Blood of the first age Chapter 27

 

Chapter 27  The Last March

The dead marched west beneath a dying sky.

There were no victory songs anymore.

No banners raised proudly against the wind.
No speeches promising glory.
No dreams of returning home.

Those things belonged to another age.

An age already buried beneath ash and blood.

Now there was only the march.

The armies of Vahsravia crossed the Great Salt for the final time beneath blackened heavens where seven dark suns hung motionless above the world like the eyes of sleeping gods.

The sea itself had changed.

Its waters moved too slowly.
Sometimes backwards.

Strange pale things floated beneath the surface beside the war fleet at night: eyeless corpses, giant skeletal creatures and drowned shapes too enormous to identify fully.

Many soldiers stopped looking over the rails entirely.

Dragun stood alone at the prow of the flagship Noctis Rex while crimson storm clouds followed the fleet unnaturally across the dark ocean.

His long black cloak moved softly in the freezing wind while countless shadow bats spiraled above the ships like living storm clouds.

The Vampire King looked toward the distant western horizon where the burning deserts of Baalania waited beneath silver lightning.

And for the first time in centuries

he looked tired.

Behind him, the fleet stretched endlessly across the black waters: gothic warships plated in silver iron, floating cathedrals carrying vampire nobility and refugee transports overcrowded with the last survivors of fallen kingdoms.

This was no longer merely an army.

It was the remains of civilization itself.

Father Lucian approached carefully across the frozen deck.

“The men are asking questions.”

Dragun did not turn.

“What kind?”

The priest hesitated.

“…whether we can still win.”

Silence.

Only thunder answered.

Far above the fleet, the fractured heavens flickered occasionally with enormous silver cracks where glimpses of impossible celestial structures could sometimes be seen moving behind reality itself.

The Wardens were getting closer.

Everyone knew it.

Lucian lowered his voice.

“They know we may never return from Baalania.”

Dragun finally looked back toward the fleet behind him.

Thousands upon thousands of soldiers stared outward across the ocean silently from ship decks illuminated by pale moon lanterns.

Humans.
Vampires.
Mercenaries.
Refugees.

All equally exhausted.

All equally doomed.

Some sharpened swords they would likely die carrying.

Others wrote final letters beneath dim lantern light despite knowing there would be no one left alive to receive them.

A few simply sat together quietly, watching the black sea move beneath the ships.

Trying to remember peace.

Near the lower decks, a young human soldier asked an older vampire knight softly:

“Do you think Elyria still stands?”

The knight stared toward the eastern horizon for a long moment before answering.

“No.”

The young soldier nodded slowly.

Then continued polishing his spear in silence.

Elsewhere aboard the fleet

General Zerafin walked through the wounded chambers below deck where rows of injured soldiers filled the cathedral-like halls beneath hanging silver candles.

Some were missing limbs.

Others whispered prayers endlessly in their sleep.

One man screamed every night about silver wings descending through fire.

The healers no longer tried calming him.

Because they had seen them too.

Zerafin stopped beside a dying vampire soldier wrapped in bloodstained blankets.

The soldier looked barely twenty.

“You think we’ll make it to the capital?”

The general remained quiet.

The young vampire laughed weakly.

“Honest answer.”

Zerafin finally answered.

“No.”

The soldier nodded once.

Then smiled faintly.

“At least you don’t lie like the priests.”

Above deck

Tenji stood upon the mast itself.

Barefoot.

Weightless.

The Fairy balanced effortlessly upon the frozen wood while black crows circled endlessly around him against the ruined heavens above.

He had grown quieter in recent days.

Even more distant than usual.

Sometimes the soldiers caught him staring upward for hours without moving.

As though listening to something far beyond the world.

Dragun eventually joined him atop the upper deck.

“You’ve seen this before.”

Tenji’s silver eyes remained fixed upon the sky.

“Yes.”

“The end of the First Age.”

The storm winds weakened around them.

“Back then,” the Fairy whispered softly,
“humanity believed it could fight heaven.”

His expression darkened slightly.

“And for a while… it almost won.”

Dragun studied him carefully.

“What happened?”

Tenji finally looked toward him.

“The Wardens learned fear.”

Lightning illuminated his pale face briefly.

“And fearful gods become cruel.”

Days later

the fleet reached Baalania.

The western continent no longer resembled a kingdom.

It resembled a corpse.

Entire coastlines had collapsed into blackened oceans while colossal skeletal remains protruded from the dunes like the bones of buried titans. Cities burned endlessly in the distance beneath inferno storms and silver fire falling from fractured heavens overhead.

Gigantic eldritch creatures wandered the wastelands between ruined fortresses while black towers from the buried age continued rising slowly from beneath the sands.

The world itself looked infected.

And still

the armies marched inland.

Dragun’s forces crossed the burning deserts beneath constant attack from horrors roaming the wasteland: demons emerging from cracked temples, Warden scouts descending from silver storms and starving survivors driven mad by the black suns.

Every mile cost lives.

Every night fewer soldiers remained.

One evening, the army passed through the ruins of an ancient desert city half-buried beneath ash dunes.

Thousands of corpses lined the streets.

Not killed by battle.

Frozen.

Standing upright exactly where they died while expressions of terror remained preserved on their faces.

Children still clutched parents.
Priests still knelt in prayer.

And all of them stared upward toward the sky.

No one spoke while marching through the city.

Even Mordecai seemed disturbed.

The gigantic Reaper walked silently beside the columns while living shadows crawled unnaturally across ruined walls around him.

Sometimes soldiers noticed him staring toward the heavens too.

Almost angrily.

That night

the army camped beneath the ruins of a shattered obsidian bridge while black snow drifted slowly across the desert.

The men understood now.

None of them would survive this war.

Not truly.

The world ending around them had become undeniable.

So instead of fear

something stranger settled across the camp.

Acceptance.

Human soldiers shared food beside vampire knights.

Old enemies drank together quietly beside dying fires.

Stories were exchanged: childhood homes, dead families and lovers lost somewhere beneath the apocalypse.

No one argued anymore.

Hatred felt meaningless at the end of existence.

A young recruit eventually approached Dragun near the edge of camp.

The boy could not have been older than sixteen.

“My king…”

Dragun looked toward him calmly.

The recruit swallowed nervously.

“…why do we keep marching?”

Silence followed.

The storm winds whispered softly through the ruins.

Then Dragun answered:

“Because if we stop…”

He looked toward the burning western horizon where Baalania waited beneath fractured heavens.

“…there will be no world left for anyone.”

The boy nodded slowly.

Though fear remained in his eyes

something else appeared there too.

Resolve.

Later that night, while the soldiers slept beneath black snowfall and broken stars—

Dragun stood alone overlooking the endless desert.

The Vampire King removed one glove slowly and looked at the blood covering his hand.

So much death.

So many centuries of war.

And still it had not been enough to save the world.

Behind him, Tenji appeared soundlessly.

“You regret it.”

Dragun did not deny it.

“I thought conquering darkness would protect humanity.”

The Fairy’s silver eyes softened sadly.

“And now?”

The Vampire King looked across the apocalypse swallowing Baalania.

“Now I think darkness only taught humanity how to become worse monsters.”

Far in the distance

something enormous moved beneath the dunes.

A colossal silhouette crossing beneath the sands toward the west.

Toward the final battlefield.

The Last March continued beneath dead heavens.

And every soul walking toward Baalania understood the truth now:

They were not marching to victory.

They were marching toward the end of the world.