MIGHT AS WELL BE OP

At a different location, a vampire recruit moved like a shadow made flesh, weaving through the shattered remains of a collapsed courtyard.

Moonlight sliced through the clouds above, painting his pale skin with ghostly silver as he launched forward, twin shortblades drawn, curved and obsidian, humming with subtle vampiric runes.

His crimson eyes flickered with a cold, calculating fury.

His opponents came in a wave, three Forsaken cultists.

Twisted elves and humans, their bodies laced with chaotic mutations: elongated limbs, barbed tendrils where fingers should be, eyes glowing with the maddening hue of chaos.

They did not wait for an opening.

They leapt like predators starved, their weapons an amalgamation of corrupted steel and dark energy.

The vampire's feet barely touched the ground as he propelled himself into their midst.

One blade carved upward in a swift arc, splitting the jaw of the first cultist clean through the skull.

The second reacted, swinging a chaos-wreathed axe in a wild lateral arc.

The vampire twisted mid air, letting the blade whistle past, then inverted into a downward spin, driving his heel into the skull of the attacker.

Bone cracked, and the body crumpled into the dusty ground.

The last cultist was no fool.

He unleashed a volley of barbed tendrils from his spine, each one infused with chaos, writhing like snakes in the air.

The vampire didn't retreat, he advanced, gliding low beneath the tendrils, then pushing off the earth with a sharp burst of aura.

He emerged behind the cultist, blade sliding across the exposed neck in a single graceful movement.

Before the corpse had even dropped, pain blossomed in his side.

A missed tendril had nicked him, slicing through the side of his torso.

Blood seeped into the fabric of his coat.

He gritted his fangs and reached into himself, channeling aura into rapid regeneration.

It wouldn't close fully, chaos was laced within the wound, but it would suffice.

There was no time to rest.

The vampire pivoted sharply, gaze settling on a new group of figures in the distance, five this time.

Without a word, without pause, he darted forward like a dagger thrown by fate itself, the dust behind him still settling.

At another area, heat spiked.

Flames lit the ruined avenue like a hellscape.

Buildings burned in the background, smoke curling into the sky like ink poured into water.

The half-dragon recruit stood amidst shattered stone and bodies, his massive two handed glaive held firmly across his back.

Crimson scales adorned his arms and neck, shimmering beneath the firelight, and his golden eyes glowed like dying stars.

Four demons approached him, each one bipedal but grotesque, horns curled over their backs, black flames licking their bodies.

Their chaos suffocated the air, dense and oppressive.

The dragon inhaled deeply.

The scent of brimstone and blood fed the furnace inside him.

He stepped forward.

The first demon came in fast, a chaotic spear in hand.

The dragon spun the glaive in a full arc, catching the spearhead mid air, redirecting it into the ground before letting the motion follow through in a wide, cleaving slash.

The glaive screamed through the air and cleaved the demon in half.

The others reacted with feral rage, pouncing from all sides.

The dragon exhaled, and from his mouth erupted a conical blast of white hot dragonfire.

Two demons were caught mid air, their bodies igniting as chaos fire met dragonfire, opposing forces warring within their flesh.

They died without screams, incinerated mid motion.

The last one lunged from behind, claws slashing for the base of the neck.

The dragon pivoted too late, the claws raking across his shoulder and sending sparks of blood flying.

Pain lanced down his back, and his vision blurred for a moment.

He roared, a guttural, draconic sound that trembled the earth, and brought the glaive around with raw force.

The weapon struck the demon's legs, severing them cleanly.

A follow up thrust ended it.

Blood now poured from his wound, staining his side.

He didn't stop to inspect it.

He tightened the grip on his glaive, the dragonfire within his veins still burning fiercely, fueling his strength despite the pain.

Movement to his left.

More cultists, Forsaken ones with warped arms and glowing eyes, emerged from the shadows.

He adjusted his stance, glaive raised, body aching but upright.

The dance of fire and blood would not end here.

On another corner of the battlefield, a dwarf moved with immense speed, stone cracked beneath his boots with each thunderous step.

The dwarf was short and wide, clad in dense steel armor etched with runes of old, armor that bore more scars than polished metal.

His warhammer, the size of a grown man's torso, was slung across his shoulder like a piece of firewood.

Eyes like molten iron scanned the ruined inner sanctum of what had once been a temple.

Three demons approached, stalking through the rubble with slow, deliberate menace.

Behind them trailed two Forsaken cultists, their eyes hollow, bodies crackling with unstable chaos.

They underestimated him, most did.

The first demon lunged.

The dwarf met it mid-charge, his warhammer swinging downward like judgment made manifest.

The hammer connected with the demon's skull, which caved in with a sickening crunch.

The creature's body rebounded off the impact, bouncing off the shattered temple wall like a ragdoll.

The second demon screamed and hurled a spear of pure chaos.

The dwarf didn't flinch.

He raised his arm, the gauntlet absorbing most of the blow, though the sheer force forced him to a knee.

His armor sparked, the runes flaring once in resistance.

He grunted and rose, charging.

He struck low, at the knee, and the demon stumbled.

Before it could recover, the warhammer reversed and smashed into its chest with terrifying precision, sending fractured ribs and dark blood splattering across stone.

Now the Forsaken cultists moved in, chaos forming tendrils and blades around their arms.

One circled left, the other right.

The dwarf narrowed his eyes and rolled forward, despite his size and weight.

A spike of energy grazed his back, his armor held, but it dented deeply.

That would bruise.

From his crouch, he swept his hammer sideways, catching the leg of one cultist and flipping him midair.

Before the other could retaliate, he surged forward, his shoulder crashing into the cultist's gut and lifting him into the air.

The warhammer followed, upward, and the cultist's body arced through the air before crumpling like cloth.

The final cultist, crawling back, extended his palm, forming a blade of chaos to throw.

The dwarf threw his warhammer.

It spun once, twice, before it crushed the cultist's chest into the cracked temple floor.

Breathing heavy, the dwarf retrieved his weapon, one arm hanging limp from a cracked shoulder plate.

He coughed, blood.

Internal bleeding, maybe.

But he stood, despite it all.

From the far hallway, more footfalls echoed.

He turned, blood soaked, limping but relentless.

No retreat.

Only forward.