Thanks to the quick response, damage to the town was limited.We quickly tracked the retreating forces by following the blood trails of their wounded, using a bloodhound spell to amplify the scent.We were about fifty mounted troops, with as many on foot—plenty enough to pursue the enemy.
It only took two hours before we sighted them, retreating down a narrow, weaving trail out of the fields and into the forest.
"I know these woods like the back of my hand," Guimond said, calculating."There’s a wider trail a hundred yards west of here that exits close to this one.Let’s send the footmen to push them through, and we’ll circle around and cut them off."
We moved fast.
When we arrived at the exit trail...It wasn’t fleeing bandits that awaited us.
No.Only a deafening silence.
The air was dead still—not even the whisper of a breeze dared break the tension.No bird calls.No shouting.No battle sounds from our men pushing the enemy.
Something was very wrong.
And then it got worse.
A thick, clinging fog began to roll in, blinding us.Panic rippled through the rear lines.A few horsemen broke and bolted for town—only for their screams to be swallowed by the mist moments later.
Ambush! Guimond roared."Dismount! Regroup! Let the horses go!"
Nobody argued.Guimond’s command settled the troops like a rock in a storm.
I focused, seeing faint threads of Runa magic woven into the mist.I picked at them, unraveling the negative energy with my own mana, but the tension grew unbearable.
When the mist finally lifted, what we saw was worse than any nightmare.
Surrounding us in a perfect circle was a full shield wall—at least three hundred strong.Pavises overlapped, spear tips bristling out five deep, every inch locked down like a vice.
Is this how I die?Fuck.
Panic, despair, then anarchy took us as we fought tooth and nail to survive the trap.
These weren’t mere bandits.They were trained soldiers—professional killers—clad in blackened plate and mail.Orcs, humans, elves.An army of darkness.
All I had left in me was maybe enought for a minor healing spell—barely enough to delay the inevitable.The circle grew tighter, squeezing the life out of us.
"Watch out!" Guimond roared, lunging to block a spear aimed at me.He grabbed the shaft with one hand, tore it aside, and rammed his halberd through the spearman’s eye socket.
The strength behind the blow was explosive, monstrous.
He bellowed a thunderous war cry that echoed across the battlefield—Then he took a spear to the gut.
I turned—and a goblin sliced my leg clean off at the knee with one swift spear thrust.
Blood gushed out, hot and fast.I tried to stop it.Tried to heal.
I hit the ground hard, blood pooling around me, the taste of iron thick in my mouth.
Guimond’s scream tore through the choking mist — then nothing but the wet sounds of slaughter as the world bled to black.
Sam — Riding to War
The carriage rocked and rattled down the rough trail, packed to the brim with men sitting shoulder to shoulder, their armor clanking with every bump.Weapons bristled in every free space, and the smell of sweat and oil already filled the air.
Across from me, Father Mathias and the Viscount were quietly discussing strategy.They had managed to throw together five hundred well-trained troops in record time—including many knights loyal to Count Guimond’s banner.It was a miracle of organization, honestly. Most medieval armies took days to get moving, but here we were, barely two hours after the raid.
Some random thought drifted through my head:"Why the hell do people spend hours shopping?"It had only taken me an hour and a half to get fully kitted out—and that included arguing with the dwarf smith who straight-up refused to buy the dark axe back.Fine by me. The thing gave me the creeps anyway.I just left it tied up under my bed for now.
Instead, I got myself properly geared:
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Two short axes, sharp and balanced.
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A long spear, just in case.
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A pavise shield that reminded me way too much of a riot shield from back home.
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The purple knife was still tied horizontally at the front of my belt, easy to grab.
For armor:
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A solid spangenhelm with mail draping down to cover my neck and shoulders.
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A heavy red gambeson under a simple breastplate that only covered my vitals—light enough I could actually move.
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Jack chains strapped to my arms, covering only the outside angles to save weight.
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Splinted greaves buckled over flexible brown leather trousers.
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Steel-reinforced boots that already felt like old friends after a few practice steps.
It wasn’t pretty.It wasn’t fancy.But it would work.
I still had the feeling that I wasn’t ready for whatever was coming.
The carriage ground to a halt with a rough jolt. Shouts echoed ahead—orders being barked, men rushing to form lines.I shoved the door open and stepped down into chaos.
The forest loomed ahead, a gnarled mass of black trees and heavy mist clinging to the ground like a living thing.Even from here, I could hear it: the distant clash of steel, the dying screams carried by the breeze.Something bad was happening up there.
Father Mathias was already mounting a heavy warhorse, his armor gleaming with blessed sigils.The Viscount rode up beside him, grim-faced, sword drawn but lowered for now.
“Form ranks!” Mathias bellowed, his voice cutting through the noise like a whip crack. “Prepare to advance! Ready the healers!”
The men obeyed without hesitation. No cheers, no brave speeches.Just grim, tight faces and the metallic clatter of preparation.
I tightened the strap on my helmet and checked the grip on my shield.The weight of the spear felt strangely comforting in my hand.Better than going in with just my damn fists, anyway.
"Sam!"I turned. Hope’s causin—one of the junior priests I’d met once—shoved a waterskin into my chest."Drink. You’ll need it," he said. His eyes were haunted.
The minutes dragged by, every heartbeat pounding in my ears like a drum of war.The mist ahead seemed to breathe, rising and falling in unnatural waves.
And then—A rider burst from the mist, bloodied and wild-eyed, his horse frothing at the mouth.
"Ambush!" he screamed. "They’re surrounded! Cut down like cattle! It's a slaughter—"
An arrow sprouted from his throat mid-sentence.He toppled from the saddle, dead before he hit the ground.
Everything snapped into motion at once.Mathias roared orders. Horns blared. Steel gleamed as men surged forward.
And I, gripping my shield until my knuckles turned white, ran toward the mist and the screaming and the blood.
Toward Hope.
We charged after the cavalry, a human wall of flesh and iron.
The knights surged first, slamming into the enemy lines like a hammer into rotten wood.The impact was thunderous—metal against metal, horses screaming, men dying.And then it was our turn.
I slammed shoulder to shoulder with the shield wall, just another body in the tide.The world narrowed to a tunnel of noise and violence.
Spears bristled ahead of us, meeting a mass of snarling, armored bastards—Orcs, dark elves, goblins, humans.It didn’t matter who or what anymore.
My spear found a gap between armor plates and buried itself deep into a man's gut. He screamed, staggered, and dragged my weapon out of my hands when he fell. I didn't even have time to curse.
A roar—something massive—was coming at me from the left.
I barely brought my pavise up in time as a huge blade, wide as a man's chest, slammed into it with the force of a runaway bull.The shield shattered, ripping the leather straps from my arm and sending me sprawling backward.
I scrambled up, ears ringing, heart hammering.
And there he was.
A man, towering, built like a siege tower, armor dark and battered.In his hands, a greatsword, at least six feet long, chipped and glistening red. His helmet visor was torn off, revealing a brutal face twisted in a snarl, scars crossing his cheeks and forehead like a roadmap of violence.
He swung that monster of a sword with a speed no man his size should’ve had.The blade howled through the air, aiming to split me from shoulder to hip.
I ducked under it by sheer terror-driven instinct, the wind of the swing brushing my helmet.
No shield, no spear—just me, two short axes on my belt, and whatever stupid stubbornness I had left.
I drew them both in one desperate motion, axes flashing in my hands, and faced the bastard.
Come on then, I thought, teeth bared.Let's see who breaks first.
I deflected blow after blow, the hours of getting beaten to a pulp back at the barracks finally showing their worth.
I didn’t fight with grace.I didn’t fight with some grand strategy.When I fought, I was the incarnation of purpose-driven violence.
But this was a world where power was everything—and despite standing strong, despite defying him with every fiber of my being, I was outclassed by a wide margin.
Each block, each desperate weave, chipped away at me.Small cuts started to sprinkle across my skin, each one a whispered promise of death coming closer.It was only a matter of time.
I needed a window.Anything—anything—to make him flinch, to make him blink for even a second.
An idea flared in my mind. Dangerous. Reckless.But better than dying here like a dog.
I hurled my left-hand axe straight at his face, forcing his guard up—and at the same time, I grabbed a fistful of sand from the churned battlefield and threw it into his eyes.
"I cast Pocket Sand!" I bellowed like a lunatic.
The sheer absurdity of it caught him off-guard. He flinched, snarling and wiping at his face.
That was the window I needed.
I surged forward with everything I had left and drove my remaining axe deep into the side of his head, punching through the steel of his helmet and splitting bone beneath.
The giant staggered and crumpled, dragging my axe down with him.It was stuck deep, no way to pull it free.
I didn’t waste a second.
I grabbed the fallen greatsword—way heavier than it had any right to be—and started distributing hate on the next poor bastard that got close.No grace.No finesse.Just sheer, desperate, blood-soaked brutality.
However, my antics had caught the attention of another powerful fighter.Before I even realized what was happening, I was disarmed by an expertly performed maneuver.
The dark elf—his eyes glowing like twin rubies—had closed the distance in a blink and slashed.Pain exploded through me as he cut clean through my left arm, severing it halfway between the elbow and the shoulder.
I staggered back, barely keeping on my feet, grabbing at the purple knife still tied to my belt.If this was my last stand, so be it.I owed too many favors already to die without paying them back in blood.
I was better with a knife than a greatsword anyway, but my vision was already growing blurry from blood loss.Still, I stood there, ready to fight to the bitter end.
The elf sneered, drawing back his blade for a killing thrust—And then a heavy wooden club, the size of a light pole, came down from the sky and crushed the bastard into a smear.
Father Mathias stood beside me, casual as you please.
"A bit early for you to be fighting this one, I see," he said, his voice calm like we were discussing the weather.
He laid a hand on me, casting a quick healing spell that sealed off my ruined shoulder with searing magic, cauterizing the stump and giving me a small jolt of energy.
"Go rest, kid. You've done enough for today. I got the rest," he said, stepping forward like a mountain wrapped in monastic robes and armor, wielding nothing but a big-ass stick.
"Like hell," I muttered, stumbling after him."I’m not stopping until I’m dead or the enemy is."
Father Mathias just chuckled, the sound deep and rolling, and kept moving forward, smashing enemies left and right with swings so fast my eyes struggled to track them.
"Medic!" he roared at someone behind me.
I turned to see who he was calling for——and the bastard cold-clocked me with his club, knocking me out cold.