Bloodbath

Azrael stood resolute at the tranquil expanse of the valley, his gaze fixed upon the majestic slopes that cradled it. With unwavering determination, he proclaimed, "Upon this very mountain, our destiny takes root, forging not merely a dwelling, but an impregnable sanctuary—a haven where our spirits find refuge, and our aspirations soar high. Here, amidst nature's grandeur, we shall fashion a fortress of dreams, an Eden of solace, a castle that echoes with the harmonious whispers of hope."

"Listen, my children, my followers! It's time! Let's start building my home, my temple! Together, with your hands and hearts, we'll shape something special. Every brick, every beam, it all carries our respect and faith. "While I embark on my divine duty, you will construct this sanctuary!"

"Craft something befitting a deity in my absence, my faithful ones."

With one final bow, the followers lowered their heads as Azrael turned away, his form fading into oblivion.

"It is time to build!" Aric decleared. As the days turned into weeks, sweat and determination blended into a potent elixir, transforming raw materials into the beginnings of a grand creation. The rhythm of work forged bonds among the builders, each swing of a hammer, each measured cut, a testament to their shared commitment.

Meanwhile Azrael was on his travel for battle, in his new form he not only desired battle, no he needed it, it was an itch he chouldnt ignore.

In each fight, Azrael sought more than victory; he pursued a deeper understanding of battle's essence. His reputation spread, attracting challengers eager to test themselves against his prowess.

Upon a commanding hilltop, a vast army stood arrayed, their banners fluttering defiantly in the wind. Facing them, an even larger force assembled, the sun's rays glinting off their armor. The air crackled with tension, a palpable energy born from the clash of unyielding wills.

In the midst of this grand spectacle, soldiers stood tall and resolute, their armor gleaming and their weapons glinting with a fierce determination. The clash of swords and shields reverberated through the air as these valiant warriors prepared to stake their lives for a cause that stirred their very souls.

Amidst the ranks, commanders rode on mighty steeds, their presence exuding authority and resolve. Their voices rose above the clamor, rallying their troops with words that ignited the spark of courage within each heart. The rhythm of drums and the blast of horns added a primal cadence to the scene, further fueling the soldiers' fervor.

On both sides, eyes blazed with an unwavering spirit, fueled by the belief in their respective causes. Each soldier, each warrior, bore the weight of their people's hopes and dreams, their unity evident in the tightly knit formations that spread across the hillside.

In a decisive moment, the commander of the larger army bellowed, "Attack!" The air was split with the thunderous roar of a thousand voices, the ground trembling beneath the stampede of charging warriors. The clash of metal and the battle cry of the attackers reverberated across the field, a tidal wave of force hurtling towards the opposing lines.

But just as the attackers surged forward, a countermanding command echoed from the ranks of the opposing force. "Defensive formation!" The words rang out, clear and authoritative, sparking a swift reaction among the defenders. As if choreographed, the formation shifted, shields interlocking with a seamless precision, creating an unyielding wall of protection.

In the midst of the tumultuous battle, a messenger from the defending army rushed to the commander's side, breathless and wide-eyed. "My lord," the messenger gasped, "there is something unprecedented happening! Between the frontlines, a solitary figure has emerged. He wields a sword and appears to be confronting the oncoming attackers."

The commander's brow furrowed in a mix of curiosity and concern. Amidst the chaos, the idea of an individual stepping out to face the entire onslaught of the attacking army was nothing short of audacious and puzzling.

"Describe this figure," the commander ordered, his voice cutting through the cacophony of battle.

The messenger's voice trembled with a mix of awe and uncertainty as he said, "My lord, as he stands defiantly between the frontlines, his most striking feature is his hair—it's an ethereal white, a stark contrast against the chaos of the battlefield. It seems to shimmer, as if touched by some divine light."

The commander's eyes narrowed, a sense of recognition tugging at the corners of his thoughts. White hair amidst the storm of battle—it was an image that stirred something deep within his memory

At the forefront of the battle, the clash of spears reverberated through the air, their wooden bodies splintering and shattering against the force of impact. Blood spattered the ground, a chilling testament to the fierce combat that unfolded.

Amidst this chaos, Azrael stood at the very heart of the maelstrom, an embodiment of controlled chaos. His movements were a deadly ballet, a symphony of strikes and parries that left a trail of fallen foes in his wake. His blade, an extension of his will, danced with lethal precision, cutting through armor and flesh alike.

"Kill the white haired one!" The words reverberated with a chilling intensity, carrying over the din and reaching the ears of warriors on both sides.

In the midst of the chaos, as countless soldiers converged upon Azrael with relentless determination, a young knight emerged from the fray. His eyes burned with a fierce resolve as he raised his sword, poised to strike a fatal blow. The impending danger spurred Azrael to swift action.

With an almost preternatural speed, Azrael's instincts took over. He moved with a fluid grace that defied the encroaching peril. Just as the young knight's blade arced downward, Azrael's own sword was already in motion. In a blink, his blade found its mark, piercing through the knight's defenses and finding its deadly path into the knight's neck.

Time seemed to slow as the young knight's assault faltered, his sword falling from his grip, and his eyes widening in shock. The clash of battle continued around them, but in that singular moment, all focus was on the young knight who had intended to end Azrael's life.

Just than a soldier swung his mace in a horizontal motion aiming on Azraels head, however Arzael evaded the attack without a hint of danger in his eyes and cut the soldier in half with his sword.

In the heart of the relentless battle, as Azrael remained locked in combat, an unforeseen threat materialized from behind. A spear hurtled through the air, aimed with deadly precision at his back. The soldier who wielded it was a hulking figure, adorned with scars that bore witness to countless battles. A seasoned veteran, his intent was clear—to strike down the enigmatic warrior who had become the focus of the conflict.

As the spear neared its target, a sudden burst of motion defied all expectations. From the heavens above, Vortex descended with a speed that defied the laws of nature. A streak of unrelenting force, he plummeted towards the battlefield, his gaze fixed upon the soldier who had launched the spear.

In a mere heartbeat, Vortex's trajectory altered, and he descended upon the soldier with a ferocity that echoed the winds from which he took his name. The veteran soldier's realization came too late, his crooked grin shifting to an expression of shock as he looked skyward.

With an impact that was as sudden as it was devastating, Vortex struck his target. His form became an unstoppable projectile, and with unerring accuracy, he zeroed in on the soldier's eye. The collision was a cataclysmic force, Vortex's passage through the soldier's skull so swift that it left no time for resistance.

And then, just as abruptly as he had arrived, Vortex emerged on the opposite side. A trail of crimson marked his trajectory, a gruesome testament to the utter finality of his strike. The soldier's lifeless body crumpled to the ground, a testament to the otherworldly power that had been unleashed upon him.

"What... what is this!" a soldier's voice rang out, his disbelief evident in his words. "The raven just killed him, he killed him with a single strike."

Amid the ebb and flow of battle, a wave of triumphant cries emerged from the ranks of the defending army. Words of impending victory echoed through the tumultuous air, a chorus of hope and determination that carried across the battlefield.

"We shall prevail!" one voice proclaimed, a declaration that reverberated with unwavering confidence.

"Our cause is just!" another soldier shouted, his words infused with conviction.

In a pivotal moment, Azrael turned his gaze toward the defending army, his presence a stark contrast against the backdrop of battle. His white hair seemed to catch the light, giving him an almost ethereal appearance.

"Your are no allies of mine!" His voice rang out, cutting through the chaos with a chilling clarity.

In a chilling twist, Azrael's declaration was followed by a swift and brutal onslaught against both sides.

For three days, the battle raged on with unyielding ferocity, a tempest of conflict that consumed the battlefield and all who fought upon it.

Only four living souls remained standing upon the blood-soaked ground. The enigmatic figure of Azrael, his now turned red hair stained with the evidence of the relentless conflict, stood at the center. His gaze, a mixture of weariness and resolve, shifted between the two commanders who flanked him.

To one side stood the defending commander, his visage etched with the weight of the choices he had made and the sacrifices his soldiers had endured. His eyes bore the burden of leadership, a testament to the unwavering dedication he had shown to his cause.

On the other side stood the attacking commander, his demeanor reflecting a tenacious determination that had carried him through the storm of battle. His expression remained unyielding, a portrayal of the unrelenting spirit that had driven him and his forces forward.

And then there was one other, figure that had become intertwined with the narrative of the battlefield, Vortex.

The two commanders, their gazes locked upon each other, exchanged a tense glance. The defending commander, who had weathered the trials of betrayal and battled against overwhelming odds, met the gaze of his counterpart—the attacking commander who had led his forces with unyielding determination.

The soldiers who had once fought under their banners had been reduced to mere memories, their sacrifice and valor now etched into the very ground upon which they had fallen. The battlefield, once a theater of chaos and conflict, had become a stage for a new kind of confrontation—a confrontation that transcended the boundaries of armies and allegiances.

"No men to fight for them, no lives for them to play with, only their own!" Azrael's words echoed through the silence, a challenge that cut through the lingering echoes of battle. The enigmatic figure's stance held a sense of finality, his intent clear and unwavering.

They both knew what this ment!