Chapter 3: Too strong or too weak?
Flashback Daemon POV 14 years old:
The campfire crackled low as the last trainees drifted to sleep. But for a squire, training has no end. My captain's shadow loomed over me, his eyes glinting in the firelight.
"A true warrior lives by a sacred code," he rasped. "Tonight you will learn ours."
I steeled myself, muscles burning from the day's lessons. My first true test had come.
"Love the Fury with all your steel and soul," my captain began. "Fight for her Chaos without fear or doubt."
Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength
To respect the honor of women and give succor to the widows.
I nodded, gripping my practice blade till my knuckles blanched. For Her glory we waged this endless war.
"Stand by your oaths and uphold the honor of our brotherhood. Keep your name pure so future generations may know our sacrifice."
"Protect the weak. Face any challenge from warrior equal to warrior. Turn not from battle once joined."
No enemy would find me craven. I would stand against all odds.
"Obey your lord's commands and bring ruin to tyrants. Defend your kin and people to your last breath."
For such leaders I would gladly die, as my forbearers had for generations.
"Succeed where others fail and complete any task given, no matter the cost. Endure all hardship; fail at nothing."
This I swore with all my heart as the flames died to embers. By Fury's Chaos I would prove myself this night and all to come. The code was etched upon my steel like runes, to guide me through trials that would harden me into the warrior I was meant to be.
flashback ends
Daemon POV:
As I exited the house, a ragged group of men, numbering sixteen, surrounded me. The last bandit's scream had alerted them to my presence.
One glance was all it took to assess their motley crew. Mismatched armor, if any, and poorly crafted weapons betrayed their unkempt and disorganized nature. Ugly, filthy, and grinning like fools, they presented a stark contrast to the disciplined warriors I had faced within.
But my eyes were drawn to the three men who stood at the forefront. Their armor bore the marks of formal training, and their weapons were better maintained. The way they held themselves suggested a level of skill that set them apart from the rabble.
I knew their eyes were fixed upon my own attire - the intricate design of the Blackstone Legion's armor and the gleam of my sword. To these men, such equipment was the stuff of legends.
This fearsome armor set embodies the ruthless might of the Horkos Tyrannos faction. Forged from the finest steel and adorned with the symbols of their unyielding cause, each piece radiates an aura of uncompromising power.
The chestplate is a masterpiece of craftsmanship, its surface etched with jagged patterns that evoke the relentless fury of a storm. Thick pauldrons rise from the shoulders, their edges sharpened to deadly points that promise to rend flesh and shatter bone. The gauntlets are angular and unyielding, their knuckles reinforced with riveted steel plates that can crush even the sturdiest of defenses.
The greaves are equally imposing, their surface scored with deep grooves that lend an almost primal aesthetic. Spiked knee guards jut forth, ready to impale any who dare draw too close. The helm is an awe-inspiring sight, its cruel visage crowned with sweeping wings that tower menacingly. This helm inspires dread in the hearts of the Warmonger's foes, a fearsome visage that promises uncompromising retribution.
Cascading from the shoulders is a billowing cape, its crimson fabric emblazoned with the iconic symbols of the Horkos Tyrannos. This cape is not merely decorative, but a symbol of the Warmonger's allegiance and the power they wield. It flows and ripples with each imposing stride, a crimson banner that strikes terror into the hearts of all who witness it.
This armor set is a testament to the Warmonger's unbridled power of the Horkos Tyrannos. It is a mantle of war, a burden that the wearer accepts with the understanding that they must be willing to bring ruin and devastation to any who would challenge the supremacy of their faction.
The three knights eyed me with open curiosity, clearly intrigued by the unfamiliar sigil adorning my armor. The one who spoke, a man with graying hair and a weathered face, stepped forward.
"Well met, stranger. I am Ser Mason Hill. And you would be?" he asked, his tone measured.
"I am Daemon Blackthorn, of the Blackstone Legion," I replied, gauging their reactions carefully.
Ser Mason's brow furrowed as he exchanged glances with his companions. "The Blackstone Legion, you say? I'm afraid I've never heard of such a thing."
I nodded slowly. "It does not surprise me. We hail from a distant land, far beyond the reach of most."
Ser Mason sighed heavily. "I see. Well, I'm afraid we have a bit of a situation on our hands." He gestured towards the door behind me. "Some of our companions were meant to be guarding our camp, but it seems they've gone in to... have some fun. We heard screaming, and now seeing the blood on your blade, I must ask that you surrender your weapon. I give you my word that no harm will come to you."
I narrowed my eyes, sensing the shift in the air as the bandits began to encircle me. "Your words ring hollow, Ser. You speak of oaths, yet your men have already broken faith with their duties. I will not surrender my blade to the likes of you."
Ser Mason's expression hardened. "Very well, then. Men, seize him!"
The clearing erupted into chaos as the sixteen bandits, emboldened by the presence of their three knight protectors, surged forward with weapons brandished. I steeled myself, my grip tightening on the hilt of my blade as I prepared to unleash the full fury of the Blackstone Legion.
The first bandit, a hulking brute wielding a rusted mace, came barreling towards me, his beady eyes narrowed in malice. With a swift side-step, I evaded his clumsy swing, the momentum of his attack leaving him off-balance. In that instant, I struck, my sword slicing through the air in a deadly arc that cleaved clean through his torso, sending his upper body tumbling to the ground in a spray of blood and gore.
Two more bandits rushed me, their blades raised high. I met their assault with a flurry of strikes, my sword dancing through the air with the grace and precision of a seasoned warrior. The first bandit's guard crumbled under the relentless onslaught, and I plunged my blade into his throat, silencing his dying gasp. The second bandit, his resolve faltering, attempted to flee, only to be cut down by a savage, backhanded blow that sent his head rolling across the dirt.
The three knights, their armored forms impassive, finally sprang into action, their steel blades glinting in the fading light. Ser Alric, the eldest of the trio, charged forward, his movements weighed down by the bulky plate mail that encased his frame. I met his attack head-on, our blades clashing with a resounding _CLANG_. With a well-timed riposte, I slipped past his clumsy defenses and thrust my sword through a gap in his armor, piercing his heart.
Ser Alric's lifeless body crumpled to the ground, and his two companions, Ser Warrick and Ser Mason, rushed to avenge him. But their skills, honed by years of complacency and privilege, proved woefully inadequate against the raw, unbridled fury of the Blackstone Legion. I danced between their attacks, my sword a blur of motion, until finally, with a series of well-placed blows, I disarmed them both, leaving them at my mercy.
The two knights, their faces etched with shock and disbelief, fell to their knees, their once-proud bearing shattered. I towered over them, my sword dripping with the blood of their comrades and the bandits, and I felt a twinge of disappointment. These were supposed to be the elite warriors of the realm, yet they had been dispatched with such startling ease, their skills no match for the ruthless efficiency of the Blackstone Legion.
With a swift, decisive motion, I ended Ser Warrick life, the sound of his final, rattling breaths echoing through the silent clearing. As I surveyed the carnage that surrounded me, I couldn't help but feel a sense of hollow victory. The true challenge, it seemed, still eluded me, and I knew that I would have to seek it out, no matter the cost.
As the last of the knights crumpled lifelessly at my feet, I found myself rooted to the spot, a strange sense of disbelief washing over me. These were the vaunted champions of the realm, the elite warriors who were supposed to embody the very essence of knighthood. Yet, they had fallen before me with such shocking ease, their skills no match for the brutal efficiency that had been drilled into me by the Blackstone Legion.
I had expected a true test of my abilities, a clash of steel that would push me to the limits of my skill and endurance. Instead, I had dispatched these so-called knights as effortlessly as I would a pack of rabid dogs. The realization was a bitter one, and I couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment.
If these were the finest examples of knighthood that the land had to offer, then even the lowliest footman in the Blackstone Legion could lay claim to that title. The very foundation upon which the knights' reputation had been built seemed to crumble before my eyes, leaving me to wonder just how much of their legacy had been mere myth and legend.
I surveyed the carnage that surrounded me, the lifeless bodies of the knights and their bandit companions lying in a grisly tableau. Their blood had stained the earth, a crimson testament to the ease with which I had cut them down. It was a sobering sight, one that left me questioning the very nature of the world I inhabited.
As I sheathed my blade, the weight of my disappointment seemed to settle upon my shoulders.
As the last of the three knights lay defeated at my feet, his once-proud form crumpled and broken, I felt a twinge of disappointment. These so-called champions of the realm had proven to be woefully inadequate, their skills no match for the brutal efficiency that had been drilled into me by the Blackstone Legion.
With a heavy sigh, I stepped over the knight's prone form, my attention drawn to the ornate sword that had slipped from his grasp. It was a fine weapon, no doubt forged by a fine smith.
Yet, even this symbol of his supposed knighthood had done little to protect him from my onslaught. I paused, considering the sword for a moment, before a dark thought took root in my mind.
Gripping the hilt firmly, I planted my foot on the knight's chest, my gaze unwavering as I bore down, the blade slowly piercing through the gaps in his armor. The knight's eyes widened in horror, a strangled cry escaping his lips as the steel sliced through flesh and bone.
With a swift, decisive motion, I wrenched the sword upwards, carving a jagged line through the knight's torso. Blood sprayed in a crimson arc, spattering across my armor and face as the knight's body convulsed in its final death throes.
I held the dripping sword aloft, its gleaming surface reflecting the fading light of day. This was the true power of the Blackstone Legion, I realized – the ability to utterly dominate our opponents, to strip them of their vaunted titles and leave them as nothing more than lifeless husks at our feet.
As I surveyed the carnage around me, I felt a sense of grim satisfaction. These were no true knights, no worthy adversaries for one of the Blackstone Legion's elite. They were simply obstacles to be overcome, their lofty reputations crumbling in the face of our relentless might.
With a final, dismissive flick of my wrist, I cleansed the knight's blade of his blood, the crimson fluid splattering against the ground. The Blackstone Legion's way was one of steel and fury, and I had proven myself more than worthy of that legacy.
CREATORS' THOUGHTS 
Mysticore
Mysticore Hello everyone! The author here. I hope you will enjoy this chapter. This is my first time writing a battle scene, so I hope you like it. As always, any ideas or suggestions are appreciated. Please don't forget to rate the story. Also, I will be dropping photos of daemon armor, so make sure to check them out!
Weekly Power Status
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Ranking 
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stone