Incoming: A Formidable Opponent

The enemy's assault had begun. The once-still night around Cliff Castle erupted into chaos as a tide of towering figures surged toward the fortress, blotting out the landscape like a living shadow.

A vast army of giants filled the battlefield below. Each stood over two meters tall, their massive limbs packed with raw muscle. They wielded enormous battle axes, their wolf-like heads twisted in rage as they let out feral howls, charging relentlessly toward the stronghold.

Trailing behind the werewolves was a sinister group of robed figures, hovering in midair. Their wands pulsed with eerie light, the embedded magical crystals glowing with an ominous radiance. Their pale faces and blood-hungry eyes gleamed in the darkness—mages.

This full-scale assault, coming from both land and air, sent the castle's patrol guards into a panic. Frantically, they launched magical distress flares, streaks of light bursting across the sky, revealing the true scale of the enemy's forces.

Within the fortress, the alarm spread like wildfire. Lights flared to life, pushing back the gloom, and the castle's magical defense array roared into full activation.

At the front lines, the werewolves swung their colossal axes with brutal force, hammering against the barrier in an attempt to shatter it. Behind them, the mages launched relentless magical bombardments, their attacks exploding violently against the unseen shield. Others focused on empowering the werewolves, casting bloodlust and enhancement spells to magnify their destructive power.

For now, the magical barrier held, buying the Felchirshey clan precious time. But the relentless barrage of attacks sent deep tremors through the stronghold. Each deafening impact felt like a hammer striking the hearts of those within. The massive blue crystal that powered the shield flickered and trembled, its light growing unsteady—a dire sign that the barrier was nearing its breaking point.

Watching from within, Fanmuir felt a wave of shock wash over him. He had never expected the battlefield in the Western world to be this ferocious.

Vampires, werewolves, mages—each rivaling the strength of elite warriors—were throwing themselves forward in waves, recklessly sacrificing themselves in an all-consuming storm of battle. The sheer scale of destruction unfolding before him was overwhelming, an explosive spectacle of blood and fury.

Fanmuir remained motionless, his face calm, his heartbeat steady. But the external reinforcements—having never encountered such a terrifying battlefield—were already trembling with fear. Even the members of the Felchirshey clan were not much better off, their faces drained of color, panic flickering in their eyes.

From above, the attacking vampires displayed the ranks of barons and viscounts. On the ground, the massive werewolves—each at least the level of a True Martial warrior—charged forward with relentless force. And at the rear, the mages rained down arcane destruction. My god—so many of them! So many terrifying spellcasters! Damn the Felchirshey clan! Damn this suicidal mission! Staying alive was the only thing that mattered now!

One by one, the so-called reinforcements were already cursing inwardly, their eyes darting around, desperately searching for a way to escape.

Meanwhile, the Felchirshey clan members, though momentarily shaken by the sudden onslaught, quickly steadied themselves. Their faces hardened with resolve, their eyes burned with fury. The determination to defend their home, even at the cost of their lives, was written across their expressions.

Nathanael Felchirshey had not anticipated such an overwhelming assault. It was clear now—the three enemy clans had mobilized their entire forces. They had no intention of failing. A bitter sorrow filled him. Casting a glance of disdain at the retreating reinforcements, he then turned to Andre Alessandro and Fanmuir—both watching the battlefield with unwavering composure, awaiting their moment to act.

The noble Felchirshey clan had its pride. Even in the face of death, they would not allow their dignity to be trampled.

Those cowardly reinforcements—once hailed as warriors and mages—had disgraced the sacred grounds of Cliff Castle. Nathanael waved them off dismissively. "Go," he said coldly. "The Felchirshey clan has no need for you here." Then, turning to a younger clan member, he added, "Lead them out through the secret passage."

The moment they heard of a hidden escape route, the so-called reinforcements lit up with joy. They cared nothing for the scornful glares or the disdain dripping from the voices around them. Their only thought was survival. To hell with the Felchirshey clan! To hell with honor! Staying alive is all that matters!

Watching their retreating figures, Nathanael let out a bitter, helpless smile.

The battle outside grew fiercer. The heavy thud of bodies slamming against the magical barrier echoed through the air, mingled with the howls of the werewolves. Fanmuir remained expressionless, absently observing the vampires smashing into the shield, their grotesque fangs glinting in the dim light.

His calm demeanor had not gone unnoticed. The Felchirshey clan, now standing their ground in preparation for the final confrontation, couldn't help but admire this mysterious Italian youth. Even Andre Alessandro cast him a curious glance.

Then, with a sudden explosion of blinding light, the blue magic crystal that had powered the fortress's defenses shattered into fine dust, its remains carried away by the wind. In that instant, the barrier protecting the castle collapsed.

Now, Cliff Castle stood defenseless, fully exposed to the enemy's fangs and claws.

From above, the vampires let out piercing screeches as they swooped toward the fortress. Their elongated, deathly pale fangs gleamed in the moonlight—sharp, menacing, and ready to tear through flesh.

The Felchirshey clan had been preparing for this moment. The instant their protective magic barrier shattered, the magical cannons atop the castle walls thundered to life, bombarding the sky with relentless firepower. Bolts of lightning crackled, ice arrows sliced through the night air, and fireballs roared as they hurtled toward the swarming vampires.

A crimson downpour followed. Severed wings, claws, and fangs rained from above, while mangled flesh and limbs littered the ground, soaking the castle walls in blood. The thick, nauseating scent of death filled the air. The highborn mages, accustomed to refinement and luxury, had never been exposed to such grotesque carnage. If not for the unrelenting intensity of battle forcing them to suppress their nausea, many would have doubled over, retching. Even though no one actually vomited, their pale faces and tightly pressed lips made it obvious they were struggling to hold it together.

Only a handful remained unfazed—Nathanael, Andre Alessandro, and Fanmuir—watching the bloodied skies with cold, calculating expressions.

Despite the battlefield being drenched in gore, Andre Alessandro and the young Fanmuir stood pristine, untouched by even a single drop of blood. Strangely, the area within ten meters of them remained spotless as well. The sight left the others in silent awe, once again deepening their reverence for this seemingly unmatched duo.

While those two remained immaculate, the rest of the Felchirshey clan was drenched in blood and filth.

The clan's counterattack had caught the invading vampires off guard, inflicting severe losses. With no choice but to regroup, the vampires withdrew, retreating to prepare for another assault. On the ground, the werewolves, now exposed without aerial support, became the prime targets of the mages' concentrated firepower. One by one, they collapsed under the relentless onslaught.

Realizing they wouldn't break through so easily, the werewolves also began a calculated retreat. Meanwhile, the enemy mages positioned behind them continued firing magic arrows and projectiles toward the castle walls. However, their long-range attacks barely reached their targets, making their efforts little more than wasted energy.

The Felchirshey clan had successfully held off the first wave—without suffering a single casualty. Yet, no one felt relief.

The enemy forces still loomed in the distance, their numbers vast and unyielding. They hadn't retreated completely. Instead, they were regrouping, gathering their forces for a second, even more devastating strike.

The oppressive silence before the next storm weighed on everyone. The tension inside the castle was suffocating. Even Andre Alessandro, who had faced countless battles, found himself frowning, a rare sign of unease.

The sheer power displayed in the first attack made it clear—the enemy would stop at nothing to destroy the Felchirshey clan. The failure of the first wave only meant one thing: the second assault would be far worse.

Andre Alessandro sighed inwardly. The odds were grim. His own survival meant little to him—but he could not ignore the heavy burden of the Alessandro family's millennia-old mission. More than that, he felt the weight of responsibility toward his cousin, Caesar Alessandro, the clan's leader, who had placed his trust in him.

Twenty years ago, Andre Alessandro had grown restless. He refused to spend his life in seclusion, perfecting his family's martial techniques in the remote Alps. Instead, he set out on a journey across the Western world, accompanied by a few chosen disciples, determined to carve out a new legacy for the Alessandro clan.

Antonio Felchirshey, his longtime friend in England, was the reason for his presence here. His decision to help was entirely personal. But never had he imagined the enemy would be this powerful, this relentless. If he were to fall in this battle, it wouldn't just be his own life at stake—the Alessandro clan's influence in the Western world could suffer a significant setback.

Fanmuir had shown him no courtesy during the earlier meeting, but Andre wasn't one to take offense. On the contrary, he secretly admired the young man. Despite his youth, Fanmuir's abilities were unfathomable. Earlier, when the vampires had attacked, he hadn't even lifted a hand—yet they had inexplicably dropped dead around him. That alone was proof enough. Andre Alessandro understood one thing: Fanmuir's strength far exceeded that of a Grand Magus. In fact, he was likely on par with himself.

But there was no time to dwell on the thought.

A sudden movement in the distance snapped everyone back to reality—the enemy was advancing again. The vampires, werewolves, and mages had regrouped, launching a second wave of attack.

This time, their forces were even greater in number, their momentum more terrifying. For those inside the fortress, the stakes were higher than ever. The protective magic barrier was gone, meaning the only thing standing between them and annihilation was their own strength.

Every mage in the fortress clutched their staff tightly, eyes locked onto the incoming enemy. Even Andre Alessandro, no longer composed, unsheathed his weapon—an ancient golden sword—preparing to carve through the battlefield.

Despite the tension thickening in the air, Fanmuir remained unmoved. His expression was as calm as ever, his gaze unwavering as he watched the enemy charge forward.

The approaching army reeked of bloodlust and dark energy. Fanmuir, with his razor-sharp instincts, immediately sensed the presence of even greater threats hidden within their ranks.

This time, he had no choice but to intervene. If he didn't, the Felchirshey clan would suffer devastating losses.

He had given Olivia his word—he would protect her family. And Fanmuir was not a man to break his promises. Under his watch, no massacre would take place.

At that moment, Fanmuir pushed off the ground and ascended effortlessly, his figure levitating high above the battlefield. His hands moved fluidly, forming intricate seals, and in an instant, an overwhelming surge of divine energy erupted from within him, surging toward the sky like an unstoppable tide.

Everyone—Andre Alessandro included—felt the crushing weight of this immense power, a force so vast and all-encompassing that it seemed as though the very heavens were collapsing. Resistance was not an option; even the thought of it had been erased from their minds.

The vampires in midair faltered, their confidence vanishing in an instant. Panic-stricken, they began to explode, one after another, their bodies bursting apart in a relentless chain reaction.

On the ground, the werewolves who had been charging forward with reckless abandon now stood frozen, their eyes locked onto Fanmuir as if he were some divine being. A mysterious force held them in place, making it impossible to advance. Their bodies swelled grotesquely, inflating beyond their limits—until, one by one, they detonated, their remains scattered across the battlefield.

Behind them, the mages who had once been chanting incantations found their voices stolen by sheer terror. Their eyes bulged unnaturally, their throats unable to form even a single syllable. The magic they had so meticulously prepared was now useless.

The night sky, once cloaked in darkness, was now awash in a searing crimson glow. The battlefield was bathed in an eerie, blood-red light as the air trembled under the weight of destruction.

For a moment, all living beings—whether on land or in the sky—were paralyzed by the same horrific realization: this was no mere battle. This was annihilation. The end of their world had begun.