The orc king roared, a deafening cry of defiance that echoed across the mountains. Even weakened, he remained a towering figure of destruction, his hulking frame soaked in blood—both his own and that of his enemies. His crimson eyes glowed with unrelenting fury, and the massive black axe in his hands gleamed with faint traces of corrupted aether.
The battle had taken its toll on him. The once-immaculate armor that encased his body was now cracked and scorched, its runes flickering as if struggling to hold their power. His movements were slower, heavier, but no less dangerous.
Alaric stood before him, battered but unbroken. His golden blade trembled slightly in his grip, and his breathing was labored, yet his determination had not wavered.
"He's still standing," Alaric growled, glaring at the orc king. "This monster doesn't know when to die."
Floating nearby, Eryas gathered aether into his hands, his body glowing faintly as spirals of flame danced around him. Sweat trickled down his brow, and his voice was tight with strain.
"We don't need him to die easily," he said. "We just need him to die."
The orc king slammed his axe into the frozen ground, releasing a crimson shockwave that fractured the ice and sent shards flying in every direction. Alaric barely managed to raise his shield in time to block the debris.
"Eryas!" Alaric shouted, stepping back to brace himself. "Do something before he sends me flying into the next mountain!"
Eryas raised his hands, a fiery rune forming beneath his feet. He channeled all his remaining energy into a massive inferno, flames erupting like a geyser and enveloping the orc king in an intense blaze. The heat melted the snow around them and filled the air with smoke and ash.
The flames dissipated, revealing the orc king's blackened form. His armor was scorched, his skin charred and cracked. For a moment, it seemed like the attack had finally brought him to his knees.
But then, his wounds began to close. Slowly but visibly, the gashes on his body sealed themselves, the flickering runes on his armor growing brighter as if fueled by some unseen force.
"Damn it," Eryas muttered, his hands trembling from the effort of his spell. "It's still not enough."
The orc king roared again and charged, his axe swinging with unrelenting force.
The battle intensified.
The orc king fought like a beast cornered, his blows shaking the ground and forcing Alaric to retreat step by step. Each strike of the colossal axe sent shockwaves rippling through the battlefield, and even Alaric's golden blade, imbued with powerful aether, struggled to deflect the devastating attacks.
"Eryas!" Alaric shouted, gritting his teeth as he parried another blow that sent cracks spidering through the ice beneath him. "If you've got another trick, now's the time!"
Eryas landed lightly on the ground, panting, his body glowing faintly from residual aether. He gestured toward the king, and a pillar of ice erupted beneath the orc's feet, briefly immobilizing him.
"Good enough for you?" Eryas snapped, his tone edged with frustration.
But the orc king shattered the ice with a furious swing of his axe, the shards spraying in all directions. He let out a guttural laugh, the sound low and mocking.
"It's not enough," Alaric muttered under his breath, stepping back to reposition himself. "Not yet."
Helbrand stood at a distance, watching the battle with narrowed eyes. His armor bore the marks of countless strikes, and his shield was dented from holding the line against the horde. But he was still standing, still unyielding.
He observed the orc king carefully, noting the way his movements slowed after every exchange with Alaric and Eryas. The monster was faltering, but not fast enough. Helbrand knew they couldn't keep this up forever.
He placed his massive shield on the ground, gripping it tightly. The aether around him began to shift, a low hum resonating in the air. A faint glow emanated from his body, growing brighter with each passing second.
Kael, nearby, turned to see what was happening. "Helbrand… what are you doing?" he asked, a note of unease in his voice.
Helbrand didn't answer immediately. Instead, he took a deep breath, his voice finally cutting through the chaos like a rumble of thunder. "Chevaliers," he said, his tone calm but commanding. "Prepare to witness the end."
The glow around him intensified, and his shield began to change. The edges extended, forming razor-sharp blades, and the entire shield seemed to pulse with energy. An aura of aether surrounded it, crackling like lightning.
Daryon, perched on a nearby ridge, lowered his bow in shock. "By the gods…" he whispered.
Helbrand stepped forward, his boots crunching against the blood-soaked snow. He raised the shield above his head, his voice booming across the battlefield. "King of beasts… I am the Wall of Ice. And your reign ends here."
With a roar, Helbrand hurled the shield with all his strength.
The shield streaked through the air like a meteor, leaving a trail of blinding light in its wake. It spun faster than the eye could follow, its edges glowing with an ethereal sharpness.
When it struck, it did so with devastating precision. The shield tore cleanly through the orc king's neck, severing his head in a single motion. The massive head flew through the air, landing with a heavy thud in the bloodied snow.
The king's body stood motionless for a moment before collapsing to its knees, then falling forward with a deafening crash. The ground seemed to shake beneath his weight, and the battlefield fell silent.
But the shield wasn't finished. It curved back in a perfect arc, cutting through a line of orcs on its return. Ten bodies fell in its path before the shield came to rest back in Helbrand's hands.
All eyes were on him.
Even Galahad, standing amid the bodies of the shaman and his guards, was stunned. "What… was that?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Helbrand lowered his shield, his breath visible in the freezing air. He turned to Kael, his expression calm. "Sometimes, the wall isn't just for defense."
Kael let out a breathless laugh. "Remind me never to stand in your way."
The orcs, seeing their king fall and their champions dead, panicked. Their cohesion dissolved, and they began to flee.
"Advance!" Helbrand roared, raising his shield once more. "Take them down!"
The knights surged forward, their spirits renewed. The tide of the battle had turned completely, and the orcs, leaderless and terrified, were cut down one by one.
An hour later, the battlefield was silent. The snow, stained red with blood, was littered with the bodies of the fallen.
A single cry broke the silence. "Victory!"
The shout spread, growing louder and louder as the knights raised their weapons in triumph. Their voices rang out across the mountains, a chorus of triumph and survival.
Galahad, standing near Helbrand, wiped the blood from his blade and gave the man a tired but admiring smile. "Helbrand… that was something else."
Helbrand rested his shield on the ground and placed a heavy hand on Galahad's shoulder. "And you, Lysandor… you fought well."
The wind carried away the echoes of their cries. The battle was won, but each knight knew that greater challenges still lay ahead.
***
The battle was over. The blood-stained snow bore silent witness to the violence of the day, but now the battlefield was eerily quiet.
Despite their exhaustion, the knights worked with grim efficiency. Orc bodies were gathered into a massive pile at the center of the field, a grotesque monument to the day's carnage. The corpses were twisted, their limbs contorted unnaturally, while shattered weapons and fragments of crude armor littered the ground.
Galahad stood at the edge of the field, watching the knights as they toiled. He hadn't volunteered for this task—not because he was unwilling, but because his mentors had ordered him to rest. Yet he couldn't relax. His thoughts were still consumed by the battle, replaying every move, every decision, every moment of survival.
Nearby, a group of knights searched through the orc bodies, salvaging anything that could be of use. They found crude amulets carved with jagged runes, battered weapons, and pieces of rough iron armor. These items were set aside, while the rest of the pile was prepared for burning.
"Lysandor!" a familiar voice called out, breaking his concentration.
Galahad turned to see Kael striding toward him, his face lit with a broad grin. The veteran's armor was still smeared with dried blood, but he carried himself with his usual carefree energy.
"Take a look at this," Kael said, holding up a small, jagged dagger crafted by the orcs. The blade glinted faintly in the cold light. "Crude as hell, but sharp enough to slice through leather like butter. It might actually be useful… if you don't mind risking an infection just by touching it."
Galahad chuckled softly and shook his head. "I think I'll stick to my own sword, but you're right—they know how to forge tools that work."
Kael studied him for a moment before clapping a hand on his shoulder. "So, Lysandor, how does it feel to be a hero? Everyone's talking about you. Word is, you slipped behind enemy lines and took out that damned shaman all by yourself."
Galahad shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I just did what needed to be done. It wasn't heroic—it was necessary."
Kael let out a hearty laugh. "Spoken like a true hero. Don't let it go to your head, though."
At the center of the field, the knights had completed their grim task. With the bodies piled high and wood stacked beneath, a few knights channeled their aether to ignite the pyre. Flames roared to life, licking hungrily at the mountain of corpses.
The stench was immediate and overwhelming—a nauseating mix of burning flesh, leather, and corrupted energy. Galahad turned his face away, his stomach churning. Even Kael, usually unfazed, pinched his nose and muttered, "Smells like victory, doesn't it?"
A young knight named Ardyn approached Galahad, holding up a crude amulet he'd pulled from the pile. "You think this thing is worth anything?" he asked, turning it over in his hands.
Galahad examined the amulet. It was rough, etched with haphazard runes that seemed more ornamental than functional. "Probably not. It might've been used for their magic, but without their shaman, it's just a trinket."
Ardyn nodded and tossed the amulet into the flames. "Then we burn it all. These monsters don't deserve to leave anything behind."
Later, when the fire had reduced the bodies to ash and embers, Galahad made his way across the camp to find Helbrand. The Wall of Ice stood by himself, his enormous shield propped against the ground. He was meticulously cleaning its edges, his expression as stoic as ever.
"Helbrand," Galahad called as he approached.
The giant knight looked up, his face calm despite the exhaustion etched into his features. "Lysandor."
Galahad hesitated, then smiled. "What you did out there… it was incredible. I didn't think a shield could be used like that."
Helbrand raised an eyebrow. "A shield is a weapon, if you know how to use it." He paused, then added, "And you—you did well. Taking out that shaman turned the tide of the battle."
"I just did my part," Galahad said modestly.
Helbrand studied him for a moment before resting a massive hand on his shoulder. "And that's all we ask of any knight. Well done."
The words sent a warmth through Galahad's chest. Helbrand's approval meant more than any cheer or chant of his name.
As night fell, the knights set up camp. Fires were lit, their flickering light casting long shadows across the snow. For the first time in days, the atmosphere was light.
The knights gathered what provisions they had left, and soon an improvised feast was underway. The sound of laughter and chatter filled the air as they shared food and stories of the battle.
Galahad sat by one of the fires, surrounded by a group of younger knights who bombarded him with questions.
"Is it true you snuck behind enemy lines?" one of them asked, his eyes wide with admiration.
"How did you fight so many orcs at once?" another chimed in.
Galahad, smiling faintly, shook his head. "It wasn't as impressive as you think. I just used my head—and my sword."
"Not impressive?" Kael interjected, strolling by with a plate of roasted meat. "This boy has more guts than the lot of you combined. He slipped behind their lines and killed the shaman. Without him, we'd probably all be dead."
The young knights looked at Galahad with newfound awe, and he couldn't help but feel a bit embarrassed.
Later, Alaric and Eryas joined the group around the fire. Both men looked exhausted, but there was a satisfaction in their expressions.
"Well done, Galahad," Alaric said as he sat heavily on a log. "You've finally shown what you're capable of."
Eryas nodded, raising a makeshift cup. "To our victory. And to Lysandor."
The knights around the fire raised their cups in unison, their voices ringing out: "To Lysandor!"
Galahad shook his head, a sheepish grin on his face. For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to relax and enjoy the moment. The battle was over. They had won. And for tonight, that was all that mattered.