The capital had gone silent.
All lines of communication were cut. No ravens returned, no couriers made it through. The last message spoke only of horror—"Flamingo Disease has reached the barracks."
The soldiers were the first to suffer. Their bodies twisted grotesquely—their necks, arms, and legs stretched unnaturally, as if something inside them were trying to pull free. Most were still alive when it began, but not for long. What couldn't be burned was buried, and what couldn't be buried was locked away.
After the death of Lord Vardon, chaos only deepened.
Seizing the moment, Lord Salvin Hungmen began his brutal march.he swept through the countryside like a blade through silk, overtaking most of Vengin's outer forts with terrifying ease.
There were no victors. On both sides, the Flamingo Disease spread like wildfire, sparing no one. Treatment was scarce—sometimes denied entirely. Supplies were thin, and healers were either dead, gone, or infected.
In the end, the soldiers died waiting.
Not from battle.
But from a lack of hope.
The forts in the northern reaches still fly the Vengins banner, relian to one man—Phalbin Bore. A war-weathered soldier with a permanent scowl carved into his jawline, Bore has been serving Vengins since his youth, through blood, fire, and decay. Even after receiving word of Ashia's death, he refused to abandon his post. Duty was etched too deep into his bones.
Outside, the wind howled like wolves beyond the frostbitten cliffs, rattling broken shutters. The sky was an iron-grey void, suffocating even the thought of moonlight.
"How many do you think we can still hold on?" Bruno asked, his voice roughened by cold and cynicism. He leaned against the cracked stone wall, arms folded, eyes scanning the gloom outside. His expression didn't match the locals of Livankis—too clean, too composed, elegant It's only been three months since he got transferred from Genjelton to castle vengin for training. Livankis has no capital . Just two shattered families left—Vengins and Hungmen.
Bore turned toward the towering windows, where frost clawed at the glass. The long corridors behind him echoed with the muffled groans of wounded soldiers and creaking timber, a reminder of a stronghold barely standing.
Livankis run through policies of Genjelton like it's a game of dice, Under the duce-Sarron Silva. Ever since Vardon's assassination and the outbreak of that damned Flamingo disease, livankis has lost it's peace . Vengins are in a downward spiral, and no one's throwing a rope.
"It depends how long we can stay alive," Bore replied, calm as stone, his voice deep and devoid of fear, as always.
"That's awkwardly right, I guess," Bruno muttered, chuckling without humor. "But if we consider Flamingo… I don't think we have much time left, man It's spreading like rot. Just rot with legs." He let out a heavy sigh, the kind that carries defeat. "No chance I'm going back."
He paused, then glanced sideways. "Hey, Mr. Bore. What do you think is causing the Flamingo shitstorm ?"
Bore turned from the frost-fogged window and shuffled toward his battered desk. He grabbed a bottle of beer with calloused hands, popped the cap off with his teeth, and took a long, deliberate swig. The bitter scent of old hops filled the stale air.
He looked Bruno dead in the eye.
"Those fuckers are the reason, no doubt," he said, voice gravelly.
He took another sip, beer foaming at the edge of his cracked lips.
"Salvin had planned it all along, vardon's death and the flamingo just after?" Bore lookd at brunos eyes again"you think it's a coincidence nobel man?, couse i don't, once I have to chance I'm gonna snape that basterds head out of his neck, mark my words "
Bore leaned toward the frostbitten window, his eyes scanning the long, stretched horizon. A faint flicker caught his gaze—a dim, intermittent sparkle of light in the distance.
"They're coming. Forward," he muttered, stepping back from the glass. Without hesitation, he seized his massive sword from the rack and strode toward the exit with a soldier's resolve.
He paused in the archway, his voice rising with edge this time.
"I haven't even asked yet—what can I expect from you?"
Bruno squared his stance, chin high.
"I can handle frontline duty. Specialised in earth sorcery," he said, confidence lacing his words.
Bore narrowed his eyes, a dry smirk curling the edge of his mouth. "Noble blood, huh?"
Without breaking stride, he grabbed a nearby spear and tossed it toward Bruno, who caught it with a grunt.
"I'm trusting you with my archers," Bore said, voice cold and decisive. "Don't fuckin' let me down, noble man."
The snow fell in quiet sheets, burying the boots of the advancing squad as they pressed through the shattered outer walls of Vengin fort. A dozen soldiers—Hungman loyalists—moved like shadows through the skeletal remains of what once was a proud northern stronghold. Silence clung to everything. No bells, no horns, no warning.
Just the wind.
"Keep your mouths shut and your blades drawn," whispered the lead man, a grizzled soldier with a scar running down his forehead like cracked marble. His breath fogged out of him in sharp, anxious bursts.
The corridors were too quiet. No patrols. No resistance.
"Where the hell is everyone?" muttered a younger soldier near the rear, voice trembling despite the iron spear clenched in his hands.
"Dead or hiding," the leader hissed. "This place's a corpse—let's just find the war room and torch the records. In and out."
They didn't know he was waiting.
They didn't know Phalbin Bore never left his post.
The first scream came before anyone saw him.
A man at the back vanished into the shadows with a sickening crunch. No flash. No struggle. One moment he was there—then gone, replaced by the wet sound of bones snapping and a splash of arterial red painting the frost.
"What the—?!" the leader whipped around, blade half-drawn.
Then came the second scream—cut short like a rope snapped in mid-hang.
"Fall back! Regroup! Shields up—now!"
They tried.
Gods, they tried.
But Bore wasn't hunting them. He was culling them.
A massive blur burst from the shadows, metal shrieking as it cleaved through the air. The leader barely had time to raise his blade before Bore's greatsword sheared through both his weapon and arm, sending him sprawling against the stone, bleeding out in stunned silence.
"WHERE IS HE—WHERE IS HE—!" another soldier shrieked, spinning in place.
Steel met flesh again. Then again. Every strike was calculated—limbs hacked clean, torsos opened like butchered game. Bore moved like a storm in a bottle—controlled, coiled, savage.
One soldier tried to run.
He didn't make it to the gate.
A javelin, hurled with the force of a cannon, punched through his spine and out his chest. The dying man writhed, gurgled, and collapsed twitching onto the ground.
Three men remained.
They stumbled over each other, blood-slick boots sliding, desperation leaking from every pore.
"W-we surrender!" one cried. "We were just following—"
He didn't get to finish.
Bore came down on him like a hammer from the deep hell, the sound of his blade crushing bone echoing louder than any war cry.
The last two huddled behind broken stone, panting, shivering, soaked in their comrades' blood.
"W-what is he?" one whimpered.
The other just stared past the wall, eyes wide. "That's not a man."
Heavy footsteps.
Then silence.
Then a voice—low, cold, barely more than a growl.
"standing against me Was your choice , your death is not my folt "
The upper ramparts were slick with frost, the kind that bit through gloves and clung to skin like knives. Bruno stood behind a line of crouched figures—thirteen archers, each one handpicked, each one sharp-eyed and silent. No one spoke. No one dared.
"Keep your fingers ready, not itchy," Bruno muttered, scanning the dim woods beyond the ruined . "They'll come up from the south path or the low ridge. Don't waste shots—aim for the throats."
The archers nodded in unison, bows drawn taut, strings trembling with tension. A few of them had scars on their faces. One was missing an eye. These weren't green boys—they were killers.
Below, the enemy had started to swarm—at least twenty of them, maybe more, creeping toward the main gate. A few even laughed.
"Heh. Castle's dead, huh?" one muttered to another. "Let's finish this."
Bruno narrowed his eyes.
"On my mark—"
But before he could finish, the gate exploded.
Not from magic. Not from siege weapons.
From a body—hurled with such force that it cracked the wooden doors off their hinges and sent splinters flying like shrapnel. The soldier's corpse hit the ground in a twisted heap of steel and blood, half of his face caved in, ribs split open like snapped antlers.
The enemy froze.
Then, from the smoke and splinters, Phalbin Bore stepped through.
Dripping.
His armor was soaked in gore, not just red but black, painted from head to boot. Bits of flesh clung to his pauldrons. His blade was low at his side, caked with viscera, steaming in the cold.
He looked like something dragged up from a nightmare—a butcher in plate mail, moving with terrifying calm.
"...Oh gods," one of Bruno's archers whispered.
Bore didn't speak.
He just raised his head, blood matting his beard, and pointed his sword forward.
"Open fire," Bruno commanded, voice flat.
And like that—the air filled with death.
Phalbin Bore stepped over the mangled corpse of the last idiot who thought charging alone would make a name for himself. His armor clinked softly with each step, drenched in drying blood, steam rolling off his shoulders into the winter air.
Across the rubble, parting through the line of enemy soldiers like he owned the place, came a tall man in dark green plate. His helmet tucked under his arm, auburn hair slicked back, face lined with arrogance.
Commander Belford, first son of salvin hungmen.
"So," Belford speaked, voice like cold steel drawn slow, "you must be the infamous butcher of vengis."
Bore rolled his neck. "I was expecting someone more valuable."
The insult cut deep, and Belford's jaw twitched.
"How long," Belford asked, taking a single step forward, " how long can you stand, brave monster?"
The air between them tightened. Somewhere behind Belford, soldiers shifted nervously. Bruno's archers still watched from above, bows half-drawn but waiting for the order. Tension crackled like ice underfoot.
But before Bore could answer—
"AAAAAAAAAGH!!"
A horrible scream tore through the yard like a blade.
Everyone turned.
One of Bore's men—still breathing just seconds ago—was writhing on the ground near the wall, his mouth open in a voiceless shriek. His arms had begun to stretch, veins bulging, skin splitting like overripe fruit. His neck followed, elongating grotesquely, bones popping under the strain.
"The Flamingo !! But how?," someone screamed"
The infected soldier's eyes rolled back, limbs snapping in opposite directions as if something inside wanted out—desperately, violently.
And then he screamed again—not human this time.
Bore didn't flinch.
Belford, however, smirked.
"Well," he said. "Looks like time's already on my side."
Bore lifted his blade slowly. His voice was flat, like a tombstone being carved.
"Wrong. That scream just bought me the reason to cut your goddamn head off."
A gust of wind howled unnaturally, blasting snow and ash into the air.
Belford raised one hand, fingers splayed, and the wind obeyed like a trained beast. A vortex of sharp dust and debris surged forward. Bore instinctively shielded his eyes with one bloodied forearm—
And in that blink—Belford was gone.
When Bore finally looked up, he was met with silence.
That place was empty, save for twitching corpses and drifting ash. The blood dripping from his armor hissed where it touched the frozen stones.
Then—CRACK!
Bore slammed his fist into a nearby boulder, shattering it in half. Then another. And another.
"COME OUT, YOU COWARD!" he roared.
"FACE ME IF YOU HAVE THE GUTS!"
His voice echoed through the cliffs like cannonfire.
Stone dust clouded the air as he kept smashing, the sound of crumbling rock reverberating across the ruined fort. His rage boiled over, leaking through every clenched muscle.
And then—
A slow trickle of blood ran from his nose.
Bore froze.
He blinked, bringing a hand to his face.
A second stream followed—from his mouth.
A shadow moved at the edge , behind fractured columns.
Belford's voice slid from the darkness, calm and venomous:
"I'm not Salvin, I don't care about fucking honars like you loosers "
"You don't have much time. Why not sit down and pray to your gods?"
Bore staggered a half-step. His grip on his blade trembled—but just for a moment.
"So this is all your doing," he spat blood into the snow.
"Poisoning your opponent?"
He coughed violently. Drops of red scattered across the stone. His skin was starting to pale.
" you are messing with innocent peoples of livonkis,What do you think capital would do if ....—"
He collapsed to one knee, coughing harder.
From the shadows, Belford's voice turned cold.
"they doesn't care anymore, it's time to move forward, hungmens are the true ruler of livankis."
Bore's fist hit the ground with a thud. Still kneeling, he looked up with fury etched deep in his eyes.
" THEN WHY ARE VILLAGERS GETTING AFFECTED?? VENGINS ARE YOUR ENEMY!! "
belford stepped close to bore's head , " couse they choose you "
Bore tried his last strength to pick his blade but his arms aren't listening anymore
"You fuckers…"
"You're all gonna die by my hands."
Belford's laugh echoed—unhinged, cruel, confident.
"Better luck in your next life."
The blizzard raged on, wind shrieking like the screams of the dying. Snow spiraled across the ruined yard, erasing footsteps, cooling blood.
From the swirling white haze above, a black bird dove through the storm, its wings slicing the air like knives.
It landed on Belford's outstretched arm, claws digging into his armored sleeve.
The raven gave a low, ragged caw and shook off the ice coating its feathers.
Belford, still standing in the shadowed ruins, looked at the bird with mild recognition. His slick gloves worked deftly, untying the twine around its leg. He pulled free a folded letter—creased, sealed in grey wax, and marked with the sigil of House Hungmen.
He walked casually to a nearby stone, one leg swinging lazily over the other as he sat down. The wind continued to scream around him, but he moved with the ease of a man who'd already won.
He broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
Snow piled silently around him. The raven tilted its head, watching.
Belford's eyes scanned the parchment.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
His face shifted—twisting, contorting. First confusion. Then something more raw.
Shock.
His breath caught.
The blizzard drowned out the rest of his words as the letter trembled slightly in his hand.