Bab 14: war in the south

Kane stood tall and commanding on the balcony, his presence overshadowing the vast crowd below. His posture was rigid, his shoulders squared with an air of superiority, and his dark cloak rippled faintly in the wind. His piercing gaze swept over the gathered soldiers, generals, and commanders like a hawk surveying prey, his expression hard and unyielding. He leaned slightly on the edge of the railing, his hands gripping the stone with a controlled intensity that hinted at his lingering anger.

When he spoke, his voice boomed with authority, cutting through the murmurs and tension like a blade. "Now," he began, his tone low and menacing, "you do not worry about any attacks." His words carried a chilling finality, the kind that left no room for doubt or question. "You go home and rest yourselves. Return to your posts effective tomorrow."

The crowd stirred, soldiers exchanging uncertain glances, but none dared speak. Kane straightened, his eyes narrowing as he continued, "My soldiers will take care of this. Unlike you," his voice dripped with disdain, "they do not need rest. They are my killing machines."

He stepped closer to the railing, leaning forward slightly, his voice growing louder and sharper. "So, you will leave this to them. They will take care of it. Now, I want you idiots out of my sight. Now!"

The crowd erupted into frantic motion. Soldiers scrambled over one another, generals and commanders clutching their capes as they fled the courtyard in a chaotic rush. The clatter of armor and hurried footsteps echoed in the vast space as they obeyed with desperate urgency. Some stumbled in their haste, their faces pale with fear, while others looked back only briefly, as if to ensure Kane wasn't about to unleash more of his wrath.

The palace emptied quickly, leaving only a few workers scurrying quietly in the background and the ever-present Dark Squad standing motionless in the shadows, their black armor absorbing the dim light. Kane stood unmoving, watching the scene below with a disdainful smirk before turning on his heel and striding toward the war chambers.

The Dark Squad followed in perfect unison, their movements silent but deliberate, like shadows trailing behind their master. Kane's steps were purposeful, each one echoing ominously down the marble halls. His expression was calm now, but the cold fire in his eyes betrayed his ever-calculating mind.

When they entered the war chambers, Kane's pace slowed. He approached the large map dominating the room, its intricate details etched into the surface of the table. The map was expansive, showing the entire kingdom in sharp relief—rivers, mountains, cities, and villages meticulously marked. Kane's gaze swept across it with a keen, predatory focus.

He reached for a pin from the side of the table, his movements slow and deliberate. He twirled it between his fingers briefly, his lips curling into a slight smirk, before leaning over the map. With precise intent, he drove the pin into the southern region of the kingdom, his hand firm and unyielding. "This," he said, his voice a low growl, "is where they are attacking from."

The Dark Squad remained motionless, their stoic masks betraying nothing, but their eyes gleamed with anticipation. Kane straightened, fixing his gaze on them. "You will get there, kill them and leave one of them to tell the story of your horror, and report back to me. Make sure you torture the last one to the point he died after telling the story of your horror." His tone was cold, devoid of any emotion, as though the slaughter he was ordering was merely a routine task.

He took a step back, his eyes narrowing as he continued. "When you return, we're going on a trip together. There's work to be done, and you will follow me into it." He gestured with a flick of his hand, the signal clear and commanding. "Now go."

The Dark Squad moved in unison, their movements smooth and mechanical as they turned and exited the chamber. Their armor made only the faintest noise as they marched, their lethal precision evident in every step. Kane watched them leave, his expression unreadable but satisfied, the flickering torchlight casting sharp shadows across his angular features.

As the heavy doors of the war chamber closed behind the Dark Squad, Kane turned back to the map. His fingers brushed the edge of the table, his eyes scanning the kingdom once more.

The Dark Squad marched with purpose, their movements precise and silent as they approached the south side of the kingdom. Their black armor gleamed dully in the fading light, streaked with faint scars from countless battles. Each member moved like a shadow, their presence imposing and otherworldly. At their head was Dren, their commander, his posture confident and his steps measured. His eyes scanned the horizon, sharp and calculating, as he led his squad toward the heart of the threat.

When they reached the small village, the sight before them was grim. The enemy forces stretched far, a sea of soldiers marching in disciplined ranks, their armor glinting under the setting sun. The air was thick with the low murmur of commands and the rhythmic beat of their boots against the ground. The villagers had fled, leaving the streets eerily silent, save for the approaching roar of the invaders.

Dren stepped forward, his figure cutting an imposing silhouette against the backdrop of the village. He raised a hand, signaling his squad to halt behind him. His voice boomed across the field, sharp and commanding, "Stop where you are! The next step you take will be your last."

The enemy column halted abruptly, a ripple of confusion running through their ranks. The silence that followed was broken by a deep, mocking laugh. Their leader, a tall, broad-shouldered man clad in ornate armor, rode to the front on a massive warhorse. His expression was one of amused disdain, his lips curling into a smirk. "Forgive me," he said, his voice loud and dripping with mockery. "I was told the new king was fearsome, powerful, a force to be reckoned with. Now I see he is a fool. Look at this—he sends so few of you to face us!"

At this, the enemy soldiers erupted into laughter, their voices echoing across the field. Their leader leaned forward in his saddle, his eyes gleaming with arrogance. "One thousand of us against…what? Fifty of you?" He shook his head, still chuckling. "This is not war; this is a joke."

Dren stood motionless as the laughter faded. His lips twitched into a cold, feral smile. He turned slightly, addressing the Dark Squad without taking his eyes off the enemy. "This is going to be fun," he said, his tone calm and almost amused. Then he raised a hand and pointed at the enemy leader. "Leave him for last," he ordered, his voice sharp as steel. "I want him to tell the story."

With that, the Dark Squad sprang into action. They charged forward with terrifying speed, their black-clad figures streaking across the battlefield like shadows come to life. The ground trembled beneath their feet, and their war cries rang out, low and guttural, like the growl of beasts ready to devour their prey.

The enemy soldiers surged forward to meet them, a tidal wave of steel and flesh, but it was no contest. The Dark Squad fought with an inhuman ferocity, their blades slicing through armor and bone as though it were paper. Heads rolled, limbs were severed, and blood sprayed in every direction, staining the ground and the air with the scent of iron. Their movements were swift and precise, a deadly dance of calculated brutality.

Dren was at the forefront, his blade a blur as he cut through the enemy ranks. His expression was focused, almost serene, his lips set in a faint smile that only deepened with each enemy he felled. The blood that splattered his armor seemed to invigorate him, his strikes growing faster, harder, as though fueled by the chaos surrounding him.

The other members of the Dark Squad moved with similar efficiency, their faces hidden behind masks but their intentions clear in every lethal stroke. They were tireless, unstoppable, and merciless. The enemy's numbers meant nothing; they fell like flies under the relentless assault, their screams of pain and terror swallowed by the clash of steel and the roar of the Dark Squad's advance.

Within minutes, the battlefield was a graveyard. The last man standing was their leader, his once-arrogant demeanor shattered. He stood frozen, his wide eyes taking in the carnage around him—his entire force reduced to lifeless bodies strewn across the ground. His hands trembled, his mouth opening and closing without sound. His arrogance had been replaced by pure, unadulterated fear.

Dren approached him slowly, his blade dripping with blood. His steps were deliberate, each one echoing with menace. The leader collapsed to his knees, his body trembling as Dren towered over him. Dren's expression was cold, his eyes devoid of pity or remorse. "You will not die today," he said, his voice calm but laced with menace. "Not yet."

Without warning, Dren grabbed the man by the collar and tore off his armor with brutal force. The leader's breath hitched as Dren pressed the tip of his blade against his back, carving the name "Kane" into his flesh with deliberate, precise movements. The man screamed, his cries piercing the otherwise silent battlefield.

Dren stepped back, his eyes narrowing as he raised his blade once More. In one swift motion, he severed the leaders arm, the sound of flesh and bone snapping echoing through the air. Blood gushed from the wound as the man collapsed onto the ground, writhing in agony.

"Now leave," Dren said, his voice low and commanding. "Go, and tell them what you've seen."

The leader, clutching his bleeding stump, scrambled to his feet. His movement were frantic, his balance unsteady as he stumbled away,his cries of pain fading into the distance. Dren watched him go, his lips curling into a grim smile. The Dark squad stood motionless behind him, their black armor gleaming in the fading light, the battlefield around them a testament to their might.