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Book 5: Chapter 37 - A Reason to Protect (RAW)
🕑 Added 2025-03-24 09:24:44 +0000 UTC“Consider that the words you hear are but a single person’s understanding, not the fullness of truth. Likewise, what your eyes behold is merely one facet of the truth, not the ultimate reality.”
- The “Indolent” Philosopher Vasileios Bakirtzis.
Throughout the vast corridors and towering platforms of the so-called “ship,” we spread like a ravenous plague, unstoppable in our hunger for conquest. This fortress-vessel was less a mere ship and more a floating city, an entire realm perched upon layered decks. Fields of alien crops—twisted vines draped in hues of purple and green—flourished in the open spaces, while nearer the edges of the decks stood fascinating contraptions: heavy weapons designed to rain death against anything daring to take flight in the skies above. They reminded me of Hwachas from a book I had read once. Of course it made sense; their eagle mounts would have shaped the way they waged war, and naturally, they would have developed some countermeasures as well. Once we won the day, I vowed to seize these devices.
Beneath the glare of an unforgiving sun—and deeper still in the belly of this massive barge—fighting raged with a cruelty that spared neither side. It was a battle fought on multiple fronts: swords clashed on open decks, steel sang within cramped corridors, and blood slicked the gardens where blossoms once swayed peacefully. The elves, in all of their elegance, proved themselves formidable foes. In the open field, a single elven warrior could match three humans; in these constrained spaces, their greater skill and better equipment made them deadlier still. Our advantage in numbers faltered within narrow halls choked by fear, screams, and the hot stench of blood.
Our cavalry had long since dismounted. Adding their blades and spears to the units of infantry, their mounts fought alongside them, turning the fray into a savage melee of snapping jaws and slashing claws alongside the thrust of spears and swords. Down winding passages, through chambers lit by Zajasite, the fight took on the aspect of a charnel house. Fallen bodies here and there; walls ran slick with crimson. There could be no doubt that losses climbed steeply on both sides.
Yet where I strode, victory was inevitable. Few could stand before me for more than a heartbeat. My blade cut arcs of blood, steel singing a hymn of carnage in the gloom. When I saw other units falter, I dispatched the red-haired Temple Knight Cordelia, the bearer of a truly otherworldly blade, to their aid. She flashed a radiant, beatific smile, the expression all too serene for a place so steeped in death, before hastening to deliver her holy justice. And so, with savage glee, our wedge of warriors plunged ever deeper into the fortress-ship’s bowels.
It was there, in the gloom of lower decks, that the inevitable conclusion of this conflict revealed itself. Not all elves were soldiers. We discovered pockets of lightly armored men and women, the latter far more numerous, though we spied few children in these half-lit corridors. My men, wild with the bloodlust of a prolonged struggle, descended upon them. I saw fear bloom in once-proud elven eyes, and though I reserved my own weapon for worthier prey, I used Greater Drain to refill some of my reserves.
War drags the worst impulses from the hearts of men, and some of my soldiers reveled in it like beasts unchained.
Their screams filled the corridors, a chorus of despair that mingled with the clash of steel. Greater Drain filling me pleasure, I felt a dark thrill watching their downfall, for they had once considered themselves exalted above us, mere men. Now they were little more than kindling for the inferno of vengeance and anger that raged within my troops.
More messages filled my vision, as I approached tantalizing close to my next level of power. Just a few more hundred points, I could feel it, like a buildup to completion, edging me to completion.
Thus, our march pressed onward, each chamber a new tapestry of carnage and ruin. The air reeked of steel and sweat, spiced by the copper tang of blood. We were a conflagration that would consume this floating citadel—an unrelenting tide of steel and fury. Though the gold light of the Covenant bathed us, we had become inescapable, undeniable, and dark as the secrets we carried in our hearts.
***
Like cornered rats, they flailed in the face of fate, clawing for any scrap of survival. And before us stood a grim bulwark of Elven resistance—a small group of soldiers blocking our path, their armor and stance proclaiming them elite. The silver gleam of their God-metal was unmistakable, but they were far from unique in wielding such prized weapons. My own men had scavenged Mithril arms from those who had fallen, trading in their plain steel or enchanted bronze for these near-indestructible instruments of death. With every kill, they claimed the wealth of lords, a trophy of earned power. To my eyes, it served as a reminder: those who walk the righteous path were always rewarded.
They regarded us warily. My golden Holy Aura spilled over and into the men around me like molten sunlight, throwing every twisted shadow into harsh relief. Opposite me, the cadre of elven warriors stood resolute, their faces a mixture of elegant, haughty beauty and grim determination. They had women and children huddled behind them—delicate, helpless things whose lives dangled on the edge of this cruel confrontation. I could almost taste their fear, and it invigorated me. It gave me the strength to do what needed to be done.
I raised a hand to halt my men, barking out an order. “Step back. I will deal with them myself.”
Fixing my gaze upon the elves, I spoke in their own flowery tongue, each syllable shaped with mock respect. “Surrender now, and your lives, and theirs, will be spared. We are willing to accept your ransom.”
A flash of surprise danced across their features as they realized I had come command of their complicated language. The leader, his voice edged in defiant pride, snarled back, “What for, Dayspawn? We know we may die here, but for every one of us that crosses the River, two score of yours will fall. I swear it on the spirits of my ancestors.”
He looked young—an elvish lie, of course. They lived for centuries, so the hint of age haunted the depths of his grey eyes. His features were unnervingly beautiful, as were those seemingly of all elves, a beauty wasted on warriors who now faced their end.
I glanced at my own men, measuring their devotion. Their eyes shone with a fervor that rivaled my glowing aura. “They say that for every one of them, two score true men will fall. What say you?”
“We are ready to enter Paradise this day,” declared a scarred veteran beside me, voice resonating with fanatic conviction.
A unified roar echoed from the rest: “We are ready for Paradise!”
I turned back to the elves, letting my words drip with calculated menace. “As you see, we welcome the price to be paid. But are those behind you prepared to suffer the cost of your failure?” A child’s thin wail broke through the tense air, one of the women doing her best to stifle the cries. It would have been so easy to silence that babe with a single spell, but I forced myself to restraint. I relished drawing out their torment.
Doubt flickered in the elves’ eyes as they shared worried glances with one another, their posture still full of so much misplaced pride. I had planted a seed, and I had just planted it deep.
“Lay down your arms,” I repeated in their despised tongue. “Lay them down, and our mercy will be yours.”
Behind my visor, my smile curved into something cruel and hungry. As a show of good faith, or at least a semblance of it, I hooked my hammer, emptying my hands.
One of the elves turned to their leader, hissing urgently, “Casalel, if we let them take us prisoner, they will not ransom us. They are not civilized; they will make chattel of us.”
Casalel shook his head. “Perhaps, Fenfor, but better to live as a slave than to die here. I’m not eager to cross the River today.”
He turned back to me, lowering his weapon just enough to show intent. “Spare us and the innocents,” he demanded, “by your honor, if you have any, I hold you to a promise true. ”
A flicker of triumph sparked inside me and pleasure filled my hungry heart. And something else, a flash of annoyance at the Elf’s backhanded insult.
You have gained 1 Charisma.
Who would have guessed that all these mind games and manipulations would keep boosting my Charisma? A dark thought flickered: if it grew high enough, could I command people to slit their own throats on a whim?
The lure of surrender was a sweet, but poisoned, indulgence. Watching that glimmer of hope in their eyes was exquisite—like savoring a rare vintage. And there was only one thing better than tasting their desperste hope: crushing it.
Bursting forward with Improved Rush Strike, I closed the distance in a single beat. My gauntleted fist hammered into Casalel, the blow crashing against his Mithril breastplate. The armor held, sparing him from instant obliteration, though the impact left him reeling. Still, against all the odds, he managed to stand, stunned more than hurt.
Yet, it was to be his master-crafted armor that would be his downfall. I followed up with a Lotus Palm, a contrast in violence—a soft, almost gentle touch that transferred a lethal, pulsing energy into his core. The effect was almost immediate. He coughed up blood in response, eyes wide. The blow bypassed his external defenses, the energies bouncing about inside his precious metal shell. I knew that my blow had shattered him from within. Though no death notification appeared yet, he was one ragged breath from drowning in his own blood.
A confirmation of a fact; Lotus Palm worked best on those more heavily armored.
The other elves sprang into action, their weapons flashing in arcs of silver as they lashed out in vengeance. Their blades rained down on my armor of black and gold, each impact clanging off like bells. Most of the blows only scraped the thick plating, the metal the equal of Mithril, but then a sudden, biting pain lanced my torso. My Health dropped by a staggering two hundred points.
Fenfor, the elf who had doubted their surrender, gripped a sword faintly aglow with blue energy. He had sliced a wound clean through my armor as if it were nothing. Had my Constitution not been immense, I would have been finished there and then. The sword was no ordinary Mithril—it was something else, something with the power to bypass my defenses.
It was a similar weapon to the one the late Adventurers’ Guildmaster had wielded, though more puissant.
His speed matched my own, if not exceeded it, and his eyes burned with grief and fury. He was a legitimate threat, and I could not just rely on passive regeneration to win the day against him. For the first time in a long while, I realized that I might have to put in some effort.
That damned child wailed again, oblivious to the carnage unfolding around it, little more than a trembling bundle of fear. The sound sparked an idea. A vicious grin tugged at my lips. Activating Improved Dash, I kicked off a nearby wall and seemingly appeared in front of the mother.
“Pardon me,” I hissed in Elvish, ripping the squalling infant from her arms and flinging it with all my Strength straight at Fenfor.
It soared through the air, a screaming projectile of helpless flesh. He froze, torn by the cruel choice I had forced upon him. Regrettably, for his sake, he made the moral one. He let his sword slip from his grasp to snatch the child mid-flight, whirling away to bleed off the momentum. It gave me an opening as wide as a yawning grave.
By the time he completed his desperate catch, I had already summoned my massive Mimic shield and unhooked Bellringer. I activated Shield Crash, the heavy tower shield slamming forward like a battering ram. Elves scattered like pins before a thrown ball and cast into disarray. Fenfor, caught in the shield’s path, was crushed against the stone with the wailing child pinned between us. There came a sickening crunch, and I felt the moment the infant was snuffed out.
You have slain Unknown. 15 experience gained
I should have felt something. Perhaps shame, horror, even triumph—but there was only cold, clinical satisfaction. They were not human; they were vermin. They deserved no quarter.
Fenfor, still miraculously clinging to life, gurgled under the shield. His armor had spared him the same instantaneous death. Yet he was broken, a crippled shell of breath and bone. With a flourish, I brought Bellringer down and ended him. The hammered Shocksteel rang like a clarion, and my inner vision lit up with the result:
You have slain Unknown. 127 experience gained.
You have reached level 25.
You have gained 1 Dexterity.
3 unassigned attribute points.
1 unassigned skill point.
The other elves rushed in to save him, but they were too late. Within the circle of my hammer, I was a god. The shock of my strike reverberated through the corridor, and I drank deeply of the moment: the sweet taste of absolute power. Their stares of horror, tinged with helpless fury, were more invigorating than any wine.
Throughout those moments, the humans of Al-Lazar and the deep desert stood as motionless as statues, exactly as I had instructed, silent witnesses of this verse of the epic that was my saga.
“Kill them all, spare no one. Purge the unclean,” I ordered and they shouted a battlecry in response.
And like hounds let loose, they fell upon the elves with savage abandon.
I smiled a savage grin. Iron blood and the fresh terror hanging upon the air like a funeral shroud. Oh how I laughed, my Holy Aura of gleaming gold casting a twisted parody of light upon this violent tableau that was unfolding before.
I had been dealt a cruel hand by this world, and I would repay it a thousandfold. Let the people of this world bear witness to the depths of my vengeance.
