Chapter Two: The Fall of Alan
The sky was bleeding.
Crimson clouds twisted over the shattered peaks of the Bloodmoon Citadel. Below, smoke rose in pillars, and enemy soldiers stormed through the broken gates like ants tasting sugar for the first time. They screamed war cries and promises of justice. But Alan, leader of the dying clan, heard none of them.
He stepped onto the battlefield with slow, deliberate calm. His long red cloak dragged behind him, tattered from ash and wind. The Blood Blade rested in his grip, humming with quiet rage. His crimson eyes — sharp, sad, and burning — scanned the invaders.
The first to reach him was a wave of ten armored soldiers.
He moved once.
In a blur of red, their weapons shattered. Bodies dropped before their blood touched the ground. He spun again — silent, surgical — and more fell, screaming. His blade gleamed, not with light, but with the memory of everyone his clan had lost.
Then came a pause.
Alan straightened, blood dripping from his blade. Around him lay silence — broken helmets, twitching fingers, scorched earth.
That was when he felt it.
A deep tremor pulsed beneath his feet — not from machines, but power.
A massive figure landed ahead of him with a thunderous quake, cracking the stone beneath his boots.
Kael.
Tall as a boulder, built like a mountain, with arms thicker than tree trunks. He wore no armor. Just a loose tunic and fist wraps pulsing with internal energy. His grin was wild. His knuckles twitched with anticipation.
"You must be Alan," Kael said, cracking his neck. "Nice to finally punch something real."
Alan didn't reply.
He charged first.
Kael's fists were faster than expected — the first punch collided with Alan's blade, sending a shockwave that split the ground behind him. Alan skid back, spun, and slashed across Kael's side, but the man barely flinched.
They exchanged ten more hits. Every punch from Kael crushed stone. Every swing from Alan split the air. Neither gave in.
Then Kael laughed. "You're not bad, Red Eyes. Let's see how you handle all of us."
A woman descended from the sky, her long green braids whipping in the air. She landed silently beside Kael. Vines burst from the ground behind her.
Agrai.
The Earth and Plant Queen, clad in bark-like armor, her skin lined with green veins. The soil obeyed her — thorns rose like claws, vines coiled like snakes, and flowers bloomed only to hiss poison.
She raised a hand. Roots shot toward Alan's feet.
He leapt back, cutting through them midair — only to be struck by a streak of lightning that curved unnaturally fast.
Hunzun, the Lightning Mage, hovered above, his entire body glowing with electrical current. Sparks danced across his palms, and his eyes had no pupils — only flickering white heat.
"You won't last long," Hunzun said, already building the next bolt.
Alan landed, rolling through cracked stone, then vanished again in a blur. He struck Hunzun midair with the hilt of his sword, sending the mage spiraling backward in smoke and sparks.
Three down. Two more to go.
A figure floated to the edge of the cliff — a graceful man with white robes and a glowing staff.
Aero. The Healer.
He didn't attack. He didn't speak. He simply watched. With each fallen ally, his staff glowed brighter — quietly rewinding their injuries. Kael's bruises faded. Hunzun's burn healed. Agrai stood again, vines alive.
Alan's heart dropped. "He's reviving them…"
But before he could move again, he felt a cold pressure in the air — like the string of a bow drawn behind his skull.
The ground shifted.
From the fog stepped a woman in silver armor, her face unreadable, her eyes sharp as a hawk's.
Seraphina.
The Queen of Arrows.
Alan had heard stories. None did her justice.
She drew one arrow — then, without moving her bow, fired seven. They split mid-air, danced, ricocheted, curved unnaturally — Alan blocked five, evaded one, but the last struck his shoulder with a piercing sting. Not fatal. But cold.
Seraphina didn't flinch. "You're strong, Alan. But strength dies alone."
Then she moved — and the world became a blur of arrows.
Dozens, hundreds. Not one missed. Each one cloned itself mid-flight. Alan ducked, slashed, vanished into flickers of movement, but they followed. It was not archery. It was magic.
One finally clipped his thigh.
Then his back.
Then his arm.
And when he slowed… they struck.
Chains.
Not metal, but light — shaped like vines of glowing arrow shafts. They slammed around him from all sides, bursting out of Seraphina's clones, which surrounded him like phantoms. He struggled. The ground cracked beneath him. He roared. The Blood Blade burned with aura.
But he could not move.
His knees hit the earth. The chains pulled tighter.
Kael stepped forward again. "You should've run."
Alan's breath was heavy. His red eyes still glowed.
But he couldn't break free.
Not yet.