The barricade of Oda has never been this crowded. The walls of the Genesis roots and remnants of golem steel form the last line of defense. Behind it, the people of Oda are crammed together: young mothers clutching their children tightly, their faces filled with fear and hope. The spices from abandoned cooking waft through the air, contrasting with the stench of blood and gunpowder from the battlefield. In the distance, the clashing of weapons creates a symphony that resonates in the heart. Behind the barricade, the people of Oda are packed together: young mothers holding their children tightly, teenagers brandishing old spears or arrows passed down through their families, and fathers busy distributing the last of the water and bread, their hands trembling with anxiety.
The young soldiers wipe their sweat, their eyes sunken, yet their hands tremble as they hold their bows. A sense of despair envelops them, as if the ground beneath them trembles not only from the footsteps of monsters but also from the weight of their burdened souls. With each passing second, the cries of the guards in the tower signal the arrival of a new wave of monsters. The smell of scorched earth, the spiraling magic dissipating, and the abyssal fog constrict the chest, adding pressure that heightens the tension in the air.
In one corner of the barricade, a young man named Liro—the son of a blacksmith who was once a coward—shivers as he grips his spear. He struggles to maintain his composure, lost in thought while battling the pain of his fear. Beside him, his mother whispers prayers, while his younger sister clings to his waist, refusing to part, her eyes shining with sincerity yet trapped in the looming threat.
“Liro, if you’re scared, it’s okay. I’m scared too,” his mother whispers, her voice trembling like the wind rustling the leaves at night. Liro gazes ahead, his voice soft, “If I retreat now, who will protect you? If I must die, I’d rather do it here, with you. The only way to face this darkness is to stand firm.”
On the side of the barricade, a group of young witches hold each other's hands, their fingers sweaty and trembling with tension. One of them, a girl named Mirelle, closes her eyes and begins to chant a spell, but suddenly panics, her breath quickening. The atmosphere is filled with the acrid smell of gunpowder and the sound of clashing weapons, creating a dangerous rhythm amidst the tension: “My spell is failing… I can’t hold this fog any longer… I—I’m scared—” Her friends grip her hands tighter, becoming a channel of strength and courage. One of them, with a look of confidence, shouts, “You’re not alone, Mirelle! Just repeat it slowly, like Joanna taught you!” With tears on her cheeks, they chant the spell together, their voices blending into one. A dim spiral light reappears, though shaky, flickering as if struggling against the encroaching darkness.
An old soldier, his knees wounded and armor rusting, stands firm in front of a crack that is beginning to form, his face creased with pain and tension. He turns to look back, seeing his children and wife waiting in the tent, their hearts pounding with hope. He shouts, “Cover your ears! Don’t listen to the monsters! Trust me, the world will not end tonight!” His voice is a shout, trying to drive away the fear gnawing at his heart.
Some fog monsters manage to breach the small gap, dark figures lurking, their eyes glowing red with sharp fangs that look terrifying. They hiss, a ghostly sound that sends shivers through the hearts of the people. A young mother shields her two toddlers with her body, fear pressing down on her, but love becomes a strong shield. Suddenly, an old poet throws a spiral staff at the monster, his own body pulled forward, as if dreams and hope flow with every step he takes: “Go away! Save the children!” The monster lunges at him, but in the next moment, Joanna’s spiral light incinerates the darkness, leaving a charred mark on the trembling ground filled with despair and hope. Screams and cries blend in the increasingly suffocating air, creating a chaotic symphony full of courage and suffering.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
At the main barricade, Rinoa stands with the witches and healers, her eyes glistening. She sees a boy, half of his face burned by the fog, crying in fear. The sound of clashing weapons and distant screams echoes, adding to the tension in the atmosphere around them. The smell of gunpowder mingles with the aroma of sweat and blood, creating a chilling ambiance. Rinoa bends down, gently stroking his head, feeling warmth and sincerity in her touch. “It’s okay to cry, dear. Fear is not shameful. The shame lies in giving up when others are still willing to stand.” She hopes her words can ignite a spark of spirit in the fragile soul before her, igniting hope amidst the emptiness that demands surrender.
Iris instructs, “You all, distribute the food! Don’t let anyone go hungry. Fear is easier to conquer when the stomach is full.” With her lips trembling to hold back emotions, Iris continues her task, hoping her firm voice can pierce through the noise of battle and provide a sense of safety to those who hear it. She knows that in this chaos, food is not just for filling the stomach but to strengthen the fighting spirit.
An old witch suddenly refuses to retreat despite being gravely injured. With a heavy sigh and eyes shining with wisdom, she explains, “I have lived too long. Let me hold the barricade. You—young ones, make sure your generation does not live in fear.” Her voice, trembling yet firm, radiates a contagious courage, urging others to look towards the hope that lies ahead, even as shadows of darkness threaten around them.
Fitran at the top of the barricade looks at them all, then raises his voice: “You all—no one is alone here! This world endures not because of my magic or Joanna’s, but because you all dare to protect each other! If one falls, another stands. Don’t let a single enemy breach this barricade!” With his eyes blazing with determination, he feels the tremors of the ground beneath his feet, as if reminding him that every action taken contributes to the hope of humanity. He gazes at the terrifying monsters, their large and deformed bodies displaying sharp fangs and eyes glimmering with malicious intent—illustrating how far this struggle must go.
One of the monsters nearly reaches the last wall, but the young Liro, who was trembling earlier, now shouts, stabbing the creature with his spear. The structure of the monster, large and fearsome, is covered in dark scales that shine in the dim light, while its red eyes glow with hatred. With one bold strike, Liro feels a wave of burning heat within him—all his fears evaporate, replaced by a fierce fighting spirit. A spiral light unexpectedly flows from his hands—he is not a witch, but his own courage becomes magic. Breathing in the air tainted with the smell of gunpowder and blood, Liro’s heart races as the sounds of clashing weapons and monster screams fill the air. The people cheer, tears streaming down their cheeks, not just from fear but because they have found new strength in unity. They stand together in uncertainty, surrounded by friends and foes, all blending into the rhythm of battle that stirs the spirit. Iris and Rinoa, Fitran, and Oda watch:—this world, though fragile, has not surrendered to the night. When they see Liro’s bravery, hope envelops them like a warm blanket on a cold night, igniting a flame that had almost extinguished within their hearts.
At the edge of the barricade, Joanna kneels, her breath heavy, but she sees all of this—and smiles. Her body trembles, not only from the tension filling the air but also from pride and wonder at witnessing the strength of humanity. “They don’t need heroes. They just need a reason to stand together.” Her words blend with the rumble of the surroundings, providing enough encouragement for those around her, as if every letter spoken becomes motivation that binds them in an invisible bond. And under the golden light, the walls of Oda hold firm, though cracked. Above them, courage and love patch every gap better than any magic could. The surroundings feel alive, every clash of weapons and inner cries creating a loud symphony affirming that they will not retreat; this world belongs to them.
