R7 - Malik1162 & Smietanademon

[malik1162]

No one can say exactly when the Seventh truly appeared. There was no trumpet from the heavens, no trembling of the earth, no dramatic omen carved into the sky. It began, strangely enough, with efficiency. Scouts returned with blank logs. Resources shifted unnaturally. NPC formations thinned. And at the center of it all lay a single coordinate that seemed almost invisible — 56:3:38. Level 7. An Arch-Ruin. Active. Fully formed.

Malik read the report in silence. Not because he feared it — numbers like these demand respect. Defensive layers stacked impossibly high. Demon infantry compressed in disciplined ranks. Dark mages formed concentric shells, and siege constructs rested close to the core, poised to punish any misstep. This ruin was no random spawn. It had grown, consolidated, and it dared someone to challenge it.

Smietanademon arrived swiftly, riding with the precision and ferocity that had earned him a fearsome reputation. He did not need explanations. When he saw the coordinate, he nodded once. “Today?” he asked. “Today,” Malik answered. There was no hesitation. In a young server, rare opportunities like this waited for no one.

Preparation was brutal. Barracks worked through the night. Population sacrificed for military output. Gold injected into morale to prevent even the slightest efficiency drop. Smietanademon doubled siege production; Malik concentrated mage density beyond conventional safety. Every decision was a balance between risk and precision, every second measured. They told no one. The world was not yet ready for a legend.

At 03:17 server time, the first march began. Smietanademon’s shock infantry struck the outer ring with controlled violence. Demon guardians responded immediately, their counterattack efficiency staggering, yet expected. The goal was not victory — it was exposure. Defensive layers tightened inward.

Malik’s arcane volleys followed with absolute precision, cutting through the newly exposed mage clusters before they could regroup. Bolts of concentrated energy tore through the ruin’s outer defenders, while protective wards shimmered briefly before dissipating under overwhelming force. For a few heartbeats, the ruin seemed almost intelligent — shifting its formations, compressing its lines, and redirecting reinforcements from the inner rings to repair the pressure points Malik and Smietanademon had created.

Then came the cavalry strike. A thunder of hooves, blades glinting under the dim light, and the mid-layer of the ruin’s army fractured. Smietanademon had calculated the timing perfectly: infantry held the front, absorbing crushing blows, while mounted units hit the seam between the outer and mid layers. Units collided in a storm of steel and magic. Blood and ash mingled as the ruin’s defenders reacted, casting devastating counterattacks. Yet every move, every defensive readjustment, was met by Malik’s arcane countermeasures. A mage tower cluster redirected concentrated fire onto heavy siege units, shattering them before they could target the cavalry, while protective barriers kept Smietanademon’s infantry just alive enough to maintain pressure.

The ruin shifted again. Its inner rings pulsed with defensive magic, an almost living heartbeat of destruction. Dark mages inside unleashed volleys of death, targeting both the mounted units and Malik’s mage clusters, threatening to annihilate key points. Numbers flickered in the logs. Losses spiked. For a brief moment, the tide threatened to turn. Smietanademon barked orders, reforming lines under fire, while Malik recalculated every spell, redirecting lethal energy precisely where it could prevent the ruin from fully stabilizing.

Hours could have passed in seconds. Each attack triggered a defensive recalculation. The ruin compressed, rotated, and deployed its siege constructs like clockwork, crushing infantry in precise patterns. Smietanademon’s reserves were committed at exactly the right moment. Heavy infantry barreled into the weakened siege core, taking devastation to prevent the ruin from locking itself down. At that instant, Malik poured the remainder of his magical reserves into the central nexus, targeting the core structure directly. Lightning crackled, fire exploded, and dark matter seemed to twist in impossible patterns.

The ruin responded violently. Its defensive numbers surged, shields flared, and arcane pulses erupted in counterstrike. Soldiers screamed. Logs registered catastrophic damage. For the first time, it seemed the Seventh might endure, recalibrate, and recover. But Malik and Smietanademon held fast. Each loss, each shock, each maneuver was anticipated, corrected, absorbed. Their forces adapted in perfect synergy.

And then it happened. One final surge. Infantry crushed the inner wall. Cavalry struck the seam, unbalancing the core. Magical volleys overloaded the protective matrix. Numbers dropped precipitously. Defensive output faltered. And then, almost silently, the ruin at 56:3:38 ceased.

It did not collapse in flames. It simply stopped resisting. Smoke rose from the battlefield. Soldiers wept quietly. Logs filled with columns of red: units lost, regiments erased, weeks of careful preparation consumed in a single coordinated strike.

Malik and Smietanademon stood at the edge of the void. Silence returned, but this time it was not eerie — it was heavy with history. Not a word was spoken immediately. Only after the last casualty was accounted for did the realization settle in: today, at 56:3:38, a Level 7 Arch-Ruin had fallen. Not to reckless fury. Not to blind numbers. But to precision, coordination, and the indomitable will of two commanders who refused to yield.

By nightfall, the coordinate was just land again. But anyone who checks the server logs will see it: the day Malik and Smietanademon wrote their names into legend.