Chapter 1
"They are approaching from the Alchemist Grove!" a sentry shouted, his voice cutting through the quiet.
Alex's head snapped up as the words registered. He quickly gathered his supplies, strapped on his battleaxe and shield, and stepped out of his tent. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and faintly glowing fungi, the swamp's mystical ambiance now charged with the tension of impending battle.
His black plate armor gleamed faintly in the eerie light. The runes etched into the metal pulsed with faint energy, some designed for protection, others for enhancing his strength and speed. He flexed his fingers, feeling the weight of his axe in one hand and the steady reassurance of his shield on his arm.
To his right, Kraz stood, his tall, muscular frame hunched over as he pulled on his clawed gauntlets. The nearly seven-foot lizardman adjusted the straps with precision, his scaled hands moving with practiced ease. The gauntlets, made of a magically enhanced metal, caught the faint light and gleamed menacingly.
"Ready, Kraz?" Alex asked, extending his fist for a bump.
Kraz tilted his head, confused for a moment, then extended his open palm to meet Alex's fist. Alex couldn't help but chuckle inwardly. He had taught Kraz how to high-five, but the concept of a fist bump still eluded him. 'Close enough,' Alex thought, making a mental note to explain it later.
"Yes," Kraz said in his deep, guttural voice, his golden eyes gleaming with determination. "We will be victorious!"
The two moved toward the sentry who had raised the alarm, joining other students gathering along the way. Many were unfamiliar faces, students Alex hadn't yet met, but a few were familiar—classmates, dormmates, and sparring partners. They exchanged quick nods, a silent acknowledgment of the gravity of the situation.
As they reached the front lines, Alex shook his head, trying to push away the creeping thoughts of fear and doubt. He needed focus. Distraction would only get him killed. He tightened his grip on his axe as the first enemy figures emerged from the trees.
They wore flaming black masks shaped like skulls, their dark robes blending seamlessly into the shadows of the swamp. Magic flared in their hands, and the air grew thick with an oppressive energy. These were no mere students—they were traitors, and their intent was clear: destruction.
"Charge!" someone bellowed, and the melee fighters surged forward as one.
Alex ran alongside Kraz, their movements practiced and purposeful. Alex's shield was up, deflecting an arrow with a metallic *ting* before intercepting a ray of greenish energy that would have seared through flesh. Beside him, Kraz dropped to all fours, his powerful limbs propelling him forward with inhuman speed. He weaved through the enemy's attacks, his claws glinting as he prepared to strike.
The swamp erupted into chaos. Steel clashed against steel, magic crackled in the air, and the cries of battle echoed across the battlefield.
Alex approached the first masked figure. They lashed out with a pair of daggers dripping with a green glowing substance. He took the first dagger on his shield and used the force of the blow to spin himself around the opponent and swinging his axe backwards. He managed to hit the masked individual in the left shoulder blade. It sunk it with a sickening noise.
He already had another opponent approaching, so he had to temporarily abandon his axe. Alex enhanced his speed further to sweep inside the next opponent's reach. He used his shield to bash the individual into the air and he reached out with his now empty hand towards the now airborne foe.
A black energy coated Alex's hand and he tapped the opponent on the chest. The mask fell away revealing a girl Alex knew from his martial prowess class. Her skin started to shrivel at a rapid pace. Her skin cracked and turned to ash.
Alex retrieved his axe as Kraz covered his back. They dove back into it. Dancing through the battlefield together. That was until the first of the explosions went off.
*BOOM!*
The shockwave hit like a tidal wave, throwing Alex off his feet and sending him hurtling backward. The world spun, a cacophony of sound and light that left him disoriented. He hit the ground hard, his breath knocked out of him as debris rained down.
When his senses returned, he found himself lying in a jagged crater. The acrid stench of smoke and burnt earth filled his nostrils, and the metallic tang of blood coated his tongue. His ears rang, muting the distant cries and shouts into a haunting hum.
Pain lanced through his body as he tried to move. His leg—his right leg—was gone below the knee. He quickly tied a crude tourniquet just above the knee, barely staunching the flow of blood. His black plate armor was battered and scorched, the protective runes dimmed and lifeless.
All around him were bodies—friends and foes alike. Some were familiar faces, students he had laughed with and trained beside. Now they lay still, their lives extinguished. Others were masked figures, their identities obscured by the thick haze that blanketed the battlefield.
Alex's fingers clenched around the hilt of his axe, his knuckles white with strain. The weapon, once sharp and gleaming, was now chipped and dull, but it was still his lifeline. His shield, though dented and blackened, remained strapped to his arm. He forced himself to sit up, ignoring the pain that threatened to overwhelm him.
In the distance, the steady drum of approaching forces grew louder. The enemy wasn't finished yet.
He turned his gaze skyward, searching for something—hope, a sign, anything to justify the choices that had brought him here. Instead, he found doubt. He thought of his old life, the safety and simplicity of the world he had left behind. Had it been worth it?
The memory of his arrival at Verdemire flickered in his mind. The swamp had felt alive then, brimming with magic and possibility. Now it was a battlefield, a graveyard steeped in betrayal.
But there was no time for regret. He tightened his grip on his weapons and began to pull himself upright. Pain flared with every movement, but he refused to stop. If this was the end, he would meet it standing, his axe and shield in hand.
"Vikings don't die on their backs," he muttered to himself, channeling every ounce of his remaining strength.
He stumbled forward, hobbling on one leg, his resolve as unyielding as the steel he carried. Each step was agony, but he pressed on, determined to fight until his last breath.
Ahead, the enemy loomed through the smoke, their dark forms closing in. Alex let out a battle cry, a defiant roar that cut through the haze. If this was his final stand, he would make it count.
And so, with his axe raised and his shield ready, he hobbled into the fray.