"Now!" I shouted, raising the Blade of the Fallen King high. The signal had been given, and with a mighty roar, our forces surged forward from their hidden positions along the ridges, crashing into the unsuspecting barbarians like a wave of steel and fury. The trap had been sprung perfectly, and the enemy's confusion was palpable in the air, their confidence shattered as they realized they were no longer the predators, but the prey.
The first barbarian came at me, his war axe raised high, bellowing as he charged. He was big—taller than me by a head and built like a fortress—but slow. I sidestepped his wild swing with ease, the Blade of the Fallen King slicing through the air in a clean arc that severed his arm at the elbow. He barely had time to scream before I plunged the sword into his chest, ending his life in an instant.
Around me, the battle raged with a violent intensity. The clashing of steel, the grunts of exertion, and the cries of the wounded filled the air. But this was no chaotic brawl; it was a well-executed ambush, and my knights were pressing their advantage with precision and discipline.
To my right, Ser Rodrick fought with the calm ferocity of a seasoned warrior, his movements measured and purposeful. His sword, an elegant longsword that gleamed in the torchlight, moved with deadly grace, cutting down foes with each precise strike. He wore his battle-scarred armor with pride, the crest of Eldoria emblazoned on his chestplate. His eyes, sharp and calculating, never left the battlefield, and his aura flickered like the light of the moon itself, a sign of his level—New Moon, phase 1. His every motion exuded power and control, the air around him charged with the energy of his aura cultivation.
Rodrick's strikes were effortless, cutting down barbarians who dared to challenge him. He parried a strike from one opponent, spinning on his heel to deliver a crushing blow to another. His style was fluid, each movement blending into the next with practiced ease. It was the fighting style of someone who had spent years honing their craft, every motion designed for maximum efficiency. But even as he fought, his eyes were scanning the battlefield, searching for threats greater than the ones he currently faced.
To my left, I caught sight of another figure—Ser Aldric, a knight known for his immense strength and unwavering loyalty. Aldric was a giant of a man, his thick, muscular frame covered in armor that seemed barely able to contain his bulk. His weapon of choice was a massive warhammer, a weapon that few men could wield with any degree of skill. But Aldric was no ordinary knight. He swung the warhammer as if it were a mere club, the enormous weight of the weapon crashing into the barbarians with bone-shattering force. Each strike sent shockwaves through the ground, and I watched as a barbarian was lifted off his feet by the sheer power of Aldric's blow, his body crumpling like a ragdoll.
Aldric fought with raw power, his aura flaring around him in a deep crimson glow—a sign of his own cultivation, though he had not yet reached the level of a New Moon Warrior. His strength was unmatched, and he used it to devastating effect, smashing through the ranks of the enemy with relentless force. Yet, despite his brutal style, there was a discipline in his movements, a focus that belied his intimidating appearance.
Behind him, Ser Emory moved like a shadow, his twin daggers flashing in the dim light. Emory was smaller than the other knights, his build lean and wiry, but what he lacked in size, he more than made up for in speed and agility. His fighting style was quick, almost acrobatic, as he darted between foes, striking with precision and disappearing before they could retaliate. His aura was faint, barely perceptible, but it enhanced his reflexes to near-superhuman levels. One moment, a barbarian would be swinging at him, and the next, they would be clutching their throat as blood poured from a deep gash. Emory's strikes were fast and lethal, each one designed to incapacitate or kill with minimal effort.
Despite his quiet demeanor, Emory was a deadly opponent. He fought with a ruthless efficiency, his movements so swift that they were often hard to follow. He was like a viper, striking and retreating, always one step ahead of his enemies. I could see the fear in the eyes of the barbarians as they tried to track his movements, their frustration growing with each failed attempt to land a blow.
Further ahead, Ser Helena, the only female knight in our ranks, fought with a finesse that was mesmerizing to watch. Helena was tall and slender, her long blonde hair tied back in a braid that swung behind her as she moved. She wielded a slender rapier, a weapon that seemed almost delicate compared to the brutal axes and swords of the barbarians. But in Helena's hands, it was a weapon of unmatched precision. She danced through the battlefield, her rapier flashing in the torchlight as she parried blows with ease and delivered quick, deadly thrusts to her enemies. Her aura shimmered with a pale silver glow, enhancing her speed and reflexes to near-unbelievable levels. She fought like a fencer, her style graceful and elegant, each strike perfectly timed and placed.
Helena's skill with the rapier was unparalleled, and I watched as she deftly deflected a barbarian's axe with a flick of her wrist before driving her blade through his throat. Her movements were so fluid, so graceful, that it was almost as if she were performing a deadly dance. The barbarians who faced her seemed confused, unable to keep up with her speed and precision.
And then there was Ser Garreth, the most unconventional of our knights. Garreth was a towering figure, his dark skin gleaming with sweat as he wielded a massive two-handed axe with a wild, almost reckless abandon. His fighting style was a stark contrast to the discipline of Rodrick or the precision of Helena. Garreth fought with a ferocity that bordered on madness, his axe cleaving through enemies with brutal efficiency. But despite his wild style, there was a method to his madness. He was like a whirlwind of destruction, his axe tearing through armor and flesh with ease, but his movements were always controlled, always purposeful. His aura was like a raging storm, chaotic and untamed, yet powerful.
Garreth's laughter echoed across the battlefield as he swung his axe in wide, sweeping arcs, cutting down multiple barbarians with each swing. There was something primal about the way he fought, a raw energy that seemed to feed off the chaos of battle. And yet, despite his apparent recklessness, Garreth was one of the most reliable knights in our ranks. He fought with passion, with fire, and it was that fire that made him so dangerous.
As the battle raged on, the barbarians' numbers began to dwindle. Our ambush had worked perfectly, and the enemy was now in full retreat. But just as victory seemed within our grasp, I saw it—three figures emerging from the treeline, moving with a deadly purpose. Their auras flared brightly, each one shimmering with the distinct glow of a New Moon Warrior. These were no ordinary barbarians. They were leaders, warriors who had achieved the same level of cultivation as Rodrick.
I watched as one of the New Moon Warriors locked eyes with Rodrick, his lips curling into a snarl. He was a massive brute of a man, his chest bare and covered in intricate tattoos, his eyes burning with a cold fury. His weapon was a massive war spear, its tip gleaming with a menacing light. He moved with the confidence of a seasoned warrior, his aura swirling around him like a dark storm.
Rodrick squared his shoulders, his grip tightening on his sword. "Your Highness, go! I'll handle this one."
I nodded, trusting Rodrick to hold his own. But as I turned to regroup with the other knights, I saw two of them—Ser Aldric and Ser Emory—engaged with another of the New Moon Warriors. This one was a woman, her hair braided into thick ropes that hung down her back, her eyes cold and calculating. She wielded a pair of curved swords, each one crackling with energy as she moved with terrifying speed, her aura a swirling vortex of power.
Aldric swung his warhammer with all his might, but she was too fast. She ducked under the blow, her blades slicing through the air in a blur of motion. Aldric barely had time to raise his hammer in defense, the force of her strike sending him stumbling backward. Emory darted in from the side, his daggers flashing, but she was ready for him. With a flick of her wrist, she parried his strike, her blade cutting across his arm in a spray of blood.
Rodrick's battle had begun in earnest, his sword clashing against the war spear of his opponent with a force that sent shockwaves through the air. Sparks flew with each strike, the two warriors evenly matched in strength and skill. But Rodrick's face was set with grim determination. He would not be bested by this barbarian.
My heart raced as I watched the knights fight against overwhelming odds. I wanted to step in, to help them, but I knew that Rodrick would not forgive me for interfering. His battle was his own, just as Aldric and Emory's was theirs. But the sight of the New Moon Warrior cutting through my men like they were nothing filled me with a cold rage.
This wasn't over. Not yet.