Legend of Ransera

Bazyl closed his eyes as the shower of viscera and chunks of mangled flesh rained down on him, the stench of blood thick in the air. He felt the warm spatter hit his face, and without thinking, he wiped it away with the back of his hand. Yet, beneath the mess and carnage, a grin spread across his face—something he hadn’t felt in a long time. The raw adrenaline of battle, the thrill of chaos and danger, it pulsed through him, awakening something deep inside that had lain dormant for too long. This was what he had been missing: the battlefield.

The last time he had been in a battle of this scale was during the Graveplague, a nightmarish campaign of unrelenting horror. The endless hordes of undead crashing against their defenses like waves on a shore, the twisted Menders weaving death and chaos into the very air around them. And during the siege of Ailos with the constant thunderous bombardment from the Imperial Navy’s warships, he remembered it all too vividly. There was no space for joy back then, only survival. And yet, here he was, grinning like a madman as history seemed to repeat itself, but with something different this time. Victory no longer felt out of reach; it felt inevitable.

“By Eikaen’s balls indeed,” he muttered under his breath, wiping more of the gore from his face. The sheer raw power that had obliterated the wave of Shinaegri left him in awe. He had heard countless stories of the Hero of Uldori, tales spun by soldiers and storytellers alike. They spoke of impossible feats, of strength beyond mortal limits. But stories could never truly capture the magnitude of such force. Seeing it firsthand was something else entirely. As the Hero of Uldori tore through the battlefield and disappeared into the mines like a tempest, Bazyl’s grin widened. He had to give credit where it was due—the legends didn’t do the Hero justice.

As Bazyl turned his gaze to the massive form of the Shinaegri, or what was left of it, he shook his head in disbelief. The creature had been a towering monster the size of a Moratallen. It had been ripped apart with terrifying ease. The squelching sound of its demise still hung in the air. “Well, just that big lump of flesh standing between us,” he said, his tone half in jest, though the truth of the matter left him shaking his head. He couldn't help but wonder what could’ve been different had the mages of his time wielded this kind of raw power. The wars he had fought in would have taken a very different turn.

He readied his throwing axes, their cold weight familiar and comforting in his hands, but the enemy he had been prepared to face had already been annihilated. His hands loosened, and he let out a sigh just as the roar of the charge began to rise around him.
“Hero of Uldori” Bazyl muttered, catching the figure of Hikami charging forward. His mind sharpened as battle lust once again took hold. The Dawnmartyr knight, standing in front of him, handed him the axe he had thrown earlier, which he snatched with a quick nod. “Thanks,” Bazyl grunted, appreciating the solidarity.

“We sure need to bash in more heads,” Bazyl added with a chuckle, spinning the axe expertly in his hand before gripping it tightly. “Can’t let the Hero of Uldori fought alone, right?” His grin was genuine, but behind it lay a flicker of envy. He was never one to bask in glory, but seeing the sheer difference in power between himself and Hikami left a lingering sting.

As they moved forward in the charge, his eyes flicked toward the entrance of the mines. He knew, deep down, that once they entered those twisting, dark tunnels, the nature of the fight would change. The mines weren’t just a battlefield—they were a trap. But they were also where his own abilities could flourish. In the dark places, Bazyl’s control over darkness would be much more effective. It was what he did best, but he would have to tread carefully.

Bazyl’s heart pounded, not from fear but from the realization that he would need to keep his powers in check. Subtlety was key. He couldn’t afford to draw attention to himself—not now. The memories of the Eclipse still lingered in the minds of many. The others might fight alongside him, but they hadn’t forgotten. He needed to ensure that no one suspected he was tapping into the same powers that had once caused so much destruction.

Bazyl steadied his breath as they crossed into the entrance of the mine, the air growing heavier with each step. Bazyl's mind was not fully in the present; he found his thoughts drifting, focusing on the figure ahead of him—the Hero of Lake Udori, Hikami.

There was something about Hikami’s demeanor that stirred old memories in Bazyl. The quiet fury, he had seen it before, and it felt all too familiar. It took him back to the days when he and his siblings had fought endlessly against the undead, during the darkest days of Ransera. Waves of death crashing upon them, no matter how hard they fought, no matter how many spells and blades were thrown against the tide, it seemed endless. He remembered the exhaustion in his sister’s eyes, the desperation in her voice as she poured everything into one final attack—only for it to be countered by a Vitalis mage as if her efforts were nothing. Anger, frustration, helplessness.

For a brief moment, the raw power of Bazyl’s aura slipped out. His hand tightened around the grip of his axe, knuckles turning white. The moment passed as quickly as it came, and he reeled his emotions back in, suppressing the surge of aura before anyone could notice.

As the group came to a halt, Bazyl listened intently to the White-hooded Sage, Ryom, who was clearly leading the group now. Bazyl had learned long ago that in chaotic situations like this, it was best to have one clear leader. Too many voices only led to confusion, and confusion got people killed. Ryom’s calm and authoritative tone provided some comfort.

Two names stuck in Bazyl's mind: Hilana and Lia. He made a mental note, repeating them over in his head. These were not names he would soon forget. He had learned through experience that having powerful mages on your side could turn the tide of any battle, and these two seemed like valuable allies. Bazyl gave a slight nod of acknowledgment to Korgan, his fellow compatriot.

“I’m Bazyl,” he said in his usual straightforward manner, his voice low and gravelly as he greeted the others. There was no need for formalities in a situation like this, not when they all knew they could be dead by the end of the day.

His gaze lingered on Hikami again, watching as the famed Hero stepped away, clearly struggling with something internal. Bazyl recognized that look. He’d seen it on his sister’s face just before she had almost lost herself to despair. He could only hope that Hikami wouldn’t let whatever was eating at him take control. It was dangerous for a warrior to spiral—especially one as powerful as Hikami. Bazyl had seen it happen before, and the results were never good.

He accepted the orange vial Hilana handed him, taking a moment to examine it before nodding in thanks. “Thanks,” he muttered, drinking the liquid quickly. The concoction felt warm as it went down, he felt his energy and strength returning. The information Hilana shared about the situation and the magic was intriguing, though Bazyl knew this was more in line with what his daughter would obsess over. She had always been fascinated by magic, studying it with a passion that he could only admire from afar. Magic had never been his path, but that was before he became a warlock.

“We’ll give all the support we can,” Bazyl agreed, pausing for a moment as he surveyed the mine’s entrance, his eyes narrowing in thought. There were dangers here, things lurking in the shadows. “So, what’s next? Are we heading down the elevator shaft or going in through where that bulky Shinaegri crawled out from?”