Last Bastion: Reincarnated Prince of Stormwatch

"They came not to conquer, but to correct. To carve out the filth of humanity with surgical grace."

—War Memoirs of High Marshal Eloré, First Blade of the Elven Dominion

Location: Southern Bastion Run, Stormwatch's Last Drawbridge – Early Dawn

The wind was still. Too still.

Flags fluttered silently over South Tower, but no birds stirred, no engines churned. The soldiers of Stormwatch stood uneasy, staring into the morning haze rolling off the Silent Glade beyond.

Jag stood on the wall, arms crossed, his cloak heavy with dried blood and soot. His breath misted from the lingering chill of dawn.

Rain approached, dressed in a reinforced command coat.

"No goblins. No trolls. Just fog."

Jag narrowed his eyes.

"No, not fog."

He extended his gauntlet. The white air curled unnaturally, pressing against his palm like a barrier.

"Mist-weave. This isn't weather. It's magic."

Cut To: Elven Dominion – Vanguard March

The elven host moved through the Silent Glade like wind through reeds—silent, deliberate, and unchallenged. Their armor shimmered with sunsteel and thorncloth, flowing like water, deflecting light itself.

Leading them was High Marshal Eloré, a towering figure draped in a mantle of silver thread and living bark.

He rode no horse.

He walked—barefoot—his blade unsheathed, held in two fingers.

Behind him followed five legions of the First Blade Circle, each trained for one purpose: extermination without ruin.

"No fire," he commanded. "Stormwatch's walls will fall by precision. Not chaos."

He raised his hand.

And the fog moved at his command.

Scene: Stormwatch Walls – The First Salvo

Without a war cry. Without a signal.

Dozens of arrows came from the mist—arcs too fast to follow.

Stormwatch's outer towers screamed. A guard beside Rain collapsed, an arrow through his eye slit. Another was pinned to the wall mid-shout.

Jag turned to the signal horn and blew twice.

BOOOM.

The drawbridge rose behind them with a clang.

Shields snapped into position. Choir barriers lit with electric veins.

"Defensive formation. Elves don't charge. They dismantle."

Battle Scene: Tower Walkways Under Fire

Ashra ran along the second tier walkway, shouting over the chaos.

"Keep your heads down! They aim for commanders first!"

A steel arrow whistled past her cheek. Another pierced the thigh of a nearby lieutenant.

She dove behind a stone alcove, eyes scanning the mist.

"They're not aiming for gaps," she muttered. "They're creating them."

Sure enough—where a body dropped, another arrow followed, opening a hole in the defense line.

Stormwatch archers returned fire, but their arrows were snatched mid-air—by nothing.

No—by spells.

Invisible wind-ribbons coiled around them, redirecting or snapping them mid-flight.

POV Shift – Elven Blade-Circle

Inside the mist, Elven warblades advanced in total silence.

Each one glided forward with a partner, alternating strikes and counter-steps in tight formation. They struck from the flanks of shadows—cutting throats, slicing achilles, disabling but not always killing.

Efficiency over brutality.

In the center, Eloré walked calmly, whispering commands in the ancient tongue.

"Three steps left. Now. The window is open."

Without looking, he threw his blade.

From hundreds of meters away, it pierced the Stormwatch signal tower's command crystal—shattering the defensive sync.

"The tower cannot sing. Now we silence the rest."

Scene: Jag Deploys Plan Delta

The ground shook—not from siege, but from tower base rotation.

Rain looked back. "He's activating the Old Choir Gears?"

Jag nodded.

"If they want precision, let's break their tempo."

Stormwatch's southern tower base rotated 15 degrees, locking into ancient gear plates. Side ports opened—revealing storm pulse repeaters, rarely used since the Second War.

Jag raised his fist.

"Fire."

The Storm Pulse howled.

Blasts of thunder surged down the fogpath. The elves, silent and flowing, were suddenly in disarray as tremors broke their formation.

Some leapt gracefully. Others misstepped—and the few that misstepped died.

Ashra charged with a glaive unit into the gap.

"Push them out of rhythm!"

Her blade caught an elven soldier mid-dodge. He twisted, elegant even in pain—but not fast enough. She hooked his ankle, brought him low, and ended it fast.

Another attacked—spinning into a high leap with daggers like silver wings.

She ducked, countered, parried high, and rolled into his guard, stabbing up with her secondary dagger into his ribcage.

"We don't fight cleaner," she muttered. "We fight meaner."

Scene: Eloré's Shift – Enter the Blade Dance

The High Marshal stepped forward.

Stormwatch's counterforce was starting to win ground.

He lifted his sword—and the air around him screamed.

A ripple of wind pressure blasted outward. Arrows, flames, and even Choir pulses bent around his body.

He whispered to no one. Or perhaps the wind itself.

"Your tempo is false."

He moved.

The Blade Dance began.

One moment he was ten steps away.

The next—inside the trench.

His sword sang a three-note harmony:

Slice. A throat opened like paper.

Cut. A shield split down the middle.

Stab. A tower mage fell, eyes wide.

He didn't kill brutally. He removed people, like a sculptor removing flaws from marble.

Cut to: Jag's Counterplay

Jag watched from the command overlook, jaw tight.

"He's faster than any of our swordmasters."

Rain hissed. "He's not fighting. He's editing."

Jag opened his command scroll—pulling from the archives of older wars.

"Deploy Lancer Formation Yarrow. Get me The Black Band."

Rain froze. "They're not frontliners."

"No," Jag said.

"They're immune to grace."

Scene: The Black Band Arrives

Out of the back tunnels came The Black Band—a ragged company of dishonored warriors, criminals redeemed only by killing worse monsters.

They wore brute armor, no runes.

Their swords were rusted steel, heavier than elegant elven rapiers.

But they were not graceful.

They were savage.

And that made them perfect.

Jag pointed to the trench.

"You're not here to win."

"You're here to remind them that we bite back."

They charged—slamming into the elven ranks like an avalanche.

One bandit screamed as he tackled an elven captain into a glyph trap, both vanishing in a burst of collapsing gravity.

Another threw dirt in an enemy's eyes, headbutted her twice, and gnawed her arm mid-duel.

No technique. No timing.

Only violence.

It worked.

Final Clash – Eloré vs Jag

Eloré stepped forward again, only to find Jag descending from the overlook, blade drawn.

For the first time, Eloré smiled.

"Royalty descending to bleed? Good."

Jag didn't answer.

He charged.

Their blades clashed—one forged from windsteel, the other from forgeblooded iron.

Speed vs force.

Art vs intent.

They danced not with elegance, but ferocity.

Eloré weaved around Jag's first strike, cut across his arm—but Jag twisted, slammed his gauntlet into Eloré's shoulder and dragged him down.

"You came to remove us like weeds," Jag growled.

"But Stormwatch has roots."

He slammed Eloré's face into the trench wall once, twice, then shoved him back into the fog.

Aftermath

The elves retreated, not routed—but slowed. Their tempo broken.

Eloré stood atop a ridge, bloodied but upright.

He looked down at his cracked blade.

"So. They learned to scream back."