novelraw Chapter 171 – The Unmovable Sentinel
Chapter 171 – The Unmovable Sentinel
Caelum fell to his knees.
It was erasure.
“H-how are we supposed to fight that?” The words left his lips unbidden, barely more than a whisper, his voice hoarse with horror.
He didn’t know why he was still breathing. He should have been nothing, wiped away like the thousands of others who had stood just moments ago. His hands curled into the dirt, fingers digging into the blood-soaked earth as if grounding himself in reality would somehow make sense of the devastation before him.
A shaky glance to either side revealed others—scattered figures, some standing, some crawling, others slumped against shattered remnants of the battlefield. Survivors. Why? That spell should have erased them all. There should have been nothing left.
Unless…
His stomach twisted.
It wasn’t meant to wipe them all out.
A cold shiver crawled up his spine. It hadn’t been a failed spell, nor an overreach of power that lost control. Tarric had chosen who would live and who would not. This was intentional. A message.
“Retreat!”
The voice rang out across the ruin of the battlefield, cutting through the daze that had settled over him. Darius. He was still alive. Still issuing orders.
Caelum’s mind screamed at him to move, but his body remained locked in place, his limbs leaden, his muscles unresponsive. How could he retreat when he couldn’t even make his legs work? How could he flee from something so utterly beyond him?
Then he saw them.
The forces of Serkoth.
They were no longer in scattered bands, no longer striking in guerrilla waves before vanishing into the chaos. Now they came in formation—disciplined, precise, their approach a perfect display of order and coordination. There was no hesitation in their step, no trace of fear in their faces. They ran with the certainty of men who knew they had already won.
And they were coming straight for him.
A bolt of panic surged through him, snapping his mind back into action.
Move.
His body ignored him.
Move, damn you!
His fingers dug harder into the dirt, his breath sharp and uneven. He chanted, voice trembling, trying to call upon his aether to augment his body—to run. The words stumbled, fell apart in his throat.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
Nothing.
His mind was too scattered, his thoughts too unfocused, his aether slipping like water through his grasp.
The enemy was closing in.
He sucked in a breath, forcing himself to push through, forcing his body and mind to obey. A fourth time, he chanted, and this time—this time—the augmentation took hold. Strength surged through his limbs, the exhaustion in his muscles ebbing away. His body became lighter, his movements sharper. The weight that had frozen him lifted, and in an instant, he moved.
His eyes darted across the battlefield. If they were retreating, then he wouldn’t leave alone. There had to be others who needed help.
Grunhilda was nearby, struggling to lift a wounded soldier, her brow furrowed with the same grim determination that had carried them through countless battles. Faeruhn was nowhere in sight.
He wanted to stay, wanted to find their missing comrade—but there was no time. He had to trust Grunhilda. He had to move.
His gaze swept over the field once more, searching—there.
A soldier lay a short distance away, groaning in pain, a jagged root of living bark piercing his thigh. His face was pale, his breathing uneven, but he was still alive.
Caelum sprinted to his side, dropping to a knee. There was no time for words. He hoisted the man over his shoulder, adjusting his weight, ignoring the ragged cries of pain as he forced his legs into motion.
He ran.
Everywhere around him, figures stumbled, crawled, dragged themselves away from the ruins of what had once been their formation. Some still clutched weapons. Some had lost them entirely. Others… others simply wandered, aimless, their minds lost in the horror of what they had just witnessed.
So many dead.
Thousands.
The battlefield was a graveyard. Not just in bodies, but in absence. There were entire sections of ground where no corpses remained, where nothing at all was left behind. No blood. No armor. No weapons. No trace that men had ever stood there. Just emptiness.
He kept running.
Caelum ignored the fire licking up his thighs, the deep, punishing ache in his calves, and the weight pressing down on his shoulder. He adjusted his grip on the wounded soldier, shifting him higher even as his arms trembled from the strain. The man groaned—low, pained—but Caelum didn’t have the breath to reassure him. All he could do was keep moving, keep running, even as every step sent stabbing pain through his exhausted muscles.
Ahead, figures blurred together in his vision, a mess of frantic movement. Soldiers still capable of standing rushed to assist the wounded, while others carried bodies—some groaning in pain, some far too still. The remnants of their force streamed toward the safety of the camp, a battered, ragged mass of survivors.
But some were running the other way.
Darius.
His Sentinel armor, blackened by dust and streaked with blood, gleamed faintly under the dimming sky. The veteran elites flanked him, moving in tight formation as they pressed toward the battlefield—toward the enemy. Not retreating. Charging.
That was why Darius was a hero. While others fled, he stood. While the world burned, he remained unshaken, an impregnable fortress masquerading as a man.
Caelum wanted to call out to him, to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come. His lungs felt tight, squeezed by invisible bands, his throat raw from gasping. He could barely hear past the pounding of his own heartbeat.
Still, he ran.
His legs burned as though molten iron had been poured into his muscles, but he forced himself forward, his vision tunneling toward the battered tents and makeshift fortifications of their military camp. He could see the outlines of soldiers—medics moving frantically, commanders shouting orders, men rushing to form a last line of defense.
Almost there. Just a little farther.
His body disagreed.
The moment he crossed the invisible threshold between the broken battlefield and the relative safety of the camp, his legs buckled. The world lurched sideways as he tumbled forward, his shoulder striking the packed dirt hard. The wounded soldier rolled off him with a grunt, but Caelum barely noticed. His body simply refused to move.
He lay there, chest heaving, face pressed against the earth as exhaustion crashed over him in waves. He felt like he was sinking into the dirt, like his limbs had turned to lead, like the only thing keeping him tethered to reality was the lingering sound of screams in the distance.
Heavy footsteps approached. A hand gripped his arm, hauling him up just enough to roll him onto his back. Caelum blinked up at the figure above him, his vision swimming.
Grunhilda.
She looked just as battered as he felt, her face streaked with dirt and sweat, her armor dented and splattered with blood. Her sharp eyes scanned him quickly before she nodded in approval.
“You’re not dead. Good.” She turned her attention to the soldier he’d carried, barking an order to a passing medic.
Caelum tried to speak, but his throat felt like sandpaper. He swallowed hard before managing, “Darius… went back.”
Grunhilda’s expression darkened. “Of course he did.”
A shadow passed overhead. Another soldier—one of the remaining officers—hurried toward them, his face pale. “Orders just came down. All survivors are to regroup here. We hold the line until reinforcements arrive.”
Caelum barely heard him. His gaze flickered past Grunhilda’s shoulder, back toward the battlefield. The land was still smoking, the devastation stretching far beyond where his mind wanted to comprehend. The bodies… the blood… the unnatural silence before the spell had fallen.
And beyond that, he could still see the warriors of Serkoth moving in disciplined ranks, their approach slow, methodical.
This wasn’t over.
And if Darius had truly gone back to fight…
Caelum forced himself up onto his elbows, the pain in his body protesting violently. “We can’t just leave them out there.”
Grunhilda grabbed his arm, her grip tight. “We don’t have a choice.”
He knew she was right. They were barely holding together as it was. But that didn’t make it any easier to accept.
Kavren wasn’t happy.
He rarely was when warcasting was involved. There was no honour in it, no satisfaction. It was too clean, too distant. It wasn’t the same as feeling the weight of an opponent’s strike, of tasting blood in the air, of hearing the sharp crack of bone under his own fists.
And yet, there was no denying its effectiveness.
The battlefield was a shattered ruin, the once-mighty forces of Aegis reduced to scattered remnants. Thousands lay dead. Even those who had managed to survive Tarric’s spell were broken in ways that went beyond flesh and bone. There was no recovering from devastation like that—not in spirit, not in morale. With the sheer scale of the destruction, any semblance of resistance had already crumbled.
It was a slaughter, plain and simple.
Still, Kavren wasn’t the type to revel in mindless butchery. He wouldn’t chase down the retreating stragglers like some common brute. There was no challenge in cutting down those who had already lost. A warrior without fight left in them wasn’t a warrior at all.
But the ones who remained?
Now, they were worth his time.
Darius and his personal entourage were making their way forward. Purposeful. Unshaken. A stark contrast to the broken soldiers fleeing behind them.
Kavren could guess why they were here.
To hold the line? Maybe. That would have made sense if there was still a line left to hold.
To buy time for another maneuver? Unlikely. What maneuver could they possibly pull after suffering losses like this?
No. This wasn’t about tactics or strategy.
This was personal.
A sharp grin split his face.
That made things interesting.
Darius was strong. Anyone with even a scrap of sense could feel it. He carried his strength in the way he stood, in the way the aether around him pulsed with raw power. He was a presence. A force of nature.
And yet, to Kavren, he was weak.
It was difficult to see any so-called champions as powerful when Kavren had spent his entire life enduring the worst beatings his mother could deliver. She had made certain he understood what true strength was. The kind that left scars deep in the marrow, the kind that didn’t falter no matter how much blood was spilled.
She had been savage. Brutal. Unrelenting.
And he had survived.
Because of that, Darius—the Sentinel, the legend, the unwavering shield of Aegis—seemed so, so small.
Kavren rolled his shoulders, his muscles tensing in anticipation. He was no fool. He wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating his opponent. He would treat this fight as seriously as any other.
More than that, he would even throw them a bone.
A proper fight. No cheap tricks. No underhanded advantages. Just him, his fists, and the kind of battle that would leave bones shattered and blood painting the dirt.
Kavren’s grin widened, stretching with the kind of savage anticipation that only a true warrior could understand. The thrill of an oncoming fight, the rush of knowing that soon, his strength would be tested against someone worth the effort. His blood burned for it.
Beside him, Tarric stood with that ever-practiced smile of his—calm, composed, and utterly unreadable. His brother was a strategist through and through, always thinking five steps ahead, always weighing risk against reward.
“What are you grinning about?” Tarric asked, tilting his head ever so slightly.
Kavren cracked his knuckles, relishing the sharp pop of pressure being released. "I want to duel that champion alone."
Tarric quirked a brow, amusement flickering across his sharp features. "Alone?" he echoed, as though testing the word on his tongue.
Kavren only nodded, the grin never leaving his face.
Tarric exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. "I wouldn't underestimate him, you know."
Kavren snorted, his grin never faltering. "Oh, I don't."
"I have full faith in your ability," Tarric continued, his voice measured, his arms folding across his chest in that practiced, almost dismissive way. "But even if he is weak for a champion, he is still a champion."
Kavren let out a short, barking laugh, the kind that held no real mirth—only raw anticipation. He rolled his shoulders, loosening himself up, shaking off the thought like rain off his fur. "That's what makes it interesting."
He turned his gaze back toward Darius and the small group of warriors that flanked him, the grin still lingering on his face like a wolf baring its fangs. He could see the tension in their stances, the way they held themselves like a pack that knew it was outnumbered but refused to back down. Admirable. Stupid, but admirable.
Then they stopped.
Kavren found it amusing. The Aegis army had outnumbered them significantly before Tarric’s spell had wiped out more than half their forces. Now, with eight hundred soldiers at his back, they had flipped the scales. Fifteen to one.
Unfair.
Kavren didn’t like unfair. It took the fun out of things. A battle wasn’t a battle if the outcome was already written in stone.
Darius stepped forward, his posture firm, the weight of command pressing against his broad shoulders. His voice was steady, unwavering, filled with that same arrogant self-righteousness that all champions seemed to carry.
"Last chance, mutt. Surrender or face annihilation."
Kavren tilted his head, as if considering the words, as if they mattered in the slightest. The human had no fear in his voice, and that, at least, was worth something.
Perhaps he deserved unfair.
Kavren hummed, his tail flicking idly behind him. "Hmm. How about this," he said, his voice laced with amusement. "We duel. Warrior to warrior."
A flicker of surprise crossed Darius' face, gone in an instant.
Kavren continued, his voice a low, steady growl. "Should you win, my army will surrender. I won’t speak for the rest of the city, but this force will stand down." He let that settle in, watching the human's expression shift, watching the gears turn behind those sharp eyes. Then he bared his teeth in something between a smirk and a snarl. "Should I win, those you brought with you will surrender. Should either side yield, it will be unconditional, by our honor."
His claws flexed, itching for a response.
Darius was strong. There was no questioning that. But strength alone did not make a warrior. Strength was raw, brutish, a tool that could be wielded well or squandered in blind arrogance. Kavren had spent his life fighting—and killing—those who believed raw might was enough. He had fought faster opponents, crueler ones, monsters that made men like Darius seem small. He had endured them all.
And he had won.
"Fine," Darius grunted at last, rolling his shoulders before motioning for his soldiers to step back. Kavren mirrored the motion, signaling his own warriors to do the same.
But it wasn’t enough.
"Further back," Kavren called, his voice carrying across the battlefield, his tail flicking once behind him. "This will get messy."
There was hesitation from both sides. Neither force wanted to leave their champion alone. But warriors recognized warriors, and this was not a battle for armies—it was a battle for something older, something carved into the bones of history itself.
One would stand. One would kneel.
When the last of them had stepped beyond the reach of immediate danger, Kavren let out a breath, nodding in satisfaction. The space between them now was wide, but not empty. It crackled with the weight of unspoken violence.
Darius moved first. He tapped his left gauntlet, and a golden light flared to life, warm and brilliant, like the last light of morning before the sun dipped into dusk. It twisted and bent, taking shape, solidifying into a massive greatshield—half his height, thick as a fortress wall. A shield that would not break, a shield that had turned aside the strikes of dozens, perhaps hundreds, before Kavren.
Then came the blade.
It was not steel. Not iron. Not anything so mundane. It was light itself, shaped into a longsword, glowing with the same steady radiance as the shield. It did not waver, did not flicker—it simply was, as though it had always been.
Kavren exhaled, slow and even.
With casual ease, he strapped his buckler to his wrist—a comically small thing on his frame, though still larger than most human shields. The metal was thick, well-worn, pockmarked with the scars of battle, but it was no great wall like Darius’ shield. It was not meant to be.
With his other hand, he drew his gladius.
It gleamed dully in the afternoon light, unremarkable in the way all true weapons were. There was no golden radiance. No divine blessing. No fanfare. Just a soldier’s blade, smaller than one might expect in his grasp.
And yet, for all its apparent modesty, it belied something else.
Darius' stance was one of immovable resilience—a fortress, unyielding.
Kavren's was fluid, measured, shifting from one moment to the next with a predatory ease. His frame, thick with muscle, should not have moved the way it did.
Darius saw a brute.
He was about to learn otherwise.
Kavren moved the moment the duel began, his form a blur of motion as he muttered the incantation under his breath. A simple tidal augmentation—aether surging through his limbs, lending him speed, lightness, an ease of movement that belied his size. The ground barely seemed to exist beneath his feet as he closed the distance in a heartbeat, his gladius thrusting forward with precise, lethal intent.
Darius reacted instantly, raising his radiant shield. Kavren’s blade met it with a sharp clang
, sliding against the golden barrier but finding no purchase. He had aimed for a gap—a flaw in the human’s defense—but there was none. The shield, massive though it was, moved too fast for something of its size, angling to intercept even as Darius planted his stance, unmoving.Kavren leapt back as the champion’s sword came down, a vertical arc of raw, searing light splitting the air. The whoosh of its descent carried the force of a guillotine, its heat scalding against Kavren’s skin even before it made contact.
Too fast.
At the last possible second, Kavren twisted, bringing his buckler up and angling it against the stroke. The blade struck, a blinding explosion of force sending tremors deep into his bones. His feet slid against the earth, digging trenches into the dirt as the impact rattled through his entire body.
He had faced monstrous blows before. He had survived worse.
But even so—Damn, that was heavy.
Darius wasted no time. He pressed forward, shield raised, sword slashing out in a precise diagonal cut. The movement was fluid, practiced, relentless. There was no wasted motion, no hesitation—each strike followed the last, a seamless onslaught of radiant steel and impenetrable defense.
Kavren shifted, his augmented speed allowing him to weave between the attacks, twisting his body at impossible angles to avoid the worst of them. He caught another blow against his buckler, this time deflecting it to the side instead of absorbing the full force. But even as he moved, the sheer weight of each attack pressed him backward.
He’s not just defending. He’s attacking through defense. A wall that advances. A hammer behind a fortress.
A lesser warrior would have been overwhelmed.
Kavren grinned.
He pivoted sharply, dropping low, his tail whipping out to catch the dirt beneath him and propel him sideways. His gladius flashed, a feint aimed for Darius’ sword arm—only to redirect at the last moment, cutting low toward the champion’s knee.
The golden shield slammed downward to intercept, meeting the strike with a resounding boom. Kavren used the impact to propel himself further to the side, rolling smoothly back to his feet. He had tested the champion’s reflexes now. Fast. Methodical. No unnecessary movement. He fought like a sentinel, like the title bestowed upon him.
But he had more than one affinity.
Kavren muttered another incantation—a loam one this time. It hardened his skin and gave him a slight increase of strength. He might not have the same talent for augmentation as his sister, but he was no slouch. He also had thirty years of experience over her.
Strength surged through his legs, the ground beneath him responding to his will. He pushed off, dirt and stone cratering where his feet had stood, launching himself at Darius from an unpredictable angle.
His gladius struck for the champion’s side.
At the last moment, Darius twisted his shield to absorb the blow, but the force of Kavren’s enhanced momentum sent a shudder through the human’s stance, forcing him to take a step back. A minor victory.
Kavren pressed, shifting tactics. He attacked in bursts—short, controlled lunges, rapid strikes aimed at the gaps in the human’s armor, forcing Darius to stay on the defensive. The radiant sword swung in retaliation, but Kavren moved—ducking, sidestepping, slipping around the arcs of light with a fluidity unnatural for his bulk.
Darius' defense held, but it was no longer unyielding. Kavren's onslaught was finding purchase—not through power, but persistence.
Then—
A golden blur.
The shield slammed outward, not as a barrier but as a weapon. Kavren barely had time to twist his body before it caught his side, the impact sending a shockwave through his ribs. He rolled with the force, twisting midair to land on his feet, but pain bloomed in his torso. The blow hadn’t broken anything, but it had hurt.
Darius pressed the advantage. He closed the gap instantly, sword flashing out in a horizontal arc.
Kavren raised his buckler—too slow.
The blade grazed his shoulder, searing hot against his flesh. Not deep enough to maim, but enough to sting, to send a burst of white-hot pain lancing through his nerves.
Kavren gritted his teeth, twisting away.
A lesser warrior would have stumbled. He turned the retreat into an attack, kicking up a burst of dust with another Loam infusion, forcing Darius to adjust his stance. Kavren circled again, muscles tensing, heartbeat steady.
A fresh line of blood ran down his arm.
Darius’ expression didn’t change. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t revel in the strike. He simply adjusted, shield raised, sword poised.
A silent challenge.
Kavren accepted.
He moved.
Not a reckless charge, but a burst of controlled speed, a sidestep that blurred the space between them. His gladius feinted left—a bait. Darius shifted his shield in response, just slightly.
That was enough.
Kavren pivoted on his heel, shifting his weight. His buckler lashed forward, not as a block, but as a strike. A sharp bash aimed for the edge of Darius’ shield, forcing it wider.
It worked.
For half a second, the champion’s guard was open.
Kavren struck.
His gladius darted forward, angling for the exposed gap beneath Darius' sword arm. A brutal, direct thrust.
Clang.
Darius twisted, his shield snapping back into place with uncanny precision. Kavren's blade skidded against its glowing surface, sparks cascading from the impact.
Damn. Almost.
Darius retaliated instantly. His sword came down in a vicious arc, a trail of golden light searing through the air.
Kavren barely had time to react. He wrenched his buckler up, angling the blow away from his body. The impact shuddered through his bones, numbing his arm. Strong.
Too strong to fully deflect.
The blade scraped along his ribs before he could twist away, heat licking through even his hardened skin. A glancing blow—but a painful one.
He hissed between his teeth, rolling backward into a crouch, resetting his stance.
No more testing. No more feeling each other out.
Now it was a fight.
Darius pressed forward, relentless but measured. His shield stayed high, his sword striking in swift, controlled arcs. No wasted movement. No reckless swings. Every step calculated.
Kavren met him head-on.
His gladius moved fast, parrying where he could, his buckler absorbing the rest. The force behind each impact sent tremors through his frame, but he held his ground. His Loam-reinforced skin dulled the worst of it, letting him push back when a lesser fighter would have buckled.
Then—an opening.
Darius committed to a downward strike, a cleaving blow meant to split through his defense.
Kavren caught it.
Not just blocked, but redirected.
He angled his buckler just so, twisting Darius’ wrist out of alignment, forcing his shield to dip.A gap.
Kavren lunged.
His gladius shot forward, aiming for Darius’ ribs—fast, decisive, deadly.
A flash.
A sudden burst of golden energy erupted from the champion’s shield, not an impact but a pulse.
The force slammed into Kavren like a battering ram, sending him flying backward. He hit the ground hard, rolling with the impact, landing on one knee. His ears rang, his vision swam with lingering light.
Darius stood tall, shield still faintly glowing with residual energy.
Kavren wiped the blood from his mouth.
Then—he grinned.
"You had that the whole time?" he rasped, shaking off the lingering ache.
Kavren exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, shaking off the residual ache where Darius’ shield blast had sent him sprawling. His skin still hummed with energy, the unnatural hardness of Loam ensuring he wasn’t rattled by the impact. He let the pain settle in his ribs, let the sting of the glancing wounds along his arm and side remind him of the stakes.
Enough testing.
Darius was good—better than most—but Kavren had fought better. He had been forged in war, in brutal, bone-breaking discipline, in the unrelenting, merciless lessons drilled into him by the strongest he had ever known. That was what separated them. That was why Darius, for all his refined technique and champion’s aura, felt weak.
The champion shifted, his stance wide and stable, shield locked into position, sword angled for another precise, measured cut. He fought like a fortress, impenetrable and controlled, the kind of warrior who ground his enemies down through sheer endurance.
Kavren didn’t play that game.
He shot forward, faster this time, Loam reinforcing his steps, aether thrumming in his veins. He weaved low, just beneath Darius’ initial swipe, his buckler snapping up to catch the golden sword’s edge and twist it just enough to send the momentum wide. The deflection was perfect. Darius’ arm dipped a fraction lower—just enough.
Kavren struck.
His gladius darted like a viper, slipping beneath the raised edge of Darius’ breastplate, angling for the vulnerable flesh just under the ribs. The tip of his blade found purchase, piercing through the reinforced fabric of the gambeson beneath, sinking in just shy of a deep wound.
Darius grunted, jerking back, the force of his motion wrenching the blade free before it could drive in further. Blood followed, dark against the gleaming gold of his armor.
Kavren grinned. Good.
Darius didn’t falter. He surged forward in retaliation, shield thrusting out in a brutal bash aimed at Kavren’s center mass. The blow came fast, faster than such a massive piece of metal should have moved, aether driving its speed.
Kavren barely twisted away in time. He felt the air shift, the pressure of the strike grazing past his ribs—too close. He kept moving, shifting his weight, not giving Darius the momentum he needed. His gladius flicked out again, not for a deep strike, but for a probing one—testing, searching, finding.
There.
A gap between the shoulder plates. Small. But enough.
He lunged in, angling his blade upward, driving it into the joint with precision honed over years of fighting armored opponents. Darius jerked back, but not before the tip pierced flesh. Another hit. Not deep, not crippling—but enough to sting. Enough to matter.
Darius’ shield lashed out, not as a bash this time, but as a sweeping arc meant to throw him off balance. Kavren hopped back, narrowly avoiding the brunt of it, but Darius pressed in before he could fully recover, his golden sword coming down in a brutal diagonal slash.
Kavren had no time to fully block.
Instead, he turned his buckler, catching the strike at an angle, redirecting the force rather than stopping it outright. The weight of it sent tremors through his bones, but he rolled with the momentum, shifting back just enough to reset his stance before Darius could press further.
The champion was breathing harder now. The wounds weren’t crippling, but they were accumulating. Blood trailed down his side, a dark stain seeping beneath his armor where the gladius had found its mark.
But his expression never changed.
Damn. Kavren almost respected that.
Darius advanced again, steady, methodical, his shield a wall, his sword an unerring extension of his will. His strikes came sharper now, more aggressive, the golden edge of his blade slicing through the air with enough force to cleave lesser men in half.
Kavren met him in kind.
He slipped under the first blow, his gladius flashing out in another precise thrust—not for a vital organ, but for control. The knee joint, the gap at the elbow—small, subtle targets that didn’t bleed much but weakened. He fought like a scalpel, not a hammer.
Darius grunted again as another well-placed strike found the thin fabric between the plates of his upper thigh. His stance staggered, just slightly, but that was all Kavren needed. He twisted, driving forward with his buckler, slamming the edge of it against Darius’ wrist before he could fully recover.
The golden sword wavered for half a second. Enough.
Kavren’s gladius whipped forward, stabbing into the soft gap between Darius’ cuirass and gorget. The blade didn’t go deep—his opponent moved at the last moment—but it drew blood, crimson against polished gold.
Darius inhaled sharply, stepping back, resetting his stance.
The two warriors stared at each other, both bloodied, both bruised, neither relenting.
Kavren grinned, rolling his shoulders. Second gear engaged.
“You’re good,” he admitted, cracking his neck. His gladius dripped with the champion’s blood. “Better than I expected.”
Darius exhaled through his nose. His free hand flexed, shifting his shield slightly. The faintest sheen of aether pulsed along the golden surface.
“Likewise,” the champion murmured.
Kavren’s grin widened.
Darius took a step forward, his sword shifting, his shield angling just slightly. Kavren matched him, muscles coiled, every fiber of his being tuned to the next exchange.
Then—
Thunk.
Kavren blinked.
Darius stood before him, poised mid-step, his sword still raised. His shield arm twitched. His mouth opened—just slightly.
An arrow jutted from his forehead.
A perfect shot. Straight through the skull.
Darius swayed, just a little. Then his sword slipped from his fingers, clattering to the ground. A slow, unceremonious collapse followed, his knees giving out, his body crumpling in on itself like a puppet with its strings cut. The light in his golden sword flickered out.
Dead.
Kavren stared.
The battlefield had gone silent. The soldiers behind Darius—his personal retinue, the ones who had stood ready to fight if their champion fell—stiffened.
Then—
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Arrows sprouted from their skulls, their throats, their eyes. Some barely had time to react before they fell, bodies slumping into the dirt without resistance. No battle cries, no shouts, no final words—just the dull, unimpressive thud of lifeless corpses hitting the ground.
Kavren exhaled. Slowly.
Then, after a long pause, he muttered,
“Well. That’s an awful way to end it.”