Sterkhander - Fight Against The Hordes (Warhammer Inspired)

The rafters loomed above in the darkness. Beams of thick and ancient wood criss crossed back and forth. They were hidden behind a veil of absolute black that pressed down on him like a thick blanket. It should have at least, and yet he was seeing perfectly fine. Then there was the head covering he had on, metal by the sound of its shifting. It afforded him nothing but slits to see the outside world. Like a helmet.

Adrian blinked. He hadn’t been wearing a helmet, of any kind, when he had gone to sleep. A stark feeling and sensation of foreign alien’ness’ hinted that his face was no longer his own. He hadn’t attempted to move in the past few moments, terrified that he may have been kidnapped or worse, woken up on a surgical table of some sort to be tortured. Facial structure too large, forehead too big, cheeks too square, jaw too sharp.

He shifted. The sound of heavy metal followed, groaning hinges, and his own grunt of effort. Hay fell off of him. At least that confirmed the barn theory.

Armor? Adrian looked down at the thick breastplate on his chest.

Rats scurried in the room and his ears perked up. Catching the minute bits of sound. He looked around the barn, the musty scent of hay slamming into his nostrils a moment later. Large square bales surrounded him like a fort, or maybe a casket. Loose bales with their straps cut had sprawled over him and covered him. The more he looked, the more it seemed intentional. As If someone had tried to hide his massive body here.

"Well," he whispered. "This definitely isn't my bedroom.”

It was currently the middle of a long summer semester at his local university. The buildings were mostly empty, restaurants without long lines, courts empty for him to get some cardio in, and the weight rooms were empty just how he liked it. He lived with three other roommates who were all at their parents' homes around the country. Leaving him by himself.

His head throbbed with a peculiar double-vision of memories. Late nights hunched over engineering textbooks warring with centuries of martial tradition. Adrian grabbed his head with both hands, they too were covered in thick metal without any issue bending and forming like normal hands. He closed his eyes in hopes it would help relieve the sudden pain. Both sets of memories felt real, yet fundamentally incompatible.

There were overlapping parts but even then it was too stark a difference. He had googled and watched many youtube videos on ancient war tactics, and the new set of memories had searched scrolls and parchments on the engineering of trebuchets and ballistas.

Something skittered in the darkness above him. His ears caught it as quickly as the rat before it. His eyes searched for what was up there only to find a bat hanging upside down and staring at him. He could have sworn it was laughing at him. Mocking him for another failure–

Failure…? B’s and C’s get you degrees–

Again he grunted in pain as more memories of a certain Adrian Sterkhander. His failures. The disappointment of noble lineages and more.

“Agh!” he shouted. Banishing the depressed thoughts. They suffocated him, and he was too bright and lively to allow it to consume him. The massive plate armor encasing his transformed body creaked softly as he shifted, the sound absurdly loud in the midnight quiet. He had wondered what it felt like being depressed or filled with sorrow. And the taste he got was something he never wanted to experience again.

It was hopeless. Lifeless. It terrified him.

Instead of delving deeper into the original’s memories he let his hands search under the hay. His fingers curled around a familiar weapon. A source of comfort and peace for Adrian Sterkhander, but also the source of his greatest failures. His fingers tightened around the pommel as he lifted it from its own casket. A longsword that mocked any form of classification rose up weightless.

Adrian knew it was half his height in length. As wide as two palms of his generous hands. Compared to a regular human, he was a giant. Eight-feet tall and as wide as a door. Equally absurd amounts of strength filled his limbs, even among the knights that were like him.

His other hand found a thick shield, fingers barely wide enough to grip its edge. He pulled it out the hay and marveled at how light it was in his hands, struggling to imagine how much it should have weighed. It too was the color of his faded armor. Dark faded green that bore testament to countless battles. Covered in dents, scratches, and a surprising diagonal tear a few inches wide near the top right.

Something had been both sharp enough and heavy enough to cut through it.

"This can’t be right," Adrian muttered. His voice resonated strangely in the confines of his helm. Again his memories clashed causing him pain. Last night's memories clashed violently with present reality. The last thing he remembered was getting into a soft bed in his apartment and bundling in a thick blanket like a cocoon. And now it was replaced by cold metal and hay. The gentle hum of his laptop fan transformed into–

“Fuck!” he shouted again. Fingers found the helm's release catches in practiced movements he could have sworn to have never done. And yet it was muscle memory.

The helm's removal released a cascade of stark black hair. Long and luscious. He had no beard. Cold air rushed down into his lungs as he took a deep breath, it cooled his overheating mind. But that didn’t help his racing heart, it beat louder every second.

A lancing pain blossomed on his right side. He looked down at his armor and found a deep dent that marred the beat up armor even more. He couldn’t imagine the sheer power and momentum required to deform metal this thick. But it explained why he felt like he had a broken rib.

Adrian imagined a strike, strong enough to cut a man in half, barely doing anything at all to his incredulous armor.

[CONGRATULATIONS! SYSTEM UNLOCKED]

[STATUS:]

[MARK LEVEL: Mid-Copper 3 - Level 13]

[PROGRESS: 434/2000]

[STRENGTH: 17]

[AGILITY: 15]

[VITALITY: 16]

[CONSTITUTION: 19]

[ENDURANCE: 14]

[INTELLIGENCE: 6 (10)]

[MARK: 12]

[MARK ENERGY: 354/1300]

[AVAILABLE STAT POINTS: ]

[SKILLS TAB: SELECT TO EXPAND]

[COMBAT SKILLS]

[ Swordsmanship [Intermediate]: 423/1000

Mounted Combat [Intermediate]: 287/500

Formation Fighting [Intermediate]: 467/1000

Tactical Command [Basic]: 156/300

Spearmanship [Basic]: 133/500 ]

[MARK SKILLS]

[ Shadow Step [Basic]: 378/500

Shadow Strike [Intermediate]: 143/1200

Shadow Sense [Basic]: 467/500

Shadows [Intermediate]: 392/1200

Strengthen [Basic]: 33/500

Strengthened Strike [Basic]: 174/500

Fortified Body [Basic]: 89/500 ]

[ADDITIONAL STAT TYPES UNAVAILABLE CURRENTLY]

Adrian jumped in his seat. The words were a stark difference and shone far too bright in the darkness. It took a few moments just for his eyes not to struggle at seeing the words in front of him. But once he could read it, he was left reading it without much knowledge of what any of it signified. Of course he could make educated guesses, but this wasn’t some game. This was real life. Everything is connected to everything else in obtuse ways. Nothing was as it seemed until you fully understood it, and even then there was still more to learn.

His eyes flitted by it all. A strange sense of disappointment filled his veins. Again, instinctually he knew the average human had seven’s across the board. The greatest in their fields could only realistically reach ten. And here he was sitting with seventeens, nineteens, fifteens, and sixteens bolstered by skills and powers that sounded fantastical. Shadow step? Fortified Body? Shadow Strike?

The application of something like this already passing his mind in unique ways, separately, or even paired together. He played far too many games to not instantly attempt to either min/max or take advantage of what he had to its fullest potential. This was a good start if anything.

And still the disgusted feeling permeated his senses. He could taste it.

Taking deep breaths didn’t help, especially when memories of disappointed faces and sick rumors began to spread in his own home.

Adrian chuckled. It didn’t carry any form of joy, nothing but a promise to get vengeance to those that question his mothers honor when he failed so spectacularly to take his fathers legacy like his six brothers before him. Others simply called him a dunce and dismissed him. The intelligence stat did little to suppress that feeling. He originally had a whopping six but somehow it had advanced to ten.

Yes, the Sterkhander bloodline ran through his veins. His Mark accepted his fathers legacy in the forms of [Strengthen Strike] and [Fortified Body] but he was incapable of improving them past the point he had reached. Years of his youth wasted attempting to get even an iota better had been for nothing. In the end, his father had to bend his neck to the viscount to save Adrian’s future.

I am not Adrian! He screamed mentally. He refused to fall into the same hole the original had. This was his life now, and he would not be caged by the norms of this society. Enough had already forced his hand back in his own life on earth. He didn’t want to go into engineering, and yet he had done it. And look where he ended up.

Yes. He was blaming his engineering degree and classes for somehow ending up here–

A scream shattered his thoughts. With it, his thumping ears cleared. An explosion of sound assaulted him. Monstrous roars and battle cries that promised endless agony. Women and men screaming and others giving their own weakened battle cries. A chorus of clashing metal, dying beings gurgling and crying loudly from injuries. Steel thudded loudly like an explosion.

A guttural laugh that didn’t sound human at all.

Adrian Sterkhander grabbed his great helm. With practiced hands, he locked it into place on massive shoulders that seemed capable of carrying a mountain.

Getting up turned into a difficult task. His legs felt like jello. He collapsed to a knee, armor striking the wood board with enough force to crack and shatter them with the force. How much did he weigh? It had to be in the thousands if his estimation of his height was correct. His sword and shield clattered and thudded on the ground, leaving imprints in the wood.

Again he tried to stand up. But his body did not want to cooperate. Shaking like he had done leg day at the gym without mercy.

It took four tries to bring his behemoth body off the ground. Sweat poured down his body. A lifetime of muscle memories sufficing his bones and mind. Endless hours of training all aspects of his art of battle. Tactics. Swordsmanship. His failure of a Mark. And the stain on his soul, the reason his father had been embarrassed in court nearly five years ago, the Shadow Mark.

He forced himself up right, base wide to keep himself standing. On the way up, he had grabbed the shield and sword to use them as crutches to lean his weight on. The shield especially had been a great boon considering it was probably over five feet in height.

The longsword glimmered in the wavering red light leaking from the outside battle.

Battle continued outside the barn. Shouts of victory and others of agony. A few of what could only have been car crashes erupted to the side followed by the tearing of flesh meeting steel. The sounds stirred something primal in his transformed biology, duty called with a voice that brooked no denial. His legs almost started to move without his mental command, barely stopping himself from toppling over.

It took a few long minutes before he was able to swing the sword without tipping over like an idiot. One of his ribs on his sword hand’s side flashed in pain with every strike. He could have hidden inside the barn, but he refused to. Who would suddenly arrive in a fantastical world, be equipped with galaxy barrett armor and a longsword the size and width of a normal person, and to top it all off be given equally fantastical abilities in the form of ‘Marks’, and become a pacifist.

He was no glory hound. But spurned the thought of being weak in a world he could be anything he desired within an advantaged position as a noble son.

His massive frame moved through combat stances. Katas that he had been taught since childhood. Each position awakening paths of muscle and memory burned into flesh by years of relentless training. Yet even here, in this dance of death, inadequacy haunted him. Shadows of his brothers' perfection loomed large. Their forms flawless. Their dedication absolute. He was the imperfect son, the whispered shame of House Sterkhander.

Six brothers, five dead, and an elder sister, second eldest in the family after a deceased brother. And every single one of them outshone him in all possible ways. Intelligence, strength, leadership, Mark ability, etc…

Dunce of a great Sterkhander.

"This isn't helping," Adrian growled. He forced aside memories of disapproving glares and whispered accusations. They would not hold him back. The shame of the Shadow Mark would not hold him back, no matter how much the original had left distaste and disgust at the thought of using them. He would relish in their abilities and grow them beyond anyone's expectations.

He would remake his legacy. Burn a new trail even if the whole world decided to doubt him.

The battle outside demanded attention. Oaths much greater than he could mentally and physically battle demanded he step out into the field of battle and leave his mark.

Self-pity was a luxury reserved for peacetime. His father had once reprimanded him. And he was right. He had no time for this rubbish. Each step toward the barn's entrance felt like marching through lead. Enhanced body fighting between flight and the ingrained compulsion to face death head-on. The compulsion won in the end.

The roar of combat grew louder as his fingers touched the barn doors, making it creak open slightly. A song of death and violence that touched the essence of the large meathead that was Adrian Sterkhander. Duty bound him tighter than any chain. This was what it meant to be of House Sterkhander, to stand against the darkness of the frontiers no matter the cost. It was what his father had done, what his brothers had done, what his ancestors had all done in their lifetimes. He would not be the exception to run away; a coward.

His gauntleted hand dug deep as his steel fingers wrapped around worn wood of the door. Words came to him unbidden. Rising from depths of genetic memory and warrior tradition. He had said these same words a thousand times.

"For Honor," he declared. Knowing the violence that awaited him. The brutality of battling foes as strong as he was. It echoed with the weight of generations. With the blood price paid on countless battlefields. "By the Great-Helms.” His father had shown him the array of ancient helms his ancestors had worn to battle. The glory it was to fight for land and people. “And The King, so far away."

The King was far, far away. Beyond a reasonable doubt, he would not ever set foot within the colony, much less make the trek out into the frontiers of the war. No new agents of war. No new Knight Orders. Just free knights that had no home made their way out here to a chance at glory and honor. Maybe make a name for themselves, under contract for a decade or two and return to the motherland to serve a ‘real’ noble house.

Three months by sea to reach the colony. Another two months to reach the edges of this frontier to where they called home.

The words transformed him. Gone was the hesitation. His blood burned and raced in his body. He may be the disappointing son. But even the lowest of the Sterkhanders was greater than the rest. Warrior one and all regardless if they fell short of perfection.

Steel hinges groaned as Adrian pushed the barn doors apart. The door swung open to what could have been an apocalypse. Night had claimed the sky, yet hellfire transformed darkness into a grotesque mockery of day. Flames devoured the village buildings. Turning peaceful homes into pyres that spat amber sparks toward uncaring stars. A house collapsed on the far side of where he stood, unable to stand against the fire eating at its structure.

The village sprawled before him. A tableau of horror carved in the shadows as massive figures flitted through the buildings. Thatched roofs crackled as they burned. Burning straw rained onto the panicked forms below. Villagers. They fled in blind terror, staying in groups even though it would have done little to save them if they encountered an enemy.

The village's bones lay exposed in the firelight. Stone foundations supported the remnants of wooden walls. Now mostly collapsed into burning heaps. Dead horses sprawled beside their broken carts, contents scattered across muddy streets. Barns like his temporary sanctuary had been reduced to skeletal frames weeping smoke into the night sky.

Bodies of non-combatants and village militiamen littered the ground where they fell. Broken, ripped into pieces. Some cut in half, others in more parts that he was willing to count. Then the smell hit him. Like a hammer had been slammed onto his great-helm. The taste of ash and burning wood; acrid smog and smoke. A metallic reek of small streams of blood mixed with the malodorous stench of voided bowels, burnt hair, and charred flesh.

Adrian took a deep breath. He had expected to be puking, or at least scrunching his nose from the putrid smells, and yet, he felt a sense of comfort and recognition in them. They were the perfume of battle. Familiar to him as the morning dew of early training. An odd sense of belonging permeated in his chest. This was where he was himself the most. Not at his father’s court. Not under the judgemental gazes of his instructors and weapons masters. Not in the halls where he could only dream of being as great as the ancient Great-Helms. His forefathers.

Here, he could be Adrian Sterkhander without any reservation. A Mark-ed Knight.

His eyes roamed across the battlefield. The sounds of far off clashes echoed to him, but there were a few close by. To his right seven village militiamen fought a desperate encounter against three towering orcs. It was a losing proposition for them, average men attempting to stand tall against giants with rippling muscle and dense bones. Covered in rudimentary iron armor, exposing much of their green leathery skin, as much a source of defense as the armor itself.

They matched the knights in height, and his House's color, but they lacked greatly in martial abilities. Hence they made up for it with vast numbers.

Crude weapons rose and fell, smashing a militiaman to the side. The man was quick to rise to his feet again and dive at the Orcs. His spear barely did more than cause deep scratches. Maybe if they got lucky and pierced an eye, it would cause a difference in the long run. On the other hand, the Orcs’ weapons glistened red and stained by the lifeblood of the defenders. They laughed and toyed with them, like a cat playing with its prey.

To his left, two knights were locked in combat with another two orcs. One of the orcs stood a head taller than anyone else including Adrian, and yet it looked like they were being forcefully pressed back by the two knights that had come with him. Both knights wore the same armor and house color, swinging blades equally as monstrous as the one he had in his hands now.

It was only a matter of time before they gained victory against their foes. On the other hand, he could help the militiamen, at least delay until the other knights arrived. Where they can flank the remaining orcs. Then they could regroup with the rest of the knights and militiamen. Reestablish proper defensive fortifications and use their resources more properly. Adrian had stationed small groups of two or three knights at different parts of the village, with twenty or so militiamen at their sides. The rest of the village militia were in the center of the square protected by one knight.

In total, they were twelve knights made for savage war and nearly impossible to kill.

His tactical mind whirred unbidden at the thought of better tactics that could have been employed. How lives could have been saved if Adrian had been more careful and less of a glory hound. Trying his best to overshadow any bad talk about him instead of simply accomplishing the fundamentals and saving those he had been commanded to aid. The village well occupied defensible high ground, perfect for a last stand. Debris could be used to channel attackers. Building foundations created natural choke points that could turn numbers against the attackers. He forced these thoughts aside, the militia needed immediate aid, not strategic planning.

Adrian's first step nearly sent him sprawling. The ground was slick with wet mud, his heavy feet treacherously sinking with each stride. They left massive imprints, marking where his armor had been on this day. His recently recovered legs protested at the instability, but that they did not fail him. Even if it took conscious effort to move his behemoth frame.

Maybe I should have stayed in the barn for a bit longer…? He instantly banished the thought. The previous Adrian’s tendencies and quirks remained strong in him, even if he had control over the majority of it, it was just the minor amounts that forced his actions before any decision could be made by his mind that worried him. Would he end up doing something he would regret? He hoped not.

The orcs seemed to have noticed him approaching. They began to confer in a guttural language that sounded harsh to Adrian’s ears. In the background, a house that had been turned into a raging inferno, collapsed in a thunderous roar. Thick smog was belched across the battlefield, the winds driving the clouds of smoke further into the city. It reduced the already meager visibility into almost nothing. It made it even harder to see the dark hides of the Orcs, they absorbed almost no night.

Not that they tried to conceal themselves, shouting battle cries at the top of their lungs and announcing their arrivals with bone-chilling horn blares.. Even if they did, he doubted people wouldn’t notice a seven or eight foot behemoth of hulking muscle hiding behind a dainty light pole. Even with the help of a mark.

Then again, he was the Shadow Mark.

A couple [Shadow Steps] could theoretically help him cross certain distances without being seen at all. Not that Adrian knew how far it would take him. The original had out right refused to use any of the Shadow Mark skills.

One of the larger Orcs broke free from the group harrying the militiamen. It matched Adrian’s height and width in sheer ferocious frame. Crude iron, adorned with bones, skulls, and clinking trinkets, hung loosely off its shoulders. Not strapped in, but rather a statement of fashion, even if it was a hideous declaration. White and red war paint twisted across its tusked face, a symbol of its clan, not that Adrian had cared for which it was.

Orcs are meant to be killed. What does it matter if they were part of Sqwackfoot and Trampledstone. Racists, or was it speciest, but in a world of kill or be killed without hesitation, it didn’t matter. Not on the battlefield.

It roared a mighty battle cry, Axe cleaving an unlucky militiaman that had turned away from it. The rest of them stumbled backwards. It charged through the mud, somehow finding solid purchase on the treacherous ground. Its massive frame ate the distance between them with agility that should not have been possible of something so large and brute.

Adrian dropped into a defensive stance quicker than his thoughts could react. Muscle memory forced his large shield up. He braced for the charge. The armor’s weight was distributed oddly, much unlike what he expected with a lighter upper body, but its thickness promised him protection beyond what he could imagine.

He took a deep breath, Mark Energy surged through his limbs. Mentally, he prompted [Fortify Body] and felt it make him heavier, sturdier, capable of standing before a charging tank. The pathways cleared with no problem, years of training making it as easy as breathing. A part of his Father’s legacy, the birthright of House Sterkhander. His failure.

Adrian Sterkhander shouted an unintelligible battle cry of his own. Memories of watching everyone from his family achieving breakthroughs while he couldn’t get past the basics. He stepped forward. Shield braced for impact.

Adrian roared again.

The sound rippled from his throat with primal ferocity. The echoes of his voice momentarily drowned out the chaos around him, reverberating off the burning walls and collapsing structures of the village square. He could wallow in self-pity another day. No, another life. Whoever Adrian Sterkhander had been before, he wasn’t that man anymore. The weight of his failures. The shame of his squandered legacy. The expectations that had crushed him, none of it would find any purchase here. He gritted his teeth, his indignation boiling over like a storm in his veins. If the previous Adrian would have been disgusted by what he was about to do, so be it.

He would use the Shadow Mark, no matter how vile or unworthy it made him feel. The past was dead. Burned like the village building husks that littered the muddy ground at his feet. Ash and soot. The present was now, and now, Adrian would survive. No matter the cost.

The orc charged him like an enraged bull. Massive shoulders lowered, head tilted slightly to lead the blow. Adrian settled the shield and allowed his body to coil, braced himself instinctively. The impact was monumental. A thunderous collison echoed through the night. Louder than any car crash he had ever heard. It drowned out the crackling fire and the distant screams of the dying for a brief moment.

The force rattled Adrian’s bones, pain radiating out from his ribs—he’d forgotten about the injury, and now it screamed in protest. Another lanced through his torso, sharp and unforgiving, but he clenched his jaw and refused to falter. His body gave ground under the force. Thick metal boots skidding backward through the mud. Leaving deep tracks that kept getting deeper. His shield arm trembled from the sheer power of the blow.

The orc, however, paid dearly for its reckless assault. The beast’s own momentum betrayed it. Adrian’s braced stance held firm filled with Mark Energy. It had slammed into an unmovable wall. The collision sent the creature flying backwards in a heap of limbs. Body smashing into the ground with a dull, wet thud that was characteristic of limp bodies. Mud splattered into the air. It mingled with the blood and ash even more thoroughly.

The orc’s heavy war axe slipped from its grasp and landed with a solid clang nearby. Its axe head digging deep into the soft mud like it was butter. Feathers from the decorations in its hair drifted lazily through the air. Chips of broken bones from its armor and trinkets that were loosely tied either shattered or were ripped off its body in the crash. As if mocking the savage brutality of the moment. Its crown of feathers was now a mess.

Adrian was left in shock as the orc tried to get back up, clearly only stunned for the moment. The beast was only dazed, struggling to get its bearings. No broken bones to be seen, no vital injuries on its body, the metal didn’t even seem to bruise its face which took the brunt of the hit. His eyes drifted to his shield, to deep groove marks where the tusks had dug in remained on its thick metal surface.

“What the–” He muttered to himself, only to notice the orc try to dizzily crawl towards its axe.

He stepped forward. And swung his massive longsword. Armored boots splashing through the muck as he grunted with effort in an attempt to cut the things head off in a single stroke. The weight of the blade felt reassuring in his hands, but his ribs flared in protest as he flexed his body into the strike. He could only push the pain away to deal with later There was death to be had.

The orc, dazed and flat on its stomach, had barely begun to get its bearings when Adrian brought the blade down in a vicious arc. It was a killing blow, or so he thought. The orc rolled to the side, its instincts saving its hide from certain death. It barely dodged the edge of his blade. Adrian pressed his momentum. Swinging with reckless abandon, hoping to kill it without giving it a chance to get up.

Seven strokes before his sword slammed into the earth. It sunk deep into the mud. He cursed under his breath and wrenched the blade free. The weight of the mud clinging to the weapon was a minor annoyance. A quick flick sent it spraying back towards the orcs face, it reminded him of how savagely filthy this fight was.

I’ll clean the blade by driving it through its fucking chest! A part of his mind, dark and primal, reared its head. The suggestion was brutal in ways he could not decide on. He shivered at the thought. It wasn’t disgust or disdain; it was the realization of how easily such brutal logic came to him now. Orc blood was easy to clean off of their special blades, supposedly.

He lunged forward again, there was no time for hesitation.

By then, the orc had already scrambled to its feet. Shaking off its daze with a snarl filled with spit and foam. Adrian’s body moved almost without thought, his shield leading the way to his enemy. Muscle memory honed through endless drills taking over as he started one of the Katas and sequences he had been taught. The rim of the shield slammed into the orc’s face again.

The impact was strong enough to send the beast stumbling backward. Adrian followed up with a diagonal slash, forcing the orc to retreat further. Setting it up for the final part of the sequence. Mud flew as the creature tried to regain its footing. Adrian pressed the attack, never allowing it a moment to recover with insistent offense and stepping closer and closer.

A savage overhead swing came next. The orc had been set up into losing its balance and opening this gap in its escape. His sword carved through the air with the weight of a guillotine. The orc could only manage raising its forearm, in hopes it would prevent a decapitation. The blade bit into its crude iron bracer and cut deep into the flesh beneath. Adrian pulled his sword back to finish the strike.

He was unsatisfied with just the forearm, but it would do to tide him until he severed its head. The offending limb hung by thick leathery skin and nothing else, leaking green orc blood. It howled in pain. Guttural words and sounds that echoed with fury and desperation. Adrian front kicked it in the chest. His boot slammed it backwards and sent it sprawling onto the ground again. It attempted to scramble away. Skin tearing, leaving the forearm on the ground.

There was no let up. Another shield bash, as it tried to lung at him and get too close for his sword to be effective. Another swing that missed by inches, the orc contorting its body unrealistically. Each movement was mechanical, relentless. He was a machine of destruction and would not, could not be stopped. The orc could barely find any purchase to get up in the slick mud. Its massive frame could not escape the onslaught.

Adrian allowed his agonizing broken rib be the hold for his mental sanity and concentration. As long as it felt like his heart was beating from there, he refused to stop. Even when his breathing came in ragged gasps and sweat dripped from his eyebrows under the great-helm.

The Shadow Mark called out to him. Begging to be used, but he ignored it, mostly. It was tempting to [Shadow Step] and reappear behind the orc to land a devastating blow, but he had no clue how far it would take him. Or whether he had any control on the distance at all. If he made a mistake, it would make his entire advantage at the current moment worthless. Leaving them both exhausted, while the orcs outnumbered them.

As for [Shadow Strike], he waited patiently until he was given a perfect opportunity to bring it forth. It would end this battle, he understood, but not until then. Whether he had enough for more than one strike was another issue he had to figure out once he had some time to practice and train again.

Adrian saw the other two orcs move towards him out of his peripheral vision. They had finished off the last of the village militia. Their crude weapons dripped with blood and viscera. The bodies of the militiamen lay strewn about. Their forms broken and discarded like waste, smashed and cut in a multitude of ways. The two orcs gave him their undivided attention. Yellow eyes glistening with a promise of savage brutality.

He nearly lost his footing in the mud, because of his divided attention. He tried to glance between his current foe and the approaching threats or at least keep them within view. That didn’t turn out well for him.

It didn't help to curse himself silently, but he did it anyway. He still wasn’t fully accustomed to his size, weight, the way his body moved now. There was too much force behind every step. And a certain amount of agility that was beyond mere mortals. Adrian covered too much space and couldn't seem to find a middle ground between too far and too close. But he refused to let that slow him down, not when death was only a heartbeat away.

Adrian barely had time to react as the creature grabbed a small knife from its belt and hurled it at him. The blade struck his armor, doing nothing more than glancing off with a sharp ping that left a deep gouge on his breastplate. He didn’t even feel it as it harmlessly fell to the ground. But it had served its purpose.

The orc’s gambit had succeeded in creating the tiniest margins of an opening. It lunged past him while he was distracted. It's only arm reached out for its discarded war axe. The movement was clumsy. It reeked of desperation, but it was fast. Too fast. The beast’s hand closed around the shaft of the war axe. Let out a victory cry. And turned from the ground with its snarl twisting into a triumphant grin.

Adrian didn’t give it the chance to celebrate. Much less a moment to mount any form of retaliation.

He drove forward with more power behind his advance than before, finally getting used to his new body. A burst of motion. Mind screaming to activate his Mark abilities, and this time, he acquiesced to their demands. A surge of golden energy flooded his body like molten volcanic stone as [Strengthen] activated. Then he did something stupid, something he had no clue if it would work or end up killing him in his lack of concentration.

[Shadow Strike] followed [Strengthen] the two boosting one another. Time seemed to slow from his perspective as the two Mark abilities engulfed him. [Shadows] echoed in his core, Mark Energy surged.

His sharp vision grew ever more powerful, the darkness of night parted into dusk. The raging inferno of burning buildings no longer created flickering light that hid enemies.

The shadows answered his beckoning. Writhing around him, alive, eager, and hungry. His frame was covered in them.

He swung his sword, shadows jumping off its thick metal like spilling flames.

For a brief, fleeting moment, he felt invincible.

The orc sprang up from its grounded form in an attack. War axe swung from below to cleave Adrian from crotch to head in a single strike. But he moved faster. He stepped into the attack at an angle, his enhanced senses guiding him with pinpoint precision. The axe scraped against his shield, no sparks showered them in the clash of metals. The shadows around it seemed to leap forward, as if to aid in blocking and consume any of the sparks he expected. Adrian wasn’t sure if it helped or not in the grand scheme of things during the actual blocking.

He used his momentum, sword falling from above, leaving a trail of darkness behind it. The strike was clean, brutal, and final.

Adrian’s blade carved through the orc’s neck, severing its head in a single motion. No amount of armor, muscle, or leathery skin could have kept its head attached to its shoulders. Green blood sprayed into the air. The sickly fluid catching the firelight as it rained down all over Adrian’s armor, pitter pattering in the sudden silence around them. The orc’s body spasmed violently. Limbs jerking as if refusing to accept death. Its arm, still clutching the war axe, twitched toward Adrian, motioning at another potential strike, but it was meaningless. The beast was already dead.

A severed head hit the ground unceremoniously, its yellow eyes staring blankly at the sky. It lived and died without greater purpose. Worthless and dead amongst the muck and mud. Filth.

“Orc filth.” Adrian exhaled. His mind reeling back at how gruesome his thoughts had become. How much hatred dripped from those two words. This was something beyond derision and anger, it was murderous glee at their destruction. But it was natural to him now. He felt the Mark energy fade away. Prepared again for him to call it, even if it was only a small portion of what it had been a few scant minutes ago.

The shadows reeled back into the nooks and crooks of darkness the fires did not illuminate. They vanished as quickly as they arrived for that singular moment. But not [Strengthen], it lasted for five entire minutes before it would even begin to waver. Another point that showed how superior it was to other types of Marks, the majority with significantly less time duration.

The Shadow Mark had left him exhausted, but the battle wasn’t over. It had only just begun. The other two orcs were closing in now. For brief moments, they had frozen midstep at the ferocity of his form, but now that the shadows had disappeared, they regained their courage and charged again. Heavy feet stomping on the ground. Battle cries unbridled by what had happened moments ago to their ally.

Orcs were not a sentimental bunch. Nor were they smart enough to tell when they were outmatched. Or maybe they just relished in battle so much, death had become just another oddity they tended to overlook in their moments of ecstasy and joy. As if they relished every clash and struggle.

Adrian wanted to charge them in a blaze of righteous fury. His endeavor was holy, hence there was no way he would lose. Not against alien scum worth less than the ground they stepped on–

He shook his head. His bloodthirst and aggressiveness was rearing his head again, but this time, it was more manageable. At least enough for him to control unlike the first encounter. Instead of counter charging, he began a slow retreat with his shield and sword ready. A plan formulating in his mind. First and foremost, he needed them to get close. Very close. The plan required that he use [Shadow Step] but he had no clue how far it would take him. Would it keep him within the direct vicinity of the battle, or would he end up next to the dead militiamen and too far away to take advantage of the sudden shift in his position.

But there was no choice but to use it. He was not yet comfortable enough with his body to take on an elite foe without his Mark, much less two aggressive giants of muscle.

Bright words suddenly blazed across Adrian's vision, momentarily blinding him.

“Shit!” he cursed. The words made him lose the two orcs. An endless string of notifications,‘achievements’, and skill progress. He didn’t need this now!

[CONGRATULATIONS!]

[BATTLE WON!]

[EXPERIENCE GAINED: 35 XP (1 Orc Warrior × 35 XP)]

[EXPERIENCE GAINED: 125 XP (3 Achievement Accomplished x Variation... XP)]

[FIRST KIL...]

…

…

…

[SKILL PROGRESS -

Combat Skill Progress:

1. Swordsmanship: 423→424/1000

Mark Skill Progress:

1. Shadows: 392→393/1200
2. Shadow Strike: 143→145/1200 ]
3. Strengthen: 33→33/500
4. Fortified Body - 89→89/500 ]

He prepared himself for the toughest fight of his life. And most likely the last. The thought crashed into the back of his mind, but he couldn’t feel anything from it. No real anxiousness or fear that he may die in the next few moments. Just a sense of duty that required him to accomplish at least killing one more so his Knights would out number them momentarily. A last stand.

Adrian roared. He stepped forward, [Shadow] Mark energy surging through his body, bolstering [Strengthen]. The orcs hesitated for a split second before continuing their reckless charge. He swiped away at the notification and prepared to use the last bits of Mark Energy to [Shadow Step] praying that it would be enough. He also mentally prepared himself to spin in his spot after disappearing and cleaving the closest orc in two.

This time around, he wouldn’t have an overwhelming advantage–

Salvation arrived in a flash of dark green armor that refused to reflect the flame pyres around them. The two knights he'd observed earlier streaked past him with their own battle cries, gold light shone dully from the hinges of their armor. A telltale sign of the Mark use of [Strengthen]. Unlike their armor, their swords reflected the light around them, dancing in the air as they clashed with what had been distracted orcs, getting a couple hits in before they stabilized into a battlefront.

They must have finished off their own opponents. Now, they moved with deadly precision striking at the flanks in a more circumvent path. Taking advantage of the orcs' rage-blind focus on Adrian. The battle devolved into brutal chaos. But it lasted only a handful of seconds, not even enough for Adrian to react and help them. It made him wonder how long his own battle had taken, it had felt like ten minutes at least. Right? Somehow he doubted that.

Massive knight swords clashed with the brutal cleavers the orcs used. The knights used their shields to push them back, but it was clear from a distance that one was far superior to the other. The one on the left–

Erik Sigurds. He was a veteran of many frontier wars. Had been on the frontlines before Adrian had even been born. A master of the sword and had reached High-Copper Level 7. With two deft swings and a ridiculous feint, he swept the orc before him off its feet. Stepped on it with heavy metal boots, pinning it to the ground. And ran his sword through its face. Twisting the blade until his foe stopped twitching. He was faster than Adrian even remembered him to be.

On the other hand, Finn Kols took a massive blow that sent him sprawling to the ground. His armor screeched against the patch of road under him that was still intact. He scrambled to get up. The orc thundered towards him, gargantuan butcher knife raised above its head.

Adrian moved to intercept. He shield bashed the orc. Swung and missed the stumbling monster. His shadows tried to reach across the ground and hold the orc in place–

A sword cleaved the orc in two. The body split open, gruesome viscera spilling out by the bucket full. Erik stood behind it. He snapped his wrist and the orc blood that tainted his sword splattered onto the ground, now clean. Loose rank strips hung from his shoulder showing his station. They fluttered in the wind. His eyes burned the same red that Adrian’s did.

“Finn,” Erik’s soft voice broke Adrian out of his trance. Erik removed his great-helm. “Repeat what I told you just a few moments ago.” His voice brokered no dissent.

Adrian could hear Finn audibly gulp, even through the armor and raging fires. Finn Kols was a young knight that had joined them not even a year ago. Fresh and quite frankly, clumsy. It was a normal occurrence to see him sprawled on the ground during sparring bouts and training. More times than not, he just tripped on his own two feet. And yet…

Adrian shook his head.

Even the clumsy Finn had reached greater achievements in what should have been Adrian’s legacy. Add on to it that they were the same Copper rank, Mid-Copper Level 3. Finn was talented and he hated him for it. Had hated him for it. But not anymore, even if the hints of jealousy and anger tinged his thoughts whenever he heard his name or saw him outright. Adrian refused to allow bullshit from being the cause of his death or the death of those that relied on him.

And this form of envy was nothing but bullshit. Finn, though talented and highly touted as a young knight, would never realistically reach Adrian’s level because he didn’t have an advanced mark nor the resources to reach much higher levels. Even now, at the same rank, it was extremely clear to himself that Finn would easily be bested if he used the [Shadow] Mark as it was intended. But, the old him had tied both arms behind his back and expected to compete with everyone else.

Delusion at its best.

Finn mumbled to himself. Erik only gave him a raised eyebrow. Finn’s voice was low. “A knight must never allow himself to fall or stumble.”

Erik frowned. “And…?”

Finn looked away. “To stop forgetting to use [Fortify] and stabilize myself better. A Knight on the ground is a dead knight.”

Erik stared hard at Finn. Making sure his reminder set in before he nodded. Then he turned towards Adrian. He bowed deeply. Finn scrambled in the mud to get up and ran next to Erik and copied him. They were his knights afterall. Part of the Hrafnung. His order of knights that directly answered to him.

"Lord Ravn,” Erik began. He allowed his voice to be slow and measured. “It is comforting to see the head trauma must not have been as urgent as we suspected. The dead Orc Shaman had been prepared to attack you specifically. It reeks of conspiracy." He never raised from the bow.

Adrian walked up to them and straightened them up. He held their shoulders tightly. “We are in battle, Erik.” There is no time for formality. Was what he wanted to continue to say, but choked when he couldn’t. Again, the previous Adrian’s stronger tendencies could not be denied, and one of them was a great passion for formality and tradition. He could only be grateful his great-helm was on and his expression wasn’t obvious to everyone here.

He cleared his throat. “We are in battle, Erik. We must always be prepared for the worst possible outcomes.”

“Well said, My Lord.” Erik’s soft voice held gravity. Each word enunciated and emphasized with the weight of decades of battle.

Adrian patted Erik’s shoulder as he allowed his [Shadow] skill to dissipate. He was almost out of Mark Energy entirely. There was no chance he wanted to figure out what that would feel like, not when he had a choice to be more careful at the moment. Maybe test it out in the future, in relative safety, so he wasn’t caught off guard. His [Strengthen] and [Fortify] were still up and running, but they were pettering out finally at the end of their duration.

Everything that had happened since he had activated [Fortify] until this moment had been under five minutes in total.

"You used your Shadow Mark," Finn Kolsson's younger voice held none of Erik's weight. It bubbled with excitement. “Everyone always whispered about it. The way you executed that orc. It was… terrifying. Glorious.”

Adrian could clearly remember moments when Finn would do the same thing. Sticking to Adrian’s side like glue and being an elite hype man. And yet…

"I had," Adrian paused. He wasn’t sure how much to say. Would they somehow figure out he wasn’t the original Adrian? He resolved to be vague. “An epiphany."

Gullible. And honest to a fault. The more he remembered about Finn, the more upset he became at the previous Adrian. How do you hate someone that would literally jump off a cliff for your cause if you so much as point? There wouldn’t even be any hesitation at all.

"Too long, My Lord," Erik interjected. "The Hrafnung have awaited this day with bated breath. May the Ravn rise!"

Bile rose in Adrian's throat at the title. Everything that dealt with his [Shadow] Mark made him queasy. And now, disgust burned beneath his helm. He managed a curt nod and another heavy pat on the shoulder. Maybe he should keep the great-helm on for most of his days. It prevented obvious emotional reactions and made him stoic and silent. Then again, he needed to figure out another external reaction other than just nodding and patting their shoulders.

This was already the third or fourth time he had done it to hide his discomfort and aversion to subject matters.

“Any news from the rest of the knighthood–”

A horn's deep cry split the night air. Its long, boneshaking note echoed off burning buildings. Rang in his great-helm and made them more alert and ready for battle. Erik put his faceguard back on with an audible click and pulled his sword from the mud. Finn held his shield closer, instinctually getting into a wider base. It took nearly ten seconds before the horn’s blare drifted off into silence. Another few seconds for the final echoes to disappear.

"Another raid? How many more are there?" Finn shifted where he stood. He practice swung his sword in preparation. Adrian marveled at how loudly it seemed to whoosh back and forth ripping the air in front of it. He didn’t recall his own swings making such a loud sound.

"No," Erik said. He stared out towards where the sound had originated. "This is different. That is the sound of retreat. They've either accomplished their goal, or too many have died."

Finn tilted his head. Confusion apparent even through his helm. "How can you tell? They sounded the same to me."

Erik clapped Finn's shoulder plate. The metal rang against metal. "In time. You will learn much. Just stay alive until then. " Finn nodded, then continued to practice katas he needed to perfect.

Erik turned back towards Adrian. "They'll be back. Soon." His voice was grim. Adrian agreed. It was unlike orcs to stop a raid until everything that moved died. It was only a matter of time before they attacked again. More ferocious in their attempt. They would no longer sadistically play with the village militia. Unless they gathered and devised a better plan, only the knights with him would make it out alive in the coming gruesome battles.

Adrian turned. "Let's go. The rest of the knights should already be gathering in the center of the village." He started to run. The thuds of the other two’s heavy footfalls indicated they had followed without hesitation. He drew on the original Adrian’s memories of the village layout. He had studied for some time before heading out for this encounter and yet he barely devised anything to give them an overwhelming advantage. Over reliant on the strength of these Super Knights.

Yes, they were overpowered and were, quite frankly, tanks in a medieval battlefield. But that didn’t mean he shouldn't make all the odds staggeringly on their side from the start of every battle. It would turn the tanks into sci-fi battleships that could not be touched by the cold weapons of this era.

They brought Olaf’s body into the village square without any fanfare, trumpets, crying maidens, nor the blowing horns of the honored as they led him to the Gravesite of Knights at their ancestral lands. Not here in this tiny village. They carried his massive frame on a groaning wagon, wheels protesting beneath his immense weight. Five men strained at the sides of the wagon. Muscles trembling and teeth gritted as they struggled to keep moving the massive knight's frame. Every few steps they had to stop lest Olaf slid off the wet planks of wood.

Even in death, Olaf’s presence commanded respect. He had lost an arm. A leg was twisted in the wrong direction. Three massive spears stood at attention in his chest, an axe made for an orc to wield was wedged deep into his neck. Red blood, Olaf’s, stained the dark green of his armor, it had yet to fully dry and turn into a darker color. Olaf was a head taller than all the other knights. Even taller than Adrian’s prodigious size. Many had rumored that he was a bastard son of some motherland noble.

Thrown away to the colonies at an age so young, so he would never remember who fathered him.

Adrian felt his ribs spark in pain once more. The run to the village center had not been kind to his injuries. Even his chest hurt where the Orc had charged at him head first. Muscles burned from the unfamiliar usage of the [Shadow] Mark. A strange lethargy filled his limbs and weighed him down, despite not feeling conventionally exhausted. His mind was sharp, sword unmarked after a quick wipe, and shield forever dented with the face of an orc imprinted into its metal.

And yet none of what he felt mattered. Not at this point in time at least.

He took off his great-helm. The rest of the knights copied him. The remaining ten lined up around him as the cart was pushed further towards them. Adrian suddenly felt hollow. A Knight, his knight, had died under his command today against a raid force. Olaf was not the strongest of them, not even close, at a Mid-Copper 1. But he was a voice of strategy and reason he had wanted to know more.

Adrian could remember the siege specialist giving his opinions on matters during many battles and defences. Most of which the original had ignored because it was too close to dishonor. Whatever that had meant. His voice would have been invaluable to him now, and yet it was gone before he could even get started.

Halvard Grims grabbed his shoulder. “Do not blame yourself for his death.”

“How could I not?” Adrian said before he could stop himself. “It was my command that had him alone protecting the majority of the villagers–”

“Don’t dishonor his memory,” Erik stepped forward and grabbed one side of the wagon. The villagers thanked him profusely and ran away. Hurriedly. “His passing was for duty called upon him. It is the most any of us could ask for facing these foes.”

“Orc Scum.” Bjorn Thorkel cursed. He grabbed the other side of the wagon. Him and Erik picked it up without even as much as a grunt. They passed the group of knights. Finn followed behind Erik to help as much as his clumsy hands could.

Adrian turned towards one of the commanders of the militiamen. There were two more, but they were out and about taking care of responsibilities. “How did he die?”

The man didn’t even look up. He shifted in his place like a child being scolded by their parents. When he did look up, his eyes met Adrian’s and he choked on his own spit. Frozen in place, shivering.

Halvard patted Adrian’s shoulder. “I’ll talk to the man. Then come to you with a summarized version.” Halvard was by far the strongest Knight here. The day he arrived at their gates and kneeled before Adrian was one still spoken about until this moment. Many had assumed he came to serve his father, maybe even his older brother and first in line to the house seat. Instead, he asked for Adrian by name.

He asked one question before he swore an oath for until death separated them.

“Do you swear to lead a never ending Crusade against our enemies?”

Adrian had asked himself a thousand questions. Why would someone so powerful come to him? Didn’t everyone swear to uphold these rites and annihilate their enemies in holy retribution? Why him? And yet, no one with a sane mind in his position would reject the oath. It was rare to meet a Mid-Iron level knight, much less have one serve at your banner.

A real Mid-Iron level 3 Knight. Only his father was comparatively as strong, but even then he was weaker by a level or two. Many say the gap between even one level was as vast as a High-Copper knight compared to a mortal, but that was only an exaggeration. Myths started because of how rare it was to find a free knight of that calibre that wasn’t either serving a marquis or the regent master of the colonies. As for his technical skill, none of those that served Adrian would ever claim to be first amongst them as long as Halvard existed.

Adrian nodded and walked away. He headed towards where Erik, Bjorn, and Finn had begun the process of the death rites. Watching in silence, anger and hatred bubbling in his chest. These knights swore to serve him as long as he protected them. He understood that it was the original Adrian’s mistake, but the emotional response he was experiencing now was impossible to deny.

It had been his fault. He could have stationed another person to help. Or moved the non-combatant villagers into a more secure area. Or even change his entire tactical decisions and force the orcs to fight a losing battle. He could have–

Breathe. Adrian commanded himself. There was no point in doing this. All that mattered was making sure the Orcs paid dearly for this. He would not allow them to escape, not a single one would leave back towards their lands alive. No retreat would be allowed today. Injuries be damned.

His body protested, but it was quickly ignored.

The knights taking care of Olaf’s death rites were near completion. They had removed his armor. Cleaned him of any filth and blood. Removed the offending weapons. And wrapped him in white cloth. When they returned to his House’s fort, the armor would be cleaned and fixed, then put back onto Olaf before he was buried in their cemetery. Next to all the great knights that had served this land. His great-helm would be taken to where they had stored the rest, close to his ancestors and forefathers. Olaf would be remembered until none of them walked those halls.

Halvard walked back to him. The rest of the knights followed. Everyone wanted to hear how Olaf had died.

“He fought and killed an Orc Shaman, a lieutenant, and six warriors before succumbing to his death,” Halvard began.

The knights gave sounds of admiration. They nodded to each other. If they were going to die anyways, that was a great way to go.

Halvard continued. “Not a single non-combatant was harmed. Twenty three militiamen died in service. I suspect the lieutenant he killed was the second in command of the raid party. They would not have called for retreat otherwise, especially when they had killed a Knight in battle. It was a good death. Dignified until the end.”

Adrian nodded. Erik and the rest, working on the death rites, had already finished and were intently listening to Halvard speak. “A good death, indeed,” Adrian’s voice was deep with murderous intent. He couldn’t prevent the [Shadow] mark from leaking and spilling out from his eyes. “But, now. Now we must punish them for their transgressions. None shall escape us. No quarter will be given, even if we have to hunt them down in the forests.”

Halvard smiled. The rest of the knights hurried to put on their great-helms, the clicks and snaps echoing in the village square.

“Bring me the militiamen commander, we gather in a few minutes to discuss tactics. No more impromptu battles. We carve our names into their genetic memory. Let them remember who we are!” Adrian shouted.

“For the Ravn!” They all intoned. “We the Hrafnung!” They slammed their fists on their chest plates. “And the King, so far away!”

They gathered in front of the small village manor. It was a building that fit normal men quite well, large by their means at four stories high and made of large stone and wood. But for the knights it was a source of anxiety. Their massive weight would collapse the ground they stood on if there were any lower floors. Doors were uncomfortably small. Furniture not meant for their size and weight. Not suitable for them at all.

Three of the village militiamen commanders and ten Knights. The knights had only suffered a single casualty, the militiamen did not fare as well. Nearly a hundred and fifty men and women had died protecting their family with ineffectual spears. Crossbows were simply not strong enough to punch through an Orc’s thick leathery hide, and even if it did, it would take twenty or more to bring them down. A waste of both resources and energy.

Only three hundred and some change left of the militia remained.

A single ballista also was in serviceable condition, the other had been crushed under the weight of a charging Orc. That was strong enough to rip right through their enemy with little effort, even if they were clad in armor. A well taken shot could kill an orc from a distance. The issue of ammo remained, with only seven more ballista bolts left. They couldn’t let a militiaman wield it when they had knights that were far more accurate and deadly with it.

“We don’t have much time. They’ll regroup and return in force once their raid leader is done with them,” Erik said. “Their blood is up and burning for a fight now.”

Halvard nodded. He rarely spoke during their tactical meetings. Only one purpose drove him and that was a personal crusade he had sworn against his enemy. One that brought him to serve a frontier noble out in the boonies. The rest of his knights were too respectful to speak up, seniority and rank kept them mute. Much to Adrian’s displeasure. Olaf had been a strong voice of reason here. One that he had rejected often, but refused to be silent when he could have helped save a life or two.

“We take advantage of their bloodlust,” Adrian announced, seeing no one else willing to speak up. “Anyone else?” His eyes surveyed the rest of the knights including the out of place militia commanders.

Bjorn stepped forward. “Start a line. Militiamen in the middle while we flank the enemy force. It would end with a satisfactory total annihilation. Just as you desired.”

“We’ll all die!” the eldest of the militiamen commanders spoke up suddenly. Markius, Adrian remembered he was called. “Their tide will crush us in moments–”

“Do you fear death, commander?” Bjorn sneered.

“No, Lord Knight,” Markius gulped. “I fear wasted lives and unnecessary death. There are a hundred different paths we can take that would win us this engagement without a tenth of the lives it would cost here.”

“Would any of them end in the complete and utter destruction of all the orcs? Will they satisfy our leader?” Erik replied.

Markius’s words stumbled. He opened and closed his mouth without a sound. He shook his head. “No, they wouldn’t.”

All of them turned back to him. Their eyes carried the weight of life and death behind them. Whatever he decided here and now would happen without a single dissenting opinion. He took a deep breath, the smell of smoke and death still permeated around the village. It would not leave for quite some time.

“The barony cannot sustain such losses,” he started, Bjorn frowned but nodded nonetheless. “We must change our approach, take advantage of their weaknesses and negate their advantages.” He turned towards Erik, giving him a meaningful look.

“Their greatest advantage is their numerical superiority. They do not match our martial skill or tactical abilities.” Erik said.

Adrian nodded. “We force them through a tight gap, make them come through one by one. Funnel them and kill each one that dares step through…”

“We would require an area of the village with thick stone foundations that can take an orc charge without crumbling,” Bjorn said. His eyes drifted back towards Markius, everyone knew the other commanders were scared beyond their wits to contribute to the discussion. They respected the old man for having the steel resolve to speak up amongst knights that could crush his head with a flick of a finger.

Marikus thought for a moment before his eyes widened. “The crossroads between the smithy. It is the most solid building in the entire village. Even more so than the manor. No wood was used in its production and the furnace there required months to build. Massive stones two feet wide and four long each. It will survive multiple charges! But…”

“If the host of Orc’s charge at once,” Erik finished his sentence. Everyone understood what it meant.

“We can block all other approaches with the collapsed buildings around it. Much of them were burned during the raid exposing their foundations,” Adrian said. His plan came together in his mind. A defensive plan, one he internally cringed at, but it was a chance to destroy their entire raid party. “We’ll need to transport the stones with haste. Any broken wagon, unburned but collapsed homes and barns. Stack the dead horses too. We must build obstacles they will find too troublesome to climb.”

“There's a destroyed granary close to the smithy. That wood will do well here,” Markius chimed.

“We have the groundwork for a plan. Let us flesh it out,” He grabbed a piece of wood and handed it to Markius. “Draw out the layout of the crossroads.”

Markius nodded, but grabbed another piece of wood. The one Adrian had handed to him was too large and unwieldy. Adrian shrugged and threw it over his back, it landed in a crashing heap among other debris that had been cleared out already to make space around them. He needed to get used to the change of perspective from normal villagers and his own. A normal sized stick to him was a massive log to them.

Markius drew the area around the smithy.

Adrian watched and studied it for a moment. The knights waiting for their commands. “Erik, Bjorn, and Gunnar,” he used his finger to draw circles where he wanted them. “You three will form a front line around the funneled gap.” Their experience and Mark abilities made them the best choice for this. Bjorn was the only one with a different Mark ability than the standard [Silver Steel] and [Strengthen] combo their knights carried.

[Silver Steel] from their training with warmasters and [Strengthen] as an incentive and reward for joining under their Houses banner. Even if they served Adrian and not House Sterkhander directly.

Bjorn’s was the [ShieldBearer] Mark. It allowed him to create invisible barriers on knights and himself for a few minutes. It took an incredible amount of Mark Energy, but they only needed the three of them on the front lines to carry the barrier. Add onto it the devastation the combo his other knights had and it made for a meat grinder. [Silver Steel] offered them a translucent blue energy around their blades, extending its reach by a couple feet. He had never seen a strike by that mark that did not deal massive damage.

[Silver Steel] was aptly named, the ‘Noble Knight Mark’. Because it was the common birthright of their warrior class. It was part of their genes and spoke to ages long past. Including the extension of their blade’s reach by an invisible foot, it also strengthened their armor, and provided limited protection against other Mark abilities. While not exceptional in isolation, when combined with the Sterkhander house Mark, it transformed them into engines of destruction.

Once paired with [Strengthened Strike] it would create a sharp energy they can use as a short distance attack, traveling nearly seven feet forward. Give or take a few feet considering how talented someone was with it. Their armor became nigh impossible to destroy, strength bolstered multiple times, and then add [Fortify] to the mix. It was a combo made for an endless crusade like theirs.

The thought brought a bitter taste to Adrian's mouth. He recalled how he had gotten the [Shadow] Mark. How the viscount of these lands forced his father to impart their family’s legacy to fifteen young knights that served the Viscount. A dishonor that stained Adrian Sterkhander’s name. There was little worse than being forced to share a legacy Mark to outsiders. Remembering this made Adrian’s emotionally charged reactions towards the mark understandable, if not objectively the right thing to do. He promised himself to get some form of retribution. It was only right.

Halvard frowned. “My Lord…” It was obvious he wanted to be in the thick of things. Preferring to be waist deep in Orc viscera than anything else that Adrian could offer.

“I know,” Adrian replied with a smile. “You and I will attack from the rear. Or depending on where the Raid Chief is located. We eliminate him–”

“And they become an unwieldy mass of bloodlust and aggression,” Halvard smiled, revealing a teethful. “I shall hunt any that retreat. Or attempt any escape. Or dare to loiter and refuse to die in your glorious plan.”

Adrian intended to [Shadow Step] them out of the engagement as soon as they sniped the raid leader. But that was quickly thrown out, he was only going to [Shadow Step] himself out of the action. Unlike Halvard, he wasn’t immune to mortal wounds. He was unsure if one [Shadow Step] would do the trick, hence he saved up as much of his Mark Energy as he realistically could. He suspected he had three steps before he was dry of energy.

“Ulf,” Adrian continued. “You’ll man the ballista. Make every shot count. We have precious few to spare.” Ulf was the steadiest of them all and had been the most accurate during practices between them. Other than Halvard of course, but that would be a waste of the knights talents to be kept in the backline.

He made a mental note to figure out a ranged form of attack. What was a Galaxy Barret without a gun after all. Maybe mini ballistas that only a knight could carry? Or figure something out that used their Mark Energy to shoot out waves of suffering and pain towards their enemies.

“We position militia watches on elevated platforms on the other two paths,” he made a line on their positions. “Keep an eye out and send warning if any orc arrives in that direction.”

Markius nodded. He began to whisper with the other two commanders. They discussed who to place and were from their men in low voices, but not low enough for their enhanced hearing to not pick up. It was good they were being very specific with who they chose to fulfil that task.

“Ivar, Finn, and Leif will man the second line. Reinforcements for the first and to prevent any new breaks that may overwhelm them. I trust your judgments pertaining to when you decide it is necessary to help. And lastly,” he looked at the remaining two. He knew full well they would not be happy with being the backups and kept in reserve in case the orcs split and attacked from two different directions. But someone had to do it.

“Stig, Ragnar–”

The two cursed. But did not challenge him at all. Adrian knew they would speak to him later, in private. He would need to figure out a proper rotation so he didn’t make them feel ostracized and left out of battle. He couldn’t blame them for their eagerness to battle for him, that would be out right madness.

He continued. “You two will be our mobile reserve. Any breaches across the blocked paths, you’ll be the first to respond,” He turned back towards Ivar and Leif. “Be prepared to reinforce them if necessary. Once again, I trust your judgments in making the right decision.”

The plan started to take shape. His knights helped to move massive multi-ton stones into the right spots in an efficient manner. Militiamen worked overtime to drag dead horse carcasses and an incredible amount of debris from the wreckage around them. Their commanders could be seen on elevated platforms shouting and guiding their men to the right spots. Every obstacle had purpose, some to completely block and others to channel through a tiny labyrinth that would slow down their assault.

It was the rudiments of trench warfare. Bog them down while tanks unleashed destruction and death at them from point blank range. And destruction was what they would get.

Adrian surveyed the scene of their coming battle. Everyone had settled into position and doing what little was left to complete their preparations. Ulf settled behind the ballista, twenty feet above the killing ground. His massive frame moved back and forth, in deep discussions with militiamen on the most efficient strategies to load and fire quicker. Even though he had only seven shots.

Said militiamen crowded around him, spears at the ready. A line had been made of them to get the massive bolts to Ulf without him having to waste any time getting up and down the platform created for his vaste weight. There were other groups of militiamen stationed around the field protecting their rear and watching for any shadows moving in the darkness of night. Around them were massive braziers of fire made to illuminate the surroundings as much as realistically possible. It did its job.

Halvard rested by himself, waiting for him and the signal to swing around the defenses. Erik, Bjorn, and Gunnar settled into their positions like statues. They said nothing to no one, and refused to respond to anything said to them. Ivar, Finn, Lief, Stig, and Ragnar huddled and ribbed at each other. Friendly merry making before the battle began. Hopefully that was the closest that Stig and Ragnar would ever reach the frontlines.

“Who am I kidding?” Adrian mumbled to himself. When have set plan ever gone as expected? More likely than not, it would go terrible. Out numbered so vastly tended to make the margins razor thin–

A horn blared in the darkness of night.

He watched as an Orc army materialized from the darkness. One by one, their numbers kept increasing. They did not pass five feet from the treeline, waiting, watching them and their new structure. Their bodies seemed to drink what little light reached them, coating them in sinister shadows. Militiamen that were in vantage points high enough to see the host of orcs offered audible prayers for victory and glory.

Then came their leader. The Raid Chief towered even above the giant orcs around them. Massive arms that touched the ground, they were half the width of a knight. His tusks were coated with metal, iron seemed to be screwed into his body. A large pincer, that seemed dull from this distance, made what should have been a left hand. Human skulls decorated what little armor he had on. More made into a crown above his head.

Predators of various kinds, their skulls hung from a belt, trophies the Raid Chief must have personally bested. On its shoulder a tiny goblin whispered into its ear.

It roared. Shattering the quiet that had descended the battlefield. The orcs hooted and hollered, bashing their weapons on their armor. A clangorous mess of ill timed tunes and battle cries.

“Lord,” Halvard called him. The knight wanted to be out and about already. He didn’t care if they had to wade through the horde to get to the Raid Chief. Unfortunately, Adrian was susceptible to fatal attacks.

“Patience, Halvard,” He pointed. “Let them move forward, we will have a better view from here to locate it. Then we can move out.”

Halvard frowned but nodded.

The orc host moved. Pockets started to charge by themselves. The others rushed in behind refusing to miss the glory of battle. There was no line or tactics. It was just–

The Raid Chief roared again. Guttural words followed, his voice reaching even them. Adrian would need to learn some orc language if he were to make better counters. The entire orc army came to a dead halt. They turned to look at their leader. It continued to shout at them. The goblin on its shoulder would speak to it, then the Raid Chief would give commands. Again, he made another mental note. This time was to make sure the goblin did not escape.

“The goblin,” Halvard leaned over the edge. “I’ll kill it first.” They were on the same wavelength.

“Good.” Adrian was unsure what he should say other than that.

Halvard looked back at him. His great-helm was already on. “We wouldn’t have known about it had we moved already.” Adrian could hear the smile in his voice. He only nodded back. They were his knights, he didn’t need to boast. They already attributed their accomplishments to him.

The horde began to move with purpose this time. Evidence of tactical acumen that did not settle well with him at all. The raid chief was dangerous, they needed to get rid of him as soon as possible. The orcs split into three distinct bands. Each one attacking a side, with the largest group heading straight into the killzone in the front. The other two peeled off to probe the flanks, their numbers looked too great to dismiss.

Adrian heard the click of the ballista’s mechanism.

Time seemed to slow as the colossal bolt shot into view. It had almost no arc at all as it tore through the air with impossible speeds. And yet the Raid Chief had already begun to move. It displayed impossible agility for something so large. The ballista scraped off the metal pincer hand, deflecting to the side and ruining the offending limb. It had missed it, but there were other orc bodies tightly packed around it. The bolt punched right through another orc’s face, erupting from the back of the skull and pinning another behind it. Shattered skull bones and brain matter showered the rest around them. Green blood painted them, bones pinging off their armor in a grisly rain.

Silence descended like a physical weight.

Chaos erupted a moment later. The orcs' collective roar of rage shook the very ground. It drowned out all their senses as the collective voice seemed to vibrate in the air. The Raid Chief's careful strategy evaporated in an instant. Quickly replaced by bloodlust and the need for immediate vengeance. Only the diminutive goblin perched on the chief's shoulder seemed to maintain any sense. It could be seen tugging at the chief’s ear, its shrill voice lost in the rising tide of violence.

The horde surged forward. They charged with only a few on the edges still moving towards the flanks of their defenses. The battle had finally begun.