Chapter 137: Might of the Templars (2).

Commander Strut of the Crimson Crucible had seen battlefields that would drive lesser men to madness.

He had fought in the depths of corrupted forests where the trees themselves bled black and screamed madness at his soul.

He had held the line against swarms of Abominations that blotted out the sun at the Battle of Baldro. He had watched brothers fall in droves, watched entire cities burn to ash, watched corruption spread like a plague across flesh and stone alike.

And yet, even he always felt something stir in his chest at the sight of the Abominations, watching as as the evil creatures descended from the sky.

The rain hammered against his helmet, running in rivulets down the dented crimson plate. Around him, his brothers moved into formation with practiced efficiency, not a shred of fear in their gait.

This was the result of borderline cruel training that hardened their hearts and wills.

“Shield wall!” His voice cut through the chaos, as he drew his weapon as well, his voice hard and commanding.

The warriors of the Crimson Crucible were hardy warriors that never retreated a single step even in the face of the enemy’s overwhelming power.

Each one of them was incredibly powerful, capable of facing a grade D Abomination on their lonesome.

Twenty Templars locked their shields together, creating an impenetrable wall of crimson iron. Behind them, pike-wielders braced their weapons at an angle, creating a forest of steel points.

The first wave hit like a hammer.

Creatures slammed into the shield wall with bone-crushing force. Claws scraped against metal, teeth gnashed against the red iron.

The pike-wielders drove their weapons forward in near-perfect unison. Steel punched through black flesh, piercing hearts and lungs and spines.

Creatures shrieked and died, their bodies sliding off the bloodied points to crumple in the mud.

The front line stepped back as fresh Templars moved forward, their blades held in grips more than ready to dirty them.

It was a dance they had performed a thousand times. A dance of death and blood. Of chaos. A terrible, graceful dance.

A Templar hefted his blade above his head.

A flying creature diving at him was split right in the middle, its dark blood bathing the Templar’s crimson armor.

Dozens more fell the same way in just a few seconds as the Templars advanced.

Crossbow bolts streaked through the rain, each one finding its mark with terrifying precision. Creatures fell from the sky, their wings shredded, their bodies bristling with shafts. They hit the ground hard, and waiting Templars finished them with brutal efficiency.

Strut moved through the formation, his buster sword already slick with blood. A creature dove at him from above, claws extended. He didn’t bother dodging. Instead, he swung upward, the enchanted blade cutting through wing and bone in a single devastating arc.

The creature split in half, both pieces tumbling past him to splash into the mud.

Another came from his left. He pivoted, bringing the sword around in a horizontal slash that separated head from body. Hot blood sprayed across his armor, adding another layer to the countless stains already there.

Around him, his brothers fought with the same cold brutality.

Brother Markus wielded twin short swords, his movements a blur of steel and precision. Each strike found flesh, each cut perfectly placed to sever tendons or pierce vital organs. He fought like a surgeon, dissecting his enemies with clinical efficiency.

Brother Thane fought with a massive greatsword, each swing pulverizing bone and rupturing organs.

The refugees scrambled around them, screaming and dying. Strut made sure not to let his gaze fall upon the dead an dying.

After all, there was no point in doing so. Death was only normal in this world. As natural as breathing, even…

It was a consequence of war and survival.

Such was their fate.

Ten Templars broke from the main group, moving with frightening speed despite their heavy armor. They charged into the oncoming horde, weapons raised, and the two forces collided with tremendous violence.

Steel met flesh and blood sprayed in wide arcs, painting the rain-soaked grass crimson. Creatures died screaming, their bodies hacked apart by enchanted blades.

But there were so many of them.

For every creature that fell, two more seemed to take its place. They poured from the forest in an endless tide, their shrieks filling the night air.

Strut’s jaw tightened beneath his helmet.

“Hold the line!” he roared. “Do not break formation!”

His brothers responded with brutality fitting of warriors of the Everlasting Church.

Their shields and swords were death to these monsters, grinding their flesh and bones to grime even as they themselves were cut down one by one.

Strut waded into the thick of it, his sword rising and falling with mechanical precision. Each swing claimed a life. Each thrust found a heart. He fought like a machine, tireless and efficient, his enhanced body pushing the boundaries of what what thought to be human limits.

The blood came in waves, hot and thick. It coated his armor, seeped into the joints, ran in rivers down the blade. The rain tried to wash it away, but there was always more.

Hours passed and the battle raged on.

A n Abomination larger than the others charged him, its maw wide enough to swallow a man whole. Strut met it head-on, driving his sword into its open mouth and out the back of its skull. The creature’s momentum carried it forward, sliding down the blade until it crashed at his feet.

He ripped the sword free and moved on to the next target.

And that was when he saw it.

Through the chaos and the rain and the blood, his eyes caught movement that didn’t fit the pattern of chaos associated with a terrified mundane.

There were a few individual parties that were not Templars that naturally grouped together to fend off the attacking Abominations.

Amongst one of these groups was a young man, covered head to toe in blood and mud, wielding a simple silver blade.

Strut watched as the youth drove his weapon into a creature’s chest, twisted, and ripped it free in one fluid motion. The creature collapsed, and the young man was already moving, already engaging the next threat.

Strut watched him catch a creature mid-lunge, redirecting its momentum to send it crashing into another. Before either could recover, his blade had opened both their throats.

Understand the armor, a light lit up.

It was a radiance that was meant to be dead.

Strut’s interest was caught.

The battle continued through the night, an endless grind of steel and flesh. The Templars held their formations, rotating warriors to prevent exhaustion, maintaining their brutal efficiency even as hours stretched on.

But the creatures kept coming.

Death was on the left and on the right.

Until finally…

Silence.

By the time the first grey light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, the field had been transformed into an abattoir. Bodies lay everywhere, piled in heaps, scattered across the mud, floating in pools of rancid blood.

The rain had finally stopped, leaving behind a thick mist that clung to the ground like a funeral shroud.

Strut surveyed the carnage, his breathing steady despite hours of continuous combat.

His brothers stood in formation around him, battered but unbroken. A few had fallen, but the rest remained, ready to continue if needed.

As for the refugees…

The dead would have to be officially counted and a report made. But that would be later.

He sighed and looked around.

Then he frowned.

Still standing amidst the corpses, was the young man with the silver blade.

He was covered in so much blood that his original features were nearly impossible to discern. His chest heaved with exhaustion, but his grip on the weapon remained steady.

Strut chuckled darkly and made his decision.

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