Morning mist slowly descended upon the Great Wall, cloaking its ancient stones like a shroud of silence—a silence woven from vows once etched in blood and pride. The wind carried the scent of iron, damp moss, and something faint... something like old ash. Night approached, though the sun had not truly set—merely hidden behind a grey sky that refused to speak.
Before the Castle of the Middle Post—once fiercely guarded by the forces of Snowtrezia—two armies now stood in silent watch. The castle lay still. No smoke rose from the chimneys. No sound came from behind the gates, which stood slightly ajar. It was as if the fortress were holding its breath... or waiting for something to break.
To the east, rows of deep crimson tents stretched in disciplined formation, standing like a barricade of cloth—defending the line between honor and conquest. The banners of Estravar rippled slowly between them, their blood-red hue glowing like an unspoken threat. The clatter of armor, heavy footsteps, and whispered strategy filled the space with a pressure that sat upon every chest.
To the west, the navy-blue tents stood denser—like an unmoving tide, refusing to retreat. Their color reflected the mournful sky above, casting a chill that came not from temperature, but from the tension that had yet to erupt. The soldiers of Oceareest did not move, but their presence alone declared a readiness—not to ask, but to claim.
Between them stood the Castle of the Middle Post—a lifeless heart that no longer beat. Its windows were dark, its walls veiled in moss, and the air around it hung heavier than mist. There was no magic, no curse—only the unnatural weight of absence. Snowtrezia's garrison was gone. No one knew where. All that remained was an empty keep—and the ancient decree of the Kings' Code: that any abandoned post belonged to whomever dared to seize it.
But none moved.
Not out of fear...
But because the first step might be the last before war.
And the Great Wall waited—growling in its silence, like a beast that smelled blood on the wind.
Inside the largest tent among the navy-blue ranks—its canvas still damp with morning dew and fluttering gently with the cold sea breeze—the air was thick, as if the air itself had drawn breath and held it. The dawn light slipped through the gaps in the fabric, casting golden lines upon a long wooden table cluttered with worn maps, empty metal goblets, and the open Book of the Kings' Code, spread wide at its center.
Lord Barish Landfard, Commander of the Oceareest Wallguard, stood at its edge, firm in his long cloak. His dark eyes scanned the timeworn pages again and again, as if willing the old script to shift—to reveal a different answer.
His senior officers sat in silence, waiting. When Barish said nothing, one finally broke the hush—softly, carefully.
"And now, my lord? What shall we do?"
Barish exhaled, closing the book slowly. His voice was quiet, like sand brushing stone.
"I don't know," he said plainly, the words dropping like stones into a still lake. "Something like this... has never happened since the Wall was raised. It's written here, yes—but only as law. Not as reality."
He set the Code back upon the table and turned to the slit in the tent, where the morning sun traced lines of gold upon the canvas floor.
"And what of our friends across the field?" he asked, motioning eastward, toward the crimson tents of Estravar.
"No movement yet from Estravar, my lord," came the quick reply of an officer.
"Perhaps they're just as uncertain as we are," added another, attempting a smile that failed to conceal his anxiety.
Barish gave no answer. He stood motionless, staring at the large map stretched across the table—the map of the Great Wall, dotted with black markers denoting every watchpoint. And there, one mark in red gaped like an open wound: the Middle Post.
His thoughts ran long. The officers exchanged glances, waiting for command—but Lord Barish seemed to hear nothing but the silence of his own mind.
Then, the morning wind stirred more strongly. The tent walls shifted, sending in the brine-sweet air from the distant sea. The gentle rustle of canvas only deepened the hush.
"My lord?" an adjutant called softly, breaking the spell.
Barish turned, as though suddenly reminded he was not alone.
"What is it, my lord?" the adjutant asked again, a hint of concern in his voice.
Barish glanced at his officers one by one, then back to the map.
"I'm just wondering..." he murmured. "What could have made the Snowtrezia guards abandon their post."
He pointed to the red mark, eyes narrowing.
"There's been no word from the capital. Even they know nothing of this..."
And that morning, beneath the soft light and the cold wind brushing over their war camp, uncertainty weighed heavier than any sky. Not from an enemy seen—but from what had happened, without anyone knowing why.
Suddenly, hurried footsteps from outside shook the damp earth. The scrape of thick leather boots mingled with mud as a soldier burst into the tent, breath short, cheeks flushed with wind. Mist still clung to the camp beyond, and a chill breeze from the lower plains made the fabric walls sway softly.
The soldier straightened, saluting Lord Barish.
"My lord! A message—brought from the commander of Estravar's guard."
He handed over a small scroll—its wax seal cracked at one edge, evidence of a hasty journey. The scroll passed through the hands of an officer, until it reached Lord Barish.
Without a word, Barish opened it. His eyes scanned its brief, pointed contents. A moment of silence stretched.
"Their commander wishes to speak with me," he said at last, voice even but laden with weight.
"Prepare my horse," came the order.
The command was swiftly obeyed. Officers stepped out of the tent, issuing curt instructions to the guards beyond. Within minutes, Lord Barish's mount—a dark gray stallion with a mane black as stormclouds—was ready, fitted with a light saddle and dark leather reins.
Barish's escort stood prepared in deep navy gear—light breastplates of polished steel worn over dark blue tunics. Upon their chests, the golden wings of Oceareest gleamed—emblem of their realm—catching the first light of a sun not yet seen in full.
Lord Barish stepped out of his tent, his stride firm and weighted with purpose. His aides and guards were already assembled, his steed waiting. He mounted in silence, offering only a nod to his followers. Five riders flanked him, armed with spears and short swords—an honor escort on what was meant to be a diplomatic ride... though every man among them knew it could darken into something far more grim.
They rode out of the Oceareest encampment, following a hard-packed dirt path that cut between rows of deep navy tents, until they reached the open plain before Snowtrezia's Middle Post. In the distance, the stone walls of the abandoned keep loomed silent and severe, like the ruins of a memory long forgotten by time itself. No movement. No smoke. Only the dark weight of shadow behind high walls.
And across from them—like a mirrored reflection in reversed colors—stood the camp of Estravar's host. Crimson tents stood in sharp formation, and the banners of the lion kingdom snapped in the breeze, golden heads roaring beneath the pale morning sun.
Before them sat Lord Gerin Falbringer, mounted proudly on a tall, broad-shouldered steed. At his side stood Corin and four mounted guards, forming a small crescent around him. Like Barish, he rode forward—slowly—detaching himself from his own line.
The two commanders advanced, closing the distance between them until only a few strides of horse remained.
And then...
Silence.
No greeting. No nod. No words reaching across the centuries.
For the Guardians of the Great Wall, silence was the first language.
After a long hush—broken only by the shifting hooves of restless horses and the whisper of wind from the east—human voices finally returned to the space between two watching armies.
Lord Gerin Falbringer raised a hand into the air, his gloved fingers spread in a gesture of peace. His voice was strong, but even.
"Greetings," he said.
Then continued,
"I am Gerin Falbringer, Lord Commander of Estravar's Wallguard."
Across from him, Lord Barish Landfard raised his hand in return, offering a brief, respectful nod.
"Greetings, Lord Gerin. I am Barish Landfard, Lord Commander of Oceareest's Wallguard."
He inhaled slowly, his eyes sweeping the empty stretch of land between them and the abandoned stronghold.
"After decades of crawling across this rotting wall, we finally meet."
Gerin gave a short chuckle and glanced at his guards, gesturing toward Barish with amused disbelief.
"I imagined you older. Or fatter. Something like that."
Barish exhaled through his nose, a dry snort.
"You weren't wrong about the first. And as for the second... the Wall isn't kind to wide bellies."
They shared a brief laugh—a sliver of levity that cut through the tension like sea mist on steel. In the distance, the soft whinnying of horses and the thud of hooves filled the pauses—not disruptive, but like reminders that this was no ordinary meeting.
"You know," Barish continued, "I always imagined some poor soul on the eastern side—spending his days staring at the same cursed stones from a different angle. Turns out, you look more alive than I expected."
"And you more miserable than I'd heard," Gerin replied with a half-smile. "But I suppose that's the fate of those sent to guard this wall. They say there are only two kinds of people assigned here: those who are too honest... and those who know too much."
Barish narrowed his eyes.
"Pity I'm neither. Just too stubborn to die on a battlefield the way they hoped."
Gerin's laughter faded. His gaze drifted to the looming Middle Post—now empty, silent, untouched by time. A remnant of something lost.
"No defenders. No signs of struggle. No trace of resistance. It's as if... they chose to leave."
Barish nodded, his voice hardening.
"And as the Kings' Code dictates—if a post is abandoned, it is open to the one most ready to claim it."
"We've read the same Code," Gerin answered swiftly. "But readiness isn't only about who arrives first. It's about stability. Legitimacy. And borders."
"You want to speak of borders?" Barish turned, sharp. "Those borders vanished the moment Snowtrezia left the post. And Red-Eriel doesn't have the cleanest hands to demand morality from us."
Gerin's gaze sharpened. "We didn't come for war. But we won't let that post fall into the wrong hands."
"And we won't let you drive your banners into our spine," Barish countered. "Whoever holds the Middle Post... holds the back of the Wall."
They stared at each other. Silent. Tense. Unyielding.
The wind tugged at the banners behind them, sending red and blue fabric whipping through the air—like two flags of defiance caught mid-duel.
And between the two commanders—who had finally broken silence after years of distant watching—the seeds of battle had been sown. In the grey land that belonged to no crown, history stirred, ready to carve its next chapter.
Lord Gerin straightened in the saddle and said,
"According to the Kings' Code... we must choose."
But before he could continue, Barish tilted his head, eyes narrowing.
"Wait..." he said. "Why is there a quill in your beard?"
Gerin blinked, instinctively reaching up to his thick beard. His fingers combed through the wiry strands until they found it—a small feather quill wedged snugly within. He pulled it free and held it up.
"Oh... that little bastard disappears whenever it pleases. I keep it there so the wind won't steal it."
Barish gave a dry nod, lips curling slightly in reluctant amusement.
"Practical. Very strategic."
Gerin slipped the quill back into his belt and shifted his tone.
"As I was saying... the Kings' Code dictates that when a post is left abandoned, it must be contested. Not with armies. But with honor. We each choose a champion—one for each kingdom. They fight to the death. The victor claims full control of the post and its fortress."
Barish didn't hesitate. His reply came fast, like a blade unsheathed.
"I will choose my fighter. And so will you."
They stared at one another—no need for further agreement.
"When?" Gerin asked.
Barish paused a breath, then replied,
"Three days from now. At noon. The sun must be the only witness above their heads."
Gerin nodded.
"This place. This ground. Between our banners. All must bear witness."
Barish gave his assent.
"Full armor. One sword. One shield. No bows. No poison."
"No magic," Gerin added, voice like a hammer striking stone. "And no mercy."
Silence fell again. The decision had been made. The air around them turned to iron—not with hatred, but with honor that could not be undone.
Then they nodded to one another—two knights from two kingdoms, two shadows of history, now hurtling toward the same point of destiny.
The agreement needed no ink—the morning air itself had recorded it, woven into the soil of the empty field like a silent witness. With a slow nod, Lord Gerin raised his right hand high, then lowered his head in a wordless gesture of solemn respect. He pulled at his reins, and with a nudge of his heel, his horse turned.
Without another word, he spurred it forward, dust trailing in their wake as his honor guard followed in silence. The sound of hooves faded quickly, leaving only the imprints upon the hardened earth—marks that lay between two worlds.
Lord Barish remained still for a moment, watching the eastern men vanish into the distance before he finally drew a long breath.
"Three days," he murmured to himself, then turned his steed.
His five loyal guards moved in sync behind him, accompanying their commander back toward camp. There were no cheers. No cries. Only the low clink of iron and the rustle of banners stirred by the wind.
And when they returned to camp, on both sides of the Wall, two soldiers from two different kingdoms mirrored one another's actions.
Quills touched parchment. Trained hands moved swiftly, yet with deliberate precision. The words were brief but sharp: The duel would take place on the thirty-first day of the sixth month, in the year 1114. One fighter from each realm. A battle to the death. For honor. For the right to the Wall.
The message was sealed with royal wax. The sigil of Estravar and the seal of Oceareest pressed firmly, side by side. Then, with synchronized care, two pigeons were released—one from the east, one from the west.
The birds rose high, splitting the greying morning sky, their wings slicing through the mist. They darted east and west, bearing word of blood and glory, of a duel yet to come—of the fate of a fortress that stood at the edge of the world. And far away, beneath the weight of banners and shadows, the keep of Middle Post remained still. Mute. Waiting. As though daring someone to write its next chapter in steel.
Night fell, draping the heavens in a shroud of black, absent of stars. A southern wind crept in—cold, wet, and sharp—carrying the damp scent of old stone and the metallic whisper of rusting armor left hanging on sentry posts. On both sides of the camp—Estravar and Oceareest alike—peace lingered like a lie, a silence far too deep to be called calm.
On the eastern front, beneath the flickering banners of deep crimson, campfires burned low, their light sluggish and reluctant. The torches stood in stiff rows, unwilling to brighten a night that felt altogether too heavy.
A young soldier—his name lost to history, but whose night would become tale—walked beyond the camp's edge. A torch trembled in his hand, its glow slicing shadows like the dying breath of a candle. He muttered a quiet complaint, wincing as the cold air slid down his collar and bit his neck with unnatural chill. Still, he pressed forward, ignoring the discomfort as a normal part of the night watch.
"Filthy night," he muttered, stabbing his torch into the firm ground as he unfastened his trousers with a simple need: to relieve himself.
But midstream, as the grass rustled with a soft sigh, he felt something.
A touch.
Gentle. Cold. Smooth. And not human.
His hand flew to the hilt at his waist, and he spun around—
Only to find nothing.
Nothing behind him but a patch of darkness and his torch—
—which snuffed out.
In an instant, as if the flame had been sucked out of existence, the light died. Darkness swallowed everything. No moon. No stars. Only a void so complete it felt carved out of reality itself.
The soldier held his breath. Cold sweat rolled down his temple even as the air bit like ice. His eyes widened, struggling to adjust. His heart pounded harder. He glanced back toward camp—the distant firelight now seemed so warm... and so far away.
He took a step toward it.
But that first step never came.
His body froze. His breath caught. His neck suddenly bloomed with warmth. A trembling hand reached up to his throat—
Wet.
Sticky.
Warm.
He lifted his fingers slowly... touched the clean, deep tear that now split his windpipe. His voice never escaped. Only a faint gurgle of blood rising into his own mouth.
His legs buckled. The world spun. He collapsed.
His body writhed against the hard earth, twitching like bait in its final agony. His eyes were wide, staring into the dark. His mouth was open, still trying to scream—but no sound came. Only the hiss of wind, and the last breath that choked like a ghost's whisper.
In the pitch black, something dragged him away.
Slowly.
Silently.
Leaving no trail.
As though the night itself had grown hungry for flesh and blood.
And the dark did not move.
It consumed one soul... without a single witness.
But the horrors of that grim night had not yet finished spilling forth.
Another soldier, stationed not far from Estravar's eastern border, lifted his head. A sound—like a stifled breath or the soft rustle of something too graceful for a beast. He turned, scanning left and right. His comrade had been gone too long.
Suspicion bloomed.
Torch in hand, the soldier drew his sword and stepped beyond the tent lines. The flickering orange glow lit the tension on his face as he entered the pre-dawn dark. The wind still blew cold, laced now with something richer—the scent of blood... and death.
He stopped.
His companion's torch lay on the ground—extinguished. Like the mark of a final stand. Beside it, the soil was wet, darkened with unnatural grooves. The soldier's gaze followed the streaks.
And there—he saw it.
Blood. Drag marks. Leading away—into the thicket of deeper black.
He swallowed hard, stepped forward—one, two, three strides—
And froze.
Before him lay not a body, but its remains.
A stomach torn open. An arm severed from its root. And the head...
The head was pinned to the ground by a longsword, mouth agape in eternal scream, staring skyward with frozen terror.
"No... no..." he whispered, trembling, barely hearing his own voice.
Then panic shattered reason.
He screamed. He turned and ran, torch flailing.
"WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!" he cried, breath ragged.
"SOUND THE BELL! WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!"
"OCEAREEST HAS STRUCK!!"
His voice tore through the night, shattering the illusion of peace like a blade splitting bone. The guards at the camp's edge snapped alert. Some leapt to their feet, others still blinking confusion. But the voice—was too clear. Too panicked. Too... real.
Without hesitation, they exchanged glances, then sprinted toward the warning bell strung at the center of camp. Trained hands yanked it with force.
GONNNGG!! GONNNGG!! GONNNGG!!
The bell screamed into the air, its metallic cry spreading panic like wildfire. Estravar's soldiers erupted from their tents—some half-armored, others still dazed—but all reaching for spear, sword, and shield.
Inside the command tent, Lord Gerin awoke to the tolling of the bell.
His breath was heavy.
His hand moved instinctively toward the hilt of the sword hanging beside the canvas wall. The flicker of firelight danced along the fabric as the tent flap burst open and Corin, his aide, entered in haste.
"Arm yourself, my lord," he said quickly, tension carved deep into his face.
"What is it?" Gerin asked, voice rough with sleep.
"Oceareest," Corin replied. "They've attacked."
There was no time to waste.
Outside, officers were already shouting commands.
"Form the lines! Guard the western flank!"
The ring of steel rose as soldiers donned their armor with practiced speed. Buckles clicked, breastplates clashed, and tension pulsed like thunder in a bottle.
The Estravar camp had become a battlefield in waiting.
Torches flared at every corner. Shadows moved swiftly.
Every chest drew tight with dread. Yet no enemy could yet be seen.
And still, the night trembled—waiting to reveal what had truly been awakened.
The bell's toll carried across the wide plains before the Middle Post,
its metallic cry slicing the night like a spear through a stormcloud, igniting panic like flame to dry linen.
To the west, the guards of Oceareest snapped from their cold stupor.
Their gazes turned toward the flickering blaze beyond the field—
and there, amidst the panicked glow of torchlight, the Estravar soldiers were in motion, donning mail, raising shields, forming into urgent ranks.
"By the Drowned Gods..." one Oceareest soldier muttered, eyes wide.
"They're preparing to strike."
Several of them bolted toward the center of the camp.
One rider—already astride his steed for the night patrol—snapped his reins and galloped a wide circle around the tents, voice sharp as steel:
"ESTRAVAR IS ADVANCING! TO ARMS! THEY'RE COMING—TO ARMS!"
His cry pierced the night air, wild with panic.
Like venom through veins, the warning spread.
Within moments, the soldiers of Oceareest, once warm beneath their blankets and lost in dreams, were jolted awake by terror.
Tents burst open. Feet scrambled for boots and armor.
The hiss of sliding metal, the snap of leather straps, and the bark of officers became a chaotic symphony of war-readiness.
Then the emergency bell rang.
GONNNNG!! GONNNNG!! GONNNNG!!
Its deep clangor shook the camp of Oceareest.
Officers bellowed unit names, rallying archers and shieldwalls.
Faces hardened. Eyes turned toward the Estravar encampment—now a hornet's nest stirred to fury.
In the central command tent, Lord Barish Landfard woke with a start, eyes wide, jarred by the trembling of the earth beneath the storm of activity.
"What is this?" his voice was low and furious, still thick with sleep.
The tent flaps were thrown aside. Several of his officers stormed in, breathless and grim.
"Estravar, my lord!" one reported swiftly.
"They... they're assembling their forces. They mean to strike!"
Barish stood frozen for half a heartbeat. Then rage flooded his face.
His jaw clenched.
He rose from his bedding with a sharp swing of his cloak, hands reaching for his armor with trembling fury.
"Treacherous bastards," he hissed, the words like acid on his tongue.
"So much for honor among walls."
He strapped on his chestplate while barking orders.
"Form the lines. Now. I want shields up front and archers ready within ten minutes."
The officers bowed and bolted from the tent.
And as Barish fastened the final straps of his cuirass, the chorus of shouting soldiers, clashing steel, and the howling wind whipping through the banners of Oceareest merged into one familiar voice—the voice that always came just before war.
The night wind lashed through Estravar's tents, heavy with the smell of iron and cinder, as though the very ground was holding its breath.
Lord Gerin Falbringer, now fully armored with a blood-red cloak trailing behind him, stepped out of his tent with Corin at his side.
The firelight met them like the narrowed gaze of gods behind stormclouds.
Officers gathered at once to salute him. One, panting and pale, gave report.
"My lord, the lines are in position. Infantry and spears await your command."
Not long after, a scout dashed in from the forward post, dust clinging to his cloak.
"Oceareest has formed up as well, my lord," he said.
"They're readying for engagement..."
Gerin's eyes narrowed. He peered westward.
And there—just visible beyond the haze of firelight—the deep blue ranks of Oceareest were shifting into place.
Their banners fluttered, their armored forms glinting faintly like dying coals.
An Estravar officer at Gerin's side growled, voice sharp and eager:
"No more waiting! This is our moment. We can strike before they even breathe."
But Gerin raised a hand. The man fell silent.
His gaze was cold—but it carried command.
He stepped onto a low stone outcropping, rising above the field to overlook his host.
"Hear me!"
His voice cracked like a whip above the murmur of marching feet and burning pitch.
"Infantry—raise your shields! Prepare a forward march in fractured guard formation!
Spears on the right wing!
Heavy shields—tighten your ranks at center!"
Torches lifted high, and the lines began to shift.
Like a river of fire, Estravar's host surged forward, step by step, the rhythm of boots echoing the thunder of hearts beating through steel.
Their shadows stretched across the dirt—long, wild, and swaying—
as if the night itself had been split open by courage.
Across the field, the warriors of Oceareest were not idle.
Within a camp now lit like a battlefield, they responded.
Lord Barish emerged to the front lines, his silver armor gleaming like a mirror to war's will.
His eyes immediately found the red movement beyond the dark.
"They're advancing," he muttered—like a curse spat into the wind.
"And our infantry isn't fully formed..."
He turned sharply to one of his officers.
"Bring the archers forward. Now.
They must break the enemy's step before Estravar touches our ground."
"Yes, my lord!" the officer replied, sprinting toward the left flank.
The ring of mail and the hiss of arrows being drawn from quivers echoed across the field.
Within minutes, hundreds of archers in blue cloaks had taken position at the front of Oceareest's camp. Arrows were notched. Bowstrings tightened. Eyes locked on the crimson wave rolling toward them—a host of shadows cloaked in flame and vengeance.
Between the two forces, the Middle Post stood in silence—a hulking mass of black stone with its gates sealed tight, as though it waited to see who would become its master... or its next victim.
The Estravar army continued forward, piercing the night with torches in hand and shields pressed to their chests.
Their marching feet pounded the earth like war drums, each step ticking closer to the moment hell would break loose.
Behind the dark and the flickering orange glow of firelight at the tips of their spears, none of them knew that disaster awaited.
Across the field, Lord Barish stood tall atop the watchstone, his gaze like a blade and his jaw clenched tight.
"Add another volley," he said coldly.
"Ready... and fire on my mark."
The archers of Oceareest straightened their backs, arrows drawn taut, waiting.
When Barish raised his hand high, the night seemed to hold its breath.
"Now."
From the front lines of Oceareest, the sky suddenly bloomed with fire.
A storm of arrows soared—silent but for the shrill whistle of death slicing the air.
On Estravar's front line, an officer looked up, eyes wide.
"Shields!"
Too late.
The first arrow struck a soldier square in the chest, dropping him like a sack of grain.
The next found a throat. A cheekbone. A gap between the plates.
Cries rang out.
Armor shattered. Blood sprayed. Torches tumbled, casting wild shadows across a field now littered with the fallen.
The Estravar line shuddered, momentarily staggered under the rain of death.
From across the field, Lord Barish watched in silence.
"Pull the archers back. Infantry—advance."
His voice was calm. Almost a whisper of the coming storm.
And the order turned to motion.
Oceareest's infantry—clad in deep blue steel, swords drawn and spears braced—marched forward from the edge of camp.
Their boots beat a steady rhythm. Their faces unreadable.
A wall of metal and resolve.
On the other side, Lord Gerin's grip tightened around his sword hilt.
He watched his men fall—lit by dropped torches, pierced by arrows now strewn like weeds in a garden of corpses.
"Enough," he growled, his voice rising like thunder.
"We do not fall back. They're still exposed."
He turned to Corin. "Mark their center line. We'll break them there."
He raised his blade high to the night.
"ALL UNITS—ADVANCE!!"
And then it began.
Not a march—a charge.
Not an army—a wave of vengeance.
The Estravar forces roared forward, no longer in tight formation but as a tidal surge of fury and honor scorched by loss.
They trampled over the bodies of their comrades, torches flailing, armor clashing, the ground trembling beneath their wrath.
War cries ripped the air like wild beasts loosed into a storm.
Then—impact.
Shield met shield.
Steel slammed into steel.
Spears snapped.
Swords clanged and scraped and plunged in bursts of flame and blood.
Each clash was a drumbeat of destruction.
Each scream tore into the sky.
Blood soaked the dirt.
Faces twisted between life and death filled the night with terror and resolve.
The night had become hell.
And the no-man's land beneath the Great Wall, untouched by war for centuries, now bore witness to the crash of two wills—two kingdoms—who would never yield.