The Devouring Knight

On Skarn's side, the clash had dragged on, each blow ringing like a drumbeat in the night.

The Spirit-Bound Viking fought with the weight and swiping fury of a bear, each swing wide enough to cleave a man in two. Skarn met him strike for strike, his twin axes flashing in the torchlight. Steel scraped against steel, sparks scattering like fireflies.

Then the moment came. Skarn feinted low, drawing the Viking's guard down, before whipping one axe up in a brutal arc. The blade bit through the man's helmet with a sickening crack, steel splitting, bone shattering. The Spirit-Bound's roar turned to a choking gurgle before his body crumpled.

Skarn threw his head back and bellowed, a guttural roar of triumph that rolled across the battlefield.

But it was cut short.

A shadow loomed behind him, and a massive axe came down. Skarn turned too late.

CLANG!

Two other axes crossed above his head, catching the blow mid-swing. Sparks rained down.

Takkar's voice was steady but sharp. "We gave you your fight without stepping in. Don't drop your guard again."

Skarn grunted, annoyed but not arguing.

The axe-wielding Viking before them growled something in his tongue, rough and biting, words none of them understood before yanking his weapon free and swinging the second axe in a wide horizontal arc.

The captains leapt back as the strike hit the earth. The ground cracked, fissures racing out from the impact like lightning.

The air seemed to grow heavier. Even without words, they knew what they were facing, a Quasi-Knight level opponent. The runes etched along his axe glowed faintly, feeding him power.

"This one is strong…" Vakk muttered, his grip tightening. "This time we fight together. No questions."

Skarn groaned, rolling his shoulders. "Fine. But I take the head."

The Viking shifted into a low stance, both axes ready. The three captains mirrored him, twin axe against twin axe.

Skarn grinned, the thrill of the fight already burning in his chest.

"This is going to be fun."

With a roar, he charged. Takkar and Vakk were right behind him.

The three closed in, their boots crunching over frostbitten earth as they circled him in a loose triangle, Vakk to the left, Takkar to the right, and Skarn holding the front.

The Rúnbringer met them head-on, both axes flashing in deadly arcs. Steel crashed against steel, each impact ringing in their ears. Skarn took the first swing, a heavy overhead chop, but the Viking caught it on his rune-etched blade, twisting to shove him off balance.

Takkar was already there, his own axe slamming into the Rúnbringer's side, only to be met by a crunching block. Vakk came in low, trying to sweep his opponent's legs, but the Viking leapt back with surprising speed.

The fight was brutal from the start. Every exchange drew blood. Vakk's left arm hung heavier from a nerve cut, Skarn's vision blurred from blood dripping into his eyes. Still, they pressed him, circling, forcing him to guard three angles at once.

The Rúnbringer's strikes carried unnatural weight, each blow threatening to split shield, bone, and ground alike. Yet the three captains fought like madmen. Skarn took a deep gash along his arm, Takkar's ribs cracked under a glancing blow, Vakk's shoulder split open from a rune-charged swing. And still… they kept coming. The air stank of sweat, leather, and the sharp iron tang of blood.

'Who are these monsters?' the Rúnbringer Viking thought as his axes clashed again and again. 'Are they Valhalla warriors too?'

Each time he cut one down, another leapt at him. They fought like they had nothing to lose, grinning through bloodied teeth.

A wild smile spread across the Rúnbringer's face. His laughter was ragged, savage. He swung harder, faster, his runes glowing brighter. The three answered with the same ferocity.

It became a fight without defense, bone for bone, injury for injury, waiting for someone to break. Axes tore through armor. Knuckles slammed into jaws. Boots drove into ribs. Their roars mixed into one savage chorus.

And somewhere in the chaos… they began to respect each other. Enemy or not, they all knew they were facing warriors worth the fight.

But even legends tire. The Rúnbringer's swings slowed, his breaths turning into ragged gasps. One last brutal exchange, three blades biting almost at once, and his axes flew from his grasp. Skarn's blow shattered his chestplate, Takkar's buried deep into his flank, Vakk's hacked into the side of his neck.

The Viking staggered, hot blood spilling over his beard. His lips curved into one last smile.

"For… Valhalla," he rasped, before crashing to the ground.

For a long breath, none of them moved. Three warriors, bloodied and breathless, staring at the body of a man strong enough to kill any one of them alone.

The captains barely had time to rest before a roar cut through the din.

Another Rúnbringer, taller, broader, wielding a spear etched with glowing runes burst from the Viking lines. His voice was hoarse but filled with rage. "Jorn!"

He sprinted straight for them.

A flash of steel intercepted him. A long sword barred his path.

Krivex stood there, his grin sharp and dangerous. "You guys sure had your fun," he said, glancing at the three captains, all battered and dripping blood.

"Now," Krivex tilted his blade toward the spear-wielding Rúnbringer, "let me have mine."

And without waiting for an answer, he lunged.

...

Meanwhile, on Lumberling's end.

Derrek was still in disbelief even as he cut down another Viking. His arms ached from the endless clashes, but his eyes kept flicking toward the real storm, Lumberling.

Through the chaos, he saw him trading blow for blow with the massive Viking, not just holding his ground, but pressing the attack. Sparks flew from every clash of steel. 'A Quasi-Knight… forcing back someone at True Knight's level?' Derrek's mind reeled.

He wanted to keep watching to understand how that was possible, but a fresh wave of shield-bearing Vikings surged toward him. He gritted his teeth and waded back into the fray, knowing that if he faltered, the city would be lost.

Lumberling's world had narrowed to the man in front of him.

The Berserker Warden moved like a beast, but not a mindless one, every swing heavy enough to split stone, yet guided by sharp awareness. His eyes burned with rage, but his feet shifted with purpose, always looking for an opening.

When Lumberling's spear came down, the Viking's axe rose in a perfect parry, twisting to catch the spear and wrench it aside. Lumberling simply rolled with it, flowing into another strike before the Viking could follow up.

The Warden's twin axes glistened with a dark sheen, poison. But against Lumberling, it was as useless as spitting at a river.

The Viking snarled, stepping in with an overhead smash that would have cleaved through armor and bone in one blow. Lumberling sidestepped, his spear flashing in a tight arc toward the man's ribs. The Warden blocked, but staggered, the impact had carried more force than it should have.

'Why is he stronger than me? And why doesn't he fight like a Knight at all?' the Berserker Warden thought, his heart pounding harder now.

Lumberling's movements were precise, yet unpredictable. One moment, a clean Knight's thrust. The next, a sudden low sweep, his foot hooking the Viking's leg before surging in with a shoulder smash. He wasted no energy, every motion a link in an unbroken chain.

Qi surged through his veins, each heartbeat a steady drumbeat of power. Every thrust, sweep, and sudden feint carried the precision of a Knight, yet the raw unpredictability of a beast. The Berserker Warden could feel it, his footing slipping, his parries coming a heartbeat too slow.

A guttural growl rose from deep in the Viking's chest. His eyes glinted with a sudden, primal light.

Then it came.

The totem's power exploded out of him, an invisible wave of killing intent rolling through the air. His muscles swelled, his movements shifted, heavy, deliberate, yet fast, like a bear lunging for a killing blow. Every strike now carried twice the weight, the air whistling under the sweep of his axe.

Lumberling met him head-on. The spear in his hands blurred, sometimes snapping forward like a serpent's strike, sometimes sweeping broad arcs to deflect and shove aside the axe. The Warden's blows landed on his shoulders and arms, but his body was too well-tempered from years of brutal body cultivation, the impact only drove him back a step, never breaking his guard.

If the Viking fought like a beast, then Lumberling fought like a hundred monsters. His Spearheart Doctrine flowed with the ferocity of wolves, the crushing force of boars, the relentless charge of rams, and the lashing speed of snakes, all merged into one seamless style. Qi threaded through every motion, amplifying both speed and strength until his advantage was undeniable.