----Chapter 17: A war not Our Own---
"CHARGE!"
The world moved.
Sylvian's voice shattered the stillness, and the knights surged forward. Steel, flesh, and fury became one, pounding against the ruined earth like an unstoppable force.
The Wedge Formation didn't form instantly—it shaped itself in motion, unfolding like the turning of a great tide. Sylvian and Sir Aldric led from horseback, their capes snapping behind them as they pierced through the battlefield's heart, clearing the way for the soldiers falling into place.
Boots thundered. Swords gleamed. Shields locked.
And then, the monsters came.
---
A blur of black fur and muscle erupted from the ruins.
A wolf—but not a wolf.
Its hulking frame, over five meters long, moved with unnatural speed. Its golden eyes burned, fangs as long as daggers gleaming beneath lips curled in a snarl.
It leapt.
Sylvian met it mid-air.
His sword sang through the cold, slicing into its shoulder, splitting flesh and bone. Blood sprayed, warm and thick, but the beast didn't stop—it writhed, jaws snapping. Sylvian twisted his wrist, driving the blade deeper, until it crumpled lifelessly beneath him.
More came.
Tigers, sleek and monstrous, their claws tearing trenches into the ground, their amber eyes glowing with something unnatural. One sprang from a crumbling rooftop, descending like a falling star toward a knight—
Aldric was faster.
His sword flashed in a perfect arc, parrying the beast mid-air. The force shook his arm, sent him skidding back, but he did not falter. His second strike was already moving, severing the tiger's front limb in a clean motion. It howled, thrashing—Aldric stepped forward, one decisive thrust driving his blade through its skull.
Yet, perfection did not mean untouchable.
Another beast came from behind. Aldric turned just in time— but not fast enough. Claws raked against his side, tearing through armor, sending him stumbling. He gritted his teeth, pain flaring hot, but there was no time to bleed.
The tiger lunged again—
But was stopped by a war priest's spear.
---
They weren't just watching. They were fighting.
War priests, dressed in armor lined with silver embroidery, stood shoulder to shoulder with the knights. Their spears found flesh, their shields blocked the killing blows meant for others.
A priest raised his hand, voice steady despite the chaos around him. A golden barrier erupted mid-charge, protecting three knights from a tiger's claws. The moment it struck the light, its body seized, as if repelled by something unseen. The knights didn't hesitate—they cut it down where it stood.
A knight fell to his knees, gasping, his shield broken. Blood pooled at his side. A war priest rushed to his aid, gripping his shoulder, whispering prayers. The wounds didn't vanish—but they closed enough for him to rise again.
And then, the priests fell, too.
One was ripped apart by a wolf too fast to react to. Another, his body crushed beneath a tiger's weight.
They were not untouchable.
They bled. They died.
And yet, they fought.
Because today, there was no difference between knight and priest, faith and steel.
Only war.
---
On the other side of the battlefield, Varen was smiling. Then suddenly—
A wolf lunged at him—he met it, face to face. His greatsword came down like an executioner's blade, carving through fur and bone. Blood splattered across his cheek—he wiped it off with the back of his hand, grinning like a starved animal.
Another beast lunged.
Varen didn't dodge.
He sidestepped at the last second, using his momentum to twist into a brutal swing—his blade met flesh, cutting deep into the creature's ribs. It howled, thrashing—Varen drove his boot into its head, pinning it down, twisting his sword deeper.
---
A knight screamed beside him.
Varen turned—a beast had clamped its jaws around the man's leg, dragging him down.
Before the knight could even cry out, Varen was already moving.
One strike. One clean kill.
The wolf collapsed, its body twitching.
The knight gasped, looking up—only to see Varen's wild grin staring back at him.
"Stand up." His voice was rough, almost amused. "It's not over yet."
Then he turned. And kept killing.
---
On the other side of the battlefield, Sylvian's blade moved without hesitation.
A wolf lunged—he stepped forward, sword carving through its ribs. Blood splattered across his armor. Another tiger charged, claws bared—he pivoted, his blade finding its throat.
But then—
His grip faltered.
Just for a moment.
The past came crashing down—the castle burning, the screams of his people, the scent of blood in the throne room. He could hear them. He could see them.
And in that moment, he wasn't fighting here. He was fighting ghosts. But then—
A monster lunged.
Too fast. Too close.
But before it reached him—a spear drove through its chest.
A war priest stood beside him. Not judging. Not questioning.
Just fighting.
Sylvian exhaled, steadying his grip. The past could haunt him later.
Right now—he had a war to finish.
---
His sword moved without hesitation.
A monstrous wolf lunged—he sidestepped, blade flashing upward, carving through its ribs. It howled, stumbling.
He was already moving.
A second swing met its throat. Steel cut through flesh. A final cry. Silence.
Beside him, a priest lifted his staff, chanting under his breath. Light surged. A barrier formed just as another beast lunged—its claws slammed against the divine shield, stopping mid-air.
Sylvian didn't waste the moment.
One precise thrust.
Steel met flesh.
The creature collapsed.
The priest nodded at him. No words, just understanding—a moment of battle-forged trust.
Another war priest, bloodied but unshaken, raised his spear. He drove it deep into the chest of a wounded beast.
It roared, thrashing wildly.
But the priest held firm.
Another knight came from behind. His sword met the monster's skull, ending its struggle.
They fought together—knights and war priests, steel and faith, mortal hands shaping the battlefield.
Sylvian didn't need to believe in the gods.
But here, in this moment, he could believe in them. But—
---
The monsters began to retreat.
Not in a tactical retreat. Not in hesitation.
They were afraid.
Their movements became erratic, their snarls turning into whimpers. Some tried to push forward—only to stop, their bodies trembling.
And then—
A presence.
A weight settled over the battlefield, crushing, suffocating.
The knights felt it first—a sinking dread that clawed up their spines. The war priests froze mid-prayer, their words faltering.
And the monsters—
The monsters turned.
Not to fight.
To run.
A shadow moved through the mist.
A figure.
Not an animal. Not a beast.
Something too close to human—but not at the same time.
It stood over three meters tall. Its veins pulsed beneath its flesh, twisting like writhing roots. Its body was grotesquely muscular, skin stretched tight over something unnatural.
And its eyes.
Blurred red. Dripping with malice.
It did not snarl.
It did not roar.
It simply charged.
Straight toward Sylvian.
And then—