Forge Of Fate: A Blacksmiths Journey

The moment Xel'thar, Valdris, and Gregor arrived, the oppressive weight of dark magic in the air became undeniable. Even without seeing the source directly, the unnatural warping of mana around them made it clear—this wasn't just a powerful spellcaster at work.

It was an artifact.

For dark magic to persist with such intensity, even against their collective magical force, meant that no single mage was sustaining it. A relic or catalyst was amplifying the chaos, anchoring it within the city like a malignant wound festering in the mana flow.

"Some kind of cursed item," Gregor muttered, his heavy gauntlet glowing as he traced patterns in the air. "No way this much corruption is coming from just a group of casters. Not even a Grandmaster of Dark Arts could keep this up without burning themselves out."

"An amplifier…" Valdris's sharp gaze swept the battlefield. "Sir, how do we stop this?"

Isolde had barely steadied her breathing from the fight but turned to them, gripping her sword tightly.

"Don't worry," Valdris assured her. "We have a way—since Baudric is back. Xel'thar?"

Xel'thar's reptilian eyes flared with recognition. "Yes, Baudric!!" He turned his head toward the towering clock tower in the city's center. "Is it ready?"

High above the chaos, atop the grand clock tower, a lone figure stood against the backdrop of the stormy night sky.

Baudric.

His robes fluttered in the high winds as he clutched a large tome bound in enchanted silver, his eyes locked onto the swirling darkness below. Magic coursed through the air around him, invisible lines of power threading through the city as his spell neared completion.

With a single, resonant word, he activated the incantation.

A deep, reverberating chime rang out from the clock tower, echoing across the city. The moment the sound reached the streets, thousands of ghostly figures began to materialize.

Spectral knights, clad in translucent armor, emerged from thin air. Their ethereal forms shimmered like mist under the moonlight, each one wielding weapons that glowed with a faint, golden aura.

Without hesitation, the spectral army descended into the chaos.

They moved with inhuman precision, gliding across the streets, grabbing panicked civilians, and restraining them without harm. Their very presence seemed to soothe the frenzied minds, suppressing the Macab's influence as if their essence was anathema to dark magic.

The assassins hiding in the chaos immediately realized something was wrong. Their carefully crafted plan—to force the city into turmoil, flush Kalem and Isolde into the open, and then strike—was beginning to crumble.

"Damn it—" one of the masked figures hissed, trying to weave another spell, but a spectral knight grabbed his arm mid-cast, twisting it backward before slamming him into the ground.

The tides were turning.

From atop a rooftop, Baudric's voice rang out, his magic amplifying it so it carried across the city.

"The spirits will keep the civilians safe—focus on the source! We'll suppress the mana storm from here!"

Valdris nodded. "Me and Gregor will assist Baudric. You two go with Xel'thar—" he motioned to Kalem and Isolde, "—and take care of the ones controlling that artifact."

Kalem tightened his grip on his swords. Isolde adjusted her stance, gripping her greatsword in both hands.

Xel'thar bared his fangs in what could have been a grin—or a challenge. His claws flexed, his tail swaying behind him in anticipation.

"Shall we?" Xel'thar asked, his deep voice carrying a hint of amusement.

Kalem smirked. "Let's end this."

Without another word, they dashed toward the source.