Amid the wreckage of a half-collapsed elven arrow tower, the elf Laryel barely concealed himself behind a broken moonstone pillar. He stroked the longbow that had accompanied him for nearly a century, his face pale and weary, the long ears protruding from either side of his hood drooping listlessly.
This was more than physical exhaustion. It was a weariness and helplessness that came from deep within his soul.
The moment demons tore open the skies above Mooncrown City and green fel flames appeared, the Ranger unit he belonged to had been scattered.
He had not chosen to retreat to the last relatively safe defensive line in the Oak District. Instead, drawing on his familiarity with every hidden path and ancient building in the city, he had slipped like a ghost through the shadows of the occupied districts.
Throughout that time, he had barely slept.
Bloodshot veins had replaced the morning-star brilliance once present in his eyes. His leather armor was covered in dust, dried blood, and grime picked up while traversing the ruins. His once-graceful cloak had also been torn in several places, leaving it shabby and ragged.
A burst of gunfire from nearby startled Laryel as he tried to close his eyes for a brief rest.
His eyes snapped open, weariness instantly giving way to vigilance. Instincts honed by prolonged operations behind enemy lines made him curl up like a startled forest cat, his sharp gaze peering through the gaps between the stone pillars.
Then Laryel saw a human army fighting the demons head-on and routing them. Clad in black military greatcoats, they resembled a spreading shadow of death. Gas masks and steel helmets concealed every expression, making them look less like living warriors than cold killing puppets controlled by invisible strings.
The elven ranger was deeply struck by