[IC] Return of a Failed Generation

[Zeroth]

We Strive

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^{Credit for art to MOONYOON of Art Station}

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Year 1017 YC
The Last Day

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The golden afternoon had turned to crimson-hued night. Black smoke from a hundred homes, and the beating wings of airborne monsters, choked Hadrum with the shadow of death. The flames' heat parched the air and blistered the skin. Their light blinded the eye, offering no guidance through the darkness but promising the same end for all. Figures seen only in silouhette stumbled through the haze and the rubble; larger, blacker beasts fell upon them with cruel blades and tearing fangs.

Wulvers, Boogbears, and Orcs---these vicious predators, little more than animals on two legs but possessed with the primitive intellect to use weapons, formed the bulk of the Demon Army's vanguard. Yet, as they gave chase, the fleeing crowds parted around those who waded forward instead of falling back. Humanity's last defenders: those covered in dented, weather-beaten armor bearing chipped blades, some still nursing wounds from their last narrow escapes. Nonetheless, they held their formation and closed ranks as the citizenry fled beyond them. Despite their wounds, they bore the brunt of the Demon's charge as muscle, fur, and snapping jaws crashed against their shieldwall.

"Force them back down the streets!" came the strained cry from some captain or general---the chain of command had been broken so many times, it no longer mattered who gave an order, only that it was given. Only that someone continued to guide the guttering, fading flames of humanity's fighting spirit. "Push them to the central plaza, and surround them!"

The port city of Hadrum's upper district was structured like an enormous octopus, eight streets meeting like the spokes of a wheel at the great plaza. Where once merchants from all ports of the world had hawked their wares and taverns had rung out with sailor's bawdy shanties, now there was only bloodshed from every direction. Up the four westernmost lanes, Luzia's Royal Army tried to push the hordes away from the coasts, to cram them together as if they could force this unending flood of nightmares back into the unsealed jar from whence it came.

You found yourself among the crush of bodies, fighting for not only your own survival, but that of your entire species...

When you see a quote box like this, it is OOC Guidance; your characters themselves do not "see" this information.

The End of the First Life now plays out. Don't immediately rush to your demise yet---you may treat Demon Troops as Fodder for this scene. You have access to all abilities gained in the First Life.

GM

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A pack of Wulver raced between the blackened bricks and smoking rooftops, their claws clicking on the cobblestones. The alleys were empty---if they cut through, instead of joining the rest of the hordes trying to force their way down the thoroughfares, they could hit the humans' flanks and slow their counter-offense.

Or maybe they were just lost. Vincent didn't care which.

They didn't sense him coming. A window above the pack suddenly exploded outward, and a dark shape trailing crimson-and-black Aura kicked off the wall. Vincent's sword plunged through the base of the leader's neck as his full weight drove the monster down. He twisted, ripped the weapon free, and launched himself back towards another; took it through the chest and once again jerked his sword out of its carcass. Another slashed at him, but the scouting unit behind him had followed his lead. Men rained down on the walking wolves, eager for blood. As Vincent deflected the claws he drove his shoulder forward, tackling the beast into one side of the wall---its jaws snapped at him, but he slammed a knee into its groin. The wulver's whimper was almost pitiable. He rammed the point of his sword up through its snout and brainpan, then twisted away to see the rest of the alley was clear for now.

"Keep moving!" he told the team, and they dashed through the firelight and smoky shadows.

"Can't believe we got stuck with the Kaides Cripple..." one muttered, though another glared at him.

"Quiet! He hears you, he'll twist your jewels off and make you eat 'em! Bastard's crazy!" Vincent could hear them through his Aura, but he was used to it. If they did survive today, though, he was going to do exactly as the soldier had said. "We're lucky this is a counter-stealth attack---he normally tries to be a lot more intimidating than this!" Tries? Vincent decided he was going to kick that soldier where the sun didn't shine, too.

But, if they didn't keep the Luzian flanks clear, while everyone else tried to force their way up the main streets in neatly aligned columns, then it was very possible no one would ever see the sun beyond these choking clouds of smoke ever again...

[ERode]

Shields locked, the Royal Guard braced in unison as the crushing mass of monstrous flesh and crude steel surged towards them. It was a tide of endtimes, the disaster with a mind that had swept through the entirety of the kingdom. There was no room for prayers when the bells tolled and the scouts prophesied doom. There was no hope left for humanity, when the Demon King lived while Kaidisyum had fallen. Fires rose, and the hideous warsongs of the fiendish horde was carried skywards by the thermal drafts, as if to mock the sensibilities of the heavens themselves with their shrill cries and their thudding beats.

If they could not defend the capital, how could they defend a humble port town? If stone walls and ballista could not thwart the demonic threat, how could wooden palisades? If they could do anything, they ought to have done it already.

Since they did not do anything?

Ferrucio knew it was already over. He could hardly see through the slits of his soot-blackened helmet. His body had already felt like lead, the consequences of countless days spent repairing ships. His shield and sword were only a few steps removed from scrap. There was nothing left for him to live for, really.

His aspiration was dead. His nemesis was dead. The secret he thought he'd bring to his grave was shared with the only other who deserved it. And at the end of things, he was able to speak with someone who may have been a half-brother.

It had been a long while since his head had felt so clear.

"HOLD THE LINE!"

His shoulder jolted from the orc's chopping blow, but his fellow shieldsmen bolstered his own position. The spearman behind him thrust a pike right past his ear, skewering the monster through his eyeball, and Ferrucio followed through with a shove of his shield, sending the still-twitching corpse into the next. Wulvers pounced forth, snapping jaws and deadly claws, but he could hardly make out their form, and that predatory fear was reduced to nothing more than another impact, another near-impossible force. Air was punched out from his lungs; he drew in another smoke-filled breath as he cowered behind a warped shield and thrust blindly with his sword. Was it fur and flesh? Or just dirt? He couldn't confirm, and it didn't matter. The men behind him thrust once more, three spearheads digging into the lupine monster, and the Wulver fell back as Ferrucio advanced forth, a stomp on the monsters head as he maintained formation with the others. It was no advance, not really. Only the ebb and flow of the frontlines, the postmortem muscle contractions of a life already ended.

His tendons were fraying alongside his nerves. His muscles were tearing at the seams. Every collision worsened the fractures in his bones. Every kill was a miracle considering the circumstances. Hold the line. Hold the line. Hold the line!

Hold it, so that there would be no choice for the monsters, except to kill him before they could lay a hand on the Princess!

His lungs were raw.

In the throes of chaos, Ferrucio didn't even recognize his own voice.

[Remram]

It was the end of the world and all that anyone could do was fight against the tide of the inevitable while it slowly overtook the final spark. Bodies mangled and shredded were strewn about the harbor town, charring in the fires that spread unimpeded as the stars of the night sky were hidden behind by the plumes of smoke with beasts encircled in the skies above. Yelling and screaming, incoherent and drowned out by the roar of beasts and man were the background noise to a scene that could only be described as hell, falling short of deafening and god forbid anyone mention the smell. The smell of smoke, blood, and burned flesh seared the nostrils and offended the senses.

What was the point of this? As humanity raged they were only buying themselves minutes before their extinction. It would've been easier to lay down and die, and yet their bodies could not help, but move towards the meat grinder.

Rodin knew that it was all lost. He was not ever sure why he even still pushes forward. His family was dead, his friends buried by his own hands, and the woman he loved was dead. It was determined by fate that he was going to die there like a dog, but there was no fitting death for someone like him. Someone that gave up when it got too hard, someone that looked for every excuse when it stared at him plain in the face. So why did he still fight rather than just let death take him?

Because he was still there.

The half-blood's eyes focused through the gaps of the dented, soot covered slats on the incoming tide. The grip on his glaive tightened as he spun it over head and then swung it horizontally with vicious force as it cleaved the head of a Wulver. His weight shifted and he spun around, cut open the stomach of some creature and let its entrails hang out as his peripheral vision caught the sight of some sword swinging down towards him. Just barely catching it in time, he blocked the swing of an orc with the body of his glaive. The force of the impact reverberated through his muscles and bones, his teeth gritted tightly as he fought back against the pain.

Rodin quickly shifted the angle of his glaive and let the orc stumble forward as its weapon slid down the shaft. At that moment, he grabbed one of the throwing knives from his belt and stabbed its blade through the orc's skull before he spun around and threw it through the eye socket of some other monstrosity.

He heard the ear piercing screech of some airborne beast as it came swooping down towards him. With the same hand outstretched, he muttered something before that same knife flew out of the creature's skull and returned to his hand. As soon as it made contact with his hand, his fingers gripped tightly and he threw the knife at the birdlike creature's wing and pierced through its flesh. The creature screamed in agony as it plummeted downwards, off balanced, into the ground. Before it could regain its bearings, Rodin stabbed downwards into the creature's skull, killing it instantly.

He withdrew his glaive, now covered in blood and broken bits of gray matter. His breathing echoed in his helmet. Rodin could feel his body fail him: arms sore and heavy, his legs numb, and his throat was raw. Had he ever yelled and screamed so much in his life?

"Come on, just kill me already! How many of you bastards do I have to slaughter before you do?!" He screamed out as he charged forward to his demise.

[Burger]

ａｎｄ　ｔｈｅ　ｌａｓｔ　ｓｔａｎｄ

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Every ounce of her body screamed in pain as she drew her bow. It wasn't used to combat--not since nearly 12 years ago. Estelle didn't listen to her body. She hadn't since she left her home. Pain was both penance and illusory. Something she ignored. It didn't matter how battered her body had become in the last years of the war. The robes, hoods, and veils she had once worn had been replaced by bandages and scraps of leather-armour. She was nearly unidentifiable, though no longer out of choice.

She couldn't take part in the desperate push towards the central plaza. No, she couldn't hold a shield or sword anymore. But she wasn't of no use. While she rarely participated in battles even after she returned, there was still purpose. Fighting in town was chaotic and messy. Towns were meant to be lived in. Moved around in. They were a place of peace. Demons turned footpaths to ad hoc flanking routes, whether accidental or looking for paths to strike at the vulnerable. And Estelle stood within the alleyways to do as much as she could. The ground shook as a Boogbear followed by a few others ran at her, its large body not allowing another to pass it. One could simply fire blindly and they would hit something in this alley.

It certainly was one way to avoid missing.

Her fingers loosened. Even though the sound of war bellowed throughout the town, a distinct snap and whistle pierced the noise of the battlefield. The Boogbear lifted its weapon to protect itself. Metal crashed at metal as the arrow was deflected upwards from its path towards its chest to its throat.

Despite its thick hide, fat, and muscle to protect it, the Boogbear immediately dropped to its knees as the arrow tip severed its spine. It gurgled as it lurched, the demons behind it struggling to get around as they entangled around his limp body. Estelle turned to run without a second glance. Her run was slow. Yet it was enough to escape. Between the uneven floor and the large dying Boogbear that now blocked an alleyway, her slow pace was more than enough to leave and position herself elsewhere. It was nowhere near how a knight should be fighting. But she was never a knight.

[SilverPaw]

Isana

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Isana had a companion by her side, and that made all the difference.

Two of her friends lied dead already, buried two years ago. Another had split from her group at the beginning of the counter-attack. All archers, whether soldiers, mercenaries or adventurers had been stationed at cliffsides, the rooftops, the towers. Any and all vantage points had been claimed. Long ranged personnel were their most reliable means of felling the damned flying monsters. Without their support, the ships and the main army would be torn apart from above.

When they had said their farewells, they knew it would be for the last time.

“Dead or alive,” Vivian had pulled her into a tight hug. A forced grin stretched her features, a hint of bloodthirstiness in her gaze. A common expression since Amy had been slain.

“See you on the other side,”
"See you on the other side."

Isana and Eustace had echoed the greeting. Morbid, sure, but it suited wartime.

How many hours had passed since then?

Her throat was scraped raw, her lungs chock-full of smog, it felt as if she had been forced to inhale a volcano’s belching breath. She was tired to the marrow, but she had to keep squeezing her body for those last few drops of energy. Her muscles were strained beyond their limits, but she had to keep pushing.

Night had fallen, a veil over the ever-burning, sullen glow of the unquenchable fires. Isana flitted across the rooftops, scanning the alleyways for stray monsters. Three others patrolled beneath, Eustace one of them. They were one of the parties assigned to secure the pathways branching off from the main streets. They were to cull the straggles as much as they were to bite at the monster army’s flank. To protect their Royal Guards while thinning enemy lines from the sides.

At the approach of a group of orcs, she whistled to signal her allies, who were not far behind. An enemy’s beady eyes peered up in her direction, but she had already hidden behind a chimney. Quick and silent as a spider, she scuttered down the shingles. Upon reaching the gutter, she swung over, fingers grasping at the metal edge before she soundlessly dropped to the ground, breaking her fall with a roll. She dashed towards the enemy’s unprotected back, the clang of metal on metal so loud they did not hear her approach.

She aimed fast and true, stabbed an orc between two ribs. Her short sword pierced straight through its heart, felling the foe before it could as much as wheeze. She withdrew her blade, pivoting in time to deflect another orc’s club. With her free hand, she unsheathed a dagger. She stepped in, cut open its belly, and yanked out its guts. It roared, yet she danced away from its raging strikes, nimbly outmaneuvering the injured enemy. A slash at its ankle tripped it, and a final stab to its neck put it out of its misery.

When she looked up, her allies had already taken care of the others. A total of six orcs lay dead at the party’s feet.

Good.

Another monster unit down. Who knew how many more to go?

“HAhahaha! That’s how it’s done!” That was Raoul, a boisterous youth who couldn’t count more than twenty years. He was almost as lightly armoured as Isana, but wielded a huge jagged cleaver. She guessed he had lifted the weapon right off a monster’s corpse.

Was it because of his youth that he was so spirited? Or was he forcing it, as desperate to cling to hope as Isana was?

Mary rolled her eyes. She was the other adventurer who had joined up with her and Eustace when those unaffiliated with the military were reshuffled according to the battle plan. She must have looted her weapon too, for it was one of those ‘katanas’ Isa had heard of. Her metal armour was as dented as Eustace’s. If she wasn’t much mistaken, this was the woman who Miles had started getting close to before he had died.

“HEY! There’s more down there! Blocked by a corpse! Easy prey,” Raoul crowed as he discovered a new group of enemies down another sidestreet.

This was no time to reminisce, clearly. She met Eustace’s gaze, a tired smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, though his lips couldn’t manage a proper one. Isana returned the gesture with a knowing nod.

Then, they were off. Onwards and onwards, for there was no turning back.

They were on the edge of a precipice. They all knew it, even if no one said it. Because the moment they looked back, the moment they gave in to fear and despair, it would be all over. So, they would push.

Push. Kill. Advance.

For every inch gained, they shed gallons of blood. Yet if they lost so much as one, they might all perish.

There was no turning back.

[Thunder999999]

Lucas

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As he marches down the fourth and final street, armour battered but functional, poleaxe gripped tightly, and a recently replaced helmet hiding the grim look on his face, Lucas looks briefly over the men beside him, not many familiar faces left, the last few weeks of fighting retreats had bled them hard, but he shares a few nods, probably for the last time. There's a grim mood among them, not even Sir Justinian could inspire much morale today, they all know there will be no retreat, not even a regrouping with the cliffs at their backs, no, today they sell their lives as dearly as they can and hope the ships below escape before the demons spot them.

It doesn't take long for the demons to meet their line, the screams of the dieing and the clash of weapons drowning out any attempts at speech, while the metallic smell of fresh blood joins the acrid smoke. Lucas doesn't hesitate to wake his aura, the familiar silvery-grey mist coating his limbs, what need has he to conserve his strength when the demons will surely kill him before exhaustion can.
Each step forwards is paid in blood, a swift swing from right to left relieves a wulver of its tooth filled head, then the haft blocks an orc's sword with a jarring impact that may well have disarmed him five years ago, but now he simply pivots and thrusts the butt-spike through the demon's heart, finally he lets a second orc's sword glance off his armour before crushing its skull, all that buys him just enough space to take a step forwards.
Progress is slow and bloody, when someone falls, another soldier steps right over their corpse to fill the gap, and the tide of demosn seems unending, but those men who survive press on, stepping into any gap the demons leave, inching the frontline ever closer to the central plaza.
After the first hour of slow progress Lucas reconsiders his thoughts on exhaustion, particulary as painful memories of Felicia's death surface, the distraction costs him a painful axe blow to the left arm, his armour does its job, but the bruise makes his movement that much stiffer, at least the visor on his helmet hides the expression on his face.
He reigns the aura in, saving it for when something worse than a boogbear reaches them, no doubt the demons are holding the nastiest monsters back for when they weaken, as they had so many times before. Steel, strength and skill are enough for now, a swing kills a demon, a thrust with the spike into a haft-parry covers him as he steps into the gap. With each repetion the plaza gets that much closer.

[MooiEen]

Lucille could easily sense that this was the day. Hordes of monster arrived at the palace and soon everyone was shouting and attacking. She only had enough time to grab a bow and start shooting, the dark, enormous figures falling or, at least, slowing after receiving her arrows. The rest of the archers were doing the same, wave after wave of arrows falling at the army, figures falling, blood painting the ground before the palace.

But they kept coming. After every demon fallen, a group of them advanced some more. The shouting and battle soon got inside, smoke and darkness covering them all and making it more difficult to shoot their arrows. The scent of war and the dying started getting to Lucille, her eyes watering while she coughed, trying to keep shooting, to stop one more of them, to help a little. She still felt the eyes of the others on her, nobody expecting her, the ghost that never did anything important, to hold her own in the middle of a battle like this. "They are coming! The North door!" she shouted to no one in particular, seeing by her side how a group of demons could easily get past the arrows coming down continuously.

Her arms were starting to weight far more, having to use all of her strength to keep her bow up and keep shooting. Still, she got hit after hit, though they started to feel weaker, only slowing down the monsters. Almost none of the demons fell that easily now. As the soldiers in the palace lost their hope and strength, as they were, the demons appeared stronger, even happier. Their cruel smiles were visible even in the distance. Their cackles were starting to sound even up there, giving Lucille the chills. They didn't have much time.

A shout closer than normal got her attention. She turned, checking the entrances to the place where they were, noticing that there were bodies there. The demons were getting to them.

[Rune_Alchemist]

Ophelia Noella Kaides -
Hadrum, Last stand.
@OwO

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Inhale.

A swift sidestep, the heavy blow of the Orc missing entirely.

Exhale.

In the next instant, a swift, practiced movement. The blade thrust forward, the estoc piercing the creatures thick hide and sinking deep into its flesh. An angry, pitiful cry from the beast as the blade subsequently was pulled out, now covered in the monsters disgusting ichor. A second strike followed, piercing the creatures throat upwards into its skull. Unnecessary but she wanted to be certain it was no longer a threat.

A bellowing cry from behind, but she was already prepared as a Wulver charged. A step away as she'd spin to face the creature.

Inhale.

She could feel her lungs starting to burn. The amount of exertion she was having to perform just to keep up...

Exhale.

"Having trouble with a sickly girl like me, you guys must be the worst demons I've ever seen." Ophelia taunted, the despicable creature lunged forward, a sweeping strike. She'd grimace as her blade met its, a crack of pain blooming across her arm as she'd deflect it with all her strength. It was enough, though, for an opening. The Estoc found its way into the creatures abdomen, its viscera and guts spilling over the ground as she'd pull it out seconds later.

"Haa...."

Relative silence followed. The sounds of battle from the desperate push forward nearby reaching her ears. She'd very much have preferred to be there but...well, what could she do? She'd only get in their way. She had learned that lesson already. The message had been loud and clear from her father, to say nothing of the events that led to her mothers death. Instead, she had been clearing out and trying to cut off reinforcements or monsters nearby to help take the pressure off the center. She didn't know if it was helping but...

What else could she realistically do with this frail body of hers?

"...whew...okay. This exhaustion is getting to me-!"

A snarling cry from above, a beating of wings as it landed in front of her, slamming her with its wings.

"Guh-!"

Ophelia was knocked backwards, the impact sending her stumbling backwards.

"Tch, bastard-!" She was cornered between an alleyway and a flying monster, now. The small side street she had been fighting on and working down now blocked by this creature. "Fine...you'll die like the others." Tough words, despite her aching body and the fact that blow had likely broke something, but there was nothing for it. She wasn't going to fall here, no. She refused.

[King Cosmos]

"Forward!"

Men on either side of him, their faces different from those he had been standing beside a few minutes ago as the dead were lost underfoot and others stepped forward to fill the gap. More men behind him, pushing him forward in a relentless press that urged the entire front line towards the enemy lest some lose their nerve and this disaster turn into a rout.

He blinked dirt from his eyes and another enemy stood before him. An Orc? A Wulver? Something else? It hardly mattered at this point, it swung at him nonetheless and he pivoted his body to let the claw or weapon pass through empty air. His shoulder locked up for a fraction of a second, but the following thrust was fast enough that it didn't matter as he drove his sword into the soft meat of it's throat and it fell back gurgling to reveal the next behind it.

"Forward!"

They pressed onwards again, creeping forward another few feet as they stepped over bodies both human and demon. None of them were brave or foolish enough to look down and check. Nor did he dare look back and see how few men were available to take his place should he or anyone else fall. Their shield wall advanced, stretching from one side of the wide avenue all the way to the other, those at the edges scraping the bricks with their kites and pauldrons. It was one of the main thoroughfares crossing the city, offering an easy path from the docks to the centre and the demons seemed hellbent on opening that path for their troops. The defenders, in turn, were equally hellbent on not letting them take it and was spilling copious amounts of blood towards that end, though from the sounds of fighting coming both from and the sides and behind them it seemed the demons had found alternate paths to take.

"Forward!"

Mateo has no idea who kept screaming the order to advance. He had lost sight of any sort of commander ages ago and the voice kept changing regardless. From how rough his throat felt, it might even have been him. It bore repeating though; each fresh wave of demons pushed them back precious meters which they then clawed back inch by inch with every shouted order to advance.

Another swing of his leaden arm saw another foe fall and was relieved to see open street behind it for the first time in what felt like hours. The shield wall exhaled audibly, relaxing a fraction of an inch even though they could see the next wave of demons already rushing them for the other end of the avenue. They had blessed seconds to rest before the fighting would begin again and at least this time Mateo could allow himself to use a bit of aura to help clear away the first dozen demons, before he started conserving it again.

"Forward!"

They marched, feet touching cobblestone for the time being as they advanced ahead of the carpet of dead bodies gained as much ground as they could before steel met fang and claw again. Mateo shook some life back into his limbs, wiped the sweat and blood and dirt from his good eye and silently prayed that the man on his right was stalwart enough to compensate for his lack of peripheral vision on that side.

[Zeroth]

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Year 1017 YC
The Last Day

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Humanity fought for every step forward. With each timeworn boot pressed against the bloody streets, they pushed the demon scourge back. A purple, crackling cloud spread over a shield like fog. It snapped together as a solid layer of crystal and blunted an orc’s cleaver. A speartip covered in viridian, twisting power drilled through armor, fur, then flesh. Those who became masters of combat had unlocked this power, drawn from their very life force. At a minimum, one’s Aura filled their body like blood and breath, amplifying their physical attributes. Yet, as demons were forced back and cleared from alleys, surrounded in the plaza...something was wrong.

"The ships!" the cry began. "THE SHIIIIIIPS!" Those who dared take their eyes from battle were first to realize the folly. Sails blazed against the sliver of blue horizon---wreathed in flames that stood out even against the town's inferno. Another volley of flaming ballistae arced through smoky skies. They were joined by flashing lights from Devil spellcraft. The artillery had been carried not by seige engines of pilfered wood and rolling stones, but on broad ogre backs. Massive wooden hulls creaked and lilted to one side as they took on water through great, gaping gouges. How had the Demons gotten around them?

Generals and captains called for a fallback. Those who had pushed so hard from the front now had to guard the rear, and the beastmen were only too eager to pursue them again. The human's rear lines had been lured too far from the shores; by the time they were upon the demons that somehow made it around their defenses, the second half of the foe's forces were ready for them. Goblins and lizardkin fell just as the pigmen and wolves had. Humanity bloodied their way towards the shoreline---knowing all the while that they were now in the middle of a pincer trap.

But humanity had one weapon left. A golden column flashed across the ocean. Parting waves as it barreled atop the water, it struck the shore before the sound of its travel echoed in thunderous reverberation. Hundreds, perhaps a full thousand demons, fell to that light---but they were not burned, nor crushed. They were...divided, as if empty space had simply decided to invade their bodies, creating a separation between physical matter.

"It's Lord Kaides!" came the cries of those still foolish enough to hope. "That's the Divine Rift technique!" Aura at a level beyond mortal understanding, converted into "space" itself. A heroic power wielded only by the man called the "Divine Sword." "He must have defeated the Merqueen's fleet!" But their hero was too late to save their own ships. A golden comet streaked across the sky after the blast, hitting the water once and skipping like a stone thrown around the world. A column of debris flew from the shoreline, sending down a rain of salty spray. Martenos Kaides, Patriarch of the Great Clan, still made an imposing figure as he trudged out of the perfectly circular crater he'd made in the shallows, clutching a great wound at his side while the other hand gripped his Aura-clad greatsword.

As you watched the Head of your House return to the battlefield, however...a new enemy appeared much closer to you.

"Finally...". He was suddenly there when he had not been before. If not for the sheer flood of Aura rolling from every crevice of his armor, he might not have stood out from any other demon. But it was unlike anything you had ever experienced---if an Awakened Aura's likeness was that of mist, this was a cloud of tar. Yet somewhere in that dark nebula, glittering lights seemed to move back and forth...as if the stars themselves had been trapped by this viscous mass. The Demon King stood amidst the battlefield. He was within reach of so many weapons, yet his gaze fixated upon only one among the thousands of humans.

"KAIDES!" he roared across the shores of carnage. "Will you face me this time?! Let us end this tale the proper way---the so-called hero, and the demon king!" There was a mad glee in those words. A dark cape billowed in the draft created by the flare of that midnight-tinged Aura. The jet-black, glassy blade rose high in a triumphant fist. All around him, the demons flew into a frenzy and the humans despaired.

Little did the dark lord know that more than one "Kaides" remained on the field.

Don't "die" yet---but your "last moment" begins here. Do you dare to engage the Demon King? Do you rush to the aid of your Patriarch, despite the living hell that was your life? Did you fall on your way to reach them, or defending another? This was the moment of your final, greatest loss...

GM

[Teyao]

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Overhead swing.

Sidestep and lash out with an axe.

Enemy fel- roll to the right.

Run at full speed towards the new foe.

Halt.

Not possible to dodge, parry with greaves.

Parry partial success, redirected to non-vital area.

Push forward with shoulder.

Swing upward- split from groin to throat.

Grab the falling. Use as shield.

Another one.

Let the axe go- punch the throat.

Throw shield over the shoulder.

Take axe back.

Spin. Wide arc. Make space.

Breathe in.

Scream.

Charge.

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There was no thought in Rowan's head, only the barest hint of consciousness keeping track of the events happening and upholding one golden rule.

However just because he was not making concise thoughts didn't mean that his body didn't feel the environment, there was a feeling of heat in the air, the same one that had become so common lately. There was also a hint of salt under it marking his location as close enough to the sea for his nose to pick it up despite the smoke.

There were no allies in close proximity.

Instead, he could feel the malicious energy of the enemies surrounding him, almost like a physical force trying to asphyxiate him. A litany of wounds covered his body, small and numerous to the point blood loss would likely be the reason for death.

His body continued fighting.

!

The malice spiked, no, it overflooded the area, it was not directed at him but just experiencing it as a result of proximity was enough to weaken his knees.

There was also... knowledge returned to his mind. Speech, someone was speaking, screaming something. The ships? More knowledge appeared.

The ships...

The... ships, they were important? A flash second of insight and his body was charging at full speed towards the shore.

An enemy and several allies.

He charged.

[Silver Carrot]

The further the Demons got pushed back, the more of humanity's last fighting force would see the pole. Hoisted like a mocking flag or standard. Tied to the pole was a woman in rags. Every visible inch of her body was covered in scars and wounds in various stages of healing. Many of them looked fresh. Her arms were tied behind the pole. Both of her legs had been cut off at the knee and there were telltale burn marks of the wounds being cauterized so this poor wretched woman's life could be prolonged until this day.

To most of the footsoldiers, they may have thought this woman was meant to be some kind of provocative trophy. An ordinary citizen turned into a mindgame. There was not a trace of a noble lady in her messy blood-matted hair or the dull eyes that had long since given up feeling. But every Klaides on that battlefield would recognise their relative. This was Sherry Klaides. The Deserter. The Villainess who abandoned and fled the Capital. The wicked woman who's whole life had been built of the backs of other people she cruelly used and discarded. How far she had fallen, and her fate was so visibly sickening there wasn't even any satisfaction to be felt from it. Only pity.

Sherry didn't meet anybody's eye. Not even her father's. She had helt out some slim hope that the ships would manage to set sail and humanity would have some hope for revenge one day. But she'd overheard the plan. She already knew that the demons were aiming for the ships. For the comple extermination of this country, it's women and children. And she hated that everything was going to plan. She hated demons. She tried to fight back and they tossed her around like a doll. She tried to flee and they cut her legs off. All demons deserved to die for what they'd done to her, and to this country. And everything was going their way.

Sherry had close to a year to reflect in prison, about how it was her actions that had put her there. If her sentence had been carried out to full, she may have even eventually developed remorse and shame. But now all she regretted was that she hadn't trained harder. She could at least have stayed at the head of the army during the battle at the Capital. Back then, she feared death. Now, a chance to die with a sword in her hand, taking as many demons to hell with her as she could, was something she'd sell her soul for.

[Burger]

ａｎｄ　ｔｈｅ　ｌａｓｔ　ｓｔａｎｄ

---

@Rune_Alchemist

A sound pierced the battlefield. A familiar sound--one that, despite everything, still meant everything to her. One that, despite the years and changes, that she would recognize in an instant. No, it was a voice of pain and resolve. A sound that she didn't wish to hear. A sound that she ran from all those years ago.

Both the sound of pain and resolve cut through the distant hums and clattering. Without a second thought, Estelle followed it. Through narrow alleys, she ran--faster than her usual measured jog. She stumbled on loose bricks. Her arms scraped and bounced against the walls as she took corners. Her breathing--ever measured and cautious to not over exert--quickened until her mouth was dry.

She couldn't see it as she crested the final turn--no, all she saw was a blur. An orange haze from the open flames across the city, a green smudge, and a smaller white droplet.

...

Without a second thought, she drew her longbow. Her eye nearly shut to block all but the bare minimum of light as if to reclaim one moment, even one drop of vision. Her body dropped lower to the ground--a refusal to shoot at what was beyond that green smudge. She didn't feel her body scream at her, no matter how hard she pulled her bowstring. Her quickened breath slowed for but one moment.

The same loud snap rang out.

The beast was pinned, flying further above and beyond the white droplet as the arrow continued its path with beast in tow.

Estelle stared in silence at the white droplet.

...

Even through ten years of age and her unworking eyes, Estelle knew who it was. Feelings of familiarity washed over her. She had purposely kept her distance, even after returning. While she had given ointments, supplies, and whatever she could spare to her sisters. But it was never face-to-face. Estelle's cowardice never allowed it. She had always left them outside their quarters. But now she was here--looking at how her sister had grown.

Her little sister who used to lie in bed with fevers. Her little sister who used to fall asleep to bedtime stories. Her little sister who now carried an estoc, proudly slaying the demon in front of her. Her little sister who had grown up well.

Compared to herself? Estelle's face was burnt and cut, bandages covering the worst of the damage. Her hair, once long and flowing, had been unevenly cut. Her cloak hid her withered and battered body. Were it not for her height and remaining eye, she would be unrecognizable.

The horns and calls to retreat echoed through the alleys. As if jolted awake, Estelle ran towards Ophelia and went to grasp her hand--to lead her away.

It was a cold hand. One that was nearly all bone. One that felt like it would break if one squeezed too hard.

[Remram]

Everything was so heavy. His armor caused his body to slag and the swings of his glaive were becoming slower, the effort to even hold onto it was becoming too much of an effort. Fatigue was beginning to steal his vision away from him as the battlefield began to turn into obscured moved shapes and noise.

What was going on? Why were they screaming? Something about the boats?

Rodin breathed haggardly desperately trying to regain his bearings. How many of these monsters did he kill? How broken was his body, enduring blow after blow, and how much longer would he have to endure? If there was a hell, then this was certainly it.

And yet, even in this hell light shone through though he dared not to hold out hope for darkness the likes he never dared to dream about challenged it. A darkness blacker than ink and fouler than any corner of darkness within the hearts of man. Who the hell would hold out hope in this situation? Even if the Patriarch won, it did not mean that they would win the war. The army was weakened and even the old man would not come out of the battle with the demon king unscathed. They were still most likely going to die, so why bother?

"Even until the end you're still pathetic..." The half-elf muttered to himself.

Rodin forced his body to move forward, his grip on his weapon tightened. He swung his weapon at his foes as he attempted to, screaming his voice hoarse while he fought against fate.

Please, for once in my life, let something I do matter! The half elf gritted his teeth while he cut his way through to just be another body against the Demon King.

[Thunder999999]

Lucas

---

---

Lucas can't stop himself from screaming aloud in rage and sorrow as he realises, even this final stand was nothing but another failure, another trap where the demons somehow knew their every move.
He can't help but turn and look as the Demon King appears, some small part at the back of his mind even wonders just where it had come from so suddenly, but with great effort he turns his back on the thing, and on his father. The demons have not let up their relentless assault on the retreating army, if anything the presence of their king seems to push them harder, difficult as it is to believe such is possible.
Lucas plants his feet on the bloody ground, rouses his strained aura once more and stares down the approaching horde, time to see how much time he can buy this retreat with his life. For once he's grateful for the reduced field of view his helmet grants, it makes it easier to focus only on the demons ahead.

His poleaxe barely stops between swings, the enemies are more varied now, but they die all the same, decapitate a lizard, aura boosted strength drivine steel cleanly through scales and bone, drive the butt through the heart of a goblin that's not quite dead before it goes for his legs.
He feels the strain in his muscles, the ache in his bones as they struggle to keep up, it's getting harder to avoid the demon's attacks now and his bruised arm can barely maintain a proper grip.
A goblin evades his thrust and strikes the back of his knee and he buckles, barely able to get the haft of his weapon between him and a lizards club. He fights as best he can from this new, worse postion, but that only buys him seconds, he can't move well enough to stop a shortsword from piercing his side, slipped through the gap where the front and back plates meet, and finally he falls to the ground.
He's not quite dead, though he can feel the warmth of the blood pooling beneath him, so that's going to change soon, still the demons don't seem to notice, or perhaps simply don't care. It takes all his strength to move his head slightly, to let him see the battle behind him.

[King Cosmos]

"Forward! Forward! For-!"

The shouted orders were drowned out by a defeaning crash as the battle lines met once more, steel and scale and flesh colliding in a cacophonous manner. Mateo braced himself the last moment, ducking down behind his shield and using his aura to make himself a rock against the tide. The demon that met him head on was crushed against his shield, the weight of the multitude behind it pressing it forward until it's chest caved and it's bones broke on the unmoving steel. The rest of the beleaguered line gave way, the fresh demons overpowering the worn men briefly before both sides settled into their new positions, leaving Mateo stranded several feet deep behind enemy lines and with demons on all sides.

He swung his sword in wide arcs, cutting down as many of the horde as he could by striking at their undefended sides and backs before they realised he was there and managed to clear a scant amount of space for himself. Those in front pushed him back, pressing their dead brethren against his shield, but his retreat was soon cut off as his back met the flanks of other demons who had closed in behind him to fight the line of defenders.

Pushing his aura further, Mateo dug in his feet and managed to hold himself in place so as not to be sandwiched between. He dropped his shield an inch and swung his sword over top of it to decapitate the Orc at the head of the pack, adding more dead weight to the push but making it harder for those further back to pressure him.

Those to either side had begun to notice him however and he soon found blades being pushed towards his ribs for both directions. On his right, his arm dropped and his elbow deflected one blow to skate along his back instead of burying itself in his kidney, but on the left he was undefended and a jagged blade pierced shallowly into the plate and found the gap between his ribs. His sword crossed over his shield arm in an awkward stab that saw the short Wulver bleeding from the throat in return, but this just left him vulnerable to another dagger from the right, this one finding a sliver of opening at his armpit that cut a burning line down the underside of his arm.

Somewhere beyond the lines of houses people were shouting. This was nothing new and had been going on for hours at this point, but the yells had taken on a fresh urgency and faint words that sounded like 'Ships' might have caused a wave of dread to pass through him, had Mateo been cognizant of anything happening outside of the five foot circle that was now his entire existence.

His shield swung to the left to crunch the snout of the next aggressor, the two dead demons finally collapsing to the ground and allowing those behind to climb over them towards him. Mateo was forced to swing and thrust his sword in a constant motion, bare of any technique, to keep the enemies in front and to his right at bay as the edge of his shield was wielded to fend off the creeping blades that seemed to appear at all angles. A sword struck the plate of his sword arm hard, not cutting through but shaking the bones painfully. A spear jabbed at his front, digging into his hip before being swiftly snapped in half before it could run him all the way through. A weight dragged his shield arm down as a Lizardman tried to climb over the damn thing and managed to score a cut across his cheek before being shaken loose.

More hands grabbed at his limbs, looking to pin his sword down, or pull his shield away or even strip the armour from his body as he still fought. He was being mobbed by sheer numbers and even if he had the strength to throw them away, each grab was a fraction of a second where he was unable to react and the demons too full advantage to make shallow cuts and stabs wherever they could. Or worse. A flash of movement to his left saw him leaning his head back instinctively, turning a near fatal thrust through the side of his neck into a scratch along his throat.

Sooner or later their weapons would find something vital, or he would be bled dry drop by drop. The only thing that seemed to be saving him now was that they were all pressed too close together, shoulder to shoulder, chest to chest, in a way that prevented proper form and aim.

He barely even noticed the pillar of golden light that flashed across the sky, nor could he spare the attention to feel a sense of hope at the patriarch's apparent arrival.

[Atlas946]

Eryx

---

---

The battle had become a blur long before the ships started burning.

Eryx moved with the rest of the retreat, half-guided by barked orders, half by some primal instinct that whispered at him to survive. Every muscle in his light frame screamed for rest he couldn't afford. Around him, his squad staggered like a wounded animal—too slow, too heavy to outrun the jaws closing in from both sides.

The golden light caught his eye, cutting through smoke and ash. He stopped for half a second, slack-jawed, as it split demons apart like paper. Awe cracked something open in his chest. For a heartbeat—a stupid, reckless heartbeat—Eryx let himself believe. Maybe, somehow, they could—

Then the world rotted.

It wasn’t smell. It wasn’t sound. It was the feel of it. Thick, suffocating, sinking into his skin and bones. His fingers twitched toward the spear in his hands, but it felt so small now. So useless.

As the Demon King roared out, Eryx flinched. His breath caught. Eryx tried to focus on anything other than that presence. He remembered the hope he felt just moments before, and began to run toward the source of that hope.

Eryx ran like his life depended on it. Like other lives might. His spear punched through anything in his path—goblins, lizardkin, wulvers. One dropped from the sky with a screech, wings folding in a dive. He threw his spear on reflex. The spear flew wide—of course it did. He wasn’t even aiming. Consequently, he was slammed onto his back.

For a moment, all he saw was blood and teeth.

His instinct took over. He braced with his forearm, shoved the beast off him, and rolled away just as another soldier lunged in to finish it off. Eryx didn’t look back.

He ripped a spear from the hands of a man long dead. He didn’t check the face. Didn’t want to. Just pick it up. Don't think about who it belonged to. The weapon was heavier than he liked. Rougher, splintered near the middle.

Didn’t matter.

He had to move.

Ahead, the ships burned. Ahead stood his patriarch. Ahead stood his final hope. But it all froze when he saw a chance—an opportunity.

Ahead was a man whom he could save.

[ERode]

Was it sweat or was it blood?

Either way, it stung, the way it had gotten into his eyes, and it was the only indication left that told Ferrucio he still lived. He had lost sensation in his limbs. His helmet was suffocating him, but he couldn't even move it. Which sounds were real and which were delusions? A high-pitched ringing was drowning everything out, leaving only the faintest understanding of his immediate surroundings. He was still standing, somehow, forehead pressed against his shield, but where those around him still alive? The impacts he felt against his body, against his shield, what were they? The blows of the demonic horde, trying even now to break through a formation that remained standing, miraculously? Or the footsteps of the horde, stomping upon a man who held only a formation with corpses?

He had lost his voice.

He had lost his senses.

But...

A brilliant light. An impenetrable shadow. Even as an unawakened mongrel, he could feel it in his very soul, the tremendous forces that had gathered. Those impossible heights, stretching far beyond a bastard's ken. A force that drowned out even his own guiding star. The wall that he was condemned the claw at, never to surpass. He swallowed once, then felt his head snap back, a crude spearhead stopped by the warped slits of his helmet. Still alive then. Still alive still. Less than a footnote in the history books, such an insignificant contribution that he wouldn't even be a rounding error of a statistic. But he still stood!

_{"clear the way!"}

A pitiful, pathetic rasp, but he pushed anyways, pressing his head back against the spear straining there still. Pop went his eye as the visor finally gave way, but he couldn't see anyways, could only tally this injury as another set of things that he should be able to feel but could no longer register. A reckless swing shattered his sword and the shaft, then he tore the spearhead out of his head and stabbed it into whatever was in front. One step, another! His mangled hand grasped his helmet, fingers hooking around the visor, and he tore it off, taking deep lungfuls of the burning air, before bashing the scrap metal against another blurry form. It was coming to a close soon. It would all come to an end soon!

He shouldn't survive this too! He should do his part and...

"Lay down your life for your betters, and be grateful that your name will be recorded in the lineage of House Kaides."

...have something worth boasting about in the afterlife!

[SilverPaw]

Isana

Interactions: @Rune_Alchemist @OwO

---

---

Now more bloodied, more banged up, but still willing to fight.

At least, until…

“THE SHIPS!”

It spread like wildfire, no one the wiser where the first spark had been ignited.

The adventuring party watched in confusion as one of the main paths whose flank they’d been protecting turned into a mess. A retreat was called, but it was a chaos of bodies turning, limbs squeezing, not in sync at all. The frontline was the rear-line, and nothing made sense anymore.

“What–” Eustace swallowed.

“the hell,” Isana filled in, full of disbelief.

“FUCK!” A thud from a fist punching a wall cracked through the air. Raoul’s outburst was enough to snap them out of their daze.

Mary’s nostrils flared as she glared at the monsters and demons who were gleefully taking advantage of their disordered troops. “Let's cut them down.”

The four looked at each other, agreeing on their course of action with a single glance.

They advanced into the rear: Eustace and Raoul headed right into the thick of it. Mary, the precise slayer even with how worn out she was. And Isana? She weaved in and out of alleys to strike when least expected, then back out to recover as well as confuse the enemy.

It was grueling, never-ending, and pointless. What to fight for now that the ships were gone?

Yet fight they did.

Martenos Kaides’s appearance revitalized some.

All she could think was, Father…just what happened out there?

Out of nowhere, the force of a dying star appeared, rending all in its wake.

“Isa!” She was pushed into the alley by Eustace. The only reason she survived, she was sure.

Colours and shapes blurred, her heart hammered irregularly, painful intermittent clenches sending fresh spikes of agony throughout her even as her whole body seized up in shock.

“Isana!”

She felt cool touch on her cheeks. Leaned into it, opened her eyes, Eustace’s face in front of her.

“Ye-yeah…I-I’m…” she stood up, pupils blown wide, gaze darting around wildly. She forced herself to breathe.

This wasn’t the time. She could get them killed, damn it!

Hands trembling, she nonetheless slashed through an advancing goblin who’d thought it could strike them down.

“Okay now,” she said, tremors almost gone. She met his gaze. “Thanks.”

SCREEEEE-EEE!

Birds monsters and wyverns circled the skies. With the ships gone, they’d migrated here.

“Strike them down fast!” Isana gnashed her teeth. Her heart rate was still abnormal, but if she ignored the overwhelming demonic presence, surely it would ignore her too. Surely.

The flying enemies swooped down, clawing at the main force, sending fire at them, and otherwise being a menace.

She scaled a roof, saw that several others had had the same idea, silhouettes outlining rooves across the main street. If only they had time enough to set up traps–!

Alas.

A rock would have to do. Isana picked up a crumbling brick. A violet haze suffused her body, aura fueling her strike as she shot down one of them.

In the distance, she spotted Raoul clinging to a wyvern’s neck, stabbing at it furiously. Mary stood her ground down below, slashing at any who dared approach with her katana. Eustace had found a spear to launch.

Their snaking line of soldiers was being culled nonetheless. Goblins scampered through the alleyways, adding pressure to their flanks.

She had no idea when or how, only that she’d been chasing some of the nasty buggers down with Eustace when she spotted a hint of flowing white hair. Heart stuttering, she veered off course.

“Isana?” Eustace questioned.

“It’s them!” She stumbled towards them, those precious treasures she’d thought lost to her. The alleys were charred, smog clogged the air, fires raged, but those two stood out with with the radiance of twin suns. “Ophelia! Estelle!” She wanted to run, but all she could do was limp. When had her ankle been pierced?

Ah, who cared. She made it there. Unbeknownst to her, tears were slowly trailing down her cheeks as she reached out for a group hug.

Her sisters were there. Eustace wasn’t far behind. Even Raoul and Mary were out there somewhere.

Her loved ones were within reach.

That’s what mattered.

[Zeroth]

---

---

Year 1017 YC
The Last Day

---

---

Vincent leaped up between buildings, kicking with his aura from wall to wall until he mounted the rooftops. His team moved to the next street---

"Already blocked, keep moving!" he barked. A figure in a hood, holding a longbow, had slain a pile of demons and now their bodies filled this alley. A long-dead part of Vincent's heart trembled. If not for the enhanced Sensations of his Aura, he wouldn't have recognized her. The next alley was handled too---by someone else he knew.

"Sir! The ships!" He turned, he cursed, he saw the armies below them fall back. "What...what do we do?" Vincent turned again, seeking in every direction for some weakpoint in the enemy---and then he saw the crosses the beasts had raised, their grisly victory banners, and the long auburn hair that waved like a flag. For a moment he gaped, mouth working silently... Then he grit his teeth with such rage that blood seeped from his gums.

"...Just...bleed them." he spat. "Kill, and kill, and kill!" What use was protecting the flank now, when they were surrounded and trapped? What use to run when there was nowhere left to go? He took off in the last direction he'd seen them moving, outpacing his hesitant squadron---they were not inspired to follow his lead, and he didn't care.

Last but not least, he found her too. But the three of them united, down on the broken streets, amidst fire and blood. For him to intrude on that last embrace...there wouldn't have been a point. Instead, he turned away, and leaped across the next roof. Just bleed them. Shadows edged with red flame trailed from his empty eye, while tears built up in the left, and he faded into the billowing clouds of smoke.

---

Scattered across the breaking shield walls, the front who had now become the rear-guard as the human army about-faced, Ferrucio and Mateo found themselves brought together by the crush of bodies rather than destiny. Ground that had taken them an hour to gain was lost in minutes. The plaza soon out of sight.

The fighting to the rear, nearer the docks, was far fiercer than the push through the city streets; but here the humans had no unified front. Every man rushed to either meet death or bring it, dashing down the beaches. Lucas and Rowan were among these, scattered amidst the demon army, every sword for itself on both sides. Eryx cast his Shield Spell to deflect a demon's blade, yet at the moment it was most needed the magic faltered and shattered.

Men died. Men were tossed into the raging waves to bleed out under the churning waters. Men burned on the ships that should have been their salvation.

---

As Rodin cut through not only those demons in his way, but the fearsome pressure of their King's Aura, he was not alone. Courage had little to do with it---Humanity was utterly cornered, and in the face of death even the weakest coward had no choice but to give in to that last primal effort for survival. But as the half-elf charged, he bore witness:

"Strike Flux." The Demon King's Aura blackened at its center, the nebulae within it now only at the edges. And as he moved he left "shadows" in his wake, which for an instant moved towards his attackers. The Demon King parried a sword and struck off a head. He slipped under a spear and amputated the arms that held it. An axe, another blade, a desperate dagger, again and again; the monster moved through each of his "shadows" like the steps of a dance, perfectly parrying and riposting.

But Rodin's attack came after all the others, and his glaive swept through a blindspot! The Demon King turned and recoiled, throwing up one hand--!

"Inertia!" The Aura crystallized, as if shards of the midnight sky had frozen around Rodin's weapon, creeping down towards his arms. There was no "sudden stop," as if his blow had been seized or intercepted, and yet he was simply frozen in place.

"...A half-elf?" The voice beneath the horned helm was amused. "How pitiful---to see both sides of one's heritage erased." The black sword came down, opening a vicious wound as the crystals sealing the glaive shattered---And from seemingly nowhere, a suppressed Aura became visible again, flaring scarlet rage as Vincent spun through the air. Making up for the lack of an arm with momentum and hatred, his sword point came so close that he saw the Demon King's eyes widen behind the visor.

"Accel!" The stars within the King's dark aura flared white-hot, and he now stood behind Vincent. The Kaides Cripple's body spurted blood from three different wounds he had not felt touch him, and he tumbled across the earth.

And yet, these two warriors had earned a drop of blood that fell to the street. Its soft drip seemed to echo like a pin thrown in silence. The Demon King heaved a heavy breath as he turned back towards them---they lay bleeding, but were not yet dead. The monster clenched his fist, and his rage rippled through the tar-like power leaking from his armor.

"How quaint." snarled the monarch. "That any of you aside from Kaides could touch me---"

"They ARE Kaides." Golden light suffused the area as if the sun had burst free from the clouds, and just as the Demon King had moved in the span of an instant, the Patriarch appeared in front of Rodin and Vincent. For only a moment, he looked back at them---and nodded. Vincent's breath caught in his throat. This man he had hated for so long, and still hated...somehow, seeing his back like this, pained his chest more deeply than a spearpoint through the heart. Because it made him want to not hate this man---it made him want to hope, something he knew he couldn't do anymore.

There were no words exchanged as the battle to determine humanity's existence began. The great blade that divided space struck ravines through the earth. The Demon King leaped between chunks of stone that hung frozen in dark, crystalline stasis, leaving behind afterimages that continued to fight on their own initiative. The Patriarch batted them away, defending himself even as he tumbled through empty air. Clashing shockwaves of inhuman strength burst windows asunder and crumbled brick to dust. Black and gold Aura met with a resonance that sent vibrations through the very soul. Demons and humans alike stopped fighting to watch as if they bore witness to the descent of gods.

At the final clash, the clouds were torn apart by twin columns; one brightest gold, the other so black it swallowed reality. The red glare of the setting sun cracked like glass, and the sky behind it rolled back. Energy expanded in a dome so vast, it swallowed sound. A wind like that of a tornado swept out in every direction, and the earth collapsed. Within the bind of their blades, both demon king and hero...broke.

Everything was a white void, save your kin who stood in the distance, frozen in their last moment as you were. Perhaps because your soul no longer rested in your body. Patriarch and Demon King were locked together in...death? Victory or defeat? Martenos Kaides looked at you, at all of you, and spoke. Both their forms shattered. Intermingled Auric shards pierced your heart.

---

---

You awakened to a familiar ceiling...

---

---

Year 1007 YC
The Second Life

Location: Across the Kaides Estates

---

---

Lush rugs, sparkling tiled floors, poster beds, hardwood wardrobes. Fine clothes, porcelain tea-sets, full length mirrors. Hanging portraits, tapestries, bookshelves and desks. Long halls lined by great arched windows overlooking immaculate green lawns and beautiful flowering hedges. Babbling fountains amidst stone walkways. The many possessions of nobility, not yet lost, yet already considered a waste on some.

The Failed Generation re-awakened on this, of all days: The first day of Collegem Orientation. Across the Kaides estate servants bustled; the noble Mothers wanted each of their children, no matter how disappointing the sons and daughters might be, dressed and ready to appear with the classmates of their age at the Collegem's Great Arena. The noble Cousins, too, were expected to be no-less well-prepared. As the morning sun climbed, it would soon be time...

And yet, all of this had played out before. Memories were as whole as bodies that had, at least to some extent, been restored from scars and injuries. Ten years could not have been a dream. Death had been too real. Mere imagination could not explain the experience they now witnessed, for even that which had faded from their memory was just as it had been...

Your Physical Strength is TEMPORARILY REDUCED by ONE STAGE, as 10 years of growth are negated.
Your Aura is TEMPORARILY LOCKED, as your Awakening has not yet occurred.
Your GROWTH RATE is MULTIPLIED, as you put your FUTURE KNOWLEDGE to work.
What will you do?

Feel free to create any unnamed butler/maid types you may need, individualized wings/rooms/etc of the Estates (there are multiple buildings across the property), and so forth. As always, ask if there are any questions.

GM