The monstrous rooster charged with a shrill, guttural screech, its wings beating like war drums as it closed the distance. Its beak, long as a dagger and honed like a blacksmith's spike, struck toward Sawin's skull with the intent to split it clean open.
Sawin stumbled back, the sheer weight and speed of the creature forcing him off balance. He hit the ground hard—but didn't stop. Rolling fast across the leaf-strewn dirt, he narrowly avoided the follow-up strike that punched a shallow crater where his head had just been.
Before the creature could correct its posture, the Dark Crusader Recruits swept in, swords gleaming like rivers of light in the forest's dim canopy. They slashed in unison—but their blades rang out in a chorus of sparks as the rooster parried with its beak, deflecting steel with unnatural precision.
It was no mere beast. This was a veteran of battles, its instincts honed to a razored edge.
Still, the Recruits didn't relent. With teeth clenched and boots grinding against the snow, they pressed forward, their strength and coordination overwhelming. The rooster was forced back, its talons digging deep trenches into the ground—six gouges scarring the soil as it skidded, screeching, refusing to fall.
From the edge of the glade, Sett stood still, watching, his heart hammering. The flames of his dragons stirred behind him, their eyes glowing with primal hunger. He felt their call—heard the unspoken question they pulsed into his thoughts.
Let us end it.
But he couldn't. He wouldn't.
Each kill transferred a fraction of chi from the slain to the slayer—a subtle yet potent essence of life. If his dragons were to go rampant now, they'd claim all the spoils, tipping the balance of power too far. They'd grow fast but his men won't grow at all.
He had to let his men bleed for their strength.
Swain moved like a shadow loosed from form. His cloak billowed as he surged forward, sword held low, gaze locked onto the rooster. Then, in a single heartbeat, he struck—his blade slicing horizontally in a silver arc meant to cleave the beast in two.
But the rooster was faster than it looked. Its wings exploded open with a thunderous gust, propelling it back in a blur of motion. The Recruits staggered, caught off-guard by the windstorm it left behind.
It landed with lethal grace, talons poised, head low, eyes locked on them with a deadly gleam.
This creature had fought before.
And lived.
Then it came again, faster this time—its battle cry ripping through the air like a warhorn as it lunged, beak first, blade-like and unwavering.
Sett's breath caught.
The Recruits scattered, diving left and right, while Swain feigned retreat—one step back, another stumble—until, like a coiled spring, he burst to the side.
The rooster struck the tree instead, the impact echoing with a wooden crunch as its beak drove deep into the thick trunk. Bark splintered, and sap oozed down like blood from a wound.
It struggled.
It thrashed.
But its weapon—its pride—was stuck.
The Recruits saw their moment. With a yell, they surged forward. Their swords came down in unison, stabbing into feathered flesh, piercing through sinew. The rooster jerked once, eyes wide with shock.
No scream left its throat.
Its body convulsed—then fell still, blood pooling beneath its wings. It hung, limp, still impaled in the tree.
And from both rooster's corpses, two shadows rose—black-winged and silent. Ravens.
They circled briefly, then dove into the dim outline trailing behind Swain, merging with his ever-growing shadow like droplets into water.
"Pull it ou—" Sett began, voice tight.
But the forest was not done.
Three more roosters burst through the underbrush, feathers rustling like drawn blades, their golden eyes filled with fury. Whether it was grief or revenge that drove them, none could tell—but the hunger for blood was clear.
This time, Sett stepped forward.
His hand went to his side, fingers curling around the hilt of his sword. With a clear, resonant shing, he drew it—the polished steel catching the outline of his face. It was so clean it mirrored his face, agitated yet hardened by the sight before him.
Thanks to the fragmented past of the previous Sett that lived in his bones, he wasn't a stranger to swordplay. Not a master—but not green either.
Swain shifted into a new stance, body still, weight centered. The Recruits looked to him, sensing something deeper in his poise—a warrior's readiness forged through war and loss.
But before anyone could speak, the underbrush erupted again.
And again.
Dozens of shrubs trembled, shaking violently as more massive forms pushed through.
The dragons snarled. Flames danced in their throats.
And then, with primal rage, they exhaled.
Wild, untamed, orange fireballs shot into the thicket, igniting leaves and bark, turning the green to ash. Though the dragons were small, their fury was not. Flameball after flameball tore through the brush, lighting up the shrubs.
Men met monsters. Steel clashed with talons. Screeches pierced the roar of fire.
And as the forest burned, the battle for survival raged on.
____
Crack!
The ground trembled as monoliths tore themselves free from the earth, erupting skyward like fangs of black stone. A soft quake rolled out across the clearing, rattling cooking pots and upsetting the balance of the firepit's stones. The air vibrated with a low, unnatural hum.
Then—shatter.
The space between the monoliths fractured, the very fabric of reality splintering like glass. Cracks glowed with radiant fissures, and from within burst a golden brilliance, so pure and fierce it looked as if the sun had been trapped behind a wall of reality and now fought to break free.
Nirelle had just turned the roasting potatoes. She froze, hand still clutching the wooden skewer. Beside her, the old man and his young son slowly rose to their feet, eyes transfixed on the portal gate as it blazed like a second dawn beneath the night sky.
The shadows of the fire twisted violently, dancing in sharp contrasts.
The more the light pushed, the more the world bent and cracked around it—groaning with the strain of something vast and unnatural forcing its way through.
And then, in an instant, the brilliance burst through fully.
The golden radiance engulfed everything.
James had barely opened his mouth to count—"one"—when it faded, pulling back like a tide. What remained in its wake made his jaw drop.
A figure knelt at the center, clutching the rich brown soil like a long-lost lover. Around him stood others—three armed men, dragons, and roosters. Fourteen roosters, each towering a full meter tall, yet sprawled on the ground, dead.
James squinted, trying to count quickly. "One… six… ten… fourteen!" he whispered, his voice filled with equal parts awe and hunger. He licked his lips unconsciously. "I'm suddenly craving meat…"
At the center, Sett remained on his knees. Dirt filtered slowly through the cracks of his fingers, each grain a reminder of home—of warmth, of water, of rest.
"It's been almost five days," he muttered, voice hoarse as he stared down at the ground, letting the soil fall like sand through his grasp. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion, but his eyes burned with the quiet intensity of someone who had endured.
Four nights of snow, of cold that gnawed bone-deep. Roosters, relentless and intelligent, pecked and clawed like beasts from some twisted farmyard hell. But above all, it was thirst that had broken them.
The barrel they had left with had long run dry.
Yet those four days had not been in vain.
Sett glanced at his men, and pride flickered in his expression. Their stances were firm now, their gazes alert. The way they gripped their weapons—steady, ready—spoke of the forge of the untamed land they'd been tempered in.
The raw recruits that had followed him through the monolith a day ago had returned warriors.
His dragons approached, no longer the scrawny whelps they once were. Their eyes gleamed with confidence, their steps lighter, more assured. The scales along their flanks had grown firmer.
Sett accepted the space James offered him beside the fire, settling down with a soft exhale. He reached out, ruffling the damp grass with his fingers, still savoring the contrast between harsh snow and warm earth.
"We've killed some of them for days now," he said, turning to Nirelle, "but they keep coming... Unfortunately, quite a few were burnt badly—and we only managed to eat one. I want you to take care of the rest. I plan to sell them, so cut them well."
Nirelle looked toward the pile of feathery corpses laid out on the ground. She sighed heavily. "I'll need a shop, My Lord."
Sett smiled faintly, despite his fatigue.
"I'll give you one."