The moon was at its zenith.
The unexpected ambush had been raging for several minutes. The flames ignited by the Fire Pots turned the night stiflingly hot, and the clash of steel filled the lakeshore with a cacophonous din. Don had killed two men in quick succession. Holding his staff in one hand and his sword in the other, he looked around. By the flickering firelight, he saw several corpses strewn about. This first true skirmish gave him a baseline for the combatants of the Lands Between.
Heavy armor and greatshields—true nuisances to kill. Even if the Carian soldiers were slightly superior, an enemy tucked behind a shield could stall for an eternity. Even Blaidd's greatsword, trailing arcs of frost, couldn't instantly shatter a knight hunkering behind a Greatshield.
Three Cuckoo Knights were engaged with the Half-Wolf. Two held swords and shields, while the third wielded a spear. They kept their shields locked in front, thrusting out with spears and blades—the shameless "turtle-poke" style. The Wolf's strength was on an entirely different level, however; his movements were preternaturally agile as he suppressed all three at once.
I need to break this stalemate.
Don ignored the companions closest to him. Hiding his straight sword behind his back, he sprinted toward the Half-Wolf's position. A few Cuckoo soldiers noticed the strange sorcerer and moved to intercept, swinging their blades.
Whiz—Whiz—
Arrows whistled through the air. One soldier collapsed as a shaft pierced his throat; another took a hit to the chest, but his high-quality chainmail held. Gritting his teeth against the pain, the soldier raised his heater shield—only to feel a sudden weight slam onto the rim of it. He looked up instinctively.
Framed against the silver moon, wide sorcerer's robes billowed in the wind. A youth looked down at him, blue eyes shimmering with a predatory light as a glintstone sigil manifested at the tip of his staff.
Glintstone Pebble!
Don landed in a half-crouch, listening to the wet thud of the body hitting the dirt behind him. That flanking strike had torn through the man's neck; ordinary mail was no match for a point-blank magical projectile.
The moment his feet touched the ground, Don't's toes dug into the earth like a sprinter's. He lunged forward, weaving through the chaos of the melee with fluid, rapid strides.
The soldiers in his path didn't even have time to swing. It wasn't just that Don was fast; it was that their heavy plate armor made their reactions sluggish. They could only turn their heads to watch as the sorcerer made a beeline for the rear of their formation.
Is this man insane?
That was where the Half-Wolf fought the three Cuckoo Knights. In the Lands Between, the hierarchy of power was absolute. Forget the Wolf—even a standard Cuckoo Knight could cleave a man and his armor in two with a single blow.
Strength, dexterity, perception—the knights held every advantage. The spearman at the rear sensed someone approaching from behind and glanced back, his eyes widening in shock. A sorcerer was charging him, raising a staff as a low-level Glintstone Pebble flew from a few meters away.
Thud.
Without a second thought, the knight caught the spell on his shield. With a flick of his wrist, the pebble shattered into harmless blue particles. The knight stepped forward, swinging his massive shield in a brutal arc.
Shield Bash.
Don skidded to a halt, feeling the wind howl past his face. Had that slab of steel connected, he would have been sent flying for meters. But as the shield passed, the knight took another step, his waist rotating to drive his spear forward.
Spear Thrust!
The most fundamental of combos. The thrust was swift and precise. Don instinctively leaned to the right, bringing his straight sword across his chest.
Screee—
The blade ground against the spear shaft, erupting in a shower of sparks that briefly illuminated Don't's face.
His strength and speed are in a different league, and his combat experience is vast.
A gust of wind rushed from his flank. He didn't need to look to know the shield in the knight's left hand was swinging back toward him—a rim of pure steel is a lethal weapon in its own right.
There was no time for conscious thought; instinct took the reins. Don twisted his wrist, sliding his blade along the spear shaft toward the knight's hands.
Clack.
The sound of steel hitting a gauntlet was sharp. The straight sword bit into the hand gripping the spear. This body's strength wasn't immense, but it wasn't fragile either. While he didn't sever the steel gauntlet, the force crushed the finger bones beneath. Howling in pain, the knight reflexively loosened his grip.
The spear clattered to the ground. The shield bash was still incoming, but Don moved with his blade, diving into the knight's chest like a lover's embrace. They were now practically glued together, Don having slipped into the shield's blind spot.
What?!
The narrow slit of the knight's helm constricted his vision, but he felt the enemy press against his breastplate. As a mercenary-born veteran, he had seen many things, but never a swordsmanship this bizarre.
How can he strike from this close? Is he going to try and punch through plate armor?
That confusion was shattered a heartbeat later by a brilliant azure light. Pressed against the knight's chest, Don pointed his staff downward as the Carian sigil flared.
Carian Slicer!
Like a Jedi's lightsaber, a surge of energy erupted from the short staff, solidifying into a three-foot blade of pure light. It drove straight through the gaps in the armor's joints.
"AGH!"
The knight let out a blood-curdling scream. His knee was shredded. Magic tore through bone and muscle, sending him toppling backward as his lower leg remained momentarily pinned by the force. Yet, he was a veteran; even as he fell, he threw a desperate punch at Don't's chest.
Clang!
A crisp sound of striking iron echoed as sparks flew. The knight's overwhelming physical strength batted the straight sword aside, leaving a shallow fist-indentation on the apprentice's chest. A pampered sorcerer would have cried out in pain, but Don didn't. Instead, he leaned into the blow, his face twisting into a bloodthirsty grin.
Flash—
The Carian Slicer whistled back in a horizontal arc, passing through the gap between the helm and the pauldron. It left a trail of azure light in the dark.
Thud.
The knight finally hit the dirt. His helm, adorned with a blue plume, rolled away. Through the visor's slit, one could see a face frozen in disbelief.
The strike hadn't been incredibly fast, but it had been impossibly stable.
Three cracked ribs, Don thought, rubbing his chest as he quickly assessed his injuries. He looked up, his gaze meeting Blaidd's stunned eyes.
The Half-Wolf was standing over the corpse of another knight who had been nearly cleaved in two. The final knight had both hands severed and was crawling on the ground, wailing in agony.
The facts were clear: three Cuckoo Knights could barely stall the Wolf. Two couldn't last a single exchange.
"You..." The Half-Wolf blinked, his mind momentarily failing to process what he'd seen.
Even if a spear-knight wasn't suited for foot combat, how could a magic apprentice have killed one in such a brutal, close-quarters struggle? The confusion lasted only a second before Don finished off the crawling survivor with a Glintstone Pebble, securing the "kill."
"Retreat!"
As a man of few words and much violence, Blaidd knew exactly what the situation was. The ground began to vibrate. A muffled thunder rolled in from the distance—the sound of many hooves.
They moved instantly. Don felt a rush of wind past his ears followed by the sound of a greatsword rending meat. He looked back to see two reinforcements cleaved at the waist by Blaidd before they even realized what was happening. Their wounds were flash-frozen, leaving them to scream on the ground, unable to die immediately.
So fast!
Don turned and followed, picking off stragglers while observing the sheer, one-sided slaughter. It was no wonder Blaidd dared to lead a night raid; his combat prowess allowed him to face a hundred men alone.
Brave and powerful, a Troll charged with a roar, but its overhead swing met only air. The Wolf climbed the giant's arm like a ladder, swinging his greatsword mid-air. Flying shards of ice shredded the Troll's eyes.
The screams echoed through the night. The greatsword rose and fell, leaving massive craters in the earth.
This power... it's not inferior to the Guardian Ape!
Don saw the destruction and chose to support a wounded comrade instead of joining the fray. He put his head down and ran for the lake. The thunderous hooves grew louder. He could already gauge the distance.
Two hundred meters!
Carrying an unknown shield-bearer, he burst through waist-high grass and saw the archer shouting from the boat.
"Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!"
The skiff had already been pushed into the water. Blaidd took the lead, leaping a dozen meters to land firmly on the bow. He turned back, seeing a trail of torches following Don like a fire-serpent. The sound of arrows whistling through the air grew closer.
The Cuckoos were upon them, but Blaidd did not order the boat to leave. He threw a rope out like a whip, looping it around the waists of the retreating men and hauling them aboard. He ignored their grunts of pain as they slammed into the wood and roared:
"Row!"
The oars moved frantically. The archer was clearly putting every ounce of strength into his strokes. Blaidd, casting aside his dignity as a high commander, used his greatsword as a makeshift oar, paddling with ferocious power. The skiff shot away from the shore like an arrow. Ten seconds later, a squad of Cuckoo Knights reached the beach. Under the light of their torches, dozens of them appeared.
But the boat was already hundreds of meters out. They could only maneuver their horses in frustrated circles, staring helplessly at the retreating craft.
"Good thing those bastards didn't bring ballistae," Don muttered.
He sat up, feeling the warmth of blood soaking his clothes. He looked down at the shield-bearer he had carried out. The man's eyes were wide, a sword wound in his chest. He had died somewhere on the path of their escape.
Don paused, but no wave of grief came. He reached down and closed the soldier's eyes. It wasn't that his heart was made of stone; it was simply that he had seen this too many times.
The pot breaks at the well; the general dies on the field.
In any world, picking up a blade means accepting death. But what if you don't pick up the blade?
Don looked at the gasping warriors on the skiff. Including Blaidd, everyone was still coming down from the adrenaline, breathing heavily in the cold night air.
Like Don, they had no choice.
At least I've found the capital required to survive.
Don gripped his sword, feeling the power in his taut muscles. Now that the battle was over and he could savor the aftertaste—specifically after killing two Cuckoo Knights—he realized that the sensation he felt during the slaughter wasn't an illusion.
His strength had noticeably increased. Deep within his soul, a familiar sensation stirred.
That was... the power of the Dragon Heritage?