Draconic Awakening

The horde of Wretchborns charged at Ragnar, swinging out claws—many opening their mouths, showing sharp rows of teeth ready to sink their fangs into him for a first bite.

It was a horrid sight that even Ragnar felt himself petrified from within, but he kept his calm. He had foreseen a situation like this happening through his plan and had added a few contingencies to help.

"Fuck it all!" he opened his mouth and let out the loudest scream he could as the hordes bore down on him—and what came next was devastating.

An explosion of flames spiraled out of Ragnar's being as though a bomb had been set off—flames incinerating the first line of savage Wretchborns that surrounded him, and the force of the wind spreading the flames onto the others, throwing them into the air and crashing on their sides.

What had been considered solely a mob of ferocious beasts instantly became a representation of hell at the side of the Black Mesa.

Shrieks of many Wendigos filled the air as they crashed down to their backs with immense dragon flames charring their flesh. Many more backed away from their companions that the flames had caught ablaze, in reverence of what it did to their own.

And this... this was Ragnar's perfect distraction to reach the walls.

The backlash of the explosion to his own body was just a bit less compared to what the Ice Wendigos felt. So the Line Lord stood in the midst of all this chaos, breathing heavily with the bloodsucker blade in his grasp. His entire shirt had been burnt off alongside his camouflage outfit—he stood only in his trousers.

The explosion of flames had occurred from his upper body alone, to at least keep some part of his clothing—and his dignity. However, that was easier said than done.

Preferably, the sight of seeing the devilish beings suffer being burnt to death made the pain Ragnar felt from the burns internally worth it.

'Now all that's left is to run like hell!' the young Lord grimaced at the empty space that led straight to the wall. The Wretchborns had instinctively made this line out of fear after seeing the explosion. Despite the line still having a few strays here and there, it was still perfect to get to the wall.

The young Lord bent his knees and immediately kicked off with profound speed forward, aimed at reaching the wall in the very next seconds. His speed could have been considered just a bit greater than that of a fit athlete.

Zooming past the bodies of the Wendigos that lay deeply burnt by his unforgiving flames, he closed in the distance between him and the Black Mesa.

But the journey there wasn't going to be that easy.

One of the grade two Ice Wendigos that stood in Ragnar's path snarled, jarring open its mouth and letting out a guttural roar as it pounced forward with immense hunger plastered to its face.

"Shit!" Ragnar groaned, twisting his body and stamping his foot into the ground to make a sharp halt. Then he sidestepped quickly, letting the Wendigo miss him by a slight foot, and continued his charge forward.

The same thing seemed to repeat itself again and again—more Wendigos started to leap at him from the strays in his path. He avoided them well enough, not taking his eyes away from the goal.

Still, there was a growing issue in his mind—the fear he had installed in the horde had quickly dissipated, and many of them had joined the chase to devour him. Some attacked from the sides, others from the front, and more tried to catch up from behind.

Moving this way was exhausting, and Ragnar's lungs felt like they were about to burst.

Nonetheless, he was about to reach the wall of the Mesa—his goal—and what would happen when he got there? He could not climb with the number of Wendigos chasing him from behind. He surely could not use another devastating blast of flames against the horde. That would only do him more harm than good, slowing his climbing speed as his body would be aching and trembling from the backlash of the blast.

Whether he liked it or not... he would have to fight to live—at least till he could formulate a suitable plan.

The run to the wall of the Mesa appeared to be more devastating than it initially was. Many Ice Wendigos found ways to get past Ragnar's defenses—cutting deeply into his body. Others slammed into him with their shoulders, causing him to stagger. However, nothing would stop this determined demon from reaching his goal.

He was known for one thing in his first life, and that was resilience—and disturbingly, an impossible-to-kill survival. And this record he wasn't ready to break anytime soon.

Breaking past the first lines of Ice Wendigos that stood between him and his goal by pushing and stabbing those within his path, he climbed up the steep footing of the Mesa and then turned around quickly—letting the velocity of his running crash him into the wall of the Mesa back-first.

And then—this was where his plan had ended. This was where he had to face it—the unstoppable horde of angry Ice Wendigos, his savage audience, that charged at him, closing the distance quickly.

The first line of the Wretchborns that came were five in number—snarling and lashing out with their horrid claws to kill him.

Ragnar opened his other hand, and in it materialized a large scale-like shield he placed between him and the claws that were swung toward him.

Blocking most of the attacks and letting just a few actually sink into his legs and shoulder that were left unprotected by the shield, Ragnar retaliated next, pushing his shield forward with all his force.

The weight of the shield and the force exerted smashed into the face and side of two Wendigos, sending both tumbling down the steep slope of the Black Mesa and into other Wendigos that were rushing upward to meet the gruesome Lord.

Ragnar ducked his head under the claws of another Wendigo and then under another—then quickly, he struck at his own opening, slashing his blade at the gut of one of the Wendigos, impaling it deeply.

He raised his leg and shoved another by the chest with his full force, sending it crashing back-first into the incoming horde.

And then he raised his shield again to block a number of simultaneous blows.

This process kept on, and Ragnar was fighting at the peak of his capacity—surprisingly decimating numbers of Wendigos, many Grade Ones and Twos. He held his ground strongly and managed to do more damage than intended, using his shield to block various attacks and attacking back by shoving a number of Wendigos and then stabbing those he could.

He had the advantage of location here—the steep slope up to the Black Mesa—and the Ember marks he used in battle.

However, this still wasn't enough.

Ragnar managed to decimate several Wendigos, injuring dozens and holding his own against even more. Still, he was only human—and the exhaustion started getting to him.

'One more! Just one more time!' His hands trembled from another block—the shield felt like a thousand kilograms, the flesh of dead Wendigos and more alive ones smashed against it, trying to get to Ragnar through this single defense.

'I won't accept this! I won't lose!'

He yelled out a great battle cry and shoved several Wendigos back with his shield, sending them down to the ground—crashing into others and either getting trampled over to death or injured badly to the dozen that came to take their place.

Ragnar's face tensed up even further as many varieties of wounds were inflicted on his being as soon as his shield had left his protection and his sword was used to attack.

'Shit! Shit, shit! Shit! The more I knock down, the more they come. Kill one, a dozen replace it. Kill a dozen… a hundred...' Ragnar's thoughts were interrupted as he blocked the claws of a Grade Three Wretchborn, just barely deflecting it to miss his face by a mere inch.

And then he brought his shield straight to his body once more for protection.

His mighty shield did only so much—protecting him from rains of blows even now since the beginning of the battle. However, it seemed to evidently start to crack down the middle—some parts of it had already been chipped off.

It was clear, and Ragnar hated to admit it.

This was his last moment. Whether he liked it or not, this was how he was going to perish—drowned by the horde of Wretchborns.