The void was sealed. Id had fully crossed into the physical realm.


    With neither Bjarke nor Kulum landing the killing blow, Plan A had failed. Now, everything rested on Anneliese—and whatever desperate improvisation she could muster.


    Kulum’s fall left Bjarke as their last hope. But even he wavered against the red-eyed monk. With a flick of its wrists, the monk hurled sizzling volleys of half-formed magic. Before, its attacks had been mere distractions. Now that the void was sealed, they were the opening notes of the massacre already ripping through the human ranks.


    Bjarke dodged and struck, his battle-axe clashing against the relentless barrage of magic. It wasn’t a fight for victory, but survival. Sweat stung his sun-scorched eyes, still recovering from Kulum’s blinding inferno. Every blast sapped his strength, his cramping muscles screaming for relief. But Bjarke’s instincts pressed on, sensing a shift.


    The tides of magical endurance were turning. Bjarke noticed the monk faltering—its connection to Id weakening. The red glow in its eyes dimmed, the black tears streaming down its face slowed to a trickle, and its slack-jawed screams quieted as it gasped for air. Id, wounded by Kulum’s assault, could no longer sustain the endless hunger of its disciples. Bjarke just had to hold on, to outlast the flow of energy until his axe could deliver the decisive blow.


    Then his instincts flared—danger. He ducked as three blind monks launched a coordinated swarm of sword strikes and explosive projectiles. The fight had shifted into an onslaught. The three monks moved in sync, freeing their red-eyed leader to turn its attention toward Anneliese, who was attempting to rally an offensive against the reforming Serpent Dragon.


    The lesser monks closed in, their attacks a blur of blades and explosive magic. Bjarke parried and weaved, his axe and feet working in opposition to keep him from being encircled. A zigzag of craters marked his retreat, each explosion a grim reminder that his luck couldn’t hold out forever.


    He kicked one monk away and ducked another barrage of explosive orbs, but his footing betrayed him. The disturbed soil gave way beneath him, and he stumbled, unable to dodge the explosion that erupted at his feet. Pain tore through his body as his limbs twisted unnaturally. His legendary green axe slipped from his grasp, embedding itself in the cracked ground.


    Restrained by a monk, Bjarke was dragged toward their pack. Hands rose around him, summoning glowing orbs of destruction—ready to end him.


    His lips moved, but his tongueless mouth could form only silent words. Tears streaked his face as he locked eyes with Anyata’s ghostly figure in the distance. She watched, her expression etched with pain. Helpless. Ashamed.


    Then—a blast. A misfire.


    Monks and demon slayers were hurled in all directions. Death was postponed once more. Bjarke was wrenched from their grasp, flung beneath the tidal wave of destruction. Debris rained down, battering his body, scarring his flesh.


    Ground zero became a swirling cloud of dust and ruin, broken only by the panicked cry of a horse. From the haze, a figure emerged—marked by the white and red cross.


    Despite his injured leg, Amos charged at a crippled monk, sword raised high. With a single, fierce swing, he severed the monk’s head clean from its body. A shriek tore through the battlefield as the monk dissolved into ash, leaving behind the acrid stench of death. Black soot puffed across Amos’s face, which he spat out in disgust before casting a brief glance at the equally battered Bjarke.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    As Amos limped past his pagan adversary, a fleeting flicker of solidarity crossed his face. With a raspy bark, he said, “I ain’t here to save you, so get up and make yourself useful.”


    Bjarke’s inaudible murmurs spoke volumes of gratitude as they parted ways—Bjarke toward his fallen axe, Amos toward the two remaining monks.


    Though fewer in number, the monks had lost none of their lethality. Id’s dispersed magical energy flowed into the remaining two, infusing them with relentless strength. Where three had outmaneuvered, two now overwhelmed—and they did so with ruthless precision.


    The monk deflected Amos’s strike with a bare hand, slamming a palm into his chest and sending him sprawling. His sword wrenched free, trapped in the monk’s vise-like grasp as he crashed into the dirt.


    Gasping for air but refusing to surrender, Amos scrambled upright and drew his daggers. A defiant grin curled his lips—the grin of a dead man welcoming martyrdom with open invitation.


    He lunged. In a single motion, the monk dropped the sword, caught Amos’s dagger hand mid-swing, yanked him off balance, and sent him flipping head over heels. The ground met him with bone-rattling force.


    The second monk conjured a crackling orb of destruction, its energy pulsing as it prepared to end Amos for good. But a sudden movement from Bjarke drew its attention, giving the wounded templar a fleeting reprieve.


    With Bjarke closing in on his axe, Amos shuffled closer and grunted through clenched teeth, “He ain’t that cute,” before hurling his dagger at the distant monk. The blade found its mark, sinking into the monk’s upper thigh. Staggering, the monk fumbled the destructive orb, causing it to detonate prematurely.


    Dust swirled as Amos rose, unsure if his strike had finished the foe. Weaponless, he faced the remaining monk, spitting out soot and sneering, “Sorry, he wasn’t my shade of ugly.”


    The monk retaliated in a blur, tackling Amos to the ground and pummeling him into submission. Contorted under a loose arm lock, Amos winced as the monk unleashed an explosion to his lower back. The templar’s body fell limp, his legs motionless, his day all but over.


    The monk retrieved Amos’s discarded sword and turned to deliver the final blow, but it hesitated. A flash of green split the air, severing steel and striking the monk’s torso. Bjarke’s axe drove deep, consuming the monk’s body as it disintegrated into ash. The ink-like essence retreated under its blindfold as its demonic spirit was absorbed by the blade.


    Two down, one yet to be decided.


    Distant screams from Bradfrey’s regiments served as a grim reminder—the battle was far from over. Both men turned to the fading cloud of dust, eyes locked on the lone surviving monk.


    It emerged at last, robes in tatters, ink dripping from its body. Moving with ruthless intent, it positioned itself between Bjarke and his embedded axe.


    Bjarke circled, feigning steps to draw it out. His instincts screamed for patience, but Anneliese’s distant cries reminded him time wasn’t on their side.


    The monk tore Amos’s dagger free from its side, its expressionless face betraying no pain. Step by step, it mirrored Bjarke, corkscrewing around the embedded battle-axe. Black ink dripped in uneven spirals, staining the ground with each deliberate motion.


    Bjarke lured it further from the weapon, inching closer with a careful rhythm—one slow step forward, one sharp step back—biding his time for the perfect opening.


    A few shallow nicks across his arms were the price he paid as he completed the full three-sixty. Bjarke inhaled deeply, the monk’s acrid foulness burning his lungs, and feigned a forward strike, locking the creature in place.


    In that moment, Amos—down but not out, his one good arm clutching a stub-ended sword—struck fast, fierce, and low, slicing the monk down a foot shorter with blow after blow.


    Bjarke reacted in kind, driving his boot into the monk’s chest, sending it staggering back into the waiting blade of his embedded battle-axe. Black ink splattered across the ground as the monk collapsed. A final, guttural scream echoed before silence fell, and the monk dissolved into ash.


    Undefeated, Bjarke turned and limped toward his templar adversary. Amos, elbows sunk into the dirt, struggled to sit upright, his soot-streaked face twisted into a sneer. Spitting out the last of the black mucus clogging his throat, he growled, “Come closer, and I’ll show you what I really think.”


    Bjarke ignored the barb and staggered toward his battle-axe. His fingers fumbled for the hilt as his body sagged against the embedded weapon, exhaustion threatening to pull him under. Pain gnawed at every limb, but he forced himself upright.


    Tilting his head toward Amos, he gathered the last of his strength and nodded. “Thank you.”