The barbarians of Grimhold were notorious for their brute strength and raw, untamed power. Unlike the sophisticated warriors of the human empires, they relied on overwhelming force, their bodies hardened by a lifetime spent in the harshest of environments.
Standing head and shoulders above most men, they were known to crush boulders with bare hands and shatter shields with a single blow. They made up for what they lacked in finesse with terrifying might, and their land—Grimhold—was a brutal proof of their dominance.
If not for the natural barriers surrounding their territory—an impassable ocean to the east and towering, frozen mountains to the west—these brutes would have long ago swept across human lands, leaving devastation in their wake.
Reynold stood still, his sharp eyes carefully observing the barbarian leader, noting every twitch of muscle and flicker of emotion. The man's skin bore deep, swirling tattoos that seemed to pulse with primal energy. This was no mere raider; this was a chieftain, perhaps one of the rulers of this savage land.
The tall barbarian moved closer, towering over them, He began to speak in a deep, guttural language, his words foreign and rough, each syllable resonating with an aggressive edge.
A faint smirk tugged at Reynold's lips as he reached into his robes, pulling out a worn scroll. His fingers ran over the aged parchment for a moment as he whispered to himself, "I didn't think I'd ever need this thing."
With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the scroll into the air.
As the scroll floated upward, it unfurled itself and began to glow. Soft, radiant light spread through the clearing, casting an ethereal sheen over the trees and the swampy ground.
The words written on the scroll seemed to shimmer and dance in the air before disintegrating into particles of magic. The light bathed the barbarians, Reynold, and the others, enveloping them in a warm glow that gradually faded.
Reynold glanced back toward the barbarian leader, who was still speaking. But now, his harsh tongue became clear, the guttural tones transforming into recognizable words as the magical translation took hold.
One of the barbarians, smaller than the rest but still imposing by human standards, stepped forward and jabbed a thick finger toward the sky. His voice was rough but discernible as he addressed another warrior. "Was this the place where you saw the light? That strange, bright light?"
The other barbarian nodded, his hand gripping the handle of an enormous axe slung over his shoulder. "It must be. No other place in the forest glowed like that. The heavens cracked open, and then... the light fell here."
"It wasn't divine," he repeated. "We have nothing to give you."
The leader's expression darkened further, his patience wearing thin.
"Enough of your tricks! We saw the light, and I will not be denied what is rightfully mine!" His hand tightened into a fist, and his tone grew dangerously low. "Hand over the treasure... or we will take it from you."
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Reynold and his group remained still, their refusal evident, the leader snarled, his anger boiling over. "Stubborn humans! Seize them! If they won't give up the treasure, we will take it from their corpses!"
At his command, the surrounding barbarians surged forward, their massive bodies moving with startling speed. Swords and axes gleamed in the dim light as they prepared to capture Reynold and his companions.
Reynold stepped forward calmly, raising his hand.
"You don't want this," he warned, his voice steady. The charging barbarians ignored his words, their faces twisted with greed and malice.
As the first of the barbarians neared, Reynold sighed heavily and reached into his bracelet, retrieving a sleek, silver sword. Its blade glowed faintly, casting a silvery hue in the shadowy forest.
The barbarians' eyes grew wide with greed as they glimpsed the sword's gleam, mistaking it for the coveted treasure they sought.
The sword hummed and vibrated faintly in Reynold's hand, as though it were alive with power.
In an instant, the barbarians charged forward, but their advance was abruptly halted by screams of agony.
No one witnessed the exact moment it occurred, but the arms of each barbarian holding a weapon fell to the ground. Blood sprayed into the air, splattering onto the ground and pooling at their feet, as the disarmed brutes staggered back in shock and pain.