The jar of steel on steel reverberated up Sunny’s arms, a localized shockwave that vibrated straight through his collarbones and set his teeth on edge.
‘Damn it!’
The iron link didn’t snap.
The cold-forged slave chains used by the army were built to haul siege engines and restrain maddened draft oxen; a cheap, mass-produced shortsword swung by a malnourished sixteen-year-old was never going to shear through a half-inch of solid iron in a single strike.
Instead, the blade glanced off the rounded edge of the chain, carving a bright, silvery notch into the link while the force of the blow bounced off the dead soldier’s shield and tore the sword’s crossguard out of Sunny’s numb, bleeding fingers.
The weapon clattered into the dirt, rolling three inches away into the dark.
Sunny didn’t curse.
He didn’t waste a single breath on frustration.
Emotion was a parasite that consumed precious oxygen, and right now, oxygen was the only currency keeping his lungs expanding in the freezing air.
Instead, he dropped his hips, used his heels to dig into the snow, and threw his weight backward, dragging the shortsword toward his body with his bare toes.
His frostbitten skin could barely register the texture of the iron, but his dark blue eyes tracked every millimeter of the metal.
‘The link didn’t break, but the iron is brittle from the frost,’ Sunny analyzed, his shadow stretching across the blood-soaked snow like an extension of his own nervous system.
‘Metal gets weak in the absolute cold.
It doesn’t need to be cut; it needs to be shattered.’
He snatched the shortsword back into his grip, flipping the blade so the heavy pommel faced downward.
To his left, the blonde-haired slave was screaming continuously, a high, piercing, pathetic sound that rasped against the back of his throat.
He was thrashing blindly in the dirt, dragging the chain in erratic, jerky tugs that kept throwing off Sunny’s balance.
“Shut up!” Sunny spat, his dark voice slicing through the chaos of the camp.
Before the blonde man could pull the chain again, Sunny lunged forward, grabbed the front of the man’s torn tunic, and slammed his skull violently against the frozen edge of the boulder.
THWACK!
The blonde slave went instantly limp, his eyelids fluttering closed as he slumped sideways into a drift of crimson snow.
The frantic pulling on the chain ceased immediately.
‘Much better,’ Sunny thought, his breath coming in shallow, icy gasps.
‘Unconscious meat is much easier to manage than panicked meat.’
Sunny pinned the notched iron link against the highest ridge of the dead soldier’s iron shield, raised the shortsword upside down, and drove the heavy steel pommel straight down like a hammer onto a chisel.
CLANG!
A hair-thin crack appeared along the notched link.
CLANG!
Sparks flew into the dark, illuminating the terrifying scene unfolding across the clearing.
The camp was a slaughterhouse.
The bone-white Nightmare Creatures—the mountain scavengers—were not beasts that fought with honorable fury; they were efficient, cold-blooded harvesters.
They used their immense weight to crush armored breastplates, their needle-thin limbs piercing through iron visors and soft throats with sickening, mechanical rhythm.
A soldier’s severed arm, still twitching inside its leather gauntlet, flew through the air and landed with a wet thud directly beside Sunny’s knees.
Hot blood sprayed across his cheek, smelling heavily of iron and unwashed sweat.
‘The guards’ formation is completely collapsed.
The senior officer is fighting three of those abominations at once… his runic sword is glowing, but his footwork is sloppy.
He’ll be dead in twenty seconds.
When he falls, the rest of the pack will sweep the perimeter.’
CLANG!
The cracked link finally gave way with a sharp, metallic SNAP.
The heavy iron cuff on Sunny’s left wrist suddenly went slack, the severed length of chain dropping into the snow with a dull clink.
For the first time since he had opened his eyes in this nightmare, the suffocating weight dragging behind him was gone.
He was no longer anchored to a line of dying men.
[Your shackles have been severed.]
[Status: Unbound.]
Sunny ignored the golden runes floating in the corner of his vision.
He didn’t stand up.
Standing up made you a target.
Standing up meant drawing the eyes of predators that towered eight feet above the ground.
Instead, Sunny stayed flat on his stomach, his dark tunic blending seamlessly with the bloodied mud and shadows beneath the boulder.
He slithered on his elbows toward the dead soldier he had killed moments ago, his eyes darting across the corpse like a scavenger picking over a fresh carcass.
‘Food.
Weapon.
Protection,’ his mind listed rapidly.
‘In that exact order of survival.’
He unbuckled the soldier’s leather belt, sliding the heavy iron sheath off the leather strap.
He shoved the shortsword back into its scabbard and slung it across his back, binding the strap tightly around his narrow chest.
Next, he grabbed the soldier’s thick, wool-lined cloak.
It was soaked in warm blood around the collar, but Sunny didn’t care about the stain.
He ripped the heavy fabric off the dead man’s shoulders and wrapped it tightly around his own shivering frame, trapping his body heat inside.
Finally, he reached for the dead guard’s belt pouch.
Inside, his fingers brushed against three hard, dry rations of salted beef and a small leather flask.
Sunny unscrewed the stopper and took a tiny sip.
The liquid was sharp, cheap, low-grade grain alcohol that burned its way down his throat, instantly fanning a small, artificial fire in his gut.
‘Fuel,’ Sunny noted, slipping the flask into his wool cloak.
“Help… help me…”
A weak, trembling voice spoke from the shadows beside the boulder.
Sunny turned his head. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
It was the priest.
The tall, dirt-smeared man was pinned beneath the weight of a fallen supply wagon.
The heavy wooden axle had snapped across his thighs, trapping his legs beneath splintered timber and heavy barrels of grain.
His face was pale, slick with cold sweat, and his hands were outstretched toward Sunny, his eyes filled with desperate, agonizing hope.
“Please… young man,” the priest gasped, his fingers clutching at the hem of Sunny’s newly acquired wool cloak.
“You have a blade… cut my bindings… help me lift this wood… I can offer you prayers… blessings of the ancient gods…”
Sunny looked down at the priest.
His dark blue eyes were flat, hollow, and completely unreadable.
‘Help him?’ Sunny thought, his shadow creeping quietly over the priest’s trapped legs.
‘To lift that wagon, I’d need three grown men.
It would take two minutes of noise, exertion, and exposure.
Two minutes in an open battlefield is an eternity.’
“Please…” the priest sobbed, tears cutting clean streaks through the filth on his cheeks.
“Don’t leave me to be eaten in the dark!”
Sunny leaned down, his face stopping inches from the priest’s ear.
“The gods are dead, old man,” Sunny whispered softly, his voice devoid of malice, yet colder than the alpine gale sweeping over the cliff.
“And praying doesn’t move heavy wood.”
Without a second glance, Sunny pulled his cloak tightly around his body, turned his back on the crying man, and slipped into the thick, white fog crawling along the edge of the precipice.
“Damn you! You heartless demon!” the priest screamed behind him, his voice cracking with rage and despair.
“May the Nightmare curse your soul to—”
The priest’s scream was cut short by a sickening *CRUNCH* as a bone-white limb descended from the fog, driving straight through the wooden wagon and into the soft flesh beneath.
Sunny didn’t turn around.
He didn’t even flinch.
He moved low, his feet stepping silently over the frozen slate, his shadow-enhanced vision guiding him through the blinding, pale mist.
He was heading away from the roaring fires, away from the screaming men, away from the noble soldiers and their useless steel.
He was heading straight toward the dark, treacherous pass leading deeper into the unknown mountains.
‘Let the army die,’ Sunny thought, his jaw set in a hard, grim line as he vanished completely into the dark.
‘Let the monsters feast.
I have a cloak, a sword, and three strips of salt beef.’
He took a deep breath of the freezing, unpolluted mountain air, feeling the faint, unawakened ember of divinity pulsing quietly deep within his soul.
‘I survived Sector 25.
I’ll survive this nightmare too.’