Chapter 189: The One Who Writes the Story

Name：Master of the Loop Author：
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Chapter 189: The One Who Writes the Story

Chapter 189

The One Who Writes the Story

Sylas watched as a small force of 400 cleave free of the charging formation, engaging a wide flank toward the vastly-outnumbering enemy. It was a lost cause, he knew, for he had seen this exact scenario six times now. By the time 400 strong force reached the flanking position, the ranks of the main army would have been already breached.

Numbering the many, many loops hed spent getting here already got him feeling somewhat somber. There really appeared to be no way--if they stuck back for too long to gather more men, theyd get intercepted earlier at the Martyrs Pass and be unable to cross it. And if they tried to speed their way through, picking up only the immediate forces... this would happen. A complete slaughter.

He watched, once more, hundreds of heads roll every minute, men crying out in vain, roaring in the act self-defiance, trying to outpace and outwith death, though to no avail.

Ill really have to step in, huh? he mumbled under breath.

You knew youd have to eventually, Asha, who was sitting beside him, said.

Not this early, he said. I figured Id make a stand at the capital.

Your belief in ordinary people is commendable, she said. But these arent wars of ordinary men and women, Sylas. And they are not fought for ordinary goals.

What a fancy way of saying that its just a bunch of superhuman people beating the shit out of each other while the ordinary ones suffer the ails without being able to do anything.

You think its unfair?

He descended and entered the plain, a solitary man bearing no armor, equipped with four miserly blades. He walked briskly, unassumingly, evenly, as though heading back home. The curtains unfurled, and there came an actor in a play that ought to have had thousands.

The other side noticed him soon enough, but rather than sending off a force, a barrage of arrows came. But they did nothing. They bounced off, fell, disappeared, turned to ash. Afterward, a cavalry of ten men came--and with a single, swift swipe of a blade, a shower of blood and gore erupted.

Then it was a hundred men, and hundred men bore spears and blades and axes and shields. And they wore armor made of metals, but the armors were paper beneath the ordinary blade. And the men fell, their heads rolling, confusion impaled in their eyes. Their last memory is that of an unassuming, homeless-looking man shattering their hopes and dreams.

Six men and two women came forward after, when Sylas was merely a thousand yards from the enemys encampment. Unlike those before, they all possessed unique energies, confidence evident on their faces. The six men charged in a formation--two per flank, and two at the front, while the two women dispersed into shadows, seeming to wait for a perfect point to strike.

Sylas didnt bother dodging or even deflecting. Four of the six blades pierced through as he easily decapitated the two men that came from the front. Watching their heads roll for a moment, he looked to the side where he saw some glee in the eyes of the two that came from his left.

Suddenly, Sylas disappeared--like the wind, he was by the two mens side in a flash, bladeless, holding up both men by his arms by their throats, lifting them into the air as though they were paperweight.

Youve worked hard, he said simply. Forgive me.

He pressed his fingers closer and crushed their throats, their necks snapping to the side as their heads fell unnaturally, eyes glazed in dark abyss. A woman appeared behind him and stabbed the back of his neck with a dagger. The blade pressed through completely, its tip appearing at the front. Just before she could escape, Sylas managed to grab her arm and pulled her back from the shadow that she was trying to become.

A look of horror washed over her face as he took out the dagger from his throat and stabbed her between her eyes, killing her instantly. Of the eight, only three remained--and rather than charging forward and trying to kill him, all three fled in abject horror. By now, there was a silent song being sung by the spirits. And the song delighted the ushers of souls, while the living began to shake as though thrust neck-deep into frost.

For there was not a man standing there, surrounded by blood and gore and the corpses of some of the strongest people theyve had on their side. No man could survive a dagger to his throat and no man could survive four stabs to his heart.

CHARGE!!!!!! KILL THE DEVIL!!!!! the order came down in a roar, one fueled with energy that worked desperately to disperse the fear and terror that had begun to coalesce within the hearts of the beholders. He could not be a God, for Gods were merciful and loving--and thus, the man was the devil. And thus... thousands roared in return and charged the devil. He was just one. And there were many. And today... today they would fell a devil and carve their names in the slabs of history. For eons, bards would sing songs about them--the brave men of Ethernia who charged fearless at the devil, slaying him. At least, in their hearts, that was the story they wrote out. A story that would never get to be played out, unfortunately.