As Yholm’s forces regrouped after witnessing Drasko’s annihilation of Alrune, a rare moment of relief washed over the Demi-Giants. The relentless chaos brought by the demon Alrune had finally ceased, and Oosa was free from her destructive invasions. Many soldiers murmured among themselves about the power of the dragons and the reprieve it had granted them. However, their moment of calm was short-lived.

  Upon returning to the designated rendezvous point to report the victory, Yholm and his troops were confronted by General Goan and his forces. Goan, his voice filled with venom, immediately accused Yholm and his army of cowardice for retreating in the face of Alrune.

  “You abandoned the battlefield!” Goan roared, his towering frame brimming with rage. “You’re nothing but a disgrace! Demi-Giant or not, you’ll answer for your cowardice!”

  Yholm, unflinching, stepped forward. His piercing gaze met Goan’s without hesitation, his voice calm but laced with contempt. “And where were you, General? Hiding behind your lines, sending us into chaos while you sat safely at a distance?”

  Goan’s expression darkened, his fury barely contained.

  Yholm continued, louder now for all to hear. “You’re the true coward, Goan. Sending me ahead while you hoard your forces, all to preserve them for your personal ambition. I see you. Weak and conniving, hiding behind orders while planning to sabotage Oosa from within. You’re no leader, and you’ll never be an emperor.”

  Goan’s face contorted in a mix of rage and humiliation, his pride shattered by Yholm’s public accusation. He took a threatening step forward, foam gathering at the corners of his mouth. “How dare you! I’ll kill you for this insolence!”

  Yholm stood firm, his voice steady but unyielding. “Try me. Unlike you, I stand for something greater. I promised General Kho I would unite the Giants and Demi-Giants, and I intend to keep that promise. You? You’d throw Oosa into ruin to satisfy your petty ambition.”

  The tension in the air was palpable. Soldiers from both armies gripped their weapons, ready to clash at a moment’s notice. Goan’s army, far larger and stronger, bore down on Yholm’s forces. But Yholm’s Demi-Giants, though fewer in number, stood unwaveringly by their leader. They knew his words rang true.

  Before swords could be drawn, a few soldiers stepped between the two generals, pleading for calm. Their efforts barely held back the explosion of violence.

  Yholm took a deep breath and raised his hand to silence the murmurs. “No blood needs to be spilled here. If you think I’m wrong, Goan, let the Emperor decide. We’ll go to the Moon Palace and let Rogg judge us both. I refuse to accept your authority over me.”

  Goan hesitated, his fury boiling but his mind calculating. The mention of the Emperor cooled his blood slightly, for he knew Rogg’s judgment carried weight he couldn’t easily dismiss. If he acted rashly here, it might backfire and cost him his aspirations entirely.

  “Fine,” Goan spat, his voice dripping with disdain. “Let the Emperor decide your fate. But don’t think for a moment you’ll walk away unscathed.”

  With that, the armies began to separate, the tension lingering like a storm on the horizon. Yholm’s resolve remained unshaken as he turned to his troops. “We fight for unity,” he reminded them, his voice steady. “Not for petty men like Goan, but for the promise of a better Oosa.”

  His soldiers nodded, their loyalty unwavering. Yholm knew the road ahead would be fraught with challenges, but he also knew his actions now could shape the future for both Demi-Giants and Giants alike.

  As the forces prepared for the long march to the Moon Palace, Yholm silently hoped that Emperor Rogg’s judgment would be fair—and that his own life wouldn’t be the price of his boldness.

  The once-magnificent Kingdom of Venadyl lay in eerie silence, its lands barren and devoid of life. Where once towering spires and vibrant cities symbolized magical brilliance, now only ruins remained. The kingdom was truly dead, its inhabitants—once proud Venadylians—annihilated in the wake of Alrune’s wrath and the chaos wrought by the demons. Yet, amidst this lifeless expanse, the roar of flames and the rumble of destruction shattered the stillness.

  Dragons soared across the skies, their fiery breath consuming what little remained. Drasko and his kin, driven by both fury and duty, were ensuring Venadyl’s complete obliteration. Their relentless assaults left nothing untouched, but their true purpose was clear: the destruction of the summoning circle, the source of the demon infestation.

  Among the ruins, the demon Deumus lurked, hiding from the might of the dragons. His grotesque form scurried through shadowed corridors, his anger boiling at the loss of Alrune, not out of loyalty, but because her rampage had robbed him of his twisted pleasures. Venadyl’s destruction left no one alive for Deumus to torment. Torture was his sole joy, and without victims, the demon seethed in frustration.

  Still, Deumus found ways to amuse himself. His corrupted soldiers had begun harassing the Crocods, a reptilian race that lived in the swamps of Bal to the east of Venadyl. The Crocods, known for their amphibious nature, had largely fled into the oceans when the demons emerged. Yet, Deumus took sadistic delight in targeting the few who remained, even if they weren’t ideal prey. Unlike humans, Crocods were cold-blooded and lacked the emotional reactions Deumus craved, but their resistance still provided him with some grim amusement.

  Before the demons arrived, Bal and its swamp-dwelling inhabitants were embroiled in a war against their human neighbors in Babyl, a kingdom built on commerce and diplomacy. Babyl was fragile but resourceful, relying on trade and alliances to maintain its existence. Unfortunately for Babyl, their other neighbor, the elves of Elim, had always refused any attempts at diplomacy. With no allies, Babyl found itself vulnerable to Crocod aggression.

  Only the presence of Venadyl had kept the Crocods at bay. The Venadylians, in their might, had engaged in limited trade with Babyl and subtly intimidated the Crocods, discouraging any attempts at outright invasion. But with Venadyl’s fall, the Crocods saw their chance to expand, launching renewed attacks against Babyl’s lands.

  Deumus, however, had disrupted their plans. His harassment of the Crocods enraged them, forcing them to focus on their own survival rather than conquest. Yet, Deumus derived no satisfaction from tormenting the reptilians. They were stoic and lacked the fear and anguish he desired. His frustration grew daily, compounded by the ever-present threat of the dragons.

  When Drasko’s forces began targeting the summoning circle itself, Deumus panicked. He knew that without the circle, the demons’ foothold would be severely weakened. Still, he also understood the limits of the dragons’ power. Only a mage of immense skill could dismantle the circle completely. Deumus mocked the futility of their attacks as he slinked into hiding, reveling in his perceived cleverness.

  "Alrune," he hissed to himself, his voice dripping with malice, "you fool. You wasted your strength on meaningless slaughter. Now look at you, destroyed, while I endure. No dragon will find me. Let them burn this place to ash; I’ll simply wait until they tire."

  Despite his mockery, Deumus felt the weight of his situation. The dragons’ relentless assault left little room for complacency. Though he remained hidden for now, he couldn’t shake the sense that his time was running out.

  As Drasko soared across the skies, his sharp eyes scanned the horizon, the chill air whipping past his gleaming scales. His thoughts churned, not with fear, but with calculated intrigue. The summoning circle he had encountered wasn’t merely an anomaly—it was a disruption. A force that defied comprehension, something that simply didn’t align with the structure of Arche itself.

  The circle wasn’t of this world. That much was certain. And if it wasn’t from Arche, it could only mean one thing: something—or someone—had introduced it.

  "This was no accident," Drasko mused, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. "No spell, no demon, no force native to Arche could resist me like that."

  His claws flexed as he recalled the resistance, not a defiance of power, but an impenetrable wall of unknown origin. He felt no fear in the face of the unknown—fear was for the weak, and Drasko was anything but. If this magic was beyond Arche, then he would face it head-on, just as he had faced countless threats before. But first, he needed answers.

  His lips curled into a grim smile. Stolas would provide those answers.

  The Demon King, for all his arrogance and scheming, was still bound to Arche’s laws. Drasko had no doubt that Stolas was involved—or at least aware—of what had occurred. That summoning circle reeked of the abyss, yet it was unlike any demonic force Drasko had ever encountered. If anyone could explain the connection, it was Stolas.

  Drasko’s wings tilted as he adjusted his course, the wind shifting around him. He could already see the shadow of the mountains in the distance, the borders of the Dwarf Lands approaching. His destination lay beyond them, where Stolas lurked among his legions, biding his time.

  "You’ve hidden in the dark long enough, Stolas," Drasko muttered, his voice low and sharp. "Whatever schemes you’ve woven, whatever forces you’ve unleashed, they end here."

  There was no hesitation in Drasko’s mind about what needed to be done. Stolas would talk, even if it meant Drasko had to rip the truth from him, scale by scale, bone by bone. Torture was a crude tool, but an effective one, and Drasko wasn’t above employing it when the stakes were this high.

  He thought again of the circle, its foreign magic still lingering in his memory. Was it a threat? A test? Perhaps even some shift in the grand design he had always trusted to remain unchanging. Whatever it was, Drasko would uncover the truth. And if the answers led him to the source of that power, he would deal with it as he had dealt with every challenge before—with the absolute certainty of his strength.

  The sun began to dip below the horizon as Drasko’s journey continued, his resolve unshaken, his purpose clear. The unknown did not concern him—it only fueled his determination. Whatever was coming, Drasko would meet it head-on, for nothing in this world, or beyond, could challenge him and live to tell the tale.

  Stolas felt the faint tremor in the abyssal air—a signal, sharp and undeniable, like a dagger pressed against the fabric of his existence. Alrune was dead. The demon king's lips curled into a cruel smile, his jagged teeth gleaming in the dim light of his lair.

  “So, the dragon finally moves,” he muttered, his voice echoing through the chamber like the low growl of a beast.

  The circle of his generals stood silent, their monstrous forms waiting for his command. Among them, Malphas, Stolas's ever-loyal right hand, stepped forward. His form, cloaked in shadow and malice, radiated power barely contained.

  “What are your orders, my king?” Malphas asked, his tone reverent but sharp, his crimson eyes flickering like dying embers.

  Stolas rose from his throne, the ancient stone groaning under his immense weight. His movements were deliberate, mocking in their laziness, as though he had all the time in the world. The faint glow of the abyssal runes carved into the walls dimmed as his power surged, filling the room with an oppressive weight.

  “The dwarfs bore me now,” Stolas said, waving a dismissive claw in the air. “They’ve served their purpose. Finish them. Crush their spirits, their hopes, and their pitiful machines. Leave nothing behind but ash and screams.”

  Malphas bowed deeply. “As you command, my king.”

  As Malphas turned to leave, Stolas remained still, his attention shifting inward. He felt it—a presence, vast and unyielding, closing the distance. Drasko was coming. The thought made Stolas’s grin widen.

  He looked down at his throne, the blackened stone jagged and weathered from centuries of his reign. A symbol of his dominion, his strength. A monument to his rule. With a flick of his massive hand, he shattered it, sending shards flying across the chamber.

  “Thrones are for the living,” Stolas hissed, lowering himself to the cold ground. He settled there, his massive wings folding around him like a cocoon, his posture mocking. He leaned on one elbow, his talons idly scratching the floor, the motion eerily calm.

  “Let him see me like this,” Stolas whispered to the air, his voice dripping with contempt. “Let him see me as I am—king of the dead, lord of the abyss. Let him rage and roar and burn the skies. It will change nothing. I’ll break him as I’ve broken all who dared stand before me.”

  The chamber fell silent as Stolas’s laughter echoed, low and guttural, a sound that promised blood and fire. He waited, the air around him heavy with the stench of death and decay.

  Drasko would come. And when he did, Stolas would ensure he left broken, body and soul.

  The battle-scarred earth stretched before them, a shattered wasteland where nothing grew and everything that had once been stood as a reminder of what had been lost. Kho’s army moved steadily, their march determined despite the bleak surroundings. Beside him, Memo Rakioho—last of the Magisters—strode forward with the quiet confidence of a seasoned warrior.

  Rakioho’s fiery red beard, braided meticulously with runic clasps that glittered faintly in the dim light, caught the wind as he moved. His piercing emerald eyes were fixed on the horizon, a sharp intelligence flickering behind them, weighing every potential threat. His armor, tarnished from years of wear but still holding the marks of ancient dwarven craftsmanship, seemed to resonate with the weight of his past. The insignia on his left pauldron, the symbol of the Magisters, glinted ominously. He was a relic of a time long gone, a commander with no soldiers left to command, and yet he led this desperate mission with the same fire that had once forged an empire.

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  Despite the silence of the battlefield, Rakioho’s senses were on edge. The demons they had expected to confront—Malphas, the loyal right arm of Stolas—were nowhere to be found. The absence of enemy forces was a foreboding sign, and Rakioho’s grip tightened around the haft of his axe.

  "Where are they?" Kho muttered, his voice low and tense.

  Rakioho paused, his sharp eyes scanning the desolate landscape. "They’re out there," he said, his tone grim. "But something’s off. They won’t make their move until they see an advantage." His voice betrayed a flicker of concern, but his resolve remained unshaken.

  Kho, still processing the situation, looked over at his ally. Rakioho was a dwarf of few words, but the wisdom and battle-hardened experience he carried spoke volumes. "We need to keep moving forward. The assassins will need a clear shot at Stolas," Kho ordered, more to himself than anyone else.

  Rakioho gave a curt nod, the lines on his face deepening as he considered their next move. "We keep pushing, then," he replied. "But we need to watch for any surprises."

  As they pressed on, a low rumble reverberated through the earth. It was faint at first, but it grew louder, more pronounced. Rakioho’s eyes narrowed as he looked to the horizon. He could feel it before he saw it—a threat approaching with purpose. Kho followed his gaze, and his heart sank as he spotted the first glint of metal in the distance.

  A human army, marching steadily toward them. They were well-disciplined, their formation crisp despite the chaos around them. At their helm rode a figure, their silhouette towering against the sun. The figure’s sword—a massive weapon—was aflame, burning with an unnatural fire.

  "Roma…" Rakioho whispered, his voice filled with disbelief. "Why are they here?"

  Kho clenched his fists, anger flaring in his chest. The appearance of an unexpected human army complicated everything. The mission had been risky enough without this wild card. He needed to know their intentions, and fast.

  "Could be that the general’s playing his hand early," Rakioho mused, his eyes narrowing in calculation. "Or perhaps they’ve gotten word of our movements."

  Kho shook his head, his expression darkening. "Whatever their reason, we can’t afford to let them get in our way."

  Rakioho shifted his weight, his stance solid and unyielding. "We move forward," he said, "but we keep an eye on them. If they’re here to disrupt us, we’ll be ready."

  As the human army closed the distance, their leader’s fiery sword blazing like a beacon, Kho’s mind raced. He didn’t know who this general was, or what Roma was after, but one thing was certain: the presence of these soldiers was an unforeseen complication.

  They would have to adapt on the fly, and Rakioho’s expertise would be crucial in making sure they didn’t get overwhelmed. There was no turning back now. The plan had to succeed, no matter the cost.

  As the army marched forward, the air grew heavy, charged with an unspoken sense of impending doom. Kho's mind was on the mission—distraction and infiltration. But before they could make their next move, a dwarf messenger emerged from the shadows, his breath ragged, his eyes wide with panic.

  "Commander Rakioho!" the messenger shouted, his voice breaking. "The underground... it’s fallen. The demons and Malphas have invaded our last sanctuary. The children... the women... they’ve been massacred."

  Rakioho’s face paled, his posture faltering as the weight of the words crushed him. His broad shoulders slumped, the sturdy dwarf commander, usually a pillar of strength, now felt hollow. The messenger’s words echoed in his ears, a devastating blow to a people already on the brink of extinction.

  He stumbled back, as though struck physically, his grip loosening on his axe. The pain was too great, and for a moment, Rakioho was a dwarf undone by grief.

  Kho’s eyes darkened, but he said nothing. He understood the loss. His people—his army—had suffered greatly, but Rakioho’s people were all but gone now. It was a massacre.

  Before Rakioho could fully regain his composure, a soft chuckle broke the silence.

  A figure emerged from the chaos—a demon, small in stature compared to the others but no less dangerous. Remnon, the demon healer, approached with a mischievous grin playing on his lips. Despite being one of the weakest of the great demons, Remnon had a cruel reputation. He could poison minds and bodies, spreading sickness and decay wherever he went. And though his true power lay in healing his demonic allies, the devastation he caused in the process was a twisted form of fun for him.

  "I thought I'd join the party," Remnon said with a mocking bow, his eyes gleaming as his army of twisted demons surrounded them. "You know, just for fun. Why should the King of Demons have all the fun while his toys die in the dirt?"

  Rakioho’s hand clenched around his axe once more, a fury building within him. The demons had taken everything from him, and now, they were here, pushing their advantage.

  “We can’t go back to the underground, Kho,” Rakioho said through gritted teeth. “Our last bastion is lost. We have nothing left but this fight.”

  Kho nodded grimly. “We fight then, but we’ve got more trouble.”

  He pointed into the distance, and Rakioho turned to see the human army—a familiar sight, one of tension and animosity. The humans, led by a general wielding a flaming sword, were marching toward them, seemingly oblivious to the demons approaching from behind. It was a trap—an ambush, a two-pronged attack, and Rakioho knew the humans had no love for dwarfs or giants. It was as though they had walked into an arena meant for their destruction.

  "Humans..." Rakioho muttered, his grip tightening around his axe again. “They're just as much our enemies as the demons.”

  "We can't fight both of them," Kho said, his voice low and urgent. "We’re caught in the middle."

  Rakioho glanced back at his remaining dwarven forces, a small but fierce group of survivors. They had no choice now. "Defend against Remnon’s forces," Rakioho commanded. "I’ll take care of the humans. This is our last stand."

  But as Rakioho prepared to charge, a dark figure appeared behind the human army—a familiar, terrifying silhouette. Malphas, the demon commander, led his own legions toward them, a cruel smirk spreading across his face. The light of the demons’ arrival sent a chill down Rakioho’s spine. Malphas had already completed his task. The dwarven underground, once a safe haven, was now a tomb.

  Malphas’ eyes locked onto Rakioho as he approached, his voice carrying across the battlefield. “Did you truly think we didn’t know where your precious little sanctuary was?” Malphas’ grin widened. “We gave you a glimmer of hope only to watch it crumble in the end. Even if the Demon King dies today, your people are finished. Your wives, your children, all of them are dead.”

  The words pierced through Rakioho’s chest like an arrow, and for a moment, the weight of the devastation was too much. Everything—everything he had fought for—was gone.

  But Rakioho’s spirit was unbroken. His resolve hardened. He wasn’t going to let the demons have the satisfaction of seeing him crumble.

  "Not now," Rakioho growled. “This isn’t the time to mourn.” He stood tall, rallying his dwarven soldiers with a single gesture. “We fight, for Memoheim, for what’s left.”

  The human general, having understood the gravity of the situation, made a decision. He wasn’t here to fight dwarfs or giants today; they were all facing the same enemy. With a grim expression, he barked orders, and his soldiers prepared to face the demons as one unified front.

  As the battlefield erupted into chaos, Rakioho and Kho led their forces into battle, determined to push forward. Their final stand would not be in vain. Despite the overwhelming odds, they fought alongside the humans, the remnants of the dwarves standing as a symbol of defiance against the darkness.

  Malphas, still watching from the backlines, sneered at the sight. The demons had already won, he knew it. The dwarfs were shattered, their hope destroyed, and now, they would simply be another casualty in the war that would reshape the world.

  But Rakioho and Kho—together—were a force to be reckoned with, and they would not let the demons have the last laugh.

  The battle raged on, an unrelenting storm of violence and chaos. On all sides, the demons pressed in, their overwhelming numbers pushing the dwarven and human forces to the brink of collapse. Malphas, with his army of horrors, encircled Rakioho and the human general, each attack from the demon ranks feeling like a crushing weight upon their bodies. But they fought on, driven by something more than survival—by vengeance, by defiance, by the fire of those they had lost.

  Rakioho’s body felt as though it had been forged from iron. Every strike that should have cleaved him in two bounced harmlessly off his hardened skin, protected by the full power of his Magister ring. His movements were fluid, though each attack still burned with the effort. The ring had become his shield, but he knew it wouldn’t hold forever. His strength was temporary, an illusion granted by the power of the ring, not his own. The human general was much the same—his sword, a blazing extension of flame, cut through the demons with ease, but it was clear to both of them that the tide of the battle was not in their favor.

  "I’m certain his sword is a Magister," Rakioho thought as he fought alongside the human general. The flame danced around the blade, cutting through demons, but with every strike, the general’s arms grew heavier, his breath more labored. Both warriors knew they couldn’t hold out for long.

  Meanwhile, Kho and his army were deep in their own battle. His warriors—Niga and Niger—fought like shadows, moving with deadly precision, cutting down demons with the speed of arrows. Kho could feel the shift within himself; the fear that once clung to him like a suffocating fog was gone. He was no longer a man lost in the shadow of his past; he had become a warrior in his own right. Every swing of his claymore was a testament to that transformation.

  But even with all the progress, the battle was far from won. Remnon, despite being the weakest of the great demons, was proving to be a formidable foe. His healing powers kept the demons coming, relentless and unyielding. Kho knew he couldn’t afford to fight forever; he had to take down Remnon quickly. Time was running out, and his forces were already thinning.

  Niger, with his massive hammer, made a desperate leap, crushing a swath of demons between him and Remnon. His blow was devastating, but Remnon retaliated with a breath that oozed poisonous gas, catching Niger off guard. The poison seeped into his body, draining him of strength, but it didn’t stop the hammer from swinging.

  Kho’s eyes locked onto Niga, who was ready to assist his brother, but Kho gave a quick, silent order. No, his gaze seemed to say. Niga trusted Kho’s judgment, and with a nod, he turned back to the battle, clearing a path for Kho to get closer to Remnon.

  Kho’s heart pounded as he surged forward, his claymore in hand. He hurled the massive weapon toward Remnon with all his might. The blade struck deep, piercing the demon’s body. Remnon howled in pain, but before he could heal himself, Kho was already on the move, fighting through the demons that rushed to protect their master.

  With his bare hands, Kho fought through the oncoming tide, his fists a blur of movement as he silenced each demon in his path. Beside him, Niger, poisoned but still driven by the same will, swung his hammer, crushing everything in his way. Together, they fought like an unstoppable force.

  When they reached Remnon, Kho didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the claymore that still impaled the demon, twisting it with savage force. Remnon, with a sickening gurgle, unleashed a poisonous breath in an attempt to stop them. The noxious gas oozed out in a thick, green mist, but Kho held his breath and pressed forward.

  The toxic fumes swirled around him, but the power of his determination was stronger. In a single, final motion, Kho cut Remnon in half, his hands slick with the demon’s blood. Niger, with a growl of fury, followed up by smashing the remains into grotesque, broken pieces. The demon’s body was reduced to nothing more than a disgusting, pulpy mass.

  Victory was theirs, but it was bittersweet. The battle raged on around them, the ground littered with fallen demons, but there were still so many more. Their forces were exhausted, the demons relentless, and far in the distance, Rakioho’s army was on the verge of collapse.

  But just as hope seemed to fade, the ground trembled beneath them.

  Dragons.

  A powerful roar split the air as a group of dragons—some not as strong as Drasko, but still formidable in their own right—descended from the sky. Their leathery wings beat with ferocity, and their fiery breath turned the tide of the battle as they unleashed their fury upon the demon horde. Malphas, sensing the shift, turned to face the new threat, his eyes burning with rage.

  The dragons were no mere beasts of legend; they were warriors in their own right, and they made quick work of the lesser demons. Their powerful claws and fiery breath tore through the battlefield, scattering the demons into chaos. Malphas, enraged, focused all his power on the dragons, trying to push them back, but the battle was no longer his to win.

  Rakioho saw his chance. With the dragons' intervention, the demon forces were reeling, but Malphas was still a threat. "Retreat!" he commanded, his voice harsh with urgency. The human general nodded, his face tight with determination, and signaled his forces to fall back.

  Rakioho removed his Magister ring, his hand still shaking from the effort of using its power. He looked toward Kho, seeing him at the edge of the battlefield, a glimmer of respect in his eyes. The two warriors—once so different—had come to understand each other, their paths intertwined by fate and the fight for survival.

  Back in the Moon Palace of Oosa, Yholm and Goan made their way toward the throne room, where the fate of Yholm would be decided. As they approached the palace gates, Goan’s eyes narrowed at the sight of a vast and imposing giant army stationed nearby. The Emperor had taken no chances, preparing a force to protect him, should the situation escalate. Goan shrugged it off, unconcerned, and proceeded toward the palace with Yholm at his side.

  Inside the throne room, the air was thick with tension. Emperor Rogg sat on his throne, his gaze cold but calculating. Goan wasted no time. With his usual bluntness, he began to speak, accusing Yholm of cowardice, of abandoning the battlefield in the face of Alrune’s onslaught.

  “You should be ashamed,” Goan said, his voice seething with anger. “Your retreat left us vulnerable. You dishonored the giants, and you dishonored Oosa.”

  Yholm stood firm, unfazed by his brother’s venomous words. “What would you have had me do?” he replied calmly. “Charge into certain death for your glory? You were nowhere to be found while the battle raged. If anyone is guilty of dishonor, it’s you.”

  Goan’s eyes blazed with fury. “You dare challenge me? I’ll see you punished for this, Yholm. If you’re not, I’ll start a rebellion myself.”

  Rogg’s gaze flickered between the two brothers, his jaw tightening. He understood the game Goan was playing—Goan sought to create chaos, to tear apart the unity within the Empire by pushing him to punish the Demi-Giants. He could not allow that. Not now. Not when the Empire was already so fragile from the ongoing war.

  Deep down, Rogg promised himself that once the war was over, Goan’s treachery would not go unpunished. But for now, he needed to maintain order.

  “I will not let Oosa fall into chaos,” Rogg finally spoke, his voice low and steady. “But I cannot ignore your actions, Yholm. You will be punished.”

  Goan grinned, believing victory was within his grasp.

  Rogg’s eyes shifted to his brother, the weight of his decision settling on his shoulders. “You will be sent far away, Yholm. Take lands for the Empire. A distant, forgotten land. I’m sending you on a mission that will surely end in failure. You will take what you can, and if you survive, I’ll reconsider your place here in Oosa.”

  Goan’s smirk faltered slightly at the mention of Yholm’s fate, but he quickly masked it with further disdain.

  Yholm, however, seemed completely unfazed. The punishment didn’t matter to him. He had no care for his life anymore. He had endured enough of Goan’s petty politics and Oosa’s endless demands. This mission, a suicide run to claim lands for Oosa, was nothing more than a distraction.

  “I accept,” Yholm said, his voice flat but resolute. “You can send me away. But I won’t stop pushing for what I believe in. The Demi-Giants will be accepted as equals, as Kho wanted, even if I have to force the world to see it.”

  Rogg’s gaze remained cold and calculating. There was no sympathy, no flicker of understanding. To him, Yholm and the Demi-Giants were nothing more than tools—pawns to be sacrificed when convenient. He had no intention of elevating them or entertaining Yholm’s ideals.

  “This is your punishment,” Rogg declared, his tone devoid of emotion. “You are to take your troops and conquer lands for the glory of Oosa. Whether you succeed or die in the process is of no consequence to me. Only the results matter.”

  Yholm stood unmoving, his face betraying no emotion. He already knew how little Rogg cared about him or his people. This decision was no surprise. It didn’t matter to Yholm whether Rogg’s motivations were cruel or indifferent. All that mattered now was the mission—and the chance to uphold the promise he made to Kho.

  The next morning, Yholm, along with a small army of loyal Demi-Giants, set out on a boat, leaving Oosa behind as they embarked on their uncertain journey toward an unknown destination. They had no idea what lay ahead—whether it was another battlefield, an unclaimed land, or an impossible mission. But Yholm knew one thing: this was the beginning of something greater.

  No matter the cost, he would fight to make the Demi-Giants a recognized force in Oosa. Even if it meant walking through fire.