Control
Touch or mouse
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The air reeks of iron and ash as you plant your boots in the blood-soaked earth, your blade gleaming under a smoke-choked sky. They come again—a tide of steel and fury, their war cries slicing through the wind. Your muscles burn, your shield scarred from a hundred blows, yet you stand like a bastion forged in fire. Every parry is a thunderclap, every strike a lightning bolt; you weave through the chaos, your sword arm a tempress of precision, turning their advance into a graveyard of fallen steel. Arrows hiss like vipers—you twist, your shield deflecting death, while your counterblade finds throats, severs limbs, crushes ambition. The ground quakes under the weight of their war beasts, but you are unyielding. You fight not with the frenzy of desperation, but the cold, calculated rhythm of a storm—reading the dance of blades, predicting the archer’s breath, exploiting every crack in their armor. Your homeland’s soil clings to your heels, whispering its defiance through you. They outnumber. They always outnumber. But you? You outfight. How long can their horde endure before breaking against your resolve? The answer lies in your grip. Hold the line. *Survive*.
