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Volume 2 - Chapter One

  Archvel stood on the highest terrace of the Dark Archive Temple.

  Actually. He was just on the top of the ground that housed the Temple.

  Below him, the last stages of preparation continued.

  He did not have huge resources to plan for many things or the time.

  But, it did not mean that he could not basically make it harder for the Giants to just to break in the Temple and start causing chaos in the temple.

  If possible. He wanted to defend the temple to the end.

  He folded his arms, cape brushing the cold stone behind him.

  "Two giants," he murmured, eyes narrowed, "and ten hours until impact."

  Giants weren’t just physical titans; they were classified as Level-3 magical creatures for good reason.

  Each possessed a monstrous blend of brute strength, magical resistance,

  A single one could lay waste to a town with a handful of blows.

  Two?

  Two together were a nightmare—and the kind that didn’t often move without purpose.

  Still, Archvel wasn’t without his resources.

  He turned, mentally listing what he had:

  six Skeleton Sentinel and three Level-2 Undead Monster, these eight monsters were the only ones capable of surviving hit from the Giants.

  Also, these are the ones who can deal heavy damage.

  One hundred skeletons. Standard undead, raised and bound by his will.

  They were brittle individually, but as a wave of swords and spears, they could act as fodder, a buffer, or a distraction. Their numbers were key.

  He walked down the steps, entering the inner hall, his footsteps echoing as his thoughts deepened.

  “How do I arrange them? If I’m careless, they’ll be crushed in moments. No… this must be layered. Controlled. Staggered.”

  He knelt and drew a rough plan across the stone floor using a shard of chalk from a shattered rune tablet. With swift strokes, he diagrammed the terrain: the tree line, the outer ridge, the frontal path to the temple.

  “The first layer will be skeletons—groups of twenty in five loose phalanx formations,” he said aloud, half to himself, half to the dark air around him.

  “They’ll serve as the first wall… not to kill, but to delay and draw attention.”

  The second layer—he circled it in chalk—would be the Sentinels.

  "Two on each flank, two holding the center. When the giants break the skeleton lines, they’ll meet resistance worth swinging for."

  Then he pointed to a different spot in the drawing. “Here. The Undeath Monsters remain in reserve.

  Hidden in the trees to the east. They’ll strike when the giants overextend… flanking from both sides. I’ll unleash them only once the giants are fully inside the field of engagement.”

  He nodded slowly. That was the key. Lure the giants into the kill zone.

  Trap them inside a ring of coordinated attacks. Giants were not known for strategy—only for overwhelming strength.

  If he could bait them, let their rage take over, he could orchestrate their fall.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  "And the final piece…" He tapped the chalk against the stone at the center of the plan. “Me.”

  Archvel would not stay back. This would be his test too. His body, still adapting to the strength of the Giant’s transformation, pulsed with coiled force. He could feel the density in his muscles, the durability in his bones. And he intended to use it.

  “I’ll engage whichever giant shows more aggression,” he decided. “Strike fast, move faster, test my limits… and draw its attention away from the undead. A precise strike to the joints—knees, ankles, wrists. Bring it down one limb at a time.”

  He stood and exhaled, letting the gravity of the plan settle over him. It wasn’t perfect. If the giants had spell resistance, it might nullify the traps. If they moved smarter than expected, they could flank him instead. But this… this was the best use of what he had.

  From the shadows, a skeleton stepped forward—one of the observers stationed near the outer perimeter. Its jaw clicked as it delivered the report: “Giants moving. Eight hours distance. Still advancing. No deviation.”

  Archvel nodded without looking. “Continue tracking. Inform me if they alter pace or formation.”

  The skeleton bowed and turned to leave.

  Archvel looked down at the plan one last time, then turned his eyes toward the dark trees to the north. The fight would be brutal, and the margin for error slim. But this was the reality of his path.

  A whispered thought left his lips as a thin smile crept across his face.

  "Let the giants come."

  -

  Two shapes thundered across the earth: massive, hunched forms taller than most trees and broader than siege towers.

  Giants.

  Their steps crushed the earth beneath them, each footprint the size of a small well. The larger of the two led with unrestrained fury written across his cragged, weathered face. His name was Arfel—his skin was a dark, earthen gray, thick with calluses and timeworn scars. White beard hairs jutted from his jaw like frayed rope, and his eyes—normally a dull amber—were now burning yellow with rage.

  He slowed suddenly, his chest rising. His nostrils flared.

  “I smell to Langar,” he said, voice low and guttural, as if stones scraped within his throat. “I smell... to dead.”

  The younger one, smaller but still towering—Arkis—followed close behind. His shoulders were leaner, his face more angular, with deep red war-paint streaking down his cheeks. When he stopped next to Arfel, he lifted his nose as well.

  “I smell to big brother Langar too,” Arkis muttered, his deep voice cracking with both age and sorrow. Then his gaze twisted toward rage. “He no alive. He bones now.”

  Arfel’s great fists clenched until the knuckles cracked like boulders splitting.

  Langar had been their brother—not just by blood, but in war, in survival. He had left months ago, sent to scout, to steal supplies from human lands, perhaps destroy a temple or two along the way. Giants did not worry for each other often—they were beasts of resilience—but never had Langar been gone this long.

  And now, even from nearly fifty kilometers away, they could smell it. The stench of old, dried blood. Of bones stripped clean. Of ancient magic buried into soil and sanctified in undeath. Langar had not only died—he had been desecrated.

  Their breathing grew heavier. Arfel’s eyes went wild.

  “Killed. Little thing kill Langar,” he growled.

  “Break little thing bones!” Arkis howled in response.

  Without another word, the two broke into a run.

  The earth screamed under their weight as they surged forward. Trees snapped at their shoulders. Hills turned to cracked craters beneath their stomping feet. Animals fled in all directions, the wind screaming past the giants’ thick skin. They no longer cared for direction—they could smell their path clearly. The rot, the decay, the blackened scent of forbidden necromancy pulled them like a blood trail.

  Their rage gave them speed.

  Unlike their usual lumbering movements, they now sprinted—monstrous legs pumping like siege engines, moving at speeds unnatural for creatures of their size.

  Arfel’s footsteps alone cracked stones; Arkis leapt over ridges, swinging his massive club into trees that dared block his path.

  Neither spoke anymore. There was no need. Rage had overtaken language. What mattered now was vengeance—grinding vengeance against the tiny thing who had slain their brother.

  Far ahead, the temple loomed.

  The Dark Archive Temple sat silent under a waning moon, its old stones waiting like teeth in a predator’s mouth. Inside, Archvel stood before a mirror of obsidian, surrounded by dancing blue candles and skeletal guardians.

  He could feel them coming.

  “They’re faster than expected,” he thought grimly. “They must have scented Langar. My spell didn’t cleanse the area enough.”

  One of his skeleton sentinels stepped forward, bone-claws tapping the ground in rhythm.

  “Giants—distance now twenty kilometers. Speed increasing. Running.”

  Archvel gave a short nod, eyes narrowing. Twenty kilometers… At their current pace, he had no more than an hour, maybe less. They would arrive sooner than the plan had intended. Still, it didn’t matter. It would only alter the tempo—not the outcome.

  “Double the outside watch,” he commanded.

  “All skeleton units prepare formation one. Sentinels in position. Undeath Monsters—stand ready. Hidden. I’ll handle the frontline strike.”

  The skeleton saluted with a click of bone and turned to execute the order.

  Outside, the battlefield had been prepared.

  But none of that mattered if Archvel’s resolve faltered.

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