The Devouring Knight

Every time Skarn thought he'd found an opening, the Viking's animal-guided instincts twisted his body just enough to turn a killing blow into a glancing strike.

"You'll break," the Viking snarled, pressing forward with another bone-cracking swing.

Skarn hissed, parrying and driving his knee up into the man's ribs, only to feel as though he'd just struck stone.

The two broke apart for a heartbeat, both breathing harder now, boots crunching over the frost-bitten ground.

Neither one looked ready to yield.

…..

On the eastern flank, Lumberling stood silent as stone. Behind him, Captain Derrek shifted uneasily, eyes darting toward the treeline.

The crunch of snow came first. Then shapes began to emerge, Vikings, one after another, their weapons glinting under the moonlight. Derrek's grip on his sword tightened. He counted quickly. Too many.

More shadows slipped from the darkness, their numbers swelling almost to 40's. Then it hit, an aura so heavy it pressed against their chests like a physical weight.

Derrek froze mid-breath. 'This isn't Quasi-Knight level…' His stomach knotted. The sheer presence told him everything, this was the strength of a True Knight level.

"We're dead," he muttered, voice tight. "You should call that goblin subordinate of yours, switch with us before…"

"Calm yourself, Captain," Lumberling said without even turning. "I'll handle that one. You take care of the rest."

"Handle? Hey, are you even listening? That's a True Knight's level! We don't stand a…" Derrek cut himself off, watching Lumberling take a single step forward, posture steady, eyes fixed ahead.

From the treeline, a massive figure emerged. Broad as an ox, fur cloak hanging from his shoulders, and a double-headed axe in his grip. His aura was wild, like the sky before a storm.

Lumberling's gaze locked with his. Berserker Warden, he recognized at once. Fourth stage of the Einherjar's Path. Equal to a Knight One Stage.

Derrek swallowed hard. 'He's still too young,' he thought, but didn't dare say it aloud.

Then, without warning, the two moved at the same instant, one a blur of disciplined speed, the other a surge of primal force.

"Hey!" Eldric's heart leapt as Lumberling rushed to meet the enemy, the clash about to shake the field.

.....

On the southern front, Uncle Eldric stood shoulder to shoulder with the Gobo Captains and the hunter units, holding their line firm.

From the misty treeline, the Vikings came.

The first to emerge were the God-Touched Vikings, tall, broad-shouldered warriors whose eyes gleamed with an unnatural light. Stage One blessings flowed through their veins, giving them the edge of uncanny luck and the stamina to recover from blows that should've put them down.

"Steady," Eldric growled, lifting his sword.

A horn blast rolled over the field, deep and shaking, followed by the pounding of shields in rhythm with their chants. The God-Touched stage Vikings surged forward, faster than most men could blink, their rush carrying them across the ground in a blur of steel and muscle.

Axes and swords came swinging in lethal arcs, but they met no easy prey.

The kobold berserkers roared and crashed into them, fangs bared, weapons raised high. Hobgoblin warriors joined the fray, their shields slamming into Viking chests before answering with brutal counterstrikes.

Every clash rang like a drumbeat of war, shield on steel, axe on bone, roar on roar.

Elsewhere, the rest of the hunter units met the bulk of the Viking warriors head-on. These were not blessed men, but they fought with a fury that seemed carved into their very souls.

They came with faces painted in woad, blood-red tattoos curling across arms and necks. They did not flinch at pain, in fact, they welcomed it. One Viking took a spear to the side but used that same moment to drive his axe into a soldier's chest. Another raised his shield to block an arrow, only to bash the nearest foe hard enough to send teeth flying.

War horns bellowed again. Chants rose in unison. Shields banged against shields, the sound rippling through the battlefield like a heartbeat.

The clash was a blur of steel and snarling breath. Months of brutal drills in the forest had hardened the hunter units into something far more dangerous than the ragged tribe they once were. Goblins and kobolds moved with the same reckless ferocity as the Vikings, their bodies forged by relentless body cultivation.

Kobold spears punched through gaps in armor, goblin blades hacked with bone-jarring force. The Vikings didn't expect them to match blow for blow, and for a heartbeat, the battlefield tilted.

…..

A heavy thud shook the dirt. Out of the darkness stepped the Spirit-Bound Vikings.

Their eyes glinted like predators in the firelight, their stances low and primal. One mimicked the slow, crushing steps of a bear. Another's movements were sharp and darting, like a wolf circling prey. The last twisted his head with sudden, jerky motions, a raven's cold intelligence in his gaze.

Clash!

Captain Gobo1 ducked under a bear-style swing, the axe missing his head by a hair. He rammed his shoulder into the Viking's gut, making the man grunt, but the enemy only grinned, and answered with a Totem Strike, a surge of raw strength driving Gobo1 back three steps.

Beside him, Gobo2 caught a wolf-style warrior mid-lunge. Steel rang as their blades met again and again in rapid flurries. Sparks danced in the air. The Viking's reflexes were quick, almost unnatural, but the hobgoblin's thicker frame let him absorb hits that would have crippled others.

The hunters joined in from the flanks, arrows whistling close enough to graze the Vikings' armor, forcing them to turn their shields. Bit by bit, the captains and hunters pressed forward.

The Vikings began to falter. They had expected their enemies to fall after a single heavy blow, yet these strange goblin and kobold warriors took strikes to the chest and came back swinging harder.

Gobo1 darted low under the Viking's swing, teeth bared, driving his sword into the man's thigh before ripping it free and slashing his throat in one fluid motion. Blood sprayed across his mottled face, but he didn't pause, already turning to his next foe.

On the other hand, Gobo2 caught an ax in the haft of his weapon, twisting hard to wrench it from the Viking's grip. With a guttural roar, he slammed his shield into the man's helm, caving metal and skull alike. The sound was wet, final.

Side by side, they pushed forward, small bodies moving like predators in the crush, every kill a grim testament to the months they had bled in training.

...

Then the air split with a different sound, a crack of magic tearing through steel.

From between the melee lines strode a Rúnbringer Viking. His armor was etched with glowing lines, shifting and burning brighter with each step. As he walked, he carved symbols into his own axe, the runes flaring gold.

"Rune Burst!" he bellowed, swinging.

The slash ripped through a hobgoblin's shield like paper, biting deep into the ground and sending dirt and sparks flying.

Eldric didn't hesitate. He pushed past his line and met the Rúnbringer head-on. Sword and rune-etched axe collided, the shock running up Eldric's arms. The Rúnbringer's strikes were heavier, faster, his weapon glowing hotter with every swing.

Eldric's blade locked against the Rúnbringer's axe, sparks blinding his vision. 'If this line breaks,' he thought grimly, 'the south gate will be nothing but splinters by dawn.'

Eldric blocked another Rune Burst but was forced a step back, his boots digging furrows into the dirt.

Then….

"Together!" Gobo1 shouted.

Both captains rushed in. Gobo2 hammered his shield on the Rúnbringer's flank while Gobo1's blade swept low, forcing the warrior to adjust. Eldric seized the moment, stabbing for the gap in the Viking's armor.

The Rúnbringer staggered. Another blow from the captains brought him to his knees, and Eldric finished it, a clean thrust through the chest before the glowing runes faded to dull scratches.

The southern front roared in victory, but the night was far from over.