...


    ...The sacred halls of the Slane Theocracy, illuminated by the glow of divine magic, now stood heavy with an oppressive air. Within the grand chamber of the Six Cardinals, an eerie silence loomed.


    The letter, sealed with the sigil of the Sorcerer Kingdom, lay open upon the grand table, its contents trembling in the hands of Cardinal Zinedine Delan Guelfi, the Cardinal of Water. His fingers quivered, the parchment barely clinging to his grip as his face contorted with disbelief.


    “This… This can’t be happening,” Zinedine muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. His heartbeat pounded like war drums in his ears. “Why? Why has that demon declared war upon us?! What have we done to provoke him?! Did he simply decide to attack without reason?! Was he waiting for us to be done with the elves?!”


    His frantic words spread unease through the room, but Berenice Nagua Santini, the Cardinal of Fire, responded with calm, though the tension in her voice was undeniable.


    “He may have waited until we were at our weakest,” she stated grimly. “A dirty move--to strike when our forces are exhausted from the war with the elves, ensuring a decisive invasion.”


    The Cardinal of Wind,- now etched in worry,-leaned forward. His expression was carved from stone, but his voice betrayed a flicker of uncertainty.


    “What of No-Death?” he asked. “Where is she?”


    A heavy silence fell upon the chamber.


    The Cardinal of Darkness, shrouded in his usual enigmatic presence, answered in a voice cold and devoid of hope.


    “We can only assume the worst.”


    His words sent a shudder through the gathered Cardinals.


    “Nonsense!” Berenice snapped, her temper igniting. “How could our best warrior be defeated?! That elf,-yes, he was strong,-but we have proof that he was beaten! We found him collapsed, bloodied! If that elf fell, then surely No-Death could not have been bested…”


    Her voice wavered. Doubt, like a spreading disease, began to creep into her thoughts.


    The Cardinal of Earth had remained silent, his brows furrowed in deep contemplation. But now, at last, he spoke,-his words heavy as stone.


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    “...The Cardinal of Darkness is right.” His voice was slow, as if forcing himself to acknowledge the terrible truth. “It is possible-” his throat tightened as he swallowed the very thought, “-it is possible that she is either dead… or worse… a prisoner of the Sorcerer Kingdom.”


    A sharp, collective intake of breath filled the chamber. The weight of the statement pressed upon them all.


    Dead. Or a prisoner.


    The thought sent a chill deeper than the coldest winter wind.


    And yet-


    As the pieces fell into place, realization struck like a hammer against an anvil.


    They had waited. The Sorcerer Kingdom had waited for them to launch their invasion of the Elven lands. They had anticipated that they would send their strongest warrior.


    And once No-Death had been worn down by battle, they had struck her down.


    And now, as their forces remained weary from war-,


    They moved to finish what they had started.


    A perfectly laid trap.


    The realization was sickening.


    The silanece was loud,as every cardinal was now felling a supirior form of anxiety,they''re best warrior,has been swiftly deafeted,and as they sit in an uncertain time,they made the decision,to go all out-


    ...


    ...


    ...The light of dawn painted the village in soft golden hues, the gentle glow of the morning sun stretching over the humble homes and cobblestone paths. A crisp breeze rolled in from the river, carrying with it the soothing murmur of flowing water. Birds chirped in harmony with the rhythmic sounds of daily life awakening,-the clatter of hooves against dirt roads, the distant chatter of town folk, and the laughter of children as they greeted the rising sun with their endless energy.


    Life in the village was simple. It was not one of luxury, nor one of great hardship,-it was a life dictated by labor, bound by the rigid expectations of society. Every man, woman, and child played their role within a system upheld by unwavering traditions, where a singular faith reigned supreme. The village followed the doctrines of the Slane Theocracy, and nothing outside its sanctioned beliefs was tolerated. To stray from its path was to invoke ruin.


    At the heart of the village, within the aged stone walls of a small church, a lone figure moved with quiet purpose.


    The village priest, clad in a humble robe, prepared for the sacred Sunday gathering. With practiced hands, he reached for the heavy wooden doors, their weight a testament to the passage of time. As he pushed them open, dust stirred into the air, dancing within the shafts of morning light.


    The church was silent.


    Only on Sundays would its halls be filled with the voices of the faithful, gathered beneath its vaulted ceiling to offer prayers to the Six Great Gods. Yet among these revered deities, there was one whose name held the deepest reverence.


    Surshana—the Overlord.


    His statue, carved with masterful precision, loomed over the altar, bathed in the flickering glow of candlelight. The priest walked solemnly toward the podium, lighting the ceremonial candles one by one, their flames casting elongated shadows upon the ancient stone floor. Then, lowering his head, he began the first prayer of the day.


    A peaceful morning. A village untouched by the horrors of the outside world.


    On the other side of the village, where the sun bathed the fields in warm light, the carefree voices of children rang through the air.


    A small boy stood among them, laughing with unbridled joy.


    His brown hair was unkempt, his teeth crooked, his frame smaller than the others,-yet none of that mattered. His name was Eric, and to him, the world was filled with simple joys.


    “Eric!” A girl’s voice called out.


    The one who had called him was Anne, the farmer’s daughter.


    She was fair-skinned, with hair like golden wheat, her presence warm and bright like the very sun rising above them.


    “Anne!”


    Without hesitation, Eric ran toward her, his arms outstretched.


    And then, with a grin bordering on mischief, he pulled her into an embrace,-one filled not with innocence, but the clumsy boldness of youth.


    A dull thud echoed through the air as Anne’s fist found its mark upon his head.


    “Eric! You pervert!”


    Eric stumbled back, clutching his head in mock pain. But even as he winced, he couldn’t help but smile.


    The village was peaceful.


    It had always been peaceful.


    ... Clank,- clank,- clack-


    "Hmmmmmm, humans... I love theyre blood."(Orc)


    "Hehehehehe,village girls!!!! Yes!!! I can''t wait to devour them". (Goblin)


    the village- 5 hours till destruction -


    ...


    ---