A Battle of Attrition

The battlefield was alive with the cacophony of battle: the sharp clangs of steel meeting bone, the sizzle and pop of magical energy, and the inexorable growls of the Forsaken Champions. Each defender, having faced countless battles before, stood firmly against the overwhelming onslaught of Valarian's undead army.

The melee was intense and relentless. The heroes were a tempest of movement and skill, trying to outmaneuver and wear down the undead who pressed on with unyielding determination.

Eliss, her staff crackling with raw power, launched spell after spell. Arcane bolts tore through the ranks of the undead, flames consumed them, and icy tempests froze them in place. But her face betrayed signs of fatigue, the strain of constantly channeling her power evident with every incantation.

Beside her, Kael was a dervish with his one-handed sword, the blade singing as it cleaved through bone and rotted flesh. His movements were agile and precise, each strike calculated to maximize damage. But with each parry and counter, his movements became slower, fatigue beginning to take its toll.

The remaining defenders, masters of their respective arts, fought valiantly. Blades swung, arrows pierced, and elemental forces were unleashed. But no matter how many undead they subdued, more seemed to rise, pressing forward with an eerie, inexhaustible persistence.

Valarian, the looming dark presence overseeing the battle, occasionally intervened with a gesture or whispered word, strengthening his minions or directly challenging the defenders. His aura was oppressive, an ever-present reminder of the monumental challenge they faced.

As the hours seemed to stretch endlessly, hope began to wane. The once coordinated efforts of the defenders grew more scattered and desperate. A close call here, a narrow miss there. With every minute that passed, their situation became increasingly dire.

Kael, in an act of sheer determination, attempted a bold strike against one of the Forsaken Champions. However, the undead, with an uncanny speed, parried and landed a powerful blow, sending Kael reeling.

Eliss, witnessing her comrade in peril, released a barrage of spells, trying to create an opening. But even she, with her vast reserves of power, felt the inexorable exhaustion creeping in. They needed a reprieve, or they would be overwhelmed.

Amidst the dire circumstances of the battle, Eliss, in a moment of clarity and desperation, focused her mind, drawing from the mental link she shared with Amukelo. She pushed all her emotions, the urgency of the situation, and the looming threat of defeat into one word: "Help... Please..."

Deep within the temple, Amukelo, engrossed in his intricate task of redirecting the mana streams, suddenly felt a jolt in his consciousness. Eliss's voice, heavy with dread, echoed in his mind, the urgency of her plea clear as day.

The weight of the situation pulled him away, causing his hands to tremble, disrupting the delicate work. He was on the verge of abandoning the task when the heroes beside him intervened.

"You can't leave now, Amukelo!" the orc hero, with his massive frame and determined eyes, declared. "We're so close!"

The spear master of the humans added, his voice laced with conviction, "We knew what this would entail. Let us go to their aid. You finish this."

A chorus of agreements came from the rest, their determination evident. They would lay down their lives if needed.

The weight of the decision pressed heavily on Amukelo's shoulders. But he knew the larger objective had to be met. Nodding, he replied, "Very well, but be swift. Protect them until I join you."

Without a second's delay, the group sped out of the inner sanctum, leaving Amukelo behind, his focus renewed, working even more diligently to finish what they had started. The fate of their mission and their comrades now rested on swift actions and a shared hope.

. . .

Few minutes later the humming energy that pervaded the room as Amukelo manipulated the mana streams gradually died down. With one final surge of power, he felt the once indestructible bond that had tethered the ancient spirit shatter into a thousand shards of light. The spirit's ephemeral form wavered, fading away as its centuries-long existence was abruptly terminated.

Amukelo stood up, catching his breath. But time was a luxury he couldn't afford. With a newfound sense of urgency, he sprinted out of the inner chamber, his senses heightened, searching for any signs of his companions.

As he emerged outside, the battlefield sprawled out before him was a sight of devastation. The vast expanse was littered with fallen bodies, some of which were the undead, but many more belonged to the heroes who had bravely taken their stand.

His heart sank as his gaze landed on Kael.

The proud one-handed sword master lay motionless, his armor marred with marks of combat. Beside him, Eliss was on her knees, her robes torn and muddied, her face reflecting a blend of grief, anger, exhaustion and hopelessness. She cradled Kael's head, her eyes never leaving his face, desperately looking for a sign of life. Her eyes looked as if she lost her soul.

A few yards away, the last remaining trio of the elf, dwarf, and orc heroes stood defiantly against Valarian. Their formation suggested they had been pushed back multiple times but still refused to yield. Valarian, the puppet master behind the entire ordeal, seemed unfazed. His chilling eyes darted from one hero to the next, calculating, waiting for the right moment to strike.

The sounds of the clashing weapons and the shrieks of the undead seemed to dull in Amukelo's ears as he made his way toward Kael and Eliss. Every step he took resonated with the weight of loss and vengeance. There was a deadly calm about him, the kind that often accompanies a storm.

The terrain, scarred by the ravages of battle, was littered with the remains of fallen heroes. But Amukelo's focus remained unyielding, his eyes locked onto his two friends. Only as he crouched next to Eliss she realized that he's there. At first she wasn't able to find her voice, in her second attempt to speak her words barely left her mouth and her voice was full of pain. She lost her last glims of hope.

"He... he doesn't breathe... Amukelo," she whispered, her voice straining against tears. She met his gaze, her eyes hollow with despair. "There's a hole in his chest... I tried, Amukelo, I tried to bring him back, but I couldn't. I just... couldn't..."

Crounching down next to Eliss, Amukelo took in the grisly sight. Kael's once vibrant eyes were now clouded, his chest marred with a gaping wound. Amukelo's fingers gently brushed against Kael's forehead, a stark contrast to the fiery anger that simmered beneath his skin. With precision, he channeled mana to the wound, staunching the flow of blood. It wouldn't bring Kael back, but it was a small solace, a way of saying a final goodbye.

Desperate calls for assistance from the remaining heroes jolted Amukelo from his grief-induced trance. He started to rise, slow movement drenched in lethality, an embodiment of fury. However, just as he was about to turn to them, a premonition of danger gripped him. His reflexes, honed from countless battles, took over.

In a motion too swift for the human eye, he shifted his stance, diverting an oncoming blow aimed not at him, but at the already grief-stricken Eliss who didn't even react. Without even unsheathing his blade, Amukelo channeled his rage into a raw, forceful surge of mana that enveloped the undead assailant. With an echoing crunch, the creature's skull collapsed, crushed under the sheer might of Amukelo's wrathful mana manipulation.

The remnants of the undead assailant crumbled into ash, carried away by the winds of the desolate land.