Ascension of the Outlander

The night before the battle was eerily silent.

Riverend had gone dark, save for a few hidden lanterns kept low in the houses. The villagers spoke in hushed whispers, their voices barely carrying over the cold wind that swept through the streets. Every person who could wield a weapon had been given one—farm tools sharpened into makeshift spears, hunting bows strung with whatever arrows they could find, and a handful of real swords passed among the most capable fighters.

Alex sat on the steps outside Mira's house, sharpening his short sword with slow, deliberate strokes. The repetitive motion was the only thing keeping his nerves in check. His hands still ached from training, but tonight, training didn't matter. This wasn't a lesson. It wasn't a sparring match.

It was life or death.

Mira sat beside him, flipping a dagger between her fingers, her face unreadable. She had given her orders earlier—positions, fallback points, signals for retreat. But even with all their preparations, there was no mistaking what this was.

Riverend was at war.

Alex exhaled slowly, glancing at Mira. "You think we stand a chance?"

Mira didn't look at him. "We hold as long as we can. That's the only chance we've got."

Her voice was steady, but Alex could hear the tension beneath it.

"Are you afraid?" he asked.

Mira finally looked at him, her green eyes sharp. "Of course I am." She smirked faintly. "Fear keeps you alive. Just don't let it control you."

Alex nodded, gripping the hilt of his sword. He had never truly fought like this before. A real battle, not a skirmish, not a training session. He had killed, but it had always been fast—quick strikes, small engagements.

But now?

Now, he was about to step into something much worse.

A distant horn blew, shattering the stillness of the night.

Mira's smirk disappeared.

"They're here."

The first screams rang through Riverend just before dawn.

Alex barely had time to register what was happening before the village erupted into chaos.

The eastern barricade fell in seconds, splintered apart by brute force. The sharp clang of metal, the distant crackle of fire, and the gut-wrenching sound of wood breaking filled the air.

The Blackfangs had arrived.

And they weren't here for a raid.

They had come to destroy.

Alex stumbled outside, gripping his weapons tightly. The air was thick with the scent of burning oil, but beneath it, something sharper, more visceral, filled his nostrils.

Blood.

The sight before him nearly stole the breath from his lungs.

The Blackfangs swarmed through the breach like rabid animals, their blades flashing in the dim morning light. Dozens of them clashed with Riverend's defenders in brutal melee. Bodies littered the ground, blood pooling into the dirt. Some were still moving, crawling, their final breaths escaping in wheezing gasps. Others lay motionless, their eyes glassy and empty.

A man screamed as an axe cleaved through his collarbone, splitting flesh and bone in a single savage strike. The sickening squelch of a blade carving through muscle rang in Alex's ears. Another villager crumpled beside him, his throat reduced to a mess of torn flesh and bubbling crimson.

The stench was overpowering.

Thick, coppery, suffocating.

Alex gagged, his body recoiling as bile rose in his throat.

Move.

Mira's voice echoed in his mind. Hesitation will get you killed.

He forced himself forward, just as a Blackfang lunged at him, a rusted sword swinging in a wide arc.

Instinct took over.

Alex ducked low, his blade flashing as he drove it into the bandit's side. The man let out a choked gasp, staggering backward. Alex didn't wait—he twisted the dagger in his other hand and slashed across the man's throat.

A spray of hot blood splattered against his face.

Alex recoiled, his grip faltering as the bandit gurgled, falling to the ground in a twitching heap. The scent of iron filled his nostrils, thick and nauseating.

More screams. More death.

To his right, a village defender was dragged to the ground, two Blackfangs pinning him as a third drove a dagger repeatedly into his stomach. Alex could see the man's hands, fingers clawing desperately at the dirt, his mouth opening in a soundless scream before his body stilled.

A second later, a bandit's head was sent flying, severed clean from his shoulders by Roderic's massive sword. The retired knight was covered in gore, his armor slick with crimson as he cut down another foe.

A torch crashed into a nearby house, the dry wood catching instantly. More fire. More smoke.

Alex's breaths came in ragged gasps.

This wasn't like training.

This wasn't like the raids.

This was slaughter.

A shadow loomed over him.

Alex barely raised his blade in time as a hulking bandit swung a massive warhammer down toward his head. The impact sent a shockwave through his arms, nearly making him drop his weapon. He stumbled backward, every muscle screaming in protest.

The bandit sneered, raising the warhammer for another strike.

Move.

Alex rolled to the side just as the hammer slammed into the ground, shattering the dirt where he had stood moments before. He surged forward, slamming his dagger into the bandit's knee.

The man howled, staggering, and Alex didn't hesitate—he drove his short sword upward, straight into the bandit's exposed throat.

Warm blood gushed over his hands.

Alex pulled his weapon free, the bandit dropping like a sack of stones.

His breathing was ragged, his vision tunneling. His hands shook violently.

He had killed before. But never like this.

Never surrounded by so much death.

A villager stumbled past him, bleeding heavily from a deep gash across his chest. Another was dragged away by two Blackfangs, screaming as they plunged blades into his ribs.

Alex's stomach lurched, bile burning his throat.

A corpse lay just inches away, its lifeless eyes staring up at him. Blood seeped into the dirt, mixing with the rain-slicked mud until the ground itself was a thick, crimson mess.

The smell was unbearable.

Alex turned and vomited.

The battle raged on.

Alex had no idea how long he fought. His body moved on instinct, dodging, striking, killing. He barely registered faces anymore—just flashes of steel, glints of fire, the dull crunch of bone breaking under force.

At some point, he had lost his dagger. His short sword was slick with gore, his hands numb from the constant impact. His vision swam, exhaustion threatening to pull him under.

The village burned around him.

A scream tore through the night—a woman's cry of agony, cut short by the wet sound of steel meeting flesh.

Alex turned, just in time to see Mira locked in combat with two Blackfangs. She moved like a ghost, her daggers flashing as she weaved between them. Blood dripped from her arms, but she didn't stop.

Alex forced himself forward, his legs heavy, his breath ragged.

The fight wasn't over yet.

And if he stopped now, he would die.

There was no victory here—only survival.

And he would survive.

Even if he had to wade through rivers of blood to do it.