Far away from the dark stillness of the Blackroot Forest, chaos ruled another part of the continent.

A city burned beneath the midday sun. Towers crumbled, streets ran red with blood, and the air was thick with smoke and ash. The cries of the dying mixed with the clash of steel and the roar of flames that swallowed homes and markets alike.

At the heart of the chaos, a brilliant light burned, so bright it was almost blinding. A fire like the sun itself raged across the battlefield, each burst of flame sending shockwaves through the ruins.

Lucian stood within that inferno, his armor scorched and his sword glowing red-hot from heat. Opposite him stood Vorn, the Stormbearer, a towering Viking warrior strode forward with a grin, his fur cloak singed but his spirit unshaken. The man's muscles rippled beneath the weight of his armor, and the massive axe in his hand gleamed with killing intent.

Sparks exploded as their weapons met again and again, each clash shaking the ground beneath them.

Not far from them, Silas and Daigo fought side by side against another Viking, Bryndor the Tidebreaker, an enormous brute wielding a warhammer the size of a man. The two heroes moved in perfect rhythm, blades flashing, strikes coordinated, but even with their strength and teamwork, the Viking held them back with raw power alone.

Daigo's katana shot forward, but the Bryndor blocked it with the handle of his massive warhammer. Sparks flew as steel scraped against metal. Silas dashed behind the brute, his twin blades cutting across the man's back, yet the warrior barely flinched. He turned with a wild grin, eyes burning with thrill instead of pain.

"Is this the strength of the famed heroes of the Pentaline Empire?" Bryndor bellowed, his deep voice carrying over the roar of battle. "Come now! Show me more, make me feel alive!"

Daigo gritted his teeth, blocking another blow that sent him skidding backward. "Damn it… these monsters are tougher than they look,"

Meanwhile, Lucian's opponent laughed as their blades locked. "Why have you come here?" Lucian shouted, his flames flaring brighter. "You brutes have no place in our empire!"

Vorn smirked, his voice calm but full of pride. "No place? Hah! Your empire is already doomed. Be honored, Knight. Our king, Hroldir the Dreadwake, has chosen this land to offer to our gods."

He raised his axe high, its edge gleaming like silver fire.

Lucian gritted his teeth as the Viking's axe came crashing down again. The blow struck his blade with a force that sent a shock through his arm, numbing his fingers. He twisted away just in time as the axe smashed into the ground, cracking the stone beneath their feet.

Flames burst around him, wrapping the battlefield in waves of heat, yet the Viking warrior strode through the fire as if it were nothing. His eyes gleamed with wild excitement, a grin stretching across his scarred face.

Nearby, Silas and Daigo struggled to hold their ground. Daigo's twin katanas were chipped, and blood dripped from a deep gash on Silas's arm, yet neither man took a step back.

The Vikings before them were unlike any foes they had faced. Each one fought with strength and ferocity on par with a Knight Fourth Stage. They weren't as overwhelming as the Legate they once battled, but their sheer power and endurance still towered over them.

Lucian's flames wavered as his strength began to fade. He could feel it, their power, it was beyond anything he had expected.

From behind the walls, a Pentaline Knight watched in disbelief, gripping his sword so tightly. "How is the Heir of Arden and the other heroes losing to these savages?" he muttered. "Who are these people?"

A mocking laugh thundered from the battlefield. One of the Vikings stepped over a fallen soldier, his axe dripping with blood. "Who are we?" he shouted, his voice echoing across the burning city.

He raised his weapon high, his eyes wild with pride. "We are the warriors of Dreadwake! Elite fighters forged by our king himself! Even your so-called heroes are nothing before us!"

All around him, the Vikings roared in unison, their voices booming like a storm.

"All hail Vorn the Stormbearer! Bryndor the Tidebreaker! The Dreadwake's chosen!"

Their chant rolled through the city like thunder, drowning out the cries of the dying as they charged once more, unstoppable, merciless, and burning with the will of their king.

…..

Across the vast lands of the Pentaline Empire, chaos spread like wildfire, just as it did where Lucian fought. Cities once filled with laughter now echoed with screams of terror.

Fortresses crumbled, villages burned, and rivers ran dark with blood. From the coasts to the mountain borders, the same nightmare unfolded, ten monstrous figures leading armies of raging warriors, each bearing the crest of the Dreadwake.

Word spread fast through merchants and fleeing soldiers. The Dreadwake's Chosen had come. Each of the ten carved their own path of destruction, leaving nothing but ruins behind.

The people spoke their names in fear. "Vorn the Stormbearer… Bryndor the Tidebreaker… Eirik the Bonehowl…" The list went on, each name whispered like a curse.

And above them all stood the one who commanded them, Hroldir the Dreadwake, King of the Northern Sea.

Tales claimed his power rivaled that of the Pentaline Emperor, his very presence enough to silence storms. His ten chosen warriors were rumored to stand on par with the empire's Legates, men once believed to be unmatched beneath the emperor's throne.

Now, those same powers marched upon Pentaline soil, leaving nothing but despair in their wake.

At a ruined outpost near a burning city, a lone knight stood upon the battlements, watching smoke rise in the distance. His armor was cracked, his cloak torn, and his face smeared with soot and blood.

"First the Sengolio," he muttered bitterly. "Then the mages…"

He clenched his trembling hand around his sword. "And now the Vikings. Tell me…" his voice wavered as he looked to the horizon, "…is our empire truly doomed?"

….

Back to the battlefield.

Lucian's knees nearly buckled as the clash of steel and flame shook the battlefield. The ground was littered with broken shields, fallen men, and burning debris. His breathing was ragged, his aura flickering weakly, he and the others were already at their limit.

Vorn, the Viking warrior before him, raised his axe high, its crimson edge gleaming under the firelight. "Your empire's light ends here, boy," he growled.

But before the axe could fall, a thunderous horn echoed across the city. The air trembled, and a shadow swept over the burning streets.

Then, out of the smoke came a sight that made every surviving soldier's heart surge.

A banner.

Crimson and silver, bearing the emblem of a roaring dragon clutching a spear.

Behind it marched rows upon rows of armored soldiers, their formation steady even as the ground quaked beneath their boots.

"It's Duke Cassian Draemont!" one of the wounded knights shouted, his voice cracking with relief.

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