As Gerhardt stood in the midst of the chaos, his breath ragged and his staff trembling in his hands, memories began to flood his mind like a rushing river.

Every swing of an Ogre’s club, every roar of an Orc, every flicker of his faltering mana shield seemed to peel back the layers of his life, exposing the moments he had buried deep within his heart.

He remembered his youth, a time when dreams were larger than life, and the world felt boundless.

Back then, he was a scrawny boy with a spark of mana barely perceptible, even to himself.

The other apprentices at the academy mocked him mercilessly.

“Gerhardt the Hollow,” they had called him, laughing at his inability to even light a candle with magic. While others soared through their lessons, he floundered, his mana reserves stubbornly refusing to grow.

But Gerhardt had never been one to give up. He devoted himself entirely to the study of mana, pouring over ancient tomes until his eyes burned and practicing incantations until his voice gave out.

Years turned into decades, and while his peers had long since surpassed him, achieving heights of power he could only dream of, he had finally clawed his way to the first stage of magical mastery.

The memory of that moment was still vivid. He had cried that day, tears of triumph and bitterness mixed together. It had taken him half his life to reach a point most mages achieved in their teens.

But it wasn’t enough.

With a ferocity born of desperation, he pushed himself harder, enduring countless failures, injuries, and setbacks.

Slowly, agonizingly, he reached the second stage. By then, his hair had begun to gray, and the spark of youth had faded from his eyes. Yet, his determination burned brighter than ever.

And now, after a lifetime of struggle, he had finally attained the third stage—a pinnacle of power he had once thought unreachable.

When he achieved it, he had felt invincible, like a titan among mortals.

When Baron Geisler, the ruler of this territory, had perished in battle, Gerhardt hadn’t mourned. He had seen it as an opportunity.

“The Baron fell because he was careless,” Gerhardt had thought. “But I am stronger. I will show this world the might of a third-stage mage!”

He had thrown himself into this campaign with reckless enthusiasm, eager to finally prove himself.

He had envisioned himself cutting down hordes of enemies, his power unmatched, his name whispered in awe.

But now…

As an Ogre’s massive club smashed into his barrier, sending him skidding backward, Gerhardt felt his confidence crumble. Enjoy new tales from empire

His chest heaved as he struggled to maintain the protective spell, his mana reserves dwindling faster than he could replenish them.

“What is this?” he thought, his eyes darting to the swarm of Orcs and Ogres that surrounded him. “How can this be happening? I am in the third stage! I worked my whole life for this power!”

An Orc lunged at him, its blade glinting wickedly in the firelight.

Gerhardt raised his staff, summoning a blast of fire that incinerated the creature mid-air. But no sooner had the Orc fallen than another took its place.

“These are just Orcs!” he thought desperately, his mind racing. “Simple beasts! Brutes! How can they be overpowering me?!”

His eyes flicked to Volk, the Orc leader, standing at the edge of the battlefield.

There was something terrifyingly composed about him, as if he were orchestrating the entire fight with the precision of a master tactician.

“An Orc,” Gerhardt thought, his heart sinking. “A mere Orc… outmaneuvering me? Overpowering me? No… it can’t be!”

The realization hit him like a physical blow. He wasn’t invincible. His decades of struggle, his hard-won power—none of it mattered in the face of this overwhelming force.

And for the first time in his life, Gerhardt felt a bone-deep fear he couldn’t shake.

The battlefield roared with chaos as explosions of magic and the guttural cries of Orcs and Ogres filled the air.

Gerhardt’s heart pounded like a war drum, his once-proud robes now tattered and scorched, his mana reserves dangerously low.

He gritted his teeth, clutching his staff tightly, trying to stave off the panic that threatened to consume him.

Amid the mayhem, a sudden cry rose above the din—a voice filled with pain and despair. Gerhardt turned his weary gaze toward the source, and his heart sank.

The mage who rode the wingless wyvern, with its molten lava-like scales, was in dire straits.

The wyvern flapped its tattered wings weakly, embers flickering from its cracked hide. Its once-majestic form now bore deep gashes, blackened burns, and signs of fatigue beyond measure.

Its rider, the mage cloaked in crimson, barely clung to the saddle, his staff dangling limply in one hand.

The mage tried to raise his staff, summoning a desperate burst of flame toward an advancing Ogre.

The fire surged forward, a brilliant, defiant arc of heat and fury, but it lacked the strength it once carried.

The Ogre shrugged it off, roaring as it continued its relentless march.

The wyvern let out a low, mournful growl, its body trembling as it struggled to stay aloft. Its wings flapped erratically, each beat weaker than the last.

The mage, sensing the creature’s imminent collapse, pulled on its reins and shouted, “Hold on! Just a little longer!”

But the wyvern could no longer comply.

Its molten scales dimmed as though its fiery core was flickering out. With a keening wail, it began to descend.

The sight was agonizingly slow, each agonized beat of its wings a futile attempt to regain altitude.

The mage gripped the reins tightly, his bloodied face set in grim determination, but his own injuries left him powerless to aid his mount.

Gerhardt watched helplessly as the wyvern’s descent turned into a spiraling plummet. It struck the battlefield with a deafening crash, molten scales flaring one last time before dimming completely.

The ground trembled beneath the impact, and a plume of dust and embers rose into the sky.

The mage, thrown from his saddle, hit the ground with a sickening thud. His staff rolled away from his limp hand, and his crimson robes, once a symbol of power, were now torn and bloodied.

For a moment, there was silence.

Gerhardt wanted to look away, but his eyes remained fixed on the fallen mage.

The man stirred weakly, raising his head to meet the oncoming horde of Orcs and Ogres. His face was etched with despair, but also a flicker of defiance.

He reached for his staff, his trembling fingers brushing against it, only for an Orc to stomp down, shattering it into splinters.

The mage let out a guttural cry of anguish, his defiance snuffed out like a candle.

The wyvern, still barely alive, let out a final, pitiful growl. It attempted to shield its master with its massive, battered body, curling around him protectively. But the Orcs showed no mercy.

They surged forward, hacking at the creature with brutal efficiency until it moved no more.

Gerhardt felt a chill run through him as he watched this macabre display.

The fire that had once burned so brightly in his fellow mage’s eyes was extinguished, leaving only an empty, hollow gaze that stared into the abyss.

He turned his head away, his breathing shallow and uneven.

“This… this can’t be happening,” he murmured under his breath. His mind raced with questions, his chest tightening as he struggled to process what he had just witnessed.

A third-stage mage like Gerhardt himself, a master of flame, reduced to nothing.

A wyvern of molten majesty, crushed like an insect beneath the relentless tide of Orcs and Ogres.

He clutched his staff tighter, his knuckles whitening. His body trembled—not from exhaustion, but from the cold grip of dread that now coiled around his heart.

Is this the beginning of the end? he wondered, his eyes darting across the battlefield, where the tide of battle was rapidly turning against them.

The battlefield descended into pure chaos, and Gerhardt could only watch in horror as one by one, his comrades fell, their once-mighty magical beasts brought low by the relentless assault of the Orcs and Ogres.

The mage astride the crystalline stag with glowing blue antlers was the next to falter.

The stag, its shimmering form a beacon of arcane elegance, had been tirelessly evading attacks, its crystalline hooves leaving trails of frost in the air as it danced away from danger.

But even its grace and speed couldn’t save it from the tide of brutality.

An Ogre hurled a massive stone that shattered against the stag’s flank, sending shards of crystal scattering like broken glass.

The beast let out a haunting cry, its antlers dimming as frost spread across its body, not from its own magic, but from the life force ebbing away.

The mage on its back tried to channel a protective barrier, but an Orc’s spear tore through the shield and found its mark in the stag’s side.

The mage cried out, leaping from the saddle as the stag collapsed, its once-radiant form dull and lifeless.

Before the mage could recover, a group of Orcs descended upon him, their savage blades gleaming. His desperate incantations were drowned out by their war cries as they ended him without mercy.

Then, the serpentine creature with iridescent scales—its master a mage cloaked in robes of shifting, opalescent hues—began to falter.

The beast had been gliding effortlessly through the air, its movements hypnotic as it dodged attack after attack.

But its grace was shattered when a massive club, swung by an enraged Ogre, caught it mid-flight.

The serpentine creature let out a piercing screech as it was flung into the ground, its luminous scales flickering erratically.

The mage on its back tumbled to the dirt, clutching a shimmering orb as he attempted to summon a counterattack.

But the Orcs were already upon him. His serpentine companion tried to coil protectively around him, its body shimmering with one final burst of energy. Yet, the assault was too fierce.

The mage screamed as he was dragged from the beast’s coils and into the waiting blades of his enemies.

The hulking feline with glowing green eyes and its rider were next.

The feline had been a force of nature, its claws rending through Ogres and Orcs alike with terrifying precision.

Its rider, a mage wreathed in emerald light, had fought valiantly, weaving spells of devastation that tore through the horde.

But even this duo couldn’t withstand the unending waves of attackers.

The feline, its sleek body covered in deep gashes, growled weakly as it faced down a trio of Ogres.

One of them raised a jagged club and brought it down with a sickening crunch, shattering the beast’s spine.

The mage, his emerald aura flickering, screamed in fury as he unleashed one final spell—a massive explosion of green light that vaporized the closest attackers. But the effort left him drained, and he collapsed to his knees.

The remaining Orcs wasted no time, descending upon him with brutal efficiency.

Finally, the mage who rode the pitch-black arachnid met his end.

The arachnid’s clattering legs had carried it through the battlefield with eerie speed, its gleaming eyes scanning for threats as its master directed devastating attacks from above.

But its movements slowed as arrows and spears pierced its carapace, dark ichor spilling from its wounds.

The mage tried to retreat, his voice trembling as he chanted incantations to shield himself. But the arachnid let out a final, ghastly hiss before collapsing, its legs twitching in death throes.

The mage, now exposed, was left defenseless.

He tried to summon a vortex of shadow to obscure his escape, but a massive Orc axe cleaved through the spell and into his chest, silencing him forever.

One by one, Gerhardt’s comrades and their mighty beasts were brought down, their efforts to stem the tide crushed under the weight of Volk’s relentless horde.

Gerhardt stood frozen, his heart sinking further with every loss.

This is the end, he thought, his hands trembling as he clutched his staff.

He could feel the despair creeping into his soul, a cold, suffocating grip that threatened to overwhelm him.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep