Twilight Crusade

In Zalax, the divine beasts reign and have formed life itself for thousands of years. Humanity has learned to live with them, prospering in their grace and shedding tears in their destruction.

These majestic entities are the embodiments of the world's raw elements, weave the tapestry of existence with threads of fate itself. From the scorching breath of Pyrathas, birthing fertile lands in Ardoria, to the deep, guiding currents of the Sea Leviathan, guarding the maritime sanctuaries of Solenthia, each divine beast bestows gifts that are as diverse as life itself.

Under their stewardship, nations flourish, their people basking in the abundance and protection offered by their divine patrons. The fields of Ardoria swell with golden grain, the forests of Eirunthal harbor the greatest biodiversity on the continent, the caravans of Zephyria traverse the endless dunes, laden with treasures untold. This harmony between the divine and the mundane has ushered in an era of unprecedented prosperity, a golden age where art, science, and magic flourish.

But where there is light, shadows lurk.

And in these shadows, in this darkness a battle rages. Hundreds, no thousands of soldiers swarmed the immense cave and entered a domain which no human should ever trespass in.

Clad in the garb of war, armed with lances meters long and sharp swords, the soldiers charged into the darkness. Within this gloom, a creature as ancient as light itself awaited—awakened from its slumber, it confronted the tiny beings who dared to invade its realm.

The humans' war cries echoed off the cave walls, rebounding back at them. Every fifth soldier held a giant torch, at least three meters tall, the only light granted to the humans in this pitch-black domain. A barrage of arrows flew over the frontline soldiers, raining down upon the creature. Yet, the sound was like metal striking metal, and not a single cry of pain escaped the creature. Now, enveloped in the dancing shadows of torchlight, the creature rose.

It towered nearly to the ceiling of the cave, larger than a hill. Its entire lizard-like body was covered in metallic scales as black as pitch and black smoke billowed from its long snout. It spread its wings, so vast and dark they seemed capable of engulfing the dreams and hopes of entire civilizations. Only the dragon's eyes were darker than everything else, which seemed almost impossible.

Yet the warriors surged forward, almost as if possessed. Drool dripped from their mouths, their bloodshot eyes radiating nearly as much hate as that of the dragon. Or perhaps it was desperation—for the warriors of Duskendale knew what they were getting into: death.

With a primordial scream of damnation, the dragon made the entire cave tremble, causing some warriors to lose their stance and fall. And then, terror struck.

The battle's fury was suddenly drowned in an unnatural silence, a precursor to darkness absolute. One by one, the torches sputtered - a last defiant hiss of the light against the encroaching silence - before succumbing to the void. The darkness that followed was not merely the absence of light but a palpable, smothering cloak that seemed to swallow every shred of hope. Soldiers froze, mid-shout, mid-strike, as if night itself had descended to claim the depths of the cave.

The ensuing massacre was audible, as no one could see anything. Screams and moans suddenly reverberated through the cave. Here and there, the bodies of humans were flung through the air, landing with dull thuds on the hard ground.

No training could prepare one for a fight with a divine beast, no faith, no courage, no will could withstand these forces. So why did these men and women fight?

The true answer was unknown to all, but they knew that retreat promised certain death—just as much as the advance did. Except for a few, who stood far back, outside of direct danger. Figures cloaked in black watched the battle as if they could discern something in this darkness. Before them stood an officer of the armed force, feeling as much panic and fear as the rest of the warriors. Yet, he dared not flee.

One of the cloaked figures, radiating an aura as terrible as that of the divine beast, grunted to another.

"The cannon fodder needs light; otherwise, they're even less useful than dog shit."

The words made the officer shiver, and beads of sweat trickled down his face. But the cloaked figure hadn't spoken to him, but rather to another, smaller figure in a dark cloak. This figure merely nodded and raised a hand. Blue fire shot from it, striking the dragon in the chest while it continued to sweep soldiers away like flies. The fire seemed not to bother it, but it provided a faint, blue light in the darkness, allowing the soldiers to see something. However, many of them would have preferred to be spared the sight of this horror.

All around lay their comrades, friends, and family, sometimes scattered across several places at once. Cries of fear and anger rose but quickly drowned again under the dragon's scream. Suddenly, the light from the blue fire dimmed, as if the darkness itself wanted to extinguish the annoying light.

The smaller figure, who had conjured the fire, flinched, and seemed strained. The figure groaned but did not relent, intensifying their efforts. But it was evident, even without seeing the pain-distorted face, this would not last long.

The most dreadful of the figures raised their voice again: "Are the scorpions finally ready?"

Another cloaked figure, this one larger than the rest, nodded beside him. The enormous war machines, which moments ago had rattled over the hard cavern floor, now stood directly behind them. Each of the colossal ballistae was loaded with a pure iron bolt, to which a heavy chain was attached. It took a dozen men alone to operate the war machine.

And now they were in range.

"Fire."

The scorpions fired all at once, and the bolts shot forth. One of the scorpions seemed to malfunction, and as the massive rope snapped, the entire construct burst apart, impaling the men next to the scorpion with wooden splinters. A massive fragment also flew directly towards the foremost cloaked figure, who did not even turn their head, their gaze still fixed sternly on the dark dragon.

The large cloaked figure raised their arm just in time, shattering the stray projectile with their bare hand. Meanwhile the bolts of pure iron reached their target. With deadly precision, they buried themselves into the scales of the ancient dragon. They stuck, the chains hanging in the cave's air.

The dragon let out a cry and fixed its harrowing gaze on the scorpions and then on the people beside them. Something seemed to briefly reflect in the dragon's sharp eyes, and suddenly the scorpion crews screamed, flailing their arms wildly as if they had lost their minds.

But the cloaked figure had already thought of that. With a wave, they summoned more crews, which had so far been held ready further back. As they saw their predecessors fall to their knees, crying out for their mothers, their voices filled with fear and despair, an even greater despair arose within them.

Yet they obeyed, for they had no choice. Then they began to turn the massive wheels to which the chains of the scorpion bolts were attached.

The chains began to tighten in the air. And then, slowly, the dragon started to grow angry, furious. With a massive swipe, it struck at one of the chains protruding from its body, but its claw was repelled. It let out a scream and attempted to bite down with its teeth, capable of engulfing entire houses, but when it bit the chain, only the sound of resistance was heard.

A greedy laughter emanated from a fourth cloaked figure, who appeared to walk with a hunched back. This figure had good reason to laugh. For eighteen years, these chains had been prepared, just for this moment. They would only work here, against this beast, under these conditions; otherwise, they were useless. But right here, they were near indestructible.

The dragon screamed, and so did the laughter of the hunched figure rise. It was time for his second mechanical masterpiece, for, miraculously, the chains began to tighten further. The more the men turned the massive wheels, the deeper the dragon seemed to sink.

It fought back, but another volley of iron bolts pierced its wings, and this time it seemed to feel the pain. The chains forced its upper body down, and it fell on its front claws, now on all fours.

"Kneel, you beast," murmured the most dreadful of the figures.

As if answering the challenge, the dragon opened its maw wide, and from it poured not fire, but a torrent of liquid darkness, a visual void that swallowed light, hope, and life alike. It surged forward, a wave of obliteration, rendering warriors to shadows, erasing them from existence as if they were mere figments of imagination. The chains that had held it, the proud constructs of war, dissipated into nothingness, leaving no trace behind but the echoing terror of their demise.

In just a moment, the entire human army had been wiped out.

The wave of liquid darkness flew straight towards the cloaked figures. Three more raised their arms, trying to do something in time, but the smarter five jumped away – such a thing could not be stopped.

The three pitiful figures vanished in the darkness, without being able to do anything else.

"Idiots…" said the smaller figure, still heavily concentrated on maintaining their blue fire. Now the blue flames provided no more visibility than a faint streak of light in the eternal darkness of the cave.

But it was enough. For this was exactly what the most dreadful of the figures had been waiting for. A chance, after the Shadowdragon had launched a devastating attack. The chains were now gone, but the dragon's head was low enough. Low enough for him to reach it.

Had this battle occurred under any other circumstance, the humans would have lost unconditionally. Had the Rat King accidentally awakened the divine beast twenty years ago during its discovery, he would now be long dead. Had Mikrov not tamed the Chrysaora, they could never have harmed the dragon with mere human made weapons, the chains would have broken instantly. Had the battle not taken place in the cave, the dragon would already be in the skies, looking down on the humans like a god of death.

But none of this mattered. The Shadowdragon had just awoken from its slumber and was now weak and vulnerable.

For had Xavier not spent the last twenty years planning and rehearsing this moment, he would not be ready. But he was.

Two red eyes suddenly glowed beneath the hood of the most dreadful figure, the Rat King, Xavier. Tonight, he would subdue the Shadowdragon. And soon after, all of Zalax.