Chronicles of Kharon Vol. 6: A Dark Fantasy LitRPG Adventure by Ravenscroft Daisuke

Author:Ravenscroft, Daisuke
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2025-09-23T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

Echoes of Fire and Screams

The scream didn't come from the walls.

It came from the back gate, the west postern. It wasn't a war cry, but a howl of pure exhaustion and pain. The fighting at the main gate paused for an instant, a silent heartbeat in the midst of the carnage, as every head turned toward the sound.

Two figures stumbled and fell into the inner courtyard. They weren't warriors. They were scouts. What was left of them.

One, a woman with a broken arrow protruding from her shoulder, dragged herself across the obsidian floor, leaving a wet, dark trail. The other tried to stand, staggered, and vomited a mouthful of blood that spattered the stones like red ink. His face was burned, the skin blackened and fused to the bone on one side.

Kharruk was the first to reach them, his axe dripping blood onto the ground. He knelt beside the man, his massive figure casting a shadow over him.

"What happened?" his voice was a low, contained rumble. "Vorlag? Another flank?"

The burned scout shook his head, a movement that seemed to cost him the world. The air whistled through his cracked lips.

"Not… not Vorlag…" he rasped, each word a piece of glass in his throat. "The… the jackals…"

Lisanne arrived a second later, her daggers clean, her breathing controlled. She knelt by the woman, ignoring the arrow and checking her pulse.

"What jackals?" Lisanne's voice was a scalpel, cutting through the agony to get to the data.

The woman raised a trembling hand, pointing vaguely toward the southern mountains.

"Outlaws… scavengers…" she whispered, her eyes glassy. "They took advantage… that the armies were here. They fell on Drystone… on Sunstone Refuge…"

The man coughed, a spasm that wracked his entire body. "Fire…" he said, and a tear carved a clean path down his burned cheek. "They're burning the farms. They're taking… the children…"

A deafening BOOM from the main gate reminded us of the immediate threat. The wood creaked, on the verge of giving way. But in that moment, the hell inside our walls felt colder and darker than the one trying to get in.

The air in the armory was thick, a stew of stale sweat, the smell of cold iron, and the coppery sweetness of blood cooling on the stone slabs. Outside, a dull, heavy BOOM shook the foundations. Vorlag's battering ram. Again. Each blow was a heartbeat, a reminder that time was measured in the endurance of wood and steel.

Kharruk was trembling, not with fear, but with a rage so pure it seemed about to set his blood on fire. His gauntleted hand closed over the handle of his axe with a force that made the leather creak. Opposite him, Lisanne was a statue of calm, an offense of stillness in the midst of chaos.

"They're my people!" Kharruk roared. The voice wasn't a shout; it was a tear, the sound of stone breaking in his throat.

"And these," Lisanne's voice was a shard of ice, her gaze sweeping over the wounded warriors leaning against the walls, their breathing a painful whistle, "are too.

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