the soldiers of a new force—the Russian Federation. In his notebook, he wrote down the name of this new player: the Russian Federation. They had deployed tanks—highly maneuverable and possessing immense firepower—to destroy a golem, something that even the Holy Mirishial Empire's magical warships would struggle against. And yet, the magical accumulators available for land-based vehicles had nowhere near the power required to arm them with such devastating weaponry. Constructing such a vehicle would be an astronomically expensive undertaking, even with the most advanced magical technology.

But the Demon Lord remained an even greater threat. His ability to command wild magical creatures and wield black hellfire—which incinerated nearly two hundred knights in an instant—posed an overwhelming danger. Even the legendary warriors of the past might have lost their faith when faced with such power.

And then, Lydolka reached a chilling conclusion—Nosgorath's mana expenditure during this battle was equivalent to the energy required to fuel one hundred and twenty magical warships. The Demon Lord had unleashed an advanced incantation of fire magic and summoned the ancient demon incarnate—Ur-Garon.

Lydolka made another critical observation: the Russian soldiers' weapons showed no signs of magical energy. Like the superpower Mu, they seemed to rely solely on technological advancements. Specifically, the Russians employed Kornet ATGMs—guided missiles that altered their trajectory mid-flight, similar to the enchanted light-based projectiles used by the ancient sorcerer empire. However, in his estimation, such weaponry had not yet been miniaturized to a scale that could be carried by a single individual.

Then, Nosgorath spoke words that sent a shockwave through Lydolka's mind:

"The Ravernal Empire will return."

Lydolka recalled how, at the height of its power, that empire had dared to challenge the gods themselves. Yet after its fall, it left behind artifacts that remained an enigma even to this day. Archaeological expeditions occasionally uncovered new ruins from the empire, each discovery reaffirming the astonishing sophistication of its magical technology. The mere thought of its return filled Lydolka with dread.

One fact was now undeniable—the Russian Federation had crushed the demon forces. Despite the Kingdom of Topa's valiant efforts, their defeat had been inevitable. But pressing questions remained:

Would the Russian Federation become an enemy of the Magus Emperor, or would they stand as his allies?

Before his death, the Demon Lord uttered one final prophecy:

"The Mage Emperor will soon return."

That ancient nation, whose magical power surpassed even that of the High Elves, had left behind artifacts so advanced that even the Holy Mirishial Empire struggled to comprehend them. If Nosgorath had spoken the truth, then the return of the Ravernal Empire was not mere legend—it was imminent.

Lydolka reached for his long-range mana communicator, switched it on, and adjusted the controls in an attempt to contact his homeland. But something was interfering with the signal. Remembering his training, he quickly began gathering his belongings, preparing for immediate departure from the Kingdom of Topa to the Holy Mirishial Empire.

The war had ended.

Topa's forces had lost twelve thousand soldiers. The demons had suffered seventeen thousand casualties, including Nosgorath himself. With their leader slain, the remaining demon forces fled back to the continent of Grameus. The events of these days would go down in history, becoming material for textbooks and legends alike.

In the aftermath, relations between the Kingdom of Topa and the Russian Federation grew exceedingly warm. Before long, Topa became a close and loyal ally of the Russian Federation.