CHAPTER 75: THE HAMMER FALLS

The air changed.

One moment Sylas stood across the fire, his eyes locked on Soren’s, the next, something invisible yet overwhelming poured from him like a flood breaking through a dam.

The campfire guttered and shrank, flames bending away as if fleeing his presence. The very air grew heavy, pressing down with the weight of an ocean.

Soren’s lungs seized. His vision swam. Every instinct screamed to run, to hide, to escape the crushing pressure that threatened to collapse his chest.

Around him, men staggered like drunkards. A Lanther knight dropped to one knee, face contorted in silent agony. Another clawed at his throat as if drowning on dry land.

The horses screamed, a sound Soren had never heard before, primal terror stripped of any restraint. Several broke their tethers, bolting blindly into the darkness.

’Aura,’ Soren realized with dawning horror. This was what Kaelor had described during training, the manifestation of will made tangible. But the Swordmaster’s clinical explanations hadn’t prepared him for this reality.

Across the clearing, Lord Lanther collapsed to his knees, blood trickling from his nose. "What... what is this?" he gasped, voice barely audible above the chaos.

The shard against Soren’s chest burned like a brand, Valenna’s presence surging forward with savage intensity.

"Don’t you fall," she snarled inside his mind, her voice a blade against the crushing pressure. "Watch."

Soren locked his knees, fighting to remain upright as the world tilted around him. Through watering eyes, he saw Harrick stumble backward, his face drained of color, pride replaced by naked terror. Even the Dravien captain, a veteran of three campaigns, had fallen to one knee, hand braced against the ground.

Only Ashgard and Kaelor remained fully upright, though strain showed in the tight lines around their eyes.

"Form ranks!" Ashgard bellowed, his voice somehow cutting through the pressure. "Shields forward!"

Sylas smiled, a cold, empty expression that never reached those inhuman green eyes. His sword hung casually at his side, blood still dripping from its edge.

"Is this what the noble houses send against me?" he asked, voice soft yet carrying to every corner of the camp. "Children playing at war?"

Something in his words sparked desperate courage. Three knights from House Lanther surged forward, swords raised, faces contorted with determination that couldn’t quite mask their fear. Behind them, two Karvath blades moved to flank, their green surcoats dark in the dimmed firelight.

"For Lanther!" the lead knight cried, blade descending in what should have been a killing stroke.

Sylas moved.

Later, Soren would struggle to describe what he saw. The green-haired killer didn’t seem to dodge, he simply wasn’t where the blade fell. His own sword flashed once, twice, three times, each stroke flowing into the next like water over stone.

The lead Lanther knight stumbled, confusion replacing battle-rage. He looked down at the thin red line that had appeared across his throat, hand rising to touch it in bewilderment. Blood poured between his fingers. He collapsed without another sound.

The second knight managed to raise his blade in defense, aura flaring blue around the steel, a shield that should have turned any normal weapon. Sylas’s sword passed through it as if it were mist, opening the man from shoulder to hip. He didn’t even have time to scream.

The third fell in mid-lunge, his timing suddenly, inexplicably wrong. It was as if Sylas had somehow bent the rhythm of combat itself, the knight’s perfect form transformed into awkward vulnerability by some subtle distortion of space or time.

The Karvath blades fared no better. One swung at empty air as Sylas stepped inside his guard.

The other managed to block a strike that should have taken his head, only to find his blade shattered, steel fragments glittering in the firelight before Sylas’s return stroke opened his chest.

Five knights in as many heartbeats. Not a single wasted movement. Not a hint of effort on the killer’s face.

"Ashgard! To me!" Lord Ashgard’s voice cut through the chaos, carrying the unmistakable command of one accustomed to being obeyed even in death’s shadow.

His knights responded with discipline that bordered on miraculous under the crushing weight of Sylas’s aura. They moved as one, shields locking together, forming a wall of steel between the killer and the rest of the camp.

Ashgard himself stood at their center, sword drawn but held low, those steel-gray eyes betraying nothing as he faced the green-haired demon who had decimated the first wave of defenders.

"Hold," he commanded, and his men braced themselves, shoulders pressing against shields, feet digging into the earth.

Sylas tilted his head slightly, regarding the formation with something like mild interest. "Discipline," he remarked. "How refreshing."

He moved toward them, each step deliberate, unhurried. The pressure of his aura intensified, forcing Soren to lock every muscle to remain standing. The shard against his chest burned hotter, Valenna’s presence a counterweight to the crushing force.

Sylas reached the shield wall and struck, a single, economical blow that should have been easily turned by the interlocked defenses.

Instead, the knight who received it staggered backward as if hit by a battering ram. The formation wavered but held, shields shifting to cover the momentary weakness.

Ashgard barked another command, and his line surged forward, driving Sylas back a single step. For the first time, something like surprise flickered across the killer’s perfect features.

"Interesting," he murmured, adjusting his grip on his bloodied sword.

The next exchange came too fast for Soren to follow completely, blade meeting shield, shield reinforced by shoulder, shoulder supported by stance.

Ashgard’s men moved with the synchronized precision of those who had trained together for years, each covering the other’s vulnerabilities, none fighting as individuals.

For a brief, fragile moment, they held him.

Then Sylas changed.

The pressure that had filled the clearing doubled, then tripled. The remnants of the campfire died completely, plunging the scene into darkness broken only by the moon’s pale light.

Soren’s ears popped as if he’d descended a mountain too quickly. His vision narrowed to a tunnel, the edges going gray.

Through this narrowing window, he watched Sylas strike the shield wall again, not with greater force, but with perfect placement. A shield cracked. A knight fell. The formation buckled.

"Enough of this," Sylas said, voice still conversational despite the havoc he wrought. "I came for specific prey."

His blade blurred, and another Ashgard knight collapsed, blood spraying from a wound no shield had blocked. A third fell to one knee, shield arm suddenly limp and useless.

The formation, so perfect moments before, began to disintegrate under the precision of Sylas’s attacks.

A flash of silver cut through the darkness as Kaelor stepped forward, his scarred face set in grim determination. The Swordmaster’s blade hummed with visible power, silver aura spiraling along its length like living lightning.

"Get back," he growled to the remaining knights. "Reform behind me."

Sylas paused, those inhuman green eyes shifting to assess this new threat. Something like recognition flickered in their depths.

"A Swordmaster," he observed, a faint smirk touching his lips. "At least one of you is worth my time."

Kaelor didn’t waste breath on reply. He moved with speed that belied his bulk, blade tracing a silver arc through the darkness.

Sylas met it with his own, the clash sending visible waves of power rippling outward. For a heartbeat, the two stood locked together, steel against steel, will against will.

Then they broke apart and truly began to fight.

Soren had seen Kaelor train, had felt the Swordmaster’s skill firsthand during brutal practice sessions. But this, this was different.

Every movement carried deadly purpose. Every strike contained enough force to shatter stone. Their blades met with impacts that sent tremors through the ground beneath Soren’s feet.

Silver aura flared around Kaelor’s sword as he pressed forward, driving Sylas back toward the treeline. For a moment, hope flickered in Soren’s chest. The Swordmaster was holding his own, matching the killer’s impossible speed with decades of hard-earned skill.

Then Soren saw it, the subtle signs of strain in Kaelor’s movements. Each exchange cost the Swordmaster more than it cost his opponent. Each strike pushed him closer to his limits while Sylas remained fluid, untroubled.

"You’ve trained well," Sylas remarked as their blades locked once more. "But training only carries one so far."

Kaelor’s single eye narrowed, his scarred face tight with effort. "Talk less," he grunted. "Die more."

The Swordmaster disengaged and struck again, his blade moving in the complex pattern Soren recognized from countless demonstrations, the Severing Wind, a technique few could master and fewer could defend against.

Sylas not only defended; he countered. His blade slipped past Kaelor’s guard, opening a thin line across the Swordmaster’s ribs. Not a killing blow, but a message, saying he could have ended him, but choose not to yet.

Kaelor stumbled back, silver aura flickering as blood darkened his side. Still, he raised his blade again, refusing to yield.

The pressure of Sylas’s aura suddenly shifted, like a current changing direction. Those inhuman green eyes locked onto Soren, piercing through the chaos of battle with terrible focus.

The shard against Soren’s chest erupted in searing pain, as if trying to burn its way through his flesh. His knees buckled as Sylas’s full attention crashed into him like a physical blow.

Through the agony, images flashed behind his eyes, a battlefield strewn with corpses, blood-soaked mud stretching to the horizon. Lightning split a storm-black sky. At the center of it all stood Sylas, sword raised, surrounded by the fallen.

"Even monsters can bleed," Valenna’s voice cut through the vision, cold and clear. "Stand."

Soren fought to remain conscious as the pressure threatened to crush him completely. His lungs refused to fill. His heart hammered against his ribs like a caged animal. Every instinct screamed to submit, to collapse, to escape the overwhelming presence that pressed against his very soul.

But something within him, pride or stubbornness or simple fear of Valenna’s disappointment, refused to yield. He locked his knees, forced air into his lungs, and met those terrible green eyes without flinching.

Around him, the camp had descended into complete chaos. The shield wall had collapsed entirely. Knights fled in all directions, all pretense of courage abandoned.

A Trescan noble screamed for retreat, only to be cut down mid-flight. Harrick was nowhere to be seen, having apparently abandoned his house’s banner at the first opportunity.

Only Ashgard maintained any semblance of order, gathering his remaining knights into a fighting retreat toward the horses. Kaelor stood between them and Sylas, blood now soaking his side, but sword still raised in defiance.