Paragon of Destruction

Arran led Stoneheart several hundreds of paces into the valley, where he found a spot for the oversized novice to hide in. Within the dense thicket, the raiders shouldn't notice him even if they passed within a few feet.

"Remember," Arran said. "Don't attack until you hear the sounds of battle."

He had already said it earlier, but repeating the command couldn't hurt. If Stoneheart attacked too soon, the whole plan would fall apart.

"Got it," Stoneheart said. "And good luck."

"Same to you," Arran replied.

He quickly headed back, seeking out a hidden position halfway between Stoneheart and the clearing at the end of the valley. Here, he would be able to see if the raiders paused to gather their numbers before they entered the clearing.

If that happened, it would be a disaster. His only choice would be to wait for the entire group to begin their assault, then attack them from behind. There might still be a chance of victory even then, but he knew it would come at a heavy cost.

As he waited for the raiders to arrive, a strange calm came over Arran. Despite his fears and worries about the upcoming battle, the strategy had been decided, and his path set. Like an arrow in flight, all that was left for him was to strike his enemies.

Several minutes passed in silence, with only the sounds of distant birds and rustling trees to be heard in the valley. A few times, he thought he heard someone approach, but each time, it was only the wind.

Then, finally, he heard it — a rustle among the trees close to his hiding spot. It quickly grew louder, and after some moments, he could hear whispering voices sounding just a few paces from his position.

"…you think we… when we… ready…"

The voices were too soft for Arran to make out more than a few disjointed words, but he knew this was the vanguard of the raiding party. Now, all he could do was wait, and trust that the spot he chose gave enough cover to hide him as they passed.

"Quiet!" a voice hissed, and the whispers ceased a moment later.

By now, Arran could hear the men's footsteps as they walked past him, and he remained motionless, barely even daring to breathe for fear of giving himself away.

Soon, however, more voices sounded, and these men seemed less concerned about being heard than the first few had been.

"Captain said there's a purse of gold if you kill the giant," one of the men said, only barely lowering his voice.

"I'm not going near that monster," another replied. "He already killed…"

The voices faded away as the men passed Arran, being replaced with others as the group moved along the valley.

That the group lacked even the discipline to remain quiet was a good sign, Arran thought. It likely meant the raiders would struggle to regroup when the attack came, and that meant Arran's plan might succeed.

Yet as more and more men passed him, he slowly began to feel some worry. Even at their slow pace, he thought, they should already have reached the clearing. If they hadn't, they might be gathering their forces before entering.

But then, it came. From the direction of the clearing, a sudden loud blast sounded, quickly followed by screams of shock and pain.

Arran did not pause to see if the sounds would continue. At once, he rushed forward, sword drawn as he crashed through the brush.

The first raider Arran faced did not even have the time to look surprised as Arran reached him, the starmetal sword's edge cleaving through his neck as soon as he turned toward the sound.

The second fared no better, dying with his sword half-drawn and his face twisted in shock. By then, the few others around them had drawn their weapons, but it brought them little help. While they were Body Refiners, they could not match Arran's strength and speed, and in their startled state they fell within seconds.

After a few moments, all the raiders near Arran were dead or dying, while those farther away seemed stunned by the sudden attack.

Arran used this brief pause in the battle to throw the strongest Battering Force attack he could muster through the valley toward the clearing, its force tearing through men and trees alike. He followed it up with several large fireballs, leaving the raiders ahead of him in chaos.

He turned around and instantly rushed toward the enemies who were now ahead of him. His sword ripped through any who came within reach of his blade, while those beyond it were struck by a barrage of magic attacks.

Yet while he had taken the first few raiders by surprise, many still remained, and after their initial shock, they had begun to defend themselves.

As Arran slaughtered his way through their ranks, some of their attacks now struck him. His armor protected him from most attacks, but even so, he quickly sustained a series of small injuries — a shallow gash along his neck, a slash across the exposed part of his arm, a cut to his face, and others not worth mentioning.

Yet he only barely noticed the injuries as he fought, the same excitement and strength he had felt during the ambush outside Goldhaven once more surging through him.

The feeling was much stronger now than it had been then, and with each new enemy he slew, it seemed to grow stronger still.

He felt like a starved wolf set loose on a horde of rats, wildly killing all those around him, leaving a wake of mangled bodies in his path. And the more raiders died, the greater both his fury and strength grew.

After some minutes, he ran out of Essence, but it did not matter — by now, the rage of battle had fully taken hold, and he eagerly charged his enemies with just his sword, yearning to see them fall before him.

The more he fought, the stronger his furious desire for battle grew, and after some minutes, the only thing he felt was a raging desire to see his enemies' bodies torn, rent, and ripped apart, their blood to flow like a river through the valley.

If there was a reason he fought them, he had forgotten what it was — he fought only to kill, to slaughter even more of them, to cleave their bodies with his sword, feel their flesh ripped apart by his rage.

A distant laugh sounded as he fought — a crazed, maniacal sound — and he only vaguely recognized the voice as his own. It did not matter. The only thing that mattered was that there were more enemies to kill, more sacrifices for his sword.

While his enemies had earlier at least tried to fight him, now, they merely fled or begged for mercy. But he allowed none to flee, and his rage left no room for mercy.

He massacred any of them he encountered, their screams silenced when his blade found them. In his wake, he left a trail of torn and broken bodies.

Soon, none of them remained that he could see, only maimed corpses surrounding him.

This angered him. His bloodlust was nowhere near sated, and his rage nowhere near ended. He screamed in frustration, then rushed further down the valley, where sounds of battle could still be heard.

The enemies he encountered as he went through the valley were fewer than before, and they ran in panic when they saw him. It did not matter — whether they fought or not, their deaths were needed to quench Arran's frenzied thirst.

For several hundreds of paces, he slaughtered his way through the panicked and fleeing raiders, each new death further fueling his strength and rage. None could stand before him, and none remained alive where he passed.

Finally, he saw a single tall figure a few dozen paces ahead, set upon by a group of two dozen enemies.

The figure looked to be on the verge of falling, yet Arran's eyes were on the men surrounding him. A wide grin appeared on his face as he rushed toward them, eager to collect these new offerings.

Arran's attack took them by surprise, and for briefly, he reveled in the massacre he unleashed upon them, cleaving and tearing through their defenseless bodies, flesh and armor both like paper before his sword.

After several moments, the last of them fell, and once more he felt frustrated that there were no more enemies to be slaughtered.

Only the tall figure remained, but although Arran felt a desire to take this life as well, a vague sense of familiarity kept him from doing so — something deep inside told him not to tear out the figure's heart, no matter how strong his urge to do so.

Then, he saw a movement in the corner of his eye — a wounded enemy trying to escape. Quickly, he bounded away in pursuit, catching up with a few long steps before bringing down his sword on the screaming man.

There were more ahead, Arran could now hear — others trying to escape the valley, fleeing from his blade. They would not get away.