THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR

The city of Lysora burned in chaos, its once-pristine streets awash with the glow of roaring flames and the deafening screams of its citizens.

The Dunmals, grotesque monstrosities with shark-like features, tore through the heart of the city, their webbed hands smashing through walls and their gaping maws eager to devour. Their scales gleamed under the flickering light of destruction, their predatory forms weaving through the smoke like phantoms of death.

In the midst of the carnage, a young girl clutched a seashell necklace tightly in her trembling hands, her small frame darting through the rubble-strewn streets. Her sobs mixed with her ragged breaths as the sound of wet, guttural snarls grew louder behind her. A Dunmal was in pursuit, its enormous maw wide open, rows of jagged teeth glinting hungrily as it lunged for her.

The girl's foot caught on something solid, and she tumbled to the ground with a cry. Her precious necklace flew from her grasp, skidding across the cobblestones until it disappeared into the shadows. Her heart pounded as she scrambled to her hands and knees, only to freeze in terror.

A lifeless body lay before her, its torso severed cleanly in two. Blood pooled around the mangled remains, the metallic scent mixing with the acrid stench of burning wood. Her wide, tear-filled eyes locked on the grisly sight as a scream tore from her throat.

"Mama! Mama, help me!" she wailed, her voice cracking with despair.

The Dunmal closed in, its elongated arms reaching for her with webbed fingers dripping in blood. Its guttural growl echoed, the sound sending shivers down her spine. She shut her eyes tight, waiting for the inevitable.

Then—

A flash.

White light streaked across the Dunmal, so fast it seemed like a reflection from a blade catching the firelight. The creature froze mid-lunge, its body jerking awkwardly before bursting into chunks of flesh. Gore splattered across the cobblestones as the beast's remains scattered like debris.

The girl whimpered, too terrified to open her eyes. But when she did, her gaze was met not with the sight of the monster, but of someone standing in its place.

A figure stood tall amid the chaos, covered head to toe in the Dunmal's blood and entrails. The firelight glinted off their armor, and their presence was commanding, a beacon of defiance against the horrors of the night. They exuded an air of calm amidst the carnage, the edges of their weapon gleaming with the aftermath of their strike.

The girl stared, her lips trembling. Her voice was barely a whisper. "...Who are you?"

The figure turned slightly, their eyes meeting hers briefly before shifting to scan the area, as if already preparing for the next onslaught. "Stay close," they said, their voice firm but not unkind.

Another growl pierced the air, signaling the arrival of more Dunmals. The figure adjusted their stance, readying their weapon.

The Dunmauls closed in, their guttural snarls and predatory eyes fixating on the man and the trembling girl behind him. Their webbed claws glistened with blood, their killing intent palpable as they surged forward in a coordinated lunge. The man, calm and unyielding, slowly sheathed his sword, the faint click of steel echoing like a death knell.

His stance lowered, knees bending slightly, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. Time seemed to slow as the monstrous creatures reached inches from his position, their fangs bared and claws poised to rend.

And then it happened.

A radiant white circle slashed through the air with a speed that defied comprehension, its arc dazzling and precise. The man's blade was unsheathed and resheathed in a fluid motion so swift it was almost imperceptible.

"[Swift Slash]," he intoned, his voice deep and resonant.

In the next heartbeat, the Dunmauls froze mid-attack, their grotesque forms halting as if time had caught them. Then, like marionettes with their strings severed, they fell—chunks of flesh and gore splattering onto the blood-soaked ground. The air stilled for a moment, the only sound the crackle of distant fires and the soft breathing of the man, who stood unharmed amidst the carnage.

The girl's wide, tear-filled eyes took in the horrifying massacre, her small body trembling with both awe and fear. The man, noticing her reaction, crouched beside her, his expression softening. He reached into his hand and held out her seashell necklace, the delicate chain dangling gently from his fingers.

"You dropped something," he said, his voice calm and steady.

The girl's gaze darted between the bloodstained warrior and the necklace. She took a hesitant step back, fear etched into her face, but her eyes lingered on the necklace. It was her mother's, a cherished memento of the life stolen from her by the Dunmauls.

"Go on," he urged gently, his hand unwavering.

Before she could respond, a voice rang out from the distance. "Branch Manager! What were you thinking running off like that?"n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

A woman in pristine receptionist attire hurried toward them, her presence almost comically out of place amidst the destruction. Her face was flushed with a mix of exasperation and relief, strands of her otherwise neat hair falling loose from her bun.

The man—now clearly identified as the Branch Manager—rose to his feet with the girl's necklace still in hand. Without a word, he lifted the girl effortlessly, handing her over to the receptionist.

"Take her to the stronghold," he commanded, his tone firm but not harsh. "The mercenaries need my support, and I'll search for a way to destroy the veil covering the county."

"But—Branch Manager, wait!" the receptionist protested, her arms tightening protectively around the girl.

He didn't answer. With a single, powerful leap, he propelled himself into the air, a gust of wind trailing his departure. The girl watched in awe as his figure disappeared into the darkened sky, leaving the receptionist standing amid the wreckage.

The woman glanced at the child in her arms, offering a comforting smile. "Let's get you somewhere safe," she said softly, though her own heart trembled with uncertainty.

***

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