Return of The Supreme General

“Victory to General Blackmoor!”

"General Asher Blackmoor! The Butcher of the North!"

The thunderous roar of soldiers echoed across the field, their voices rising in unison as they raised their weapons high into the air.

Triumphant cheers of “Long live General Blackmoor!” and “For Drakmont!” rippled through the sparse field like a battle hymn, drowning out even the crackling of distant campfires.

Asher Blackmoor stood tall before his army, his commanding presence unmatched. His military coat, deep crimson and black, clung to his muscular frame, the badges on his shoulders glinting in the firelight—proof of the wars he had conquered.

This wasn’t just a general. This was Asher Blackmoor, the man who struck fear into the hearts of his enemies and demanded respect from his allies.

Stories of his valor were whispered in both enemy camps and taverns in Drakmont. Enemies shuddered at the mention of his name.

It was said that in the Battle of Velmoria, when his men had been surrounded and the odds were impossible, Asher had refused to retreat.

The enemy’s soldiers outnumbered them three to one, and their morale had plummeted. Many had already accepted that death was inevitable. But not Asher.

With nothing but his dual blades and sheer determination, Asher had charged into the enemy’s ranks alone. His soldiers watched in stunned silence, their hearts pounding as their leader carved through the Velmorian army like a force of nature.

He was relentless, his blades moving with deadly precision, slicing through armor, bone, and flesh. Even as arrows rained down and the enemy swarmed him, Asher fought on, roaring with fury.

He fought with a ferocity that reignited their courage, proving that even in the face of death, he was unstoppable

He lifted his hand, silencing the crowd with nothing but the sheer authority of his gesture. The field, once filled with cheers, fell quiet, save for the faint rustle of the evening wind.

"Soldiers of Drakmont, hear me!"

"You have fought like lions," he declared, his voice a steady rumble that seemed to shake the very ground they stood on. "No, better than lions. You’ve carved your names into the annals of history, and tonight, you stand victorious once more!"

The soldiers erupted into cheers, raising their weapons high, their admiration for him palpable. Asher let them have their moment, his gaze unwavering, his chest rising and falling with calm, measured breaths.

Asher’s gaze softened as he continued, "For ten long years, you’ve marched through fire, through bitter winters, and against insurmountable odds. You’ve faced the wrath of Ashvalor and brought the mighty Velmoria to its knees. And now, because of your courage, Drakmont’s enemies lie in ruin."

His voice grew quieter, but no less commanding, and the men leaned forward as if his words were drawing them closer.

Many of these men had been at war for as long as they could remember. Some were barely men when it began, but now stood with hardened faces and scarred bodies.

He continued, "The blood you’ve shed, the pain you’ve endured—it was not in vain. You’ve earned peace. You’ve earned your place in history."

"Tonight, I tell you this, you are going home. Back to your families, back to the lives you left behind."

The soldiers roared with cheers again, their voices echoing across the camp. Asher raised his hand.

“Rest now, men. You’ve earned it. Dismissed.”

With a swift salute, they scattered, leaving Asher standing tall, his piercing gaze following them, a quiet pride glinting in his eyes.

Asher walked through the camp, his boots sinking slightly into the dirt with each heavy step. At his side was Morgan Reeves, his trusted second-in-command and the only woman in the army.

Her eyes never missed a detail, her stance as fierce as the soldiers around them.

The war had ended, and it was time to return home.

Inside the tent, Asher pulled off his cloak, tossing it onto a chair.

“Morgan,” he said, his voice firm yet tired. “Pack up. We leave for Drakmont at sunset tomorrow.”

Morgan, always sharp and quick to respond, raised an eyebrow.

“You want me to send word ahead? Let them know we’ve won? The ruler probably doesn’t know yet.”

“No need,” Asher replied with a grin that softened his face. "I want to surprise them. It's been too long. I can't wait to see my wife and parents again.”

Morgan's eyes narrowed, catching the small shift in his demeanor. She’d never seen him this way—genuinely excited.

“You’re actually blushing, General?” she teased, her lips curling into a sly grin. “Didn’t think that was possible.”

Asher rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling awkward, but he couldn’t hide the truth.

"I’ve missed them more than you know. It’s been... too long." His voice cracked slightly, but he cleared his throat and straightened up.

Morgan chuckled, the sound echoing in the quiet tent. “I see how it is. The mighty Asher Blackmoor, battle-hardened general, reduced to a lovesick fool over a woman.”

Asher shot back, though his smile was genuine. “We’re going home. That’s all that matters.”

FAR AWAY IN DRAKMONT, AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT KIND OF TENSION BREWED.

"Out! Both of you! Out of my house!" Juliet screamed, her voice laced with pure venom as she flung another bundle of clothes onto the ground.

“Juliet, please…” Eleanor’s voice cracked as she knelt, her trembling hands clutching at her husband Thomas, who wheezed weakly on the cobblestones.

“We have nowhere to go. Thomas is too sick to survive this. Just give us time... let us stay a little longer.”

Julian Quinn, lounging smugly against the doorframe, chuckled. “Stay? And keep freeloading off Juliet’s generosity? I don’t think so, old woman. You’ve outlived your welcome. Time to learn how to fend for yourselves.”

“Julian’s right,” Juliet snapped, glaring down at Eleanor. Her once-beautiful face was twisted with contempt.

“Do you think I’m running some kind of charity? This house belongs to me now—not your precious son, and certainly not his useless parents!”

Juliet Archer had once been the picture of quiet grace, the devoted wife who waited endlessly for her husband’s return. But the moment she believed Asher was never coming back, something inside her snapped.

The gentle, soft-spoken woman was gone, replaced by a cold, ruthless force. Her warm eyes now burned with icy disdain, and her kind words turned to sharp, cutting mockery.

It was as if losing Asher had unleashed a monster, one that thrived on cruelty and power.

Eleanor’s voice broke as she clutched her chest. “Juliet… Asher always sent money for us. He trusted you to take care of us while he was away at war. Please, for his sake—”

“Asher?!” Juliet’s voice rose sharply, cutting through the air like a blade. Her eyes flashed with rage as she stomped toward Eleanor.

“Don’t you dare bring up that name to me!” With a sudden, merciless swing, she slapped Eleanor so hard the older woman collapsed to the ground.

"Asher is dead!" Juliet screamed, standing over them like a wild animal ready to strike. "Do you hear me? He’s not coming back, so stop crying like he’s about to walk through that door!"

That was it. The final blow.

Asher’s parents froze, the pain hitting them like a wave. Their only hope—gone.

They looked up at Juliet. Her eyes were full of anger, but there was something else too—something cold and dangerous.

And in that moment, they understood one thing:

Juliet was just getting started.