Chapter 1066: Ambushes

Three months into the war, at a fort which name had been lost decades ago, another battle was raging, faced with the novel and intricate siege weaponry used by the dirt-blooded, the human warriors and soldiers had no other choice but to step out of the gate and engage the enemy into direct combat, they can not deal with the war machines from the walls, and the ramparts are showing signs of weakening.

The warriors of humanity stepped outside, and ensued a brutal combat, troops from both sides dying in droves, rising champions died like disease-ridden dogs just like the conscripted soldiers next to them, only a handful survived, some were considered heroes, some were called great champions, whilst some were simply lucky, and were managing to hold onto their precious lives even through the chaos of the battle field.

Their enemies, the dirt-blooded, were acting as an organised group, or more accurately described… As an organised mob, given the many different types and shapes of them, classical battle formations simply wouldn’t do for them, so although following an order, there is chaos seeping in through their ranks.

Resulting in any given fighter for humanity having the possibility of being attacked by just about anything, an Ill-Bred Minutemen could leap out from the crowd and deliver and powerful strike, an orcish-troll-ogre could push past their allies to grab onto you, squeezing until all your internal organs had been flung out of your orifices…

In this simultaneously chaotic and orderly battlefield, a single mistake could cost you, not only your life, but also that of your comrades.

A cry of pain resounded from a soldier, focused on the dirt-blooded around him, he was snuck up on by an ankle-size one, who used their powerful maw, to bite right the man’s ankle, making him fall over before being butchered and dismembered as the dirt-blooded coalesced around him.

Somewhere else, a young knight, bearing a full set of plate armour, although not the best quality available, it was still plenty enough to make blades of all kinds bounce off harmlessly, reinforced by fighting spirit, he swung his spear around, mowing down the ranks of the enemy like they were tall grass, and he was wielding a scythe, at least, that was until an Ill-Bred Minutemen surged from underneath a corpse right at his feet.

The corpses here had fallen minutes ago, and yet, this dirt-blooded had seemingly been hiding there from the very beginning, managing to not only escape the onslaught, but stealthily allowed himself to be buried beneath the bloody remains of his own allies.

Wielding a polearm adapted to his short size, the Ill-Bred Minutemen launched himself upward without hesitation, his weapon resembling mostly a spear, he thrusted it right toward the young knight’s chest.

The human warrior was surprised at first, but seeing the harmless attack coming his way, he prepared to deliver a crushing counter attack once the weapon was deflected by his chestplate.

The knight’s confidence quickly came crumbling down however, as the weapon reaching for him suddenly erupted with fighting spirit, and it was not directionless, mere brute force like that of a knight trainee, it was full of intent, focused on purely enhancing the piercing strength of the attack.

Having failed to imagine that the impure being before him would be capable of wielding the power of a refined warrior, the knight saw his trusty armour being penetrated, thankfully, although the attack was aimed directly for his heart, his chestplate still managed to divert it enough that the blow was not lethal, or at least, not instantly so.

But the enemy was not alone, more Ill-Bred Minutemen leapt out, having either been hiding underneath corpses, or had just jumped into action by climbing atop their own, still living, allies.

Four of them descended upon the knight, each wielding polearms with edges that seemed ripe to cause severe bleeding, they wielded fighting spirit with impressive skill, and before the young knight could put up a defence, his body hit the ground.

The raw defences of his plate armour was not enough to shield him from the four-way attack, he might have lasted longer had he deployed his fighting spirit to reinforce his suit of armour, but alas, it was too late for that.

Elsewhere on the battlefield, many scenes like this one were playing out, the unsuspecting warriors and knights, who did not fear jumping into the fray, were picked off one-by-one by ambushes from the Ill-Bred Minutemen, the short dirt-blooded moved and struck like ghosts, taking advantage of the fact that their enemies were not only unaware of their presence, but also oblivious to the fact that they had achieved good mastery of fighting spirit…

They were bold in their ambushes, hoping that if they slayed everyone in the fort, that this secret would remain one, and that they would be able to brazenly employ the same tactic another time.

However, their seemingly fool-proof technique soon failed, somewhere else, a veteran knight, garbed in a silver suit of armour was relentlessly swinging his Zweihander with a Flamberge-like blade, possessing a burning fighting spirit, and strength that was multiple times greater than most of the other knights on the battlefield, even the dirt-blooded bearing the bloodlines of giants were flung aside and killed in a single strike.

The fully-armoured terror left behind scorched earth, forcing thousands of dirt-blooded to back off before his overwhelming power, and even then, the swings of his blade could send cascades of fire through the ranks of the enemy, killing hundreds with each stroke.

The silver knight raised his sword aloft, preparing to incinerate more, but it was then that three streams of foul miasma descended from the sky, taking the form of three figures.

They all looked similar, draped in flowing dark robes, heads wrapped in black silk, hands covered in gauntlets, whilst the rest of their bodies remained concealed beneath the robes, and lastly, steel masks that slightly reflected sunlight, the masks looked alike at a glance, but there were subtle differences in how they looked, the material they were made of was simply so dark, that it was hard to distinguish the different shapes and textures.

The hunters of champions had arrived, and since they never left anything up to chance, three of them had shown up for a single target, all to make sure that the silver knight would not be leaving this battlefield as anything other than a dead man.

No time was wasted on introductions, one of them manifested a thin, black short sword and lunged forward, another wielded arcane magic, causing the knight’s own shadow to turn on him, gaining consistency as it erupted with countless hands that wrapped around his legs.

The third one instead muttered something in a language the knight could not comprehend, a curse befalling the lone warrior.

With fighting spirit forced outward, the area burned brightly…