"A HORDE IS INCOMING!"
The caravan exploded into action.
Guards scrambled forward, drivers halted the steeds, and Ali Baba was already barking orders:
"Form a line! Establish ranks! We meet them away from the caravan!"
Malik didn't hesitate.
He unsheathed his curved sword and joined them.
Whatever was coming, it was coming fast, and they needed to be prepared to face it.
Thankfully, the caravan was ready, following Ali Baba's command to a tee.
Only a few hesitated, but those didn't seem all that useful anyway.
Ali Baba stood at the front, gripping a pretty sizeable staff.
Behind him, everyone stood firm—blades unsheathed, spears planted, crossbows drawn, nerves steel-tight. This was it.
First rank: Magi and melee fighters—swords, spears, axes, whatever could tear through flesh.
Second rank: archers—crossbows nocked, fingers twitching over the trigger.
The formation was simple, stupid simple. A child could follow it, which was the point.
Overcomplicated plans got people killed. This? This worked.
Malik, though? He wasn't part of their neat little rows.
He hung back, scanning the field, knowing his curse would do its thing if need be.
So he watched and learned. In case a... blink would be due.
Every battle had weaknesses. Every warrior had openings. And every monster had a way to die. This horde was one monster, and he needed to see all of it.
Ali Baba lifted his staff, voice ringing clear:
The white crystal at its tip darkened, runes flaring with a ghostly light.
Then, with a single downward swing—Crkcrk. A chain of death shot forward, slithering across the ground like some kind of hungry phantom. Wherever it touched—grass, rocks, sand—everything withered. The air itself felt suffocated.
It was strong, but it was slow. Slow enough that the others could catch up.
Behind Ali Baba, the Magi murmured their own chants, weapons glowing, power pulsing. Someone's staff sparked with blue fire. Another's hands were covered in floating shards of ice. Another had shards of stone. A colorful array of elements. And then...
Arrows whistled through the air, tipped with rot, crackling with lightning. Spells followed—gouts of flame, blades of wind, and lances of raw Aether blasting forward.
That was when Ali Baba's attack had reached the horde.
His wave hit the Lizard-wolf hybrids at the front, immediately rotting them, flesh peeling off in wet chunks, bones turning brittle before shattering into dust.
What followed were more screeches and roars. More bodies hitting the dirt.
And giving not a moment of reprieve, the monster's front line exploded. Repeatedly.
Massive, four-armed flesh golems took fireballs straight to the face. Their skin bubbled, flesh melting like candle wax, eyes bursting in their sockets.
Other similarly humanoid monsters shrieked and stumbled before well-placed arrows drove through their skulls, snapping their necks back.
Another group of creatures—some warped lions with too many eyes—got hit by lightning bolts. They convulsed mid-charge, spasming, foaming at the mouth, before dropping in a twitching heap.
The ground was a graveyard before the charge even neared them.
There was no more wall of dust, just the smoldering aftermath—the stink of charred flesh.
It was now quiet. Too quiet. Apparently something too uncomfortable for one of the younger guards, who spoke to fill the silence:
"I swear if they get back up because of you!"
Those were the only answers he got.
And sure enough, they were right in shutting him up.
Not all were dead. The surviving monsters had gotten back up and continued their charge.
This time there was no need for chants. Aether in all its elements tore through the battlefield.
Bolts of fire and ice burst like meteors upon impact. Blades of wind sliced through flesh with a whisper. Lightning cracked the sky, turning creatures into charred husks. Jagged spears of earth erupted from below, piercing through anything unlucky enough to be standing in their path.
The enemy… army was obliterated. Their bodies torn apart, burned, and frozen solid, displaying an unholy mixture of destruction.
Now, there was no question about it.
"WE'VE KILLED THEM ALL!"
Ali Baba roared, his fist raised high.
Layla's cheer followed, easily reaching them from the caravan.
"HAH! Did you see that? I fried those bastards!"
A Magi laughed, slapping his staff against the ground.
"Did you see my shot? That one lizard lost its head before it even knew what hit it!"
A bowman bragged, grinning wide as he nudged his companion.
"I swear, that was my fireball!"
"Dream on, man, that was my bolt—flawless aim, by the way!"
Someone let out a loud whoop, shaking their sword in the air.
"One Thousand Nights stands unbeaten!"
"Long live the caravan!"
"Long live Ali Baba!"
"Drinks on me in the next village!"
That got another round of cheers.
Guards clashed their swords against their shields, booming war drums of triumph.
Men and women laughed, grinned, clapped each other on the back.
Some of the younger fighters fell to their knees, whispering prayers of gratitude.
Those of them not so religious looked around, eyes wide, faces pale, shaking slightly.
An older warrior chuckled, ruffling the kid's hair.
"You'll get used to it."
"Or you won't. Either way, good work!"
More laughter, more cheers, more exhilaration.
The battle was won. They were alive.
And throughout all of that, Malik stood still.
He looked to be on edge.
His instincts screamed at him... something was wrong. Something was very wrong!
His sword slid free and he rushed forward. Those around looked at him weirdly as he went past, but he didn't care for them.
Just as he neared a group, his eyes landed on a young fighter.
Before he could register those words, he was shoved aside, Malik taking his place.
Something lashed out from thin air—a blur of movement, long claws glinting in the light.
It was revealed just as it attacked, a camouflaged, lizard-like humanoid.
Malik didn't have the luxury of looking at it, though.
One claw met his blade with a sharp clang. The other sank into his shoulder.
Flesh split open. Blood dripped down his arm, but he didn't even flinch.
At that point, pain was just an old friend that regularly made a visit.
The creature snarled, pushing forward, eyes burning with hunger.
Malik didn't give it a chance, his boot slamming into its chest.
The monster reeled, hissing, claws scrabbling at the air.
One stroke. One clean cut.
His blade sang. The monster split in half.
A rush of air behind him—
Malik twisted, his curved blade sweeping backward just in time to deflect.
The claws scraped harmlessly off his steel and with a flick of his wrist, he severed its torso in two.
"Invisible fuckers are attacking! Look out! We're surrounded!"