Red Hair gritted his teeth. As an essence user, his hand was already healed, and if he was lucky enough to get the help of a priest from a healing Sanctum, he might even regrow it.
"Forgive me, Galthor, for looking down on you." Red Hair picked himself up from the ground. He still felt conflicted from the divine aura Galthor had revealed, but now that Galthor wasn’t using it again, the awe he felt had disappeared with it.
"I didn’t know you were a proper bastard like that, one who has joined a cult to fool your people. You’re not the first to do something like that, and you won’t be the last. The God of the Barbarians is dead!
"I am Thrainor, you deserve to know my name since you are...!!"
But before he could ramble further, Galthor was already in front of him, moving so fast he left afterimages behind. His hand slammed into Thrainor’s throat, crushing it and sending him flying back.
"You talk too much."
Thrainor’s eyes went wide, his right hand clutching his mangled throat as he gasped for breath. He forced air out in a wheeze, then howled, "I’ll kill you!"
Galthor grunted.
He had never killed anyone in his past life. But the host body had, and he drew from that memory. His heart filled with coldness as he stepped forward and said again. "For a barbarian, you sure talk too much."
This time, Thrainor was ready. He raised his hand and gestured. His sword, still like liquid fire, rose from the ground, whining with blazing heat as it turned toward Galthor and shot forward like a bullet.
For the first time since the fight began, Galthor clenched his hand into a fist, and it glowed with silver-red light.
Boom!
He didn’t dodge. Instead, he met the sword head-on with a punch that exploded like a sonic boom, sending a shockwave that slammed into the others, knocking them stumbling.
The tunnel shook as stones rained down from the roof, mixing with the shattered sword splinters.
A short silence followed.
Brakthar swallowed hard.
Thrainor stared, eyes vacant with disbelief. He couldn’t fathom how the sword, blessed by a dwarven god had shattered so easily. He couldn’t understand how Galthor was doing it. "How..."
Galthor didn’t reply. His heart was cold, and his eyes colder. He was already thinking of how best to repay his blood debt. Thrainor had caused his host body so much suffering, towards his family and he wanted to make him feel real pain.
Unknowingly, as those thoughts filled him, bloodlust flowed out of Galthor with such intensity that it pressed on everyone’s spirit like a crushing weight.
He approached Thrainor. "Death is a precious gift to you."
Thrainor’s body trembled. His cupped hand glowed with liquid fire, but before he could act, Galthor was already in front of him and with a savage pull, he tore off Thrainor’s other hand.
A pained scream reverberated through the air.
Seizing the moment, Thrainor’s men turning to flee.
But divine aura erupted from Galthor, immediately cracking the ground beneath his feet. He whipped his head toward the deserters, his sudden attention hitting them like a physical blow.
"No one moves without my permission." Galthor spoke without menace, yet all of them flinched.
The pressure was so unbearable that they froze where they stood.
Galthor’s hand formed into a fist, and he knocked Thrainor unconscious with a single casual blow. "Brakthar, look after him. He has not yet answered for his crimes."
Then he turned to the rest.
Though the other barbarians were strong compared to average men, they stood no chance against him. He moved among them like a blur, each punch bursting their heads like ripe watermelons.
At the same time, he stomped on the hound monsters, crushing them to death beneath his boots.
When the slaughter ended, Galthor was drenched in blood and brain matter. It soaked into the animal-fur cloak he wore and painted his muscles red. His eyes shone with a cold, terrible passion.
He looked like the painted image of an ancient god.
When he returned to Brakthar, the barbarian stared at the familiar yet unfamiliar Galthor before him. Even without the divine aura compelling him, he bowed his head. "What... are you, Galthor?"
Galthor didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he crouched beside the unconscious Thrainor, gripped his ankle, and tensed his muscles as he began to pull.
Blood sprayed everywhere as a wet, sickening rip echoed through the tunnel, like cloth tearing in water.
Thrainor thrashed awake, his face contorted with despair, his eyes wide with horror. He screamed in agony, trying to crawl away. It was nearly impossible, but somehow he wiggled a little, smearing blood across the stone floor.
Galthor watched him squirm like a maggot. He allowed him that fleeting spark of hope, then his hand snapped forward, seizing Thrainor’s remaining leg. With another vicious pull, he tore it away.
The sound of flesh ripping and bones snapping filled the air again, followed by Thrainor’s bloodcurdling scream.
When it was done, Galthor stood, looking down at the limbless man with icy indifference.
"Brakthar, go through that trash and pick out anything valuable. Then we’ll talk."
Brakthar nodded and rose. He moved through the carnage, checking pockets and stripping the fallen of their weapons, tying them together with a long strip of cloth.
Meanwhile, Galthor sat cross-legged on the ground. Thrainor whimpered beside him, but he paid the man no heed, waiting patiently for Brakthar to finish.
"Alright, Brakthar," Galthor said at last. "I know you didn’t just choose this place at random for us to run to. That means hi... my father must have told you something."
Brakthar looked at him with suspicion. He didn’t ask about what he had just witnessed, as if still processing it. He gritted his teeth and finally nodded. "The Chief evacuated a large number of the Stronghide tribe into the mine, especially the old and the children."
Galthor’s eyes lit up.
’...So there are still members of the Stronghide tribe left? Good. He would begin building his worshippers from family ground...’
Brakthar continued. "They’re in the Revolutionary Camp. The Howling."