CHAPTER 40: THE WHITE HUMAN AND THE BLACK DEMON

The plain of the Gorge was a frozen hell. Snow whirled, striking faces, lashing coats, and sliding over abyssium steel. The wind howled across the hills, and every step in the powder crunched like a sinister warning. Before us, the enemy horde advanced, a crash of hooves, screams, and cuirasses, mixed with the smell of sulfur and frozen blood. The enemy Drakzors, their nightmarish mounts, let out guttural howls while their riders drove them on, frantic and disorderly.

I stood at the center of the line, the loudspeaker in my hands, my eyes sweeping each section. The massive shields of the Tyrgash in the front rank rose, forming a black wall. Their weight absorbed the first blows, the charges that slammed into us like a storm.

At their sides, the light infantry slid over the snow, adjusting their position to channel the enemy into narrow, precise, deadly corridors.

The archers, perched on the mounds, loosed arrows in concentrated rain, piercing the gaps between enemy lines. Each shot hissed like a death cry, and some lodged in the enemy leather and armor with a sharp sound that echoed across the plain.

On the flanks, the Drakzor cavalry deployed, swift, ferocious, striking the enemy lines with terrifying precision. Lances split the air, sabers cut, and the cries of the mounts mingled with those of the riders. The smell of blood and sulfur burned my nostrils.

— Nyss! I shouted through the loudspeaker, my voice carried by the machine to the ends of the columns. I’m leaving you to handle the rest with the others, good luck!

Nyss, bright red beneath the snow, raised her hand and answered in a voice icy but steady:

— Understood, Lord! Heads will fall as you wish!

Syra and the other officers adjusted the cavalry and infantry columns, each movement precise, each adjustment calculated to maximize pressure on the enemy. The cold bit, but the adrenaline burned hotter than the wind.

The effect was immediate. The enemy columns began to waver, the opposing units slamming into our shields but sliding into the prepared corridors. Their cries turned into screams of pain, some bodies falling into the snow, others breaking through the lines only to expose themselves to arrow fire and ambushed spear thrusts.

Panic spread, and for the first time, I saw the order of my Seven Thorns shake that black tide.

I moved. Not a step, not a breath: I was no longer there. I melted into the enemy ranks, both specter and demon. The Drakzors’ hooves hammered the snow, the cries of men and women screaming their fear were lost in the din.

The first rider lunged at me, his Drakzor rumbling. I felt him before he reached me, pivoted, and with a sharp stroke, I cleaved his shoulder. The rider screamed, his eyes wide with surprise and terror, his head tipping into the snow as I hurled his body like a broken toy. The beast’s jaws snapped on empty air, and it collapsed, howling, into a pool of blood and breath.

Behind them, the mages spat fire and ice, casting spells I deflected almost by instinct. An ice blast grazed my arm: nothing. My abyssium armor didn’t tremble; I slipped between the flames, striking, crushing, cutting. Every scream I heard sent a shiver of ecstasy through me. Every limb torn off, every head that rolled... XP. I was smiling. Predatory.

An allied archer loosed an arrow that impaled a mage about to cast a spell on me. A breath of gratitude, a simple touch, and then I returned to the dance. Swords clashed with enemy blades; some broke, others bent under the superhuman force I unleashed. It didn’t matter: every breach, every impact was only an opportunity to kill even more.

I felt their bodies around me, hands trying to grab me, legs trying to jostle me, but it was useless. I pivoted, slashed, skewered, crushed. Arms, heads, leather, bones shattered: every macabre detail fed me. Another one... XP gained. My smile stretched, cruel, predatory. The true demon here? It was me.

A mage tried to cast an area spell. An explosion sent snow and blood flying around me, but I slipped through, blades hissing, and the man was eviscerated by one of my swords, his eyes filled with terror to his last breath. An archer from my side loosed a volley into his back, and the creature fell for good, its blood splattering my face. I laughed; I was the black-and-red cyclone amid the screams.

Each step left a field of corpses behind me, severed arms, shattered legs, heads rolling in blood-mixed snow. I moved, fluid, precise, swift; a killing machine. The Drakzors collapsed under my blows, their riders screaming, sometimes cut in two, sometimes crushed under my strength. And at each body, I smiled. Another one... XP gained.

And I knew that every scream, every cry of fear and pain, every broken bone, every life torn away... all served to make me stronger. The true demon was not their magic, nor their armies... it was me. Me, at the center, impassive, a predatory smile, abyssium gleaming, blood and snow mingled around my feet.

I kept advancing, and time seemed to stretch like a never-ending nightmare. Each step was an effort, each breath burning in my frozen lungs. Snow clung to my bloodstained armor, my hair, my features indistinct beneath mingled crimson and white. But I did not slow. Never. Bodies fell around me, arms torn off, heads rolling, chunks of flesh smashing into the snow. Every scream, every moan fed me, and I kept smiling. Another one... XP gained.

Some fled, stumbling over corpses, the hooves of dead Drakzors crushing what remained of their balance. Their eyes searched for me, filled with terror, and I felt their fear seep into my rhythm, making it faster, more brutal. I slashed, skewered, crushed without mercy. The mages cast desperate spells: fireballs, shards of ice, bursts of energy. It didn’t matter. I slipped among them, my swords hissing, absorbing, breaking, striking, and still the blood gushed, red and black over my features and my armor.

I felt fatigue invite itself into my muscles. Each movement demanded a bit more effort, each impact a bit more focus. But that weariness wasn’t humanity: it was the ache of a predator stretching its power to the limit. The corpses formed obstacles, but I used them, bodies as springboards, limbs as barriers, crushing those who dared approach. I smiled, predatory: the demon wasn’t in the enemy; it was in me. Another one... XP gained.

The allied archers, from time to time, loosed perfect arrows, skewering mages at the last instant. Minimal help, but enough to prolong the dance. An allied mage sent magical shields to my flanks, absorbing spells that might have struck me. I didn’t need to look: I felt every breath, every threat, every instant of opportunity. My swords struck like extensions of my arms, and each fallen body was one step closer to the apex of this chaos.

Some enemies understood. They tried to flee, stumbling on the icy snow, lost among the corpses, crying for help, begging for mercy I did not offer. Others tried to confront me: an arm torn off here, a skull split there, a Drakzor crushed under my blades, screaming before it collapsed. Every gesture, every movement was a judgment, and I smiled at each XP gained, each victory, the terror in their eyes.

I felt the cold air mixed with the dried blood sticking to my skin, but I kept going, farther and farther into the plain. Fatigue settled in, but the adrenaline, the carnage, the power of abyssium coursing through my veins, all of it carried me. They fled before me, stumbling, screaming, and I cut them down like ears of grain in a field. Dead or dying Drakzors crumpled beneath my steps, their riders screaming and falling into oblivion.

Another one... XP gained. Another one... And I smiled, predatory, as the horror and fear in the eyes of those who survived confirmed the truth for me: the true demon wasn’t their magic, nor their armies, nor their spells, nor their lances. The true demon... was me. Me, in the heart of the storm, impassive, blood and snow mingled around my feet, a black-and-red cyclone of destruction and terror.

I advanced, covered in blood, snow and crimson stuck to my abyssium armor, each step resounding like a judgment in the silence of the plain.

Before me, she stood, majestic and motionless on her gigantic Drakzor. Her white armor sparkled under the flurries of snow and blood, sculpted to enhance every curve, every movement.

Her long black hair fell like a cascade, framing a face of glacial beauty, and her body... divine, almost unreal, each curve exaggerated by the fineness of her armor, a generous chest that caught the light, highlighting her sensuality despite the war. She was purity, cold, perfection. And yet, her eyes betrayed a deeply human fear.

I smiled. My predatory smile, red with blood and black with abyssium, contrasted with the dazzling whiteness of her silhouette. Everything I had done, every severed head, every torn arm, every scream, had brought me here, to the heart of this living paradox: me, human, but become demon; she, a demoness with perfect features, yet trembling like any woman.

I raised a sword, ready to speak, but a soldier broke from her guard and charged. I pivoted, sliced cleanly, and his head rolled to the general’s feet, splattering her white armor with a scarlet stain. A shiver ran through her; her wide eyes did not leave my face.

"Surrender... or the carnage will continue to the last," I said, my voice cold but resonant, each word a palpable threat.

Her lips trembled, but she nodded, a breath escaping like a confession. The war horn echoed across the plain. Her troops froze, stunned, helpless, slowly raising their weapons. The fear in their eyes was a mirror of what I represented: the storm, the demon incarnate, the human who had surpassed all limits.

I stood there, amid the corpses, abyssium gleaming, blood and snow mingled, and I smiled. The paradox was complete: she, the white demoness, beautiful and terrified, and I, the black-and-red human, the incarnate horror who had redefined fear on the battlefield. Every breath, every heartbeat, every gust of snow was mine.

"Every life taken taught you a lesson. Now hear this one: the war is over."

She lowered her eyes, aware, human despite her sparkling armor and sculpted body. In that contrast, in that perfect tension between beauty and fear, I knew the real demon wasn’t in her powers... but in the man who stood before her, predatory smile, invincible, abyssium in hand.