This is the perfect opportunity to retreat, and that is the logical thing to do. Trudviar knows, yet he cannot bring himself to give the order. Self-doubt colors his eyes unsure of what he should do.
Reuniting with the elves, and making a stand in the middle watchtower, he can now see the current state of the war as he peeks casually by the windows.
For some reason, plenty of the Urden soldiers in front of them are retreating. From the top of the watchtower, he can see more soldiers outside the county. "This is bad… Are those soldiers of other noble households?" If he chooses not to give the order to retreat, they might lose the only chance they have.
The watchtower's pathways are narrow, working to the advantage of the elves thanks to their superior specs. Not one human is able to inflict real damage on them. In fact, Trudviar counts not one missing elf which is strange in its own way. Perhaps, this is the work of fate.
Suicided mission? That seems more like a joke to Trudviar now.
"This is only possible, because of him…" He whispers to himself, an irascible sense of respect and disgust for his nephew wells in his heart. He can only pray that Zeraya manages to achieve results.
There is nothing wrong with being hopeful.
However, it is not as optimistic as he likes to think too aware of their predicament. They are on a time limit, and moreover, holding capture of the top watch tower can also be disadvantageous for them. Trudviar recalls the difficulty of forcing himself inside the tower to rejoin Lafira's troop, and his close shaves to death are so numerous he lost count of them.
Trudviar, Lafira, and together with several elves hold the narrow entrance by the stairways. She drives her axe to a poor soldier's skull who unwittingly separates himself from his comrades. The other elves take a position by the windows, and the more daring elves have themselves in an incline by the tower's slanted rooftop tirelessly drawing their bows, and trying to kill as many humans as they can.
An hour, and another hour, and just more… The battle persists, the elves seem to possess inexhaustible stamina, and their concentration is not faltering even the tiniest microsecond.
Suddenly, a ruckus among the mass of human soldiers erupts as they cry in fury at the fearless assailant on their rear. Trudviar feels a sense of déjà vu because he similarly causes the same commotion when he tries to reunite with Lafira.
Coming from the human soldiers' rear is Varen. Dual wielding his daggers, he emotionlessly eviscerates an unsuspecting soldier too focused on the group of elves in front of him. The poor soldier's hoarse dreadful cry allows the other soldiers to extend their attention to him.
Fearlessly running to the mass of soldiers, Varen heroically pounces on the nearest next victim. Though blind, his superhuman hearing has already become an out-of-this-world ability allowing him a sight of 360 degrees vision.
Trudviar sees an opportunity for this, so he breaks formation, descends from the stairs, and follows on to the slaughter fest. The other melee combatants similarly follow disregarding all of their defense. However, for elves who are under the influence of doping, their offense is strong enough to be their best defense.
The human soldiers find themselves wavering at the elves' ferocity.
Initially, there are a hundred of them or so who are engaging the elves on this floor, however, their numbers seem to be useless, and are being entirely ignored. The elves under the effects of Berserker Potions might be history's first-ever recorded 'Super Soldiers' in a war setting.
The humans continue to dwindle as their crude iron, battle skills, and strategies are ineffective in the face of 'invincibility', a rare thing to happen in skirmishes while ignoring numbers. Drop dead, once, twice, thrice, and so on…
Finally, no more human soldiers are left standing. Varen is soaking with the blood of his enemies from head to toe. His gentle face is now dripping with blood, and his smile looks like that of a demon.
"General, how are you doing?"
Trudviar frowns feeling that the blind blonde elf is getting more off, and off lately. Maybe this is another influence of his majesty on the change of his people. "You are late, Varen. Help us hold the formation, and die for his majesty's glory." He orders Varen in an authoritative tone.
Varen sighs in disbelief at what he is hearing. "Please… You are too kind. Anyways, I am here to report…" With an uncompromising attitude, he gives his report to the elf general. "You need to hear this. Among the elf captives, there is an elf that goes by Naya. I don't know about mysticism, but she claims to be a clairvoyant. She says you have to save his majesty. It has to be you…"
Immediate silence envelops the floor. Even the elves wielding their melee weapons who are on the watch cannot help themselves but look at Varen. In their minds, the King is already set on 'fulfilling the prophecy' and the final chapter is almost upon them.
The 'Prophecy' is vague as its creator intends to be. Every member of the elves under his majesty knows about this prophecy though no matter how vague, it is a requirement for them to learn 'every word' of this sacred promise.
Sadly, the truth of the matter is not just vague… but also impossible…
"Coming from the human shaman's mouth is deception, yet it has truth, and at my death is the fulfillment of revenge, and in my resurrection is the beginning of the path… This is my sacred promise of truth… to this life and the next…"
Varen quotes the King as he sternly looks at Trudviar.
"I will be frank… It is bullshit… I agree on the fulfillment of revenge, but resurrection? He is an incredible King, and that is a fact, which is why I want to believe in him, but I cannot leave this just to fate… The elves won't listen to me, but if it is you, it is a different matter… You said you want to save his majesty, but you don't look the part…"
Lafira threateningly raises her axe as she gently places it at Varen's neck. "Say one more word, and you are dead…" The atmosphere becomes tense at her words, but Varen just simply ignores her.
"Sigh…" Trudviar knows what Varen is trying to get to. "I am sorry. And thank you. I won't fail you."
Second thoughts of retreat vanish in Trudviar's mind. Strong resolve and a desire to overcome the obstacles in front of him accumulate into a torrent of rage in his being. His spirit for all elves to see bares its form— a warrior, general, and family to the King.
He is Trudviar of Yoretree, the elf champion.
"Gather the elves… We will break through…"
His hazel brown hair like the earth, and nearly golden eyes like the sun are traits that the world shall learn to associate with his name… The swordsman wielding his curved sword with accurate sharpness… He shall become the first-ever Sword Saint to ever exist in the history of Ezelea.
Sword Saint Trudviar.
"Gather on me, I will be the spearhead…" Not even looking at his back, he pounces on the marching soldiers coming from the next floor. These people seem to have siege weapons. They are planning to destroy the floor above using the battering rams to take advantage of the confusion it will cause, however, they are already too late as the nesting elves abandon their perch so that they can dive down sweeping glory with their deadly talons.
Trudviar doesn't even blink as blood splatters on his cheeks.
Bringing his sword to the human soldiers, he cuts them off in half horizontally dealing death to four people at once. Once what is a mere clang is now a calming call of metal. The vibrant singing of his sword creates a beautiful melody in the air, giving silence to the cries of his enemies.
What does it need to elevate swordsmanship?
Training.
Experience.
Mindset.
Trudviar now all have these three to their highest levels imaginable. The training to improve human abilities has the Berserker Potion filling up what he lacks. The experience comes from his long years of learning under the tutelage of his father, and combined with it are the several night raids involving blood and murder. Lastly, the mindset comes from opening his heart to his understanding of 'chivalry' to his King, and his kin. He has it all.
With chilling eyes, he drives his sword to his enemies with savage finesse, a truly ironic description that combines beauty and brutality into one. Blood dances in the air like alluring red strings of fate as he claims a life, and another.
The elves follow in his trail, not losing in savageness and ferocity.
"S-swordsman? No, no… This is a saint! S-sword Saint! This is…" The ugly crying of a soldier echoes no more as Trudviar gently caresses his keen edge to the soldier's neck brutally beheading one soldier after another in the blink of an eye.