Battle of my death

A sword hissed through the air, its blade sparking violently as it clashed against the demon’s talons—curved claws sharper than honed steel. The demon stood twelve feet tall, its obsidian horns jutting from its skull, shoulders, and forearms. Its movements were a blur, faster than sound itself, yet the swordsman pressed on, thrusting and parrying with fading strength.

In a final, reckless gamble, the man lunged for the demon’s neck. The blade bit deep, slicing halfway through sinewy flesh before lodging itself in place. But the strike left him exposed. The demon roared, driving its claws through the man’s chest in a spray of blood.

Staggering backward, the creature clutched its mangled throat. “Ugh… YOU,” it rasped, its voice like grinding stone. “YOU ALMOST… KILLED ME!”

The swordsman—Garth—collapsed onto the blood-soaked ground. His breaths came in ragged, wet gasps, each exhale punctuated by a fresh torrent of crimson. “I… killed…” he choked, his voice brittle. “Ten… of you…” A weak, blood-flecked laugh escaped him. “What… were you… expecting?”

The demon’s claws flashed. Darkness swallowed Garth as his head rolled free.

Garth awoke to a void. Then, like dawn breaking, light flooded the emptiness, coalescing into a vast chamber of alabaster stone. Towering pillars stretched upward, their surfaces etched with carvings so intricate they seemed to spiral into infinity. Above, the columns dissolved into clouds, as though the chamber existed between realms.

Drawn by curiosity, Garth approached one of the pillars. The carvings deepened the longer he stared, pulling him into their labyrinthine patterns.

“Garth.”

A voice—soft yet powerful—echoed through the chamber. Startled, he stumbled against the pillar. A sharp creak echoed as the stone tilted, then collapsed. Like dominos, the pillars fell one after another, crashing until the chamber lay in ruins.

Garth turned toward the voice. “Sorry,” he muttered, scratching his head. “My bad.”

Before him stood a woman clad in a gown of woven light, her hair cascaded like white silk blending seamlessly with her attire. “Do not trouble yourself,” she said, her tone edged with irritation. “This place is but a reflection.”

“Who are you?” Garth demanded. “Where am I? Is this teleportation magic? Are you a Medicus?”

“I am Calista,” she replied. “And you are in my domain.”

Garth froze. Memories surged—the demon’s claws, the screams of his loved ones, his severed head tumbling through the air. He clutched his temples, the phantom pain of death buckling his knees. “If you’re Calista,” he whispered, tears streaking his face, “why did you let them die? My father… my brother… her.” His voice cracked. “You let demons drown the world in blood.”

Calista’s tear glowed like molten diamond as it traced her cheek. “I would never abandon my children,” she said, her voice trembling. “But the laws of this realm bind even me.”

“Laws?” Garth spat. “Your laws let my family die?”

Calista stepped closer, her presence radiating sorrow and power. “I can undo it,” she said. “I will send you back fifteen years. Stop the demon kings before their resurrection.”

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Garth’s breath hitched. “Do it. Now.”

“You defeated ten kings with fading knowledge and luck,” she warned. “Will fragments of skill be enough to save the world?”

He met her gaze. “I’ll tear them apart. Even if it kills me.”

Calista smiled faintly. “That fire is why I chose you.” She pressed a finger to his temple. Light erupted, and he vanished.

Her whisper lingered: “Grow stronger, Garth.”

---

### The Second Chance

Garth jolted awake. Sunlight filtered through pine branches, and the murmur of voices filled the air. He lay on a coarse mat in a forest clearing, surrounded by tents. Venators—demon hunters—sharpened blades and traded stories, oblivious to the doom ahead.

He stared at his hands. Smooth, unmarked. Fifteen years…

A shrill bird cry pierced the silence. Ice flooded his veins.

That sound.

Memories detonated: May 13th, 509. The night the Eastern Kingdom’s Venators fell. Ambushed at midnight. A quarter slaughtered—his comrades, mentors, friends. His first mission.

“No,” he breathed. “Not again.”

He scrambled to his feet, heart pounding. The camp sprawled before him—a maze of tents and smoldering campfires. Venators laughed, their blades glinting in the sun. They have no idea.

Ten minutes.

He sprinted toward the command tent, shoving through hunters. “Move! Move!”

Just seconds before reaching the ten, a hooded figure emerged. He was tall, with robes swallowing his form, his features hidden save for twin emerald eyes glowing like cursed flames under his hood. The man raised a hand, freezing Garth mid-stride.

The hooded figure carved out a seal in midair. A symbol appeared on Garth's temple. It was a circle with one of six dots amidst its rim.

One dot—marking him as a Pigeon, the lowest-ranking Venator class.

The Venator ranking system began with Pigeon, followed by Sparrow, Falcon, Hawk, and Eagle. But the truly exceptional—the strongest warriors on Earth—were ranked as Phoenixes and honored as Epics.

Each rank was divided into ten subdivisions called Constellations: those numbered one to five were termed Moons, while six to ten were Suns. Garth, despite being a Pigeon, had clawed his way to Two Moons—the bare minimum to avoid being deemed a civilian. How he’d even made it through training was a mystery known only to Calista.

The robed man tilted his hooded head, speaking in a voice both weathered and sharp. “Why does a Pigeon stand before me at this hour?” He flicked a hand, and Garth felt an invisible lock dissolve from his lips.

“An ambush,” Garth blurted, urgency stripping his words of preamble.

The Elcana—a high-ranking magic wielder—believed him instantly. Garth stood within the man’s protective circle, a spell that granted its caster dominion over truth and lies within its bounds.

“From where?” the Elcana demanded.

“Everywhere. We’re surrounded.”

“Dammit.” The man touched the glowing markings on his wrist bracelet. “All Elcanas, alert the Raid Leaders—”

“No time,” Garth interrupted. “Order them into the Onion Formation.”

The Elcana bristled at being commanded by a lowly Pigeon, but the gravity in Garth’s voice stayed his reproach. “Elcanas,” he barked into the bracelet, “rally the troops. Formation Onion.”

Garth watched as the man paused, listening to unheard replies. “No—no debates,” the Elcana snapped. “Do it. Now.”

With a wave, the Elcana freed Garth from the circle’s binding spell. He then summoned a staff and slammed it into the earth. A pulse rippled outward, rousing every Venator within three hundred meters.

“Will the formation hold in four minutes?” the Elcana asked.

“If we act fast, Elcana Harold,” Garth replied, using the man’s title with pointed familiarity.

Harold’s hood shifted—a flicker of surprise. Elcanas, as masters of primal magic, outranked elemental wielders of earth, fire, water, wind, and lightning. Their authority was second only to Raid Leaders, though their ranks were eternally fixed at Hawk, a fact many resented.

“Where first?” Harold pressed.

“Northeast. Replace earth wielders with fire at the front.”

“What?” Earth wielders were always the vanguard.

“Please,” Garth insisted.

Harold hesitated, then relayed the order.

The Onion Formation layered Venators in concentric rings: earth wielders at the front, fire behind them, followed by lightning, water, wind, and finally Elcanas. But in the northeast, fire wielders now stood ahead of earth.

Yellow-scaled snake demons surged from the trees. Fire wielding Venators unleashed torrents of flame, reducing the creatures to ash. Next came bull-like demons charging blindly. Earth wielders raised walls to halt the stampede, then dropped them, allowing Fire wielders to finish the job.

“Elcana Harold,” a voice crackled through Harold’s bracelet, “the northeast holds. Your formation saved us. How did you know?”

Harold glanced at Garth, who stared intently at the fray. “I… had counsel.”

“From whom?”

“The formation’s complete,” Garth cut in. “Now order earth wielders to elevate the lightning Venators. The next wave’s coming.”

Harold thought to himself 'How could a Pigeon know this?' But he didn't speak, rather he obeyed.

Garth clenched his fists, struggling to dredge up half-remembered details. Then—

“No!” he shouted.

The ground quaked. Giant rock creatures erupted from the earth, piloted by shrieking monkey demons perched on their shoulders.

“Too late,” Garth whispered as the stone behemoths encircled the camp.