The Bloodforged Kin

Chapter 227 - 221: Mason - Freezing Death, Fast and Sharp

Platoon 1, led by Jim, was falling into disarray. Dozens of creatures, seven feet tall and looking like an unholy combination of emaciated wolves and humans, had crashed into the front ranks of the army the instant they appeared from between the houses. They were fast - too fast - the second you saw them it was too late, claws and teeth ripping through the front ranks. Everywhere they struck, limbs were frosted over, some turning to ice and shattering as the shocked soldier stared at it in confused horror. Shields came up to hem the creatures in, but too late, too slow. There were only a dozen to the platoon's 250 men, but they were carving through the ranks faster than the men could respond. He hated to break out one of his Platoon Leader skills so early but if he didn't his army might fall.

He activated Phoenix's Resurgence, a skill that allowed everyone under his command to share the same health pool. It dropped the overall health of those who hadn't been injured, but increased the health of anyone who fell under the group average. Immediately the health of everyone in his platoon leveled out to the exact same amount, and would stay that way until he died - or they all did. He began shouting orders, commanding his troops to form small, tight turtle formations that would protect each others' backs and form unbreakable pods of weapons and shields. The army rippled as it moved to obey and he breathed a sigh of relief as he felt the group health pool no longer dropping. He had two more skills to use but he wanted to save them until they were absolutely necessary. He'd seen the description and skills of the attacking wendigos and knew that he'd be using one of them sooner rather than later.

"Form up in the center - leave a gap of one rank between formations!" The stomping of boots followed his command as his men began marching towards the center point of the platoon. Keeping the gap between the formations would give the wendigos space to move between them, which is exactly what he wanted. No matter where the wendigos moved, they would be surrounded by four groups of men, all within striking distance of anything that dared cross between them. At last the chaos of the first moments had been quelled and his platoon was retaking control of the battlefield.

To the north, Craig caught a flicker of movement between the houses. That movement was all he needed - the battle was on and he could activate his skills. Unlike many platoon leaders he didn't have any skills that directly impacted his troops or gave him attack or defense abilities. Craig had never been a fighter, although he was a terror to anyone caught in a fight with him. He was cold, calculating, and Machiavellian with his approach and The System had rewarded him accordingly.

At the first sight of an enemy he activated Tactical Overwatch, the skill allowing him to analyze the battlefield in real time and gain heightened awareness of enemy movements, positions, and weaknesses. He could issue commands that exploited gaps in enemy formations or adjust tactics on the fly. Most importantly, though, it allowed him to predict and counter enemy actions before they occur.

"Platoon 2 - shields up! Twelve incoming, faster than we are. Don't let them touch you - prioritize shields and pushback maneuvers. If anyone is struck, replace them immediately!" Just as the last word was out of his mouth the flitting forms were on the army. They broke against the unyielding focus and control of Craig's army, screaming in rage as they were rebuffed. An occasional swipe found a gap in the shield wall, but the injured man was jerked backwards and replaced instantly, the injured being bodily lifted and passed to the back ranks. Despite the injuries there were no cries of pain or shock - not from Craig's command.

"Spears!" Almost before he finished the word, spears lanced out from between shields, finding desiccated flesh and hardened bone. When a spear got stuck it was abandoned, the person stepping backwards for another to step fluidly into their place.

The battle was going well, which made Craig uncomfortable. He'd studied The System and battle reports extensively and was well-aware that The System always had something else up its sleeve. He activated Cold Calculus, tapping into a deep, instinctual understanding of probabilities and outcomes that allowed him to calculate the most optimal way to resolve any battle scenario. His eye widened imperceptibly, a movement that would have been a shriek of alarm in anyone else.

On the southern front of the neighborhood Firefist stood with Platoon 3, fists already alight with a deep red flame. His troops were arrayed in long shield walls behind him, the ranks long enough to span two of the neighborhood blocks and curving backwards in receding ranks. They didn't have the crispness of Craig's platoon or the preparedness of Jim's, but his platoon was one of heart and soul. His squad leaders were out in front with him, each standing point in front of their assigned troops. He gave his platoon one more once-over and liked what he saw. His squad leaders had weapons and magical skills ready. His troops may have been shuffling and may not have been perfectly spaced, but every last one of them was staring intently into the surrounding area with a resolve bordering on bloodlust in their eyes. No, he wouldn't have wanted the cold calculations of Craig or the neat organization of Jim - he loved his men and he'd put their passion and willingness to fight against any of the other platoons.

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A whisper of movement caught his eye and he flung a series of Fireball spells out instantly, strafing his fist along the path of the sprinting creature. He had seen the reports and knew that he couldn't allow them to touch his men. The shields would protect them, he hoped, but the first line of defense was him and his squad leaders. They'd been given special powers for being chosen to lead, and he made damned sure they earned their place.

He didn't need to call for them to engage - he wasn't a manager so much as a leader. He gave his men the goal and trusted them to do what they needed to do, and thus no orders were needed. That split second saved by not having to issue an order gave Platoon 3 the perfect response time to the attack. He jerked his arm to the side, leading the creature like it was a fleeing buck and he was hunting. He launched two more fireballs and the second caught it, sending it yipping and spinning. His mouth dropped open with surprise when it burst into flames, writhing on the ground and releasing a high-pitched scream that caused his men to wince.

"They're weak to flame!" Someone behind him shouted the new information and the group shuffled as men with fire abilities stepped to the front ranks without needing to be ordered. A wendigo got too close to one of his squad leaders and took him across the throat, the blood spray tinkling to the ground, frozen before it hit. His arms froze before he could clutch at his ruined throat and his body toppled over, shattering into bloody pieces on the ground.

"Protect the squad leaders!" Another cry from behind him and men squeezed out from between the shields, sprinting to surround the squad leaders that didn't have fire powers. Each squad leader was now supported by two or three soldiers with fire-based powers. Looks of gratitude were returned with grim nods as they faced the onrushing attackers again.

No one came to protect Doug, and his heart swelled with pride when he saw that. No one felt that he needed protecting. Welp, he thought, time to lead.

The flames on his fists crawled up his arms, stopping at his shoulders. Firefist wasn't built for speed but he didn't need to move fast anyway - the creatures were coming to him. His grin was savage.

At the mansion, Jeff paced in front of Platoon 4. They had, once again, been relegated to guard duty and it chapped his hide. He knew he deserved more - he'd fought for and won his position! He was the strongest of any of the platoon leaders and he deserved to be out there, earning glory and levels! But that weasel of a leader, General Tom, always kept him in the back rows. He ground his teeth together and prayed that those wendigo things would tear through one of the other platoons so he could finally get his hands bloody.

General Tom's reasoning for keeping Jeff in the back had never been discussed, but Jeff's platoon understood all too well and silently thanked the General for it. Jeff was strong - strong enough that he'd named himself Juggernaut after the comic book villain that he loved so much. But he hadn't earned his place by being the best leader, most strategic thinker, or the best tactician. He'd won it because no one else dared challenge him for his place. His men always called him Jeff to his face, privately laughing about how irritated he got at not being called Juggernaut, but behind his back they called him something else: Sapper.

Jeff's skills required that he have men under his command so he could sap their energy and attributes to empower himself. He was like a leech that grew stronger the more it fed, the power he gained only helping himself. They all knew that there would be a time when he would be necessary to fight something truly big, and they dreaded that day.

His first skill was Titan's Body, which allowed him to temporarily strengthen his body by absorbing health from those that served under him. The more he absorbed, the weaker his men became, but the stronger Jeff grew - until he was an almost unbreakable force. The System limited the skill by limiting how much he could take, and by cutting his connection to each person that took damage. As long as they were in the back and healthy they were blood bags for him to feed off of, but as soon as they took even a single point of damage the were cut off from his skill and his power was reduced.

Unyielding Charge allowed him to pull Endurance points from his men. It was temporary - they'd get them back after the skill ended - but they grew weaker and more tired with each point he pulled. By making himself stronger he made them weaker, but once he was fully empowered he was an unstoppable force that could plow through anything as if it was tissue paper. The skill ended when he stopped moving, but he could activate it again - over and over as long as he had living people under his command to pull it from. The cycle of losing, gaining, and losing the energy again caused his men to crash and, even when the power was returned to them, they found themselves too tired to lift a sword. He could only take one point at a time, but he dreamed of the day when he could take it all at once.

His last power, Crushing Blow, followed the same theme as the others. He could pull a portion of the Strength points from his men and store them into a devastating attack that had the combined strength of every point he'd taken from his men. With almost 250 men under him his blow would have the power of him having a strength of at least 65 - a quarter point per man. One day it would be an insanely god-tier skill that would allow him to deliver a single blow that could level a mountain, but once it was done the Strength stats took 24 hours to return to their original owners, leaving his entire platoon weak, tired, and easy prey.

Almost to a man, the soldiers in Platoon 4 thanked their lucky stars that it wasn't likely they'd see any fighting today.