Chapter Seventy-Seven: The Martial God Hestine
The cold wind of early morning swept across the barren fields of Wildfire Plain. The rising sun was still nestled beneath the horizon, casting only a faint, pale glow. The first rays of sunlight had yet to arrive. In the biting wind, the imperial eagle banner atop the flagpole fluttered fiercely.
This was a garrison situated directly north of Wildfire Town, occupied by the Second Legion of the Byzantine Empire.
As one of the empire’s regular legions, the Second Legion was composed entirely of infantry. Within the imperial strategic plan, they were assigned as the central force among three columns set to confront the invading Odin forces on Wildfire Plain.
In the quiet dawn, the vast camp lay silent. Only the night patrol wandered the grounds; soldiers at the sentry posts and lookout towers wrapped themselves tightly in fur robes, shrinking from the cold, their heads drooping with fatigue. Their bloodshot eyes betrayed the exhaustion of a sleepless night, and their sole wish was to endure until the changing of the guard so they could finally collapse into sleep.
This damned Wildfire Plain was far too cold in the morning...
General Perizzoli, commander of the Second Legion, had already risen. Dressed and ready, he stepped out of his tent and glanced at his personal guard slumped at the doorway, nodding off with his spear in hand. The forty-year-old general merely smiled, walked over, and gave the guard a gentle kick. The guard, startled awake, met Perizzoli’s broad, reassuring smile before the general strode off.
Perizzoli, though born into a distinguished noble family, was regarded as a competent imperial officer. His conduct in the army was honest and steady; he was never lacking in courage during battle. In twenty years of service, he had neither achieved remarkable glory nor committed grave errors. The saying “no merit, but much toil” aptly described men like him.
Perizzoli did not pursue the guard’s dereliction. He took several deep breaths, the chilly air stabbing at his lungs, and muttered a low curse. Gathering a few officers, he began a relaxed inspection of the camp.
In truth, the entire Second Legion shared their commander’s easy mood. According to the plan, the army was divided into three columns to block the Odin invasion; the Second Legion was assigned to a relatively safe position—their camp stood at the very center of Wildfire Plain. Northward, two forests and a two-day march separated them from the Dwarven lands, while to the northeast lay the Red Wastes, occupied by goblins.
Such geography inspired a sense of security: even if the Odin forces truly attacked, it was unlikely they would choose this route. With the Dwarven and goblin territories to cross, any Odin commander would risk conflict with the Dwarves—a foolish move, since the Dwarves were not to be underestimated and no leader would willingly waste troops there. Thus, the Dwarves and goblins became the Second Legion’s natural shield.
The Second Legion was not famed for its prowess; it was a middling force, assigned to a safer spot. Perizzoli guessed the main reason for stationing his troops here was merely to prevent small Odin detachments from sneaking through the Dwarven lands for a surprise attack—and even that was unlikely.
Still, Perizzoli made what he considered sufficient precautions: four sentry posts to the north, spaced several miles apart, each manned by a rotating guard every two days. If Odin troops did attempt a stealthy attack, they would not escape his vigilance. His main concern was not Odin, but rather the possibility of the Dwarves suddenly attacking.
As for the Odin army, tradition dictated they would advance south from the Albakt Plains, where the Thirteenth Legion stood guard. By imperial custom, the hardest battles were reserved for that iron-clad force.
The silent morning saw Perizzoli leading his officers through the camp. It was not his usual habit, but he knew that after this campaign he would be reassigned. Having served with this legion for four years, he felt a certain affection for these troops, and before leaving... he wanted to take it all in one last time.
After a circuit, his body warmed from exertion, he watched squads of soldiers emerge from their tents to assemble for morning drills, his face relaxed with a smile.
But his smile lasted only a moment before freezing.
He saw something—
Signal fire!
On the lookout tower of the northernmost sentry post, flames blazed, sending a column of black smoke into the sky, rising dozens of meters before dispersing in the wind. This was the closest sentry post to the camp.
Perizzoli’s face stiffened as he stared at the signal fire, shock flooding his heart. Before he could recover, a terrifying sound reached his ears...
※※※
Howling! The wild, rolling howls of beasts—dozens, perhaps hundreds—all mingled together, rumbling through the cold wind and making one’s skin crawl.
The morning tranquility shattered.
Perizzoli paused, his face twisting in panic. He rushed to the camp gate, kicked aside a dazed soldier, and vaulted onto the lookout tower to gaze north.
What he saw made his facial muscles contort in terror, sweat pouring from his brow.
To the north, the nearest lookout tower was engulfed in flames. Beside it, on a high ridge, a mass of dark shapes appeared, growing ever denser in the dim dawn—like a black cloud pressed against the slopes.
The chilling roar came from there. Perizzoli soon saw what those black shapes were...
A horde of ferocious black bears crowded the hillside, forming dense lines. Each bear was larger and more robust than any ordinary bear, their black fur clad in crude heavy armor, with sharp blades on shoulder and forearm guards. They stood upright in rows, with countless more gathering behind.
Even more terrifying, each bear bore a saddle, and Odin warriors sat astride them! These Odin riders wore rare metal armor—rough but heavy—each a formidable figure, clutching massive axes and pounding their chests. Their hairless arms were thick with black fur, and their howls rivaled those of their bears.
Perizzoli’s heart sank instantly; darkness clouded his vision, his heart pounding wildly, breath coming short. He bit his tongue hard, the pain snapping him out of his shock.
Turning from the lookout tower, his expression twisted, he screamed madly:
“Enemy attack! Odin ‘Berserkers’!”
His shrill cry echoed through the camp...
※※※
No horns, no drums. The Odin bear riders on the slope suddenly charged in a frenzy!
Hundreds of bears thundered downhill, a black cloud sweeping toward the Byzantine camp.
The hurried trumpet had just sounded, and chaos broke out as officers—disheveled—rushed about, driving equally disheveled soldiers into formation. Most had barely emerged from tents, some without weapons or armor.
Perizzoli, face contorted, ordered the gates closed, his urgent shouts resounding.
The enemy was too close! The gate guard mustered barely a hundred archers, who managed a single volley before the bear warriors crashed into the entrance!
The wooden palisade, only as tall as a man, was shattered effortlessly by the berserk bears. The defending troops, arrayed in a makeshift line, were annihilated in moments by the first dozen bears. Flesh and bone were torn apart, soldiers crushed without a cry. Officers tried to rally a counterattack, but the bear warriors swept in, one officer’s sword barely raised before he was smashed aside, his chest crushed mid-air; another broke his sword on a bear’s paw, only to be decapitated by the Odin rider’s axe.
Within seconds, hundreds of defenders fell; the thick wooden gate collapsed, and the palisade was breached by over a hundred bear warriors, falling with a thunderous crash.
More bear warriors poured through the gap, descending upon the chaotic Byzantine troops...
Most soldiers had just awakened, many without armor or weapons. Their bodies were torn apart by the bears, powerless to resist.
The standard-bearer of the First Banner, leading a patrol, tried to counterattack, managing only a brief resistance. Though skilled, he was quickly overwhelmed by four bears, his body torn to pieces.
Under the onslaught of hundreds of bear warriors, the defenders were swept away like pebbles in a flood, their resistance quickly drowned.
In sum, the Second Legion offered little effective resistance. Though only a few hundred, the bear warriors used their ferocious charge to smash the hastily gathered defenses, and what followed was nothing short of a massacre.
The garrison became a slaughterhouse. Soldiers fled in a panic, trampled and collided, only to be killed by pursuing bear warriors. Bear claws and Odin axes reaped lives with savage abandon...
Chaos was unstoppable. The bear warriors crushed the Second Legion’s morale, and soon, from behind the first wave, thousands of Odin reindeer cavalry poured through the breach, spreading out to hunt down the fleeing Byzantine soldiers...
※※※
On the slope, a solitary figure watched the distant carnage, his narrow eyes filled with cold indifference.
This figure was not tall, appearing especially thin and small among the burly Odin folk—indeed, he would be merely average even among Byzantines. Yet, standing atop the hill in a black cloak, he exuded a commanding presence, as if his frail form dominated the land below.
Behind him, hundreds of Odin warriors stood quietly, their eyes burning with fervent admiration.
“Sound the horn.”
After a moment, the figure turned. His face was utterly unremarkable—thin lips, flat nose—easily lost in a crowd. But his eyes were long and narrow, slightly upturned, with a gentle look. His gaze was cold, devoid of emotion, and his voice deep as he issued the order.
He walked toward his men, and soon a horse was brought—a tall war steed, over two meters, once magnificent, but with a scar across its head and a blinded left eye.
The horse wore light armor; the man mounted, took a three-pronged spear, and with a tug on the reins, the horse reared and charged down the slope toward the Second Legion’s camp.
※※※
By now, the Second Legion’s camp had completely collapsed. The last resistance gathered around the commander’s tent. General Perizzoli, upon the breach, rushed to the rear, assembling his guards and deputy commanders, about two hundred disorganized troops, forming a desperate circle around the flagpole.
Two squads of reindeer cavalry and a dozen berserk bears attacked in waves, but this remnant force included the best guards and mid-to-high-ranking warriors.
All knew their fate was sealed, so they fought to the death. The generals’ swords shone with battle energy, forming a tight defense, stubbornly resisting the Odin assault. The circle shrank, casualties mounting until barely fifty remained.
Perizzoli’s sword was battered, his armor torn, a deep wound across his chest from a bear’s axe. He had slain six bear berserkers and over ten reindeer cavalry; half his officers were dead, the defensive circle shrinking, the ground littered with corpses. He was pale, bleeding heavily, the glow of his sword dimmed.
Everyone knew survival was impossible; their only option was to fight.
A general stabbed a bear, but the beast’s rage trapped the blade in bone and smashed onward, breaking the sword and crushing the general’s shoulder. The Odin rider raised his axe to strike, but Perizzoli’s sword cleaved through, splitting the Odin warrior in two.
Perizzoli gasped, barely able to stand, leaning on his sword.
More screams, another breach in the circle. He roared, his body erupting in silver light, hair flying, sword striking like a storm. A burst of battle energy enveloped the area, shattering a dozen reindeer cavalry and sending a bear berserker flying, its chest hollowed, rider’s torso vanished.
“Come! Let’s see who claims Perizzoli’s head!” he shouted, blood streaming down his face and legs, still standing upright, battle energy blazing.
Even now, his presence cowed several reindeer cavalry, who hesitated.
At that moment, the sound of hooves! A horse leapt, soaring over the reindeer cavalry and landing in front!
The three-pronged spear swept forth, black flames roaring like a whirlwind!
Perizzoli’s eyes reflected the black flames. He cried out, his silver battle energy blazing, charging toward the black fire—
Boom!
A dull sound. Within the black flames, Perizzoli’s body was sliced in half at the waist! His lower half was instantly incinerated, even the blood vaporized. His broken sword fell, clinking as it shattered.
His upper half crashed to the ground, viscera spilling, mouth pouring black blood, dead eyes staring at the figure on horseback.
“Black... Blackst...” He never finished the name, his breath ceasing.
Blackstein sat atop his horse, his narrow eyes sweeping coldly over the fallen enemy. His gaze was as indifferent as ashes. With a silent swing, his spear severed the flagpole, which collapsed as black flames consumed pole and banner, reducing them to ashes.
The Odin War God turned, looking coldly at his warriors.
“...Pass the word: sound the horn three times. If the enemy camp is not taken when the horn stops, the entire vanguard will be executed!”
※※※
(Pressure! Merciless pressure! When I felt that trembling fear... yes, that’s the feeling...)
Shaya clutched his head in thought, fire fork and magic crystal before him, eyes bloodshot, muttering incoherently.
He suddenly stood, stabbing the fire fork twice, then set it down, frowned in thought, shouted, and leapt up to hack twice.
“Fool, control your mind! Control your will! Crimson battle energy isn’t about true madness, but using the intent of slaughter to ignite its power!”
Listening to the voice in his mind, Shaya grinned maniacally, his laughter growing ever more crazed. He jumped, cursed aloud:
“Control! Control! Control what, damn it!”
He swung the fire fork wildly dozens of times, finally collapsing breathless to the ground.
After a while, the madness faded from his face. He wiped his mouth with a wry smile, “Damn, still not working...”
“How many times must I tell you: don’t truly lose your mind! You must control yourself, maintain clarity right at the brink of frenzy! If you can do that, you’re on your way to mastering this power.”
Shaya closed his eyes, brow furrowed, and after a moment, his expression grew savage, fingers trembling, several times nearly grabbing the fire fork for a wild attack, but he clenched his fists tightly, veins bulging, knuckles white. His body shuddered as if with fever, facial muscles twitching, eyes flickering...
Finally, he took a deep breath, still trembling, but slowly stood, his movements heavy.
His eyelids opened slowly, and his eyes were entirely crimson.
A mix of ferocity and clarity flashed across his gaze, finally settling into calm. Yet this calm paired with red eyes appeared deeply unsettling.
He gritted his teeth, arm still trembling, gently gripped the fire fork, inhaled, and executed a slow strike...
Five paces ahead, a thick wooden stake silently split in two.
Standing there, Shaya’s trembling faded. Blood trickled from his mouth—he had bitten his gums hard enough to bleed.
The crimson in his eyes faded rapidly. He looked at the fire fork, then at the broken stake, examined the cut—it was astonishingly smooth.
He swallowed, then threw back his head in laughter. “Ha ha ha! It worked! It worked! That’s it!”
But he frowned, “Yet... its power seems much less. There’s none of that sweeping red glow from my earlier attempts...”
The voice in his mind replied, “This is correct. The power is less because you can only control so much now. If you let madness take over, you might unleash greater force, but your mind would be lost. Unless you’re a fool, you understand that in battle, mindless attacks, no matter how powerful, will get you killed against a true opponent.”
Shaya blinked, “Yeah, I get it. Like a drunken brute swinging a big blade—strong enough for ordinary foes, but a skilled enemy would exploit many weaknesses...”
“...You’re stupid, but not entirely hopeless.”
“...Damn!” Shaya spat bloody saliva. “Don’t think you can insult me just because you’re a dragon! You’re only a ghost now. If you piss me off, I’ll—”
“What will you do?” The voice was cold and mocking. “Kill me? You’d have to smash this stone. But to trigger the crimson aura, you need this magic crystal with your soul imprint. Would you give it up?”
Shaya fell silent.
Having just tasted a little success, he was reluctant to destroy the stone and abandon such a powerful move.
He said nothing. The dragon’s voice sighed.
“Human, shall we make a deal?”
“A deal?”
※※※
“What a crimson dawn...”
On a hillside in the valley, Kokelan stretched lazily. The morning sun warmed him, even in winter.
“Ah, it’s good here. In Odin, a morning like this could freeze you to death.” He flicked his cloak, gazed at the blood-red sunrise, a strange light in his eyes. “Such bloody dawn... it seems there was slaughter in the east this morning...” He pondered, smiling, “...Blackstein, another victory? Odin War God, your glorious record grows. But, glory tinged with blood is...”
The nobleman smiled, “...ultimately ill-omened.”
He turned, descending the slope, looking at his anxious attendants.
“Any movement from the Thirteenth Legion?”
“N-no, Your Highness, they’ve withdrawn, no sign of renewed attack.”
Kokelan smiled, patting the attendant’s shoulder, who knelt in surprise.
“All right, relax... Let the warriors rest. At least until tomorrow night, the Byzantines won’t move. Enjoy this last peace.”
His smile deepened, but his eyes were cold. He glanced again at the blood-red sky...
“A beautiful sunrise—makes me want to hear the harp...”
He paused, then laughed, “Attend me!”
“Your Highness!”
“Hm... go, fetch me a harp, I wish to play a tune!”
“...”
The attendants gaped. Though used to their master’s eccentric orders, sometimes they were simply maddening!
※※※
“You obtained my dragon scale, but lack the magic of the dragon race. In your hands, it’s just a tougher shield. But I, though only a remnant soul, retain draconic magic—I can imbue the scale with power, enhancing its magical resistance. Furthermore, the dragons’ long lives have accumulated profound knowledge. Do you wish to learn dragon combat techniques? I can teach you dragon spells! If I leave my soul imprint in your magic crystal, you can use it as a conduit to cast a portion of dragon magic—though limited, it is genuine dragon spellcraft! I can even reveal the secrets of life, including the use of soul power! Whether lowly humans or exalted dragons, soul power surpasses flesh. Even when facing death, if you master this, you can preserve your soul and perhaps find a new body for resurrection...”
Shaya’s face showed no excitement, only suspicion.
“Damn! Sounds tempting—what do you want from me? Let’s be clear: don’t ask me to risk my life. I’m enjoying myself just fine.”
【A brief announcement.】
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