The Ancient Slaughterer

The Fall of the Barrier

The sky cracked open with a thunderous scream as the Runestone Barrier—humanity's final defense against the Ancients—shattered like glass, a tidal wave of radiant fragments exploding across the sky and raining down like dying stars. In that single moment, Vandrel's greatest protection was gone. The sound echoed across the continent, a bell tolling for the end of an age. From the black horizon, a swarm emerged—thousands of Ancients of all forms and sizes, screeching, crawling, soaring—each one driven by the same insatiable hunger for flesh, magic, and memory. At the broken threshold of the barrier stood Xerath, cloaked in flames of shadow, arms outstretched like a prophet welcoming his gods. Around him stood his Ten Servants, monstrous and regal, each a living calamity. Their eyes gleamed as they watched the flood begin. Vandrel's walls screamed with alarms, soldiers flooding the streets, shouting commands and mobilizing defense lines. But it was chaos. They weren't prepared for this. The last breach had let in three. Now, there were three thousand—and counting. Among the monstrous tide, something strange occurred. A lone Ancient—tall, silver-scaled, with antlers like twisted iron and eyes full of pain and resolve—stepped between the city and its kin. It let out a guttural roar, not of rage, but of defiance. It fought them. Claws and light tore through its former kin. The soldiers hesitated, stunned by the sight. Elian Fyre, sensing the breach from Fort Vaelstrom, broke his restraints, fury and fear colliding in his chest. Sylvie was in the city. He couldn't wait for permission. He let the change take him. Wrath ignited. Silver veins spread, fangs sharpened, and his eyes glowed like twin moons. He flew—no—tore across the sky, crashing into the battlefield like a falling star, landing beside the rogue beast, shoulder to shoulder with the Ancient. It looked at him with something like recognition. Together, they unleashed chaos against the horde. Behind them, Captain Sheane Heath stood atop the city wall, twin Runeblades already wet with ichor. "Alpha Squadron—move!" he roared. T.E.R.O.S.A., the Elite Requiem Order's finest unit, dove into battle. Each member, a living legend. Each one facing their own army of death. Runes flared. Spells detonated. Blood soaked the streets. For a moment, humanity pushed back. But then the tide turned. The ancients were endless. For every one they killed, ten more tore through the ruins. Xerath raised a hand, and from the fissure came creatures that dwarfed buildings—Titan-class Ancients, each one capable of leveling districts. The lines broke. Screams filled the air. One by one, T.E.R.O.S.A.'s members fell, devoured, cursed, or blown apart. Sheane fought like a god of war, but even gods bleed. Lyra's arms shook from overuse of forbidden spells, her vision blurry with exhaustion. Elian's Ancient form trembled, his mind slipping as his fury grew harder to control. The rogue Ancient was bleeding heavily, yet it never stopped shielding civilians from its kin. Orders rang out. Evacuation protocols. "Retreat! Save what you can!" Dropships screamed across the sky, ferrying civilians and soldiers out of the collapsing capital. Entire blocks were consumed in living waves of teeth and claws. In one final stand, Sheane, Lyra, and Elian covered the retreat, a wall of fire, steel, and rage holding back the apocalypse for mere seconds more. Then the final flare went up. "Evac complete. Pull out." The military abandoned the city. Vandrel fell. The last screams of the dying echoed behind as the Ancients consumed everything. The skies were black with wings. The streets drowned in blood. The Requiem Order—crippled. The capital—lost. The world—forever changed. And in the center of the ruins, Xerath smiled, whispering to the heavens, "Let the age of men end."