Earth's Greatest Magus

A war cry filled the air, amplified by the echo against the stony cliffs that enclosed the Demon’s Pit Citadel.

“They are coming!”

“The orcs are attacking!!”

From the four corners of the Citadel’s walls, magus stood sentinel, their eyes trained on the distant horizon. They watched in grim anticipation as tens of thousands of orcs began to traverse the formidable lava sea on thick metal plates, hastily constructed to serve as rafts. 

It was a horrifying sight; a sea of grotesque figures bathed in the orange-red glow of the burning lava, their rafts bobbing and swaying in the molten waves as they navigated across the mile-wide fiery chasm.

In the midst of this chaotic scene, Commander Shepard stood tall at the citadel’s center, a beacon of strength and authority. He had the daunting task of commanding eight squads, each consisting of 15 to 20 magi, all led by their own respective captains. Their duties were divided based on their expertise: four squads were positioned to guard each side of the walls, one was assigned the artillery role, commanding the citadel’s powerful turrets, one was designated as the healing squad, and the remaining two squads were held in reserve.

22 New moon magus

110 Crescent moon magus

31 Half-moon magus

8 Full moon magus

Altogether, they were the bastion of humanity guarding the Demon’s Pit Citadel, standing ready for the onslaught.

The orcish fleet consisted of at least a thousand metal rafts, each packed with a dozen warriors. Their sheer numbers were daunting, yet as they reached the halfway point of the sea, Commander Shepard issued his first order.

A deadly symphony of destruction started. The four imposing outer turrets hummed into life, their colossal structures accumulating and directing an enormous charge of energy. With a deafening thunderclap, they spat out their lethal projectiles. Beams of raw energy, white-hot and blinding, surged across the expanse, slicing through the dark night and incinerating anything in their path. They hammered into the orc flotilla, each impact resulting in a cataclysmic explosion, consuming rafts and orcs alike.

Simultaneously, the magus unleashed a maelstrom of long-range spells. [Wind Snipes], [Fire Artillery], and [Lightning Bolts] danced in the night sky, their bright trails leaving behind a spectacle of destruction. This horrifying display of magical might filled the air, the brilliant trails of each spell casting an eerie, flickering light on the gruesome spectacle below. 

The first volley decimated a third of the orcish forces. The impact of the energy bullets and the spells sent many of the rafts spiraling out of control. As the rafts capsized, orcs fell helplessly into the seething lava sea, their armor melting and their flesh burning in the intense heat. It was a gruesome sight, and their agonizing roars filled the night. The battle had barely begun, but the defenders had made their mark.

Echoes of the orcs’ roars filled the air, their collective pain a dreadful symphony that reverberated off the citadel walls. Yet, the spectacle of their dying companions did not deter these fierce warriors. Their iron will was evident as they fearlessly sailed their metal rafts closer to the citadel, determined to cross the molten lava river.

Commander Shepard, his eyes locked onto the incoming horde, roared, “Ready… Attack!!” At his command, the magus released another flurry of spells and turret fire, raining down devastation on the approaching orcs. Their onslaught proved devastating, slicing through the orcish ranks and reducing their numbers by half.

When the surviving orcs finally docked, disembarking from their molten-scarred rafts, only a quarter of the initial horde remained. They charged the citadel walls with a ferocity that belied their depleted numbers, only to explode into fragments. Defensive barrier on the walls detonated on contact, transforming hundreds of orcs into gruesome spectacles of blood and bone. The survivors, champions, and warchiefs, were then surrounded and subdued by the vigilant magus.

Any hopes for a swift orc victory were crushed. The citadel’s defenses held firm; the orcs could barely leave a scratch. Just as the magus began to breathe a sigh of relief, the discordant blare of a warhorn cut through the relative quiet. Tens of thousands of orcs were charging again, riding their metal rafts across the lava sea, replicating their initial assault.

The repeated assault strategy started to make the magus and their leaders uneasy. 

During the third orcish wave, Commander Shepard made a strategic decision. To conserve energy, the turrets were ordered to minimize their output. The magus watched, tension knotting their stomachs, as half of the orcish force successfully navigated the lava sea without the deadly hail of turret fire.

As the third wave of orcs neared the citadel, the commander roared again, “ALL FULL ATTACK!” The magi followed suit, simultaneously unleashing their destructive powers upon the approaching horde. Despite their intense barrage, half of the orcs reached the citadel walls, only to be devastated by the defensive shields.

The third assault wave was repelled, but the battlefield was quiet. Across the lava river, the orcs retreated, and the metal rafts gradually disappeared from sight. The defenders were left with an uneasy victory, the specter of the orcish warhorn still resonating in their ears.

Triumphant cheers rose from the magi as they looked out upon the field of battle. With their combined efforts, they had managed to eliminate an astounding number of orcs, approximately 30,000, without suffering a single casualty. The mood was jubilant, a mixture of pride and relief permeating through their ranks.

However, not everyone was immersed in the celebratory atmosphere. Some of the more astute magi, like Emery, recognized that the outcome was too good, too easy. Their unease led them to seek out Commander Shepard amidst the revelry.

The commander, surrounded by his trusted captains, voiced the nagging doubts that had been plaguing him. “I know… something is definitely amiss,” he murmured, his gaze unfocused, contemplating the grim possibilities.

The absence of the dark elves in the orcish assaults was conspicuous. Moreover, the majority of the orcs were young Uruks, not the seasoned warriors who usually accompanied the dark elves. It was evident that the elves had deviated from their usual strategy, perhaps conducting a reconnaissance mission to gauge the citadel’s defenses.

Commander Shepard hesitated to speculate further, but when the next day brought another wave of orcish attacks employing the same strategy, the intention became clear. The orcs weren’t primarily interested in immediate victory; they aimed to deplete the citadel’s defenses slowly, a war of attrition that threatened to exhaust the magi’s resources. This daunting realization hung heavily over the humans in the citadel, casting a pall over their initial jubilation.