Blood Berserker - [ A Litrpg Apocalypse]

Nathan sprinted north, his entire being on autopilot as he hoped to get back to Diane as fast as possible. He had no idea what exactly happened after the claiming, but he highly doubted that it was going to be anything pleasant judging by the way the guard had described the cult of Kabash—filled to the brim with demon worshippers.

Now he wasn't sure, but he highly doubted that most of those who were claimed by the demons had actually been demon worshippers prior to their claiming—sure, they'd sought power from the demon. The entire thing reeked of a hidden layer.

If there were some people who had been like Diane before they'd been claimed, then it meant that the demon Kabash was doing something to them before linking them up with the rest of its cult. Off the top of his head, Nathan assumed that there was some sort of mental manipulation in play. Something that twisted the mind of the claimed to the point that they were nothing but rabid dogs leashed by the demon.

Demon Prince Kabash.

The berserker gritted his teeth at the thought, his face darkening like storm clouds gathering over a mountain. This monster had decided to play god, and if it so much as harmed her, Nathan would unleash a fury unlike any he had known before. Prince or not, the demon would answer for its actions.

Breathe, Nathan, breathe.

It was hard to take deep breaths with how fast Nathan was running, but he did his best. Each ragged breath burned in his lungs as he pushed himself faster. He exhaled forcefully, and with that breath, a fraction of his fury left him—yet enough remained to fuel the fire burning in his veins. He wasn't the best in this kind of situation—always letting his emotion take the lead instead of thinking things through—but his particular circumstance didn't give him enough time to think things through. Every moment wasted was another second that the demon had to reshape Diane's mind into becoming one of its mindless followers.

The berserker's bare foot struck the snow-covered ground with thunderous impact. His rhythm faltered as an unbidden memory surfaced—a face he had promised to honor, a ranger now gone. A single tear carved a path down his blood-spattered cheek. His promise to work twice as hard lay in tatters around him, shredded by circumstance and his own failings. With a guttural sound that was half growl, half lament, he banished the image of the dead ranger from his thoughts.

He stopped his internal brooding the moment he spied a building peeking up from above the trees, and he didn't hesitate for a second. It was a little to his left, so he pivoted to his left as he dashed towards the structure. Slowly but surely, he ended up standing in front of a stronghold with what was starting to become a recurring theme. In front of him was a guard pointing a sword at him, but this time the guard was alone.

The whole forest might've been covered with snow, making it hard for him to pinpoint where the other guards were, but he was sure there were other guards, especially if this was Sparrow's stronghold—his Sparrow. His old mentor was one of the craftiest and most ruthless persons he'd ever met. For one, Sparrow delighted in giving people a false sense of security, which would explain why there was only a single guard at the gates of the stronghold.

Or perhaps a single guard that I can see. I wonder where the others are.

That train of thought led to him raising his eyes to the trees, and while Nathan wasn't a ranger by nature, he did have high enough perception that he could pick out the rangers hidden above in the trees. It wasn't much, but for the most part, he could tell from their slight movements in the trees and the clouds that left their lips when they breathed out. Most people would miss it, but Nathan wasn't most people, plus he knew exactly how Sparrow worked... well, close enough.

"Look at me, ya vermin!" The guard's command cut through the silence, his frustration palpable at being ignored by the blood-soaked traveler before him.

The harsh voice yanked Nathan back to the present moment. He met the guard's glare, choosing momentarily to play along. If words could prevent bloodshed, he would try them—though the berserker harbored no illusions about the likely outcome. Dispatching the guard and his hidden companions would be little more than an inconvenient delay.

"Is this the stronghold belonging to Lord Sparrow?" Nathan kept his voice neutral, revealing nothing of the urgency that thrummed through his veins.

The guard's lip curled in disdain. "Yes, but that's not how this works, lad." He straightened his stance, clearly savoring what little authority he possessed. "I do the questioning, and you do the answering. So I'll excuse ya stupidity. In that vein, I'll ask the next question: who are ya and what do you want, lad?"

Nathan offered a casual shrug—a gesture that brought a self-satisfied smile to the guard's weathered face. Let him believe his authority was acknowledged; the truth was far more practical. Nathan had already decided this encounter would end in blood. But courtesy demanded at least one chance for the man to choose a different path. Besides, something about the guard's distinctive accent provided a momentary distraction from the pressing danger Diane faced.

My money is on him being a Scotsman.

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With practiced calm that belied the storm within, Nathan locked eyes with the guard. His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, cold as the winter air between them. "You have five seconds to tell me where exactly your lord is, and I'll spare your life."

Indignation flashed across the guard's face. "You dare threa—"

"Four." Nathan's tone remained level, almost conversational.

"—ten one of Sparrow's men, I—" The guard's hand tightened on his sword hilt.

"Three." No emotion, just the steady count of a man who had made peace with what would follow.

The guard's face flushed crimson. "...How dare ya—"

"Two." Nathan's hand drifted to his own weapon.

"Vermin, I'll cut ya head—" Spittle flew from the guard's mouth as he raged.

"One." The countdown continued, inevitable as the sunrise.

"Off and feed it to the wolves!" The guard finished with a flourish of bravado.

"Zero," Nathan breathed, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Yeah, definitely Scottish."

"Huh—"

Steel flashed in the winter light. Before the guard's confusion could transform into understanding, his head was sailing through the air, separated cleanly from his shoulders. Blood sprayed in a crimson arc across the pristine snow. Nathan observed with detached curiosity the expression frozen on the severed head—not fear, but bewilderment, as if death itself had caught the man by surprise. It was a rare sight; most men who fell to Nathan's blade died with terror etched into their features.

Thwack!

The arrow embedded itself in the snow mere inches from his face, wood quivering from the impact. Nathan spared it a fleeting glance before turning his attention skyward. The hidden rangers had revealed themselves, and now arrows rained down like deadly hail. A mirthless smile stretched across his face. What had been simmering rage reignited into a roaring inferno. These arrows, these men—they were nothing but obstacles between him and Diane.

Dodging with unnatural speed, he launched himself toward the nearest tree. The ranger barely had time to nock another arrow before Nathan was upon him, a blur of vengeance and calculated fury.he other rangers sought to aid their comrade but they utlimately met the same fate; Death.

"Pitiful," Nathan spat in disgust, his bare foot crushing the skull of the last ranger.

With the death of the last ranger, Nathan was once again soaked in blood, which was a little annoying, mostly because everyone inside the stronghold would be more likely to attack him on sight and ask questions later. And now that Nathan thought about it much longer, he was satisfied with his decision. He had a lot of pent-up frustration to vent, and he might as well—

Huh.

He raised his eyes to the gates, which were beginning to open by themselves—two huge iron gates which Nathan would've had no trouble pushing through if he'd had to. Out stepped a mini-army of about twenty people, and Nathan could tell from their gear that they had different classes. But above everything else, one thing stood out to him. Or one person, to be exact: a man in purple cashmere robes smoking a pipe with a cold and impassive face, a man whose gaze made Nathan feel small again, like he was nothing more than a street kid again, begging for help, begging for scraps to survive—a man who was currently applauding him. But Nathan could tell it was all an act because he could tell from the man's eyes that he was pissed.

"You must've a solid good pair down there for you to think that you can come to my place and cause a scene," the man said, a puff of smoke escaping his lips with the words.

"Sparrow," Nathan breathed, the name both prayer and curse. "I need your help."

Gasps rippled through the assembled warriors at his audacity, but Nathan focused solely on Sparrow's reaction. The lord of the stronghold offered nothing but a smile—a simple upturning of lips that sent ice cascading down Nathan's spine. Years of experience working for Sparrow had taught him to fear that expression above all others.

A smiling Sparrow was a harbinger of pain. The man had always been more fox than bird, cunning and unpredictable. No one could fathom what calculations ran behind those calculating eyes. Whatever assessment he was making, Nathan was certain of one thing: Sparrow possessed strength beyond his own. For all his recent growth, Nathan was nothing more than a student compared to this beast.

Sparrow drew deeply from his pipe, the ember glowing bright before he exhaled a cloud toward Nathan's face. His voice carried the casual menace of absolute authority. "Let me get this straight. You come to my stronghold, kill my guards, do not fall to your knees when I walk out, and then you speak to me without respect." Each offense called out with increasing gravity. "Just who do you think you are?"

"Nathan, Nathan Orion," the berserker said.

"Nathan Orion," Sparrow chuckled. "I used to know a boy by that name. I raised him like my son, but somewhere along the line, he rebelled, and now he is dead to me."

Shit.

An involuntary shudder ran down Nathan's back at the words. He wasn't sure he'd be able to take them all out, and he was sure as hell certain that he wasn't going to be able to outrun them. Which left him with two options: stand and fight, or beg for mercy.

Scratch that.

Nathan couldn't beg for mercy. Begging for mercy from someone like Sparrow was just like asking the devil for a freebie—in other words, it was a stupid thing to do. No, the only thing that Nathan could do right now was to stand and fight, else he risked having his life at the mercy of a cutthroat boss.

"Which kind of father labels his son dead when his son is standing right in front of him?" Nathan challenged. The words were nothing more than a wild gamble from him; it was basically him hitting a rock with a stick and expecting water to come out.

Something dangerous flickered across Sparrow's features. All pretense of amusement vanished, leaving behind only the cold calculation of a predator. "The kind who has watched his son spit on him and walk out of the empire that was supposed to be his someday." His voice dropped to a glacial whisper that carried more threat than any shout. "Bind him and take him to my dungeon. Break his limbs if you have to."

Nathan didn't require more clues to know that he wasn't going to get through to Sparrow through words. Action was going to be his only way out, and right now, he was more than prepared to deliver their souls to hell. He watched as the mini-army parted for Sparrow to walk into the stronghold, their ranks closing back once their lord had left. And so Nathan was left looking at a bunch of rabid cutthroat dogs ready to do their master's bidding, no matter the cost to them. With the option of reasoning off the table, Nathan did what he did best: he charged at the mini-army, sword raised. A silver blur cleaved through the first warrior before any could react. Blood erupted in a crimson fountain as the man fell in two separate pieces. Nathan pivoted, his face splattered with warm droplets, and roared his challenge to the remaining foes.

"WHO'S NEXT?"