chapter 9.2

Under the dark night sky, the moon remained hidden behind thick clouds drifting above the colossal fortress of The Wall. The dim light from the torches mounted along the battlements offered only faint illumination, while the cold wind carried the dense scent of earth and blood.

In the distance, Alcard's group raced toward the massive gate, which was slowly opening. The grinding of steel chains echoed through the air as the ancient mechanism struggled to pull apart the towering wooden doors. Every second felt like an eternity, while the shadows of the pursuing monsters grew larger, closer—death itself closing in on them.

Atop The Wall, rows of Outcast archers stood ready in their positions. Flaming arrows were already nocked onto their bowstrings, the flickering flames casting eerie glows in the oppressive darkness. Below, just before the gate, a thick layer of oil had been spread across the muddy ground—a last line of defense, waiting to be ignited should the monsters push too close.

Alcard glanced back, taking in the exhausted yet determined faces of his remaining comrades. Their breaths came in ragged gasps, their horses barely holding on, muscles trembling from sheer exhaustion. But now was not the time to falter.

"Stay focused! Don't panic! We're almost there!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the wind.

Their horses pounded the ground with heavy strides, rushing through the still-opening gate. Inside, Outcast guards sprang into action, swiftly securing their entrance. As soon as the last rider crossed the threshold, the massive doors slammed shut behind them. The iron chains were pulled taut with immense force, ensuring the gate was locked with an echoing BOOM.

Beyond the gate, Outcast warriors had already taken their defensive positions. They stood in formation, clad in whatever armor they possessed, gripping their weapons tightly. Some held large shields forged from crude steel, while others brandished long spears and swords. Their faces showed tension, yet their eyes burned with the resolve to fight.

Alcard stood at the front lines, peering through a small gap in the gate. His gaze locked onto the monstrous figure beyond—a two-headed ogre, standing at the center of the enemy horde. Its massive frame shuddered with rage, its glowing red eyes radiating pure hatred. A deep, guttural roar rumbled from its twin throats, shaking the very air around it.

From atop The Wall, flaming arrows were finally released. Like a shower of fiery streaks, they cut through the darkness, raining down upon the advancing horde. Several arrows found their marks, setting monstrous flesh ablaze, their pained shrieks piercing the night. Others struck the oil-soaked ground, igniting a massive wall of fire that stretched before The Wall, halting the monsters in their charge.

Oldman, standing tall atop the battlements, surveyed the battlefield with unwavering focus. For a brief moment, his eyes met Alcard's—no words were needed. A single nod was exchanged between them—an unspoken understanding of what must be done.

"This battle won't be easy."

Alcard inhaled deeply, then raised his longsword high into the air, his voice a commanding battle cry, "Drink your Bloody Potion!"

As one, the Outcasts at the front lines retrieved small vials from their belts. The dark crimson liquid within shimmered under the flickering firelight before they drank it without hesitation. Within moments, the potion's effects surged through their veins. Muscles tightened, senses sharpened, and a red aura enveloped their bodies—signs of unparalleled strength flowing through them.

The first wave of monsters lunged forward, leaping through the dying flames of the burning oil. Mutated goblins darted erratically, eyes glowing like embers, their crude weapons raised for slaughter. Direwolves, their spined fur bristling, prowled along the flanks, seeking weak points in the formation. Behind them, the two-headed ogre lumbered forward, preparing to swing its massive wooden beam with devastating force.

Alcard pointed his sword forward, his voice ringing with power, "Hold the formation! Brace for impact!"

The Outcast warriors in the front locked their shields together, spears poised to skewer anything that dared approach. Their stance was unshaken, even as the monstrous wave crashed toward them like a relentless tide.

The two-headed ogre roared again, louder than before. With thunderous footsteps, it led the charge, its monstrous horde rallying behind it. The fire traps that had momentarily slowed them had begun to fade—now, there was nothing standing between them and the fortress.

The first clash erupted.

The first goblin to break through was immediately slammed aside by an Outcast's shield—only to have its head severed a second later by a precise sword strike. Black blood sprayed across the ground, but there was no time to pause. More monsters surged forward, striking wildly. Alcard himself stood at the very front, his sword carving through flesh and bone, moving like a specter amidst fire and blood.

To his left and right, seasoned Outcasts fought with unmatched ferocity, their blades flashing through the night. The younger recruits, though shaken, fought with every ounce of their will, holding the line even as their limbs ached with exhaustion.

The battlefield was a maelstrom of violence—the clash of steel, the screams of dying monsters, the war cries of men, all blending into a symphony of war. Blood pooled onto the dirt, mingling with the ashes of the fading flames.

Yet despite the endless tide of enemies, the Outcasts did not break.

That night, The Wall stood defiant—a barrier against the abyss, manned by warriors who had already been cast aside by the world.

And in the very heart of the battle, Alcard fought like a demon, ensuring that no monster would ever breach the gates they had sworn to protect with their very lives.

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