A Waste of Time-Chapter 40: Waning Lantern

Daemon loomed in the clearing like a living siege tower of bone and fury. Ten meters tall, six arms heavy with plundered weapons—his stolen Spear of blackened steel, the Bronze Halberd, the oversized Great-Axe, a grim Katana, and a pair of looted Swords. His chest heaved, sweat and grime streaking his pale skin like war paint. All around him, the stench of splintered bone and churned earth filled the dusk air.
Beyond the churned battlefield, twelve Royal Guards formed a crescent shield wall, their Gold Armor catching the last flickers of fading daylight. Their eye sockets burned with yellow Soul-fires—steady, hateful. Behind them, perched on a grotesque Throne of bones, the Skeleton King sat unmoving, its black Sword resting across its lap like an executioner’s blade.
Daemon’s lips curled. “You’re wasting my time,” he growled, voice rumbling through the trunks. “Let’s get this over with.”
He shifted his stance—six arms flexing, each weapon humming with his monstrous strength. The forest seemed to hush, the distant howls of Wolves fading into tense silence.
One Guard stepped forward, Shield raised. Another followed, then the whole line advanced, Shields overlapping in eerie precision. There was no war cry, no rattling armor—only the soft crunch of ancient bone on forest loam.
Daemon struck first.
With a roar, he lunged, his giant Spear sweeping sideways in a brutal arc that snapped Shields like rotten wood. Two Royal Guards crashed backward, skulls splitting under the force. Another swung for his exposed side—Daemon pivoted, catching the blow on a Sword, then slammed the Katana’s pommel into the Guard’s jaw, sending bone shards clattering into the roots.
The line pressed closer. Gold blades slashed at his legs, hacking at tendons like desperate rats gnawing a lion. He stomped, heel smashing one attacker into the soft earth like a kicked doll. Another swept behind him—Daemon’s Halberd flashed backward, the wicked hook snagging a Shield’s rim. He yanked it away and hurled it like a discus into a cluster of armored skulls.
A trio broke left, trying to encircle him. Daemon lunged to meet them, Great-Axe roaring through the air in a glittering arc. Metal crumpled. One Guard flew into a pine trunk and shattered in a clatter of bones.
He forced them back step by step, driving the fight towards the Fountain’s clearing—its misty glow pulsing like a heartbeat behind him. He only hoped its power would burn these rotting puppets down to dust if they got too close, since he was too exhausted to know for sure.
Another Guard thrust forward—Daemon batted the blade aside with his Spear’s haft and rammed the butt-end into its chest. The Undead staggered, stumbled backward into the Fountain’s reach. Instantly, black smoke hissed from the seams in its Gold Armor—its Soul-light flared and went out in a pop of eerie silence.
Seeing this, the remaining Guards wavered. Daemon laughed—hoarse, mocking. “What’s wrong? The water too clean for you?”
They came at him in desperation. Blades glinted. A Shield smashed against his knee—Daemon ignored it, grabbed the Shield-bearer with a free hand, and hurled it like a ragdoll into two more. His Great-Axe followed—slamming down in a vertical blow that split all three open in a shower of metal and splintered ribs.
The Wolves howled again from the dark, tearing down stragglers trying to slip around Daemon’s flanks. Grunt’s roar echoed from the brush, and the firelight of torches flickered like tiny stars around the giant’s feet.
“Keep them cornered!” Daemon roared back at his wild allies, not taking his eyes off the last four Royal Guards.
He advanced, every step rattling the scattered bones at his feet. Spears and Blades rose to meet him—but they were too small, too brittle. Daemon’s stolen Katana flickered in one hand—severing a wrist, then a skull in the same breath. His Spear thrust low, impaling a Guard through the pelvis and pinning it to a half-buried tree root. One free arm wielded a looted Sword to knock aside a desperate counterstrike—while his massive foot swept forward, snapping armored shins like twigs.
He drove them back, herding the final pair into the Fountain’s cleansing reach. Black smoke hissed up where mist touched Gold Armor—foul hissing turned to dry, empty wails.
Daemon didn’t stop. His Halberd punched through the chestplate of one, pinning it to a rock. His Axe came down to finish the last—cleaving skull and helmet alike in a single, final, brutal swing.
Silence.
Only the wind through broken branches and the faint crackle of torchlight. Daemon stood, steam rising from his flanks in the chill night air. All six arms hung low, weapons slick with bone-dust. His chest heaved—exhausted but alive.
His six eyes rose, locking on the Throne of Bone at the far end of the clearing. The Skeleton King’s empty sockets glowed faint purple now—a promise of a greater fight yet to come.
Daemon bared his teeth, voice rolling like distant thunder. “Stay right there, your highness. I’m coming for you next.”
He rolled his shoulders, gripped his new Spear tighter, and turned back toward the Fountain. For a heartbeat he just stood there—breathing the clean mist, letting it wash away the ache of hours of slaughter.
Behind him, Wolves prowled through the bones. Grunt and Runa emerged from the shadows, torches high, faces grim but triumphant.
One more wall broken. One more step toward the truth. Toward the throne.
Daemon flexed his arms, his monstrous silhouette blending into the dark forest’s restless whisper.
The Skeleton King waited.
Daemon was ready.
Here's a link to my discord server if you want to talk - .gg/HwHHR6Hds