The sky was ablaze with fire and rain as Dalon and Maug exchanged a knowing glance. Maug commented on Dalon’s upturned lips, and Dalon responded with a low, silent chuckle.
Ever since he had inhabited this body, Dalon had been aware that his competitive spirit was unlike that of others. But he didn’t mind. The thrill of battle, the rush of blood and excitement, was proof that he was truly alive in this world. It was evidence that he was living a life of his own making, not just being swept along by the currents of fate.
This feeling was a powerful antidote to the memories of his past life as a lethargic, overweight man. And besides, he had no way back now.
Having experienced this world countless times from behind a monitor, Dalon knew better than anyone that the end was relentless. There had been lives where he hoped he could overcome it, but the more he resisted, the more fiercely the end pursued him, always overtaking him in the end.
Now, in what he believed to be his final life, Dalon’s strategy was simple. Armed with the knowledge from his past lives and the clarity of will granted by his new body, he refused to be hunted as before. Whether it was mere survival or a return to Earth, the ultimate goal was less important than the means to achieve it. He had to confront the end head-on and utterly destroy the foe he had never defeated.
“If it’s a fight you can’t avoid, you might as well enjoy it, don’t you think?” Dalon said with a grin.
“That’s quite the answer, befitting someone recognized by the Holy Sword,” Maug replied, shaking his head in disbelief at Dalon’s idealism. Dalon laughed again and turned his gaze to the battlefield.
The gnoll army was advancing on the fortress walls, led by their cavalry. The riders, armed with lances, charged at a speed far surpassing that of ordinary horses, making them the first to enter the line of fire.
Tension gripped the defenders on the wall as the gnoll cavalry entered the range of the braziers laid out on the ground. The silence was shattered by the commander’s order.
“Ballistae, fire!”
With a metallic clank, dozens of ballistae unleashed their deadly payloads. Massive bolts streaked through the air like silver rain, descending upon the gnolls below.
The cavalry formation, undeterred, pressed on, even as the bolts tore through their ranks, kicking up clouds of dust and obscuring the battlefield.
Amidst the chaos, the commander shouted again, “Archers, fire!”
A second volley followed, a rain of arrows that filled the sky. The gnolls, already reeling from the ballistae, were now caught in a deadly web of arrows.
The gnolls fell like porcupines, skewered by the relentless barrage. In just two volleys, nearly half of the hundred-strong cavalry lay dead, the survivors all bearing wounds.
Yet their yellow eyes remained fierce, for there were only two ways to drive the gnolls to retreat: inflict near-total annihilation or kill their leader.
The surviving gnolls, driven by a last burst of defiance, closed in on the walls, raising their lances. The spearheads glinted red in the brazier’s light, transforming into a crimson rain that showered the defenders.
Cries of pain erupted as the spears found their marks, piercing armor and embedding themselves in the stone walls. The gnolls’ strength, bolstered by the power of a dragon, was formidable, their spears akin to ordinary javelins for humans.
“Fire!” the commander ordered again, and the defenders loosed another volley. The gnolls fell, but those who remained continued to hurl their spears, undeterred by the deaths of their comrades.
As the first wave of cavalry neared annihilation, another hundred-strong force charged forward, met by the same deadly rain of arrows and spears.
“Reload! Keep firing! Turn them into meat!” the commander bellowed. “Catapults, target the main force! Fire at will!”
The main gnoll force, now within range of the catapults, was pelted with massive stones, each one imbued with holy power, leaving trails of light before crashing to the ground in explosive bursts.
‘So this is war,’ Dalon thought, standing atop the wall, deflecting incoming arrows and spears with instinctive precision.
The air was thick with the exchange of deadly projectiles, each one carrying the intent to kill. Amidst the chaos, lives were snuffed out, each death irreversible.
A templar impaled by a lance. A gnoll cavalryman torn apart by a ballista bolt. A poisoned arrow slipping through a knight’s armor, forcing him to sever his own arm. The gnoll archer who fired it, caught in a catapult’s blast, reduced to a bloody pulp.
The battlefield was a tapestry of death, bodies burning, falling, and breaking, each one a testament to the brutality of war.
Dalon closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady himself. The overwhelming scene before him was enough to stir something within his mind, already honed by countless battles.
When he opened his eyes again, they glowed with a strange light. Within his dark irises, a fiery energy flickered, as if two skies were merging into one.
Time flew by amidst the fierce battle. The gnoll cavalry launched five near-suicidal charges, aiming to inflict initial damage on the defenders and disperse the firepower meant for the main force.
As nearly five hundred cavalrymen perished, the main gnoll force, battered by the catapults, reached the fortress walls.
The first to fly were the grappling hooks, clanging against the stone. Sturdy ropes, resistant to cutting, were attached, followed by long ladders as the gnolls began their assault on the walls.
“Throw the stones! Pour the boiling oil!” the commander shouted, and the templars moved swiftly, as trained. They tipped cauldrons of boiling oil and dropped heavy stones, crushing the gnolls climbing the walls.
Dalon joined the fray, drawing his daggers and axes. The assassin moved like a shadow, slitting the throats of gnolls as they reached the top.
With his axe, Dalon split gnoll skulls and hooked ladders, sending them toppling back over the wall.
A gnoll poised to strike a wounded templar was swiftly decapitated by Dalon’s axe, his body collapsing in a spray of blood and brain matter.
‘Hmm,’ Dalon mused, surveying the carnage.
With fluid movements, Dalen deftly dodged the incoming projectiles, pondering his next move.
Should he continue to deflect the arrows of the startled archers with his axe, cut down the enemies climbing up, and topple the ladders?
Or would it be better to descend the wall and engage in a more brutal fight?
Two choices lay before him.
His decision was swift.
With a sharp sound, the blue blade of the sacred sword emerged from the scabbard crafted by the knights’ blacksmith.
Tucking his axe into his belt, Dalen glanced at Maug, a high-ranking knight fighting nearby, and spoke.
“Take care of this place for me.”
“What…?” Maug looked at him, bewildered. Dalen flashed a grin and stepped out from behind the wall’s cover.
Ladders leaned against the wall, and grappling hooks flew through the air.
Even amidst the chaos, with arrows, stones, and javelins constantly exchanged, all eyes from both sides turned to him.
Dozens of red eyes stared at the warrior brandishing the sacred sword, emerging beyond the wall.
Simultaneously, a dozen threatening lines of sight aimed at him, sending a tingling warning through his senses.
Ignoring it all, Dalen moved forward.
His foot stepped into the void beyond the wall, creating a strange ripple in the air.
Boom!
With a sound like fireworks exploding, his form shot upward.
His eyes, now glowing with magical light, soared high into the dim sky beyond the wall.
He took a deep breath, harnessing the wind of magic, shaping his will into it.
Thunder rumbled.
From the sky above the rift, dark clouds gathered, like a volcano unable to contain its heat, emitting an eerie, unsettling roar.
From beyond the cliffs, a red glow pierced through the clouds.
“Ignel— Seltideo Lagreta.”
A brief incantation gave form to his vision.
The crimson clouds began to unleash a fiery barrage within the rift.
But Dalen did not stop there.
The scene painted beyond his transformed vision of the battlefield was not yet complete.
With a swift motion, he reversed his form, nearly a hundred meters high, and descended headfirst toward the ground.
Ripples danced beneath his feet. The sacred sword gripped firmly in both hands.
In his mind, he envisioned the sky beyond his inner realm.
Dense clouds where the energy of fiery rain and flashing thunder coexisted.
Two forces that would normally remain separate, now intertwined in the chaos of battle.
Thunder rumbled.
As his dark eyes imbued the scene with magical power, the sacred sword vibrated, and thunder echoed from within the clouds, as if in response.
Etched clearly in the eyes of the five thousand enemy warriors was the divine figure plummeting to the ground amidst the rain of fire.
Flash!
And ahead of his descent, a bolt of lightning struck, tracing his path like a shadow.