On the kobolds side.
Commander of the kobolds Gorthok
The weight of a monstrous force—two million kobold soldiers, their bodies bristling with crude armor, jagged blades, and primitive but effective war gear. The horizon was dark with their presence, a crawling, growling tide of scale and rage.
At the center of this army stood a raised blackstone platform mounted atop a war-beast the size of a small house. Upon it stood Commander Gor, the towering figure of kobold might. Seven feet tall, scales like obsidian armor, and eyes burning with amber hate, Gor exuded the authority of a seasoned warlord. A massive bone-hafted axe rested against his shoulder, its edge still stained from past conquests.
He looked toward the distant human walls through narrowed, slit-like eyes.
"We have finally arrived," he muttered, his voice thick with disdain. "And not a single soul dares to greet us. Typical."
He spat to the side, the acidic saliva hissing as it struck the rocky earth. Behind him stood his two Vice Commanders, Knot and Knol, both wearing iron pauldrons fashioned from the remains of fallen beasts. The two bowed slightly in his presence but said nothing—yet the tension in their expressions did not go unnoticed.
"You both still think this is a waste of time?" Gor asked coldly, eyes flicking toward them.
Knol, the larger of the two vice commanders, growled, "With respect, Commander, these humans have resisted stronger hordes before. This territory… is not as weak as you believe."
Gor laughed harshly, the sound more like a bark. "Walls crumble. Magic fades. Discipline means nothing when your guts are spilling in the mud."
He turned to face the endless rows of soldiers beneath him. Kobolds of all castes—hunters, brawlers, mages, and berserkers—stood in formation, chanting war cries, thumping their chests, slamming weapons against shields. Their bloodlust was palpable, their confidence blind.
Gor raised a clawed fist, and silence fell like a heavy blanket.
"Hear me!" he roared, his voice thundering across the vast encampment. "The humans have hidden behind stone and magic, praying for someone to save them. But none will come. We will rip through their defenses, burn their homes, and feast on their bones. Today—we make the Starblade fall and the key of that tresures vault will belong to kobolds!"
A deafening roar answered him, two million strong.
But even as Gor reveled in their response, Knol glanced toward the distant walls and narrowed his eyes. "Why haven't they moved?" he muttered under his breath. "Why are they just… waiting?"
Knot didn't reply. He was too focused on a faint shimmer above the walls—an unnatural flicker in the air, almost like heatwaves, but magical. His instincts stirred with unease.
Back on the war-beast platform, Gor exhaled like a dragon ready to pounce.
"Prepare the formations. We march within the hour," he commanded. "I will take that human lord's head myself."
And with that, the drums of war began to sound—deep, guttural beats echoing like a war god's heartbeat across the cursed plain.
The air trembled with war cries as two million kobold soldiers surged forward across the plains. Dust rose in thick clouds beneath their clawed feet, their gleaming weapons drawn, their eyes filled with primal hunger.
Commander Gor led the march from atop his scaled warbeast, a sneer curled across his snout.
"To think we march an army for mere humans," he spat, his deep voice booming. "We'll flatten their pathetic walls before sundown."
Behind him, his two vice commanders, Knot and Knol, barked orders to the ranks. The kobolds, armed and eager, advanced in tight formations.
But as their front line crossed the low hills leading to Starblade's heart…
Whuuummm…
The wind shifted. Not naturally.
It began as a low whistle, eerie and unnatural, rising in pitch with every heartbeat.
Suddenly—
FWOOOOM!
A massive column of hurricane wind exploded from beneath the ground. With a sound like a roaring beast, it tore through the front ranks, lifting dozens of kobolds into the air like leaves caught in a storm. Their bodies twisted, snapped, and then vanished in a spiral of slicing wind.
"What sorcery—!" Knol began, but the answer came swiftly.
CRACK–BOOOOM!
Lightning surged from glyphs hidden beneath the soil, arcing through the air and chaining from kobold to kobold. Entire squads were electrocuted where they stood, their charred bodies collapsing in smoking heaps. Magical clouds formed overhead, crackling with unstable storm energy, reacting to the presence of the invaders.
Commander Gor's eyes widened as the battlefield itself turned against them.
"Wind Domain traps—! This is wind magic!" Knot growled, pointing to glowing runes in the rocks. "We've been lured into an enchantment field!"
Before they could recover, long tendrils of enchanted wind wrapped around their legs like whips. With terrifying speed, soldiers were dragged into magical vortexes, their bodies shredded by slicing currents before vanishing entirely.
The terrain had become a death trap—the entire field layered with Wind Seals, Lightning Arrays, and Hurricane Constructs, all set to trigger with the steps of an approaching army.
Massive air blades shaped like crescents swept horizontally across the field, generated from hovering crystal pillars buried in the soil. Each arc of wind severed dozens of kobolds at once. Their formations broke. Their lines faltered.
Then came the next wave of magic.
Storm Elementals, created from pure wind mana, appeared amidst the chaos. Twisting bodies of cloud and electricity, they howled across the field like living tornados, tearing into kobold ranks and flinging bodies across the sky.
"Fall back! Get out of the storm field!" Gor roared, slamming his axe into the ground to anchor himself.
But it was no use.
Behind them, Arthur's hurricane barrier surged to life.
A towering wall of rotating storm winds formed behind the kobold army, glowing with layered runes and pulsing arcs of lightning. The sky darkened, and rain began to fall—not natural, but cold, magically charged water that slowed movement and sapped stamina.
They were trapped.
Commander Gor gritted his teeth as he realized the truth.
"It's not a battlefield. It's a storm cage."
High above, from the top of the Starblade wall, Arthur watched the chaos unfold. His wind-blessed cloak fluttered behind him as his storm monocle reflected the battlefield below.
"They walked into the eye of the storm," he said coldly. "Now let them be scattered."
Beside him, the magical storm totems pulsed with power, feeding the enchantments across the plains. Lightning danced through the air as the kobold army, once confident in its strength, now struggled to survive.
The numbers didn't matter anymore.
Arthur had turned magic into terrain—and the very air was now his weapon.
From atop the storm-wreathed battlements of Starblade, his cloak fluttered in the furious wind as mana surged across the battlefield like a living tide. The skies were roaring, the earth trembling, and his eyes gleamed with resolute fury.
He extended his hand, pointing toward the chaos unfolding within the trap field.
"Now is the time. End them."
His voice, amplified with wind magic, rang across the walls like thunder.
He turned to the archers gathered beside him—Luna, Alisha, Olivia, Ava, Tyson—and the other elite marksmen under their command. Their units stood ready atop the battlements, thousands of bows drawn, their eyes glinting with sharp precision.
"Kill as many as you can before they crawl out of my storm. Let them drown in arrows."
Luna, the sharp-eyed commander of the Bronze Eagle Unit, nodded, her bow already gleaming with wind-imbued arrows. "With pleasure, my lord."
Alisha and Ava shared a glance. Their units, Starlight-trained, were already chanting in sync, calling upon their passive skills—Steady Aim, Rapid Fire, Tactical Leadership—their arrows wreathed in starfire.
Olivia's Silver Eagle unit stood proud and silent, bows aimed with the steadiness of statues. Beside her, Tyson of the Stormcallers Unit infused his unit's volleys with crackling wind magic, the arrows glowing faint blue.
"Release!"
Tens of thousands of arrows flew.
The skies blackened—not with stormclouds, but with death. Magic arrows, hurricane-tipped, starfire-imbued, stormbound—they fell in waves, whistling as they tore through the air and rained destruction upon the scattered kobold ranks below.
Shrieks echoed from the trap field as kobold squads were cut down in droves. The lucky ones died before realizing what had happened. The unlucky writhed in the mud, pinned and bleeding beneath magical projectiles.
Arthur then turned, his gaze falling upon the mage commanders gathered at the rear.
Lily of the Arcane Circle stood tall, her hands glowing with raw elemental magic. Beside her was Zara, commander of the Mystic Circle, her spellbook hovering in the air, pages flipping in the wind. And others mages unit that Arthur purchased from the market.
"All mage units—burn the sky. Drown the field in fire, thunder, and ice. Take down as many as you can."
Lily raised her staff, her voice cutting through the chaos as she chanted, "Flame Rain!"
From the heavens, magical fire poured like molten judgment. The storm clouds turned red as burning droplets fell upon the kobolds. Screams rang out as fire devoured bodies and scorched earth.
Zara followed with a flick of her wrist. "Explosion Grid—Ignite"
From beneath the field, hundreds of glowing symbols detonated in sequence, magical mines pre-laid under the guise of soft ground. Each explosion shattered earth and bone alike, sending kobolds flying like ragdolls into the air.
Dozens of other mages units and their commander chanted in unison, elemental storms taking form—blizzards, fire cyclones, hailstorms—painting the battlefield with chaos and destruction.
And still, Arthur's voice carried, calm and sharp.
"To all sword soldier units—activate the wall formations. Ready the magic cannons. Fire on my mark."
From within the walls, massive arcane cannons, etched with runes from the Hurricane Kingdom's treasure vault, groaned to life. Aether cores within began to pulse, glowing blue and gold.
The walls lit up with runic sigils as formations—Barrier of Force, Magic Amplification Array, and Mana Streamline—activated in tandem. Energy flooded the defenses.
"Fire!" Arthur commanded.
The cannons discharged with a deafening boom, bolts of condensed mana streaking across the battlefield. Each shot exploded like miniature stars, vaporizing clusters of kobolds in blinding light.
Then, Arthur narrowed his gaze toward the shadows.
To the three assassin commanders standing silently—Kaelira of the Shadow Unit, Kai of the Chainbound Marauders, and Violet of the Bone Dancers—he issued his final order.
"You know your mission. Move unseen. Strike deep. Kill as many as you can. Leave no trace."
Kaelira vanished into mist the moment the words left his mouth, her unit already slipping into the folds of shadow.
Kai nodded solemnly, chains wrapped around his arms beginning to rattle as his unit descended silently along the cliffside.
Violet whispered a quiet prayer to the goddess of death and faded with her bone-cloaked assassins, ready to sow panic within enemy command.
The storm continued to rage.
The kobolds had not yet reached the walls—but already, tens of thousands were dead. Their once-mighty army was caught in a hurricane of destruction, facing not just soldiers, but an entire war machine—magical, tactical, and ruthlessly efficient.
Arthur stood atop his fortress, cold and silent, watching the slaughter unfold.
The battle had only just begun.
And the first wave of hell had already been unleashed.
From the highest parapet of Starblade Fortress, Arthur stood motionless—his cloak thrashing in the roaring wind, his eyes cold and calculating as they scanned the carnage below. The air reeked of charred flesh and ozone, a testament to the ruthless precision of their opening strike.
His gaze shifted to the side, to where **Seraphina** stood, commanding her own contingent of **Hurricane Kingdom mages and archers**. Clad in elegant battle robes of silver and sea-blue, her long hair braided and bound by a circlet of stormsteel, she radiated calm authority. Beside her, her units moved with perfect cohesion—archers firing in sharp volleys, mages weaving air currents and lightning into deadly weapons.
Arthur didn't speak. He didn't need to.
Seraphina noticed his glance and gave a faint nod. The swirling winds obeyed her presence like a second skin, and she directed her soldiers with the poise of a born commander. She was the princess of a fallen kingdom, but here—on this battlefield—she stood reborn, the storm her crown.
Arthur turned his attention back to the field below, where **the trap zone continued to devour kobolds in relentless waves.**
Magical mines detonated in brilliant bursts, spears of wind shot from runes hidden beneath the grass, and the very air resisted the kobolds' movements—each step turning heavier, slower, deadlier. Tempests erupted at irregular intervals, throwing squads of armored kobolds into the air, tearing limbs from torsos. Arrows continued to rain like judgment from the heavens. Firestorms flickered at the edges of the traps, keeping the enemy herded like cattle.
And yet—
Arthur's expression darkened slightly.
The traps were not eternal.
They pulsed now, slower than before. The once-bright magical lines across the ground flickered faintly, like candlelight in a storm.
He narrowed his eyes. The mana reserves embedded in the terrain—elemental crystals, storm cores, and spell nodes—were depleting. Slowly but surely, the massive network that powered the enchanted trapfield was burning itself out. Best-case scenario, he had two hours. Likely less.
His lips thinned.
If the kobolds did nothing and continued to blunder forward, they'd be torn apart before ever reaching the walls.
But they wouldn't.
They had commanders.
He knew the name of the one leading them—Gor—and if the reports were accurate, the brute wasn't a fool. If they discovered the source of the traps, or found a way to disrupt the mana flow, this would quickly devolve into a direct siege.
And while Arthur had prepared for that too, he knew—**every life they took now was one they wouldn't have to fight later.**
He took a slow breath and spoke quietly, more to himself than anyone else.
"Bleed them. Bleed them dry before the walls ever see a blade."
Behind him, the hum of arcane cannons flared again as another volley launched across the battlefield, carving fiery lines through the disorganized kobold ranks.
But even amidst the chaos, a few squad of soldiers under the command of captains and leaders had begun to slow their advance. They were studying the traps. Observing how the explosions were triggered, where the wind resistance was strongest, what could be bypassed.
Arthur's eyes narrowed.
"Gor's smart enough to sniff out weaknesses," he muttered.
He activated his communication skill
"Kaelira, Kai, and Violet. Prioritize, high ranking officias , trapbreakers, and magic sensors. Anyone trying to disrupt the enchantments—they're to die first."
Arthur stepped to the edge of the wall, the wind lashing against him like a feral beast. Below, the battlefield still burned. Kobold bodies were strewn across craters, pinned beneath arrows, and scorched by flame. But they were still coming. Thousands upon thousands, unrelenting.
He could feel it in his bones.
The real battle had not yet begun.
But when it did—he would be ready.
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