In the annals of ancient history, before the Darkwood spread its roots deep into the heart of the Tri-kingdom, there was a fierce battle fought on the outskirts of a grand capital. This city, known as Althoria, stood proud and strong, its towering spires a testament to the ingenuity and might of its people. But its strength was to be tested by the relentless march of an invading force, hell-bent on claiming the riches and power that lay within its walls.
On the eve of battle, as the invading army approached, the defenders of Althoria made a desperate stand in an unlikely place: the ancient graveyard that lay at the edge of the city. This graveyard, a sprawling expanse of weathered tombstones and crumbling mausoleums, held the remains of Althoria’s greatest heroes and revered ancestors. The defenders, led by the wise and aged General Lorith, believed that the sanctity of this hallowed ground would stay the hand of their enemies.
“Let us fight here,” Lorith declared, his voice carrying over the hushed murmurs of his soldiers. “Let us plead for peace in the name of those who have come before us. Surely, our enemies will see the sanctity of this place and grant us mercy.”
With hearts heavy but hopeful, the defenders positioned themselves within the graveyard, their lines forming a somber shield around the ancient tombs. As dawn broke and the first rays of sunlight pierced the morning mist, the invaders arrived. Their leader, a ruthless warlord named Drakar, surveyed the scene with cold, calculating eyes.
Undeterred by the pleas of the defenders, Drakar raised his sword high and gave the order to attack. The invaders surged forward, their battle cries echoing through the graveyard, drowning out the desperate pleas for peace. The defenders fought valiantly, but they were outnumbered and outmatched. One by one, they fell, their blood soaking into the sacred soil.
As the battle raged and hope seemed lost, a strange and wondrous thing began to happen. The ground beneath the fallen defenders trembled, and a ghostly light began to emanate from the tombstones. The spirits of the ancestors, awakened by the cries of their descendants, rose from their graves. These ethereal warriors, clad in spectral armor and wielding ghostly weapons, joined the fray, their presence sending a chill through the hearts of the invaders.
With renewed vigor, the defenders rallied alongside their ancestral spirits. The tide of battle turned as the spectral warriors drove back the invaders, their incorporeal forms impervious to mortal weapons. The invaders, now facing an enemy they could not hope to defeat, broke ranks and fled in terror, their screams of fear echoing across the battlefield.
When the dust settled and the last of the invaders had fled, the defenders stood victorious. The spirits of the ancestors, their duty fulfilled, slowly faded back into the earth, leaving behind a battlefield strewn with the fallen. Though Althoria had been saved, the graveyard was forever changed. The spirits of those who had perished in the battle did not rest, bound to the place where they had fought and died.
From that day forward, the graveyard became known as the Dead Fields, a haunted and desolate wasteland where the spirits of the fallen lingered. It served as a solemn reminder of the cost of war and the unbreakable bond between the living and the dead. The story of the Battle of the Dead Fields was passed down through generations, a tale of bravery, sacrifice, and the enduring power of ancestral ties.