Chapter 65

Chapter 65

Sweeping my spear before me, the falling icy rain pelts down as I continue to urge Zabu forward, keeping the enemy to my right, always moving as I kill the Defiled. This is battle, not the firing of arrows from a distance, but a true melee of swords and spears. My arm is stained with blood, both mine and my enemies, my breath is ragged, chest burning, and still I fight on. My wounds pull whenever I move, my healing going slower than normal for some reason, even after asking Tokta to look at my wounds, but despite that, I will not allow these fucking bastards to take another life, to desecrate another village, to breathe another breath. They taint the air with their very being, every step they take an affront to nature. My slaughtering continues unabated, simple-minded brutes too stupid to know that their death is here. I should have them all tortured for their crimes.

Soldiers charge past me into the fray, blocking my spear, crowding my space, and I'm left unable to kill. Unacceptable, these worthless fucking meat shields getting in my way. Climbing off Zabu, I give him the command to return, pointing up the mountain we arrived from. He'll just get confused here, unable to differentiate friend from foe without me, and I can't spare the time to watch him. There is bloody work to be done, and I fight better on foot. There are no formations, no shield walls here, only mass confusion, a clamor of weapons and screams, as man faces beast and defiled, the dirt churning to mud beneath their boots. Shouldering my way through the press, I draw my sword, laying about at every enemy in my path. A blow to my shield sends me back, my head ringing from the impact.

Wait, what am I doing here? Why am I fighting on the front lines? I should be riding on Zabu, headed back up the mountain for more arrows. My orders were to harass the flanks, to not allow the Enemy to encircle the army. Shit, I'm going to be scolded again. What the fuck was I thinking? I need to get out of here. Blocking a vicious chop, I fall to my knees as my iron spear bends, the power of the strike sending shock waves through my body, shaking me to my core.

Stop being distracted. It's time to kill.

Strength surges through me and I bolt forward, pushing my assailant back. I tear through the Defiled, my sword smashing through flesh and bone, limbs and heads flying off as I force my way forward. The pale, filthy Defiled, dressed in mismatched fur and bone armor which offers no protection against me, anger powering me as I bash and strike, no grace, no measure, just a wild, primal instinct to fight. I kill without thinking, my body acting as it sees fit, as if possessed by some god of war, tearing my way through the lines of the enemy as I force them back along with the soldiers at my side. I feel myself grow stronger with every step, every strike, every kill, the pain from my wounds, both new and old, fading away, until there is only me, my sword, and my enemy.

These Defiled are ugly as fuck, pale skin with light, pasty hair, their blood-red eyes sitting beneath their too-large foreheads, wide nosed and thick jawed. Their appearance is just proof that the Heavens reject them, their repulsive behaviors reflected in their physical forms. I would hesitate to even call them human, probably some under-evolved offshoot of humanity with delusions of grandeur, they are too stupid to know that they do not deserve to live, fighting with primitive weapons of bone and rock, or stolen iron, they are no match for me and my sword.

A cry rings out, fearful and apprehensive, as several large, ugly, bear-faced creatures charge towards me, snapping and shoving aside all who come close. Their heads are too large for their bodies, their torsos moving side to side as they charge forward on four short, sprawling legs, each ending in a massive paw. One of them barrels towards me, tossing soldier and Defiled alike out of its path, determined to move forward regardless of obstacle. The soldiers around me begin to flee, but I refuse to do so. I have Defiled to kill, and I have yet to meet my expectations for the day.

A path is cleared ahead of me as soldiers break, and my body shoots forward, Tiger Form, Killing Lunge, extending one foot while my right arm moves in a short arc, driving deep into the creature's eye. Snapping back my arm, my sword slides out from the creature's flesh, and I step aside as it crashes to the mud, dead. A cheer rises up, and my mind reels, wondering how I accomplished that, as blood rushes to my head, my emotions overcoming me. This is no time for thought or celebration. I scream in anger, frustrated at the incompetence of these soldiers, and I rush forward to kill more of the worthless creatures that block my way.

The creatures are large and lumbering, their backs armored, but my sword drives deep, chopping flesh and bone with little resistance as I move through their stampede. The soldiers finally join me, their spears and swords finding purchase, their deaths a distraction for the creatures, enough that I can kill them in a single hit, but there is no satisfaction, no value in this. I did not come here to butcher animals, I came to kill Defiled. Soon my patience is at an end, and I leave the worthless soldiers to deal with the useless creatures. Drawn by something, a feeling, I focus on one enemy, a Defiled Champion with a massive, antlered helmet. Towering over me at almost two and a half meters, wearing armor of bone and metal, my eyes focusing on the tiny shrunken heads dangling from his belt, the ears hanging from his neck, and the leer upon his face. He won't be so smug for long, not after I crush his ugly face. The soldiers and other Defiled step back and watch as I yell wordlessly, weapon pointed at him as I charge.

The blade is smacked out the air by the Demon, as easily as swatting a fly, arcing off into the distance.

Tch. It's going to be a pain to get that back later. I'm still not strong enough. Breathing deeply, I feel power surging through me as I prepare to rip apart the Demon with tooth and nail. A part of me screams in terror at the idea, the rest thrilled at the thought of a true challenge.

A heavy, gauntleted hand lands upon my shoulder, interrupting my internal struggle. A calming energy runs through me, like a cool spring breeze, refreshing my mind from it's exhausted state, yet at the same time draining me of all strength. An officer stands tall beside me, dressed in heavy armor, made of gray steel plates held together by sinewy red fibers. His rounded helmet is open-faced, with two majestic twin horns protruding from the sides, his heavy, long-handled mace held in one hand. He speaks with a deep voice, smooth in timbre. Well fought, brave Sentinel, but you should rest and refocus yourself. Seek Balance, and allow me to deal with this opponent in your stead. He strides forward, a slow, unhurried gait, unlimbering his shield as he meets the Demon in combat. Power against power, he stands in place to fight the creature of nightmare, a valiant hero against unholy beast, trading strikes that shake the earth around them, the sounds of impact deafening my ears, only a high-pitched ringing remaining.

Fung moves to my side mouth moving in silent shouts, pulling me away from the titanic battle, and I allow myself to be guided backwards, almost slipping from the jarring ground, eyes focused on every movement before me. The demon's arm meets steel mace, and the arm shatters apart, white-green fluid spewing from the limb. A bash of the shield and a crash of the mace brings the creature to its knees. A second to line up the swing, drawing back, the mace moves slowly, ponderously, as if nothing will stop it, crashing through the demon, pulverizing its upper body in a spray of fluid and shards, all aimed away from the officer as the remains of the creature sail through the air.

Swallowing hard as I stop, the need for retreat gone, I stand in awe having witnessed true strength. The officer turns slightly, smiling at the soldiers behind him, raising his weapon high. Realizing the horns are his, and not decorations upon his helmet, recognition dawns upon me, the officer someone I've met once before and my mind strains at the memory, trying to recall his name. It comes to me in a flash, a warrior who stood in the first duel against the Magistrate.

Brigadier Man Cow, no... Man Giao, 386 years old, champion of the Man family.

A man who was defeated in a single blow by Akanai.

Holy Fuck.

If Man Giao is that strong, then how fucking strong is Akanai?