Crusade of the Northern Knights

From the moment I set out to rid the northern lands of the Crescent Moon's filth, my blood boiled with purpose. These past months have been nothing but a relentless campaign—one that I, Alaric Flower, ex-Duke of the Flower family, vowed to see through to the end. It wasn't just about protecting my family's legacy; it was about avenging all the innocents who had fallen prey to these bastards, who had turned the very shadow of our Empire into a breeding ground for fear and misery.

At my side rode the most fearsome and loyal knights the Empire had ever known. Men who had followed me into countless battles, whose swords had tasted the blood of beasts, demons, and men alike. The eldest among them, Sir Oric, had stood beside me for fifty-five years. A tower of a man, standing over two meters tall, his body was clad in enchanted armor of mithril blue platinum, his shield as grand as a fortress gate, capable of withstanding even the mightiest blows from demon-imbued weapons. He had once single-handedly fended off an invasion of the northern border by a force of dark-worshiping marauders, earning his place as a living legend.

Beside Oric rode Sir Galen, known as "The Steadfast," whose swordsmanship was unrivaled across the north. His aura of pure silver light danced with an almost divine radiance, each swing of his blade cleaving through the night like a star crashing to earth. The youngest of the lot, Sir Bran, a mere forty years old but already a knight of extraordinary prowess, had slain six demonic wyverns with a single blow of his blade, embedding himself as one of our order's rising stars.

Together, we were the shield of the north, and we would be damned if we allowed these monsters to prey upon the innocent any longer.

The campaign was brutal. We struck down stronghold after stronghold of the Crescent Moon's followers, razing them to the ground, leaving nothing but ash in our wake. Our auras blazed across the northern skies, cutting through waves of assassins, demonic beasts, and blood-soaked zealots like a scythe through wheat. Sir Galen's blade left arcs of silver light that rained destruction on our enemies. The very ground trembled beneath our feet as we stormed through, never faltering, never retreating.

The blood of our enemies soaked the earth, but it was their souls that we truly sought to destroy. These bastards had long forfeited their humanity, sacrificing it in their unholy worship of the beast Orochi, that foul mockery of a dragon that lurked in the shadows, feeding on the fear and despair of the weak.

Our greatest test came in the final days of our northern crusade. The last of their strongholds was buried deep in the mountains, protected by a near-impenetrable fortress of jagged stone and ancient, cursed wards. This was where they kept their captives—noble children stolen from their families, twisted into killers, and worse. We had to break through. There was no other way.

It was during this final assault that my dear friend, Sir Leon, was gravely wounded. We had breached the outer gates, our auras flaring like a tempest, when the ground beneath us shifted. A trap. The bastards had rigged the very stones to collapse.

Leon had been at the vanguard, as always, his crimson aura blazing with the ferocity of a storm. When the ground gave way, he was the first to fall, crashing down into the enemy's trap.

"LEON!" I shouted, as I descended into the chaos. I saw the blood running from his side, but he fought on, slashing through the dark priests and corrupted knights that swarmed around him.

Together, we fought back-to-back, our swords an unstoppable force of destruction, cleaving through the twisted remains of men and monsters alike. But the injury had taken its toll, and by the time we reached the heart of their fortress, Leon's strength was failing.

I will never forget the moment we cut down the last of those creatures. Leon, bleeding but unbowed, stood with his sword raised high, and together, we freed the captives they had so cruelly imprisoned. We saved as many as we could—children, women, young noble scions—shattered souls whom we would restore to the best of our ability.

The letter arrived shortly after our victory, as I sat by Leon's bedside, watching over him as he healed. It was from Raimon. The news it contained sent a wave of rage through my blood.

The bastards had dared—they had dared to send one of their own to kill my grandson!

My vision blurred with fury as I read through the details. The Crescent Moon had ordered an assassination, using one of their twisted pawns, Lord Marcus. And while my grandson had managed to save him, the sheer arrogance of these monsters—the audacity to target my bloodline—was unforgivable.

"Leon," I said, my voice a low growl. "When you're ready, we go east. We're going to tear those sons of bitches apart. We'll help Marcus reclaim his lands, but more than that—we'll burn every last one of those bastards out of the shadows."

Leon nodded, still pale but resolute. "Just say the word, my lord. They won't know what hit them."

The eastern territories would be our next battleground, and Marcus, with the help of Raimon, would reclaim his birthright. The families of Damian and Flower were already gathering their forces. I could feel the storm coming, the taste of blood in the air. And when we struck, we would bring down the fury of the heavens.

But before that day came, there were preparations to be made. The knights of the north—those who had fought by my side for decades—had already begun to rally.

Sir Oric, his armor shining like a beacon of hope, stood at the forefront, his voice booming across the ranks. "We've broken them once before, men! And we'll do it again!"

His words echoed through the ranks, and I felt the fire in my chest burn hotter. These were my knights, my brothers-in-arms. Together, we had faced down beasts that could level cities, armies that would make most men weep, and demonic forces that could corrupt the very soul.

And we would do it again.

The Crescent Moon had made a fatal mistake. They had tried to strike at my family, and now, they would pay.

As I readied myself for the coming battle, I couldn't help but feel a certain sense of pride in what my grandson had achieved. Raimon was proving to be more than just my heir—he was becoming a force of change, someone who could reshape the world.

But before that future could unfold, the past had to be purged. These monsters would be eradicated, and their ashes scattered to the winds.

And I, Alaric Flower, would see it done. The northern skies would once again be filled with the light of our auras, and the enemies of the Empire would know that we are not to be trifled with.

Let them come. Let them face us.

For in the end, there is no escape from the justice of the Flower family.