The night air was still, save for the crackle of distant campfires and murmured conversations of weary soldiers. A few knights sharpened blades. Others cleaned armor or leaned against wagons, trying to catch fleeting sleep.
Then—
a sharp whistle cut through the dark.
An instant later—
"THWIP! THWIP! THWIP!"
Arrows rained down, punching through canvas and leather, igniting lanterns and exploding supplies. Several tents burst into flame. Men screamed.
"AMBUSH!"
"TO ARMS!"
Chaos erupted.
From behind tents and supply carts, barbarians emerged—painted in ash and blood, barely clothed, eyes wild with bloodlust. They didn't come in formation. They came like wolves—scattered, fast, and deadly.
Michel, the lieutenant in charge, was already up, sword drawn, barking orders.
"Form a line! Defend the command tent! Don't let them scatter us!"
A group of Empire soldiers rushed to intercept a wave of screaming raiders. One soldier fell immediately—his throat slit by a curved bone dagger. Another clashed blades with a barbarian wielding a giant crude axe, dodging narrowly before driving his blade into the man's ribs.
Barbarian war cries echoed in every direction.
A massive brute crashed into a cooking tent, swinging a hammer like a battering ram. Flames lit the whites of his eyes, and he let out a guttural laugh before smashing a soldier's skull like fruit.
Michel met him head-on.
Their blades struck.
Steel against bone.
Michel dodged, weaved, and drove his sword into the giant's thigh. The barbarian howled and brought his hammer down. Michel rolled—barely missing a crushed ribcage—and plunged his blade up into the brute's heart.
The enemy collapsed, blood flooding the soil.
More barbarians flooded in. Their aim wasn't to capture. It was to kill. One leapt over a wagon, only to be caught mid-air by a spear thrust to the chest. Another snuck beneath a wagon and slit the ankle tendons of an Empire knight before being tackled by two squires.
The fire spread. Tents collapsed. Horses screamed.
But slowly, the Empire soldiers pushed back.
"Cut them down! Drive them from the camp!" Michel roared.
They regrouped near the central well, using wagons and crates to form makeshift barricades. Knights, squires, and even wounded men fought with grit, pushing the barbarians into a bottleneck. The tide began to turn.
One last barbarian—a crazed, snarling woman with a necklace of ears—charged Michel with two blades. Their duel was brief and brutal.
Steel flashed. Sparks flew.
Michel blocked, parried, sidestepped.
Then—a clean thrust to the chest.
She dropped, gasping her last breath.
The soldiers around him panted, bleeding but alive. The enemy was routed.
The flames were doused.
Michel stood in the smoke and silence.
It was over.
Or so he thought.
Then—
a howl pierced the night.
Low at first.
Then joined by another. And another.
Dozens. Hundreds.
A tremor spread through the ground. The air grew heavy.
"Sir…" a scout whispered, pointing toward the eastern ridgeline.
Eyes. Glowing. Dozens of them.
Wolves. War drums. Armor glinting under the moon.
The Beastmen had arrived.
Michel stared in horror as 5,000 warriors rode toward them, dust rising behind their charge.
The barbarian raid was never the real attack.
It was just the opening move.
"Fire the flare!"he commanded
Claire now stood alone, facing Targan—the Beast King right hand man—and six of elite barbarian from the Karvak Tribe including the cunning Norgai.
Even one of them was a brutal challenge for a regular knight. Facing all of them at once?
It was suicide.
She gripped her sword tighter, her knuckles pale. There was no way around it. She would die here. But if she could take even a few down with her... that was enough.
With a cry, she dashed forward like a flash of silver moonlight. Her blade pierced cleanly through the first barbarian's throat before he could even react.
The second fell just as swiftly—a shimmer of aura, a silent step, and her sword carved through his side.
Two down. Six remained.
But now the real monster stepped forward.
Targan let out a grunt and tore away his cloak. His massive body was covered in jagged tattoos and scars. His fangs glinted under the pale moon, and a bestial snarl curled across his lips.
He raised one hand—and in a casual gesture—signaled a duel. Claire tensed, her eyes scanning the others.
Her gaze wasn't fixed on Targan. It was darting toward the other barbarians, waiting for the right opening.
Targan noticed.
"...Are they bothering you?" he asked, voice low and curious.
Claire blinked, caught off guard.
"Hm. They are, aren't they."
Before she could respond, Targan moved. Faster than anything that big should be. He blurred, flashing through the battlefield like a predator among sheep. One by one, the other barbarians were sliced open, their blood painting the earth.
Only Norgai was left.
"You... you bastard!" Norgai snarled.
Their eyes met. Norgai hesitated, fists clenched. He was not like other barbarians, Claire now realized. Cunning, yes. But his pride was hollow—a mask.
He wanted to live. Even if it meant leaving a part of his tribe to die.
And now Claire understood. He and she were the same—tools thrown into battles they didn't choose.
As dawn crept into the sky, a flare soared into the air. Her heart sank.
Their base was under attack. But the main army was moving. If she could stall Targan—just a little longer...
She raised her sword, breathing heavily.
"Listen... I don't want to die," she said, attempting to negotiate.
Targan's expression darkened. "Stalling, are we? Pick up your sword—or I'll make sure you die quickly."
So much for that plan. Despite his size, Targan had a sharp mind—sharper than most knights she'd known.
With a sigh, Claire drew her blade again. But this time, her eyes burned with focus.
"Use your aura," Targan demanded. "I want to see it."
"I don't need aura against a mere beast," she shot back with a smirk.
The insult landed.
Targan lunged, claws slashing. She parried once, twice—but his attacks grew heavier, more savage.
"Is this all the beast can do?" Claire taunted.
Targan roared.
Beast Fang – Third Form: Beast Slash.
His arm bulged, transformed into a monstrous claw, and he swiped with brutal speed.
Claire's aura flared.
Mirror Art – First Form: Reflection.
A glowing mirror shimmered into existence, intercepting the blow—and then from behind Targan, the same slash erupted from a second mirror.
Targan raised a second arm, blocking it.
"Hah. Interesting," he murmured.
The battle continued, a storm of steel and aura.
Then Claire invoked her second technique.
Mirror Art – Second Form: Copy.
A mirror formed behind her. From it emerged an identical clone—perfect in every motion.
Together, they flanked Targan—left and right. He blocked one, but the other slashed into his ribs.
Blood spilled.
He roared and smashed the clone apart with a powerful blow.
Claire stumbled back, sweat beading on her brow. Each use of her aura cost her dearly. She was running low.
"Is that it?" Targan grinned. "You disappoint me."
Claire coughed. Blood ran from her lips. Her body trembled.
"I'd like to play more... but your friends are on the way," Targan said, glancing east. "I'll end this now."
No allies in sight.
No more tricks.
Claire pulled off her chainmail, revealing only thin travel-worn clothes beneath. Around her neck, a necklace glinted in the light.
Inside was a sketch—her husband, a royal librarian, and their six-year-old daughter.
"I'm sorry, love. Looks like I'm going first."
She pressed the charm to her lips and let it fall.
This was it.
With a cry, she summoned the last of her aura.
Mirror Art – Second Form: Copy.
But this time, she didn't copy herself.
She copied Targan.
A monstrous version of him, forged from pure aura, stepped out of the mirror and stood by her side.
Then her final technique:
Mirror Art – Third Form: Absolute Inversion.
Targan grinned. "Now this... this is entertaining."
But then—Norgai struck.
From behind, his axe tore into Targan's back.
Targan stumbled. "Fucking traitor!"
"My tribe is gone. Does it matter if I live?" Norgai spat, bloodied but resolute.
And just like that, it became a 3-on-1 battle.
Targan snarled and finally unleashed it—
Beast Fang – Fifth Form: Beastheart.
His body transformed. Fur spread, fangs elongated, claws glowed with red aura. Now fully beast, he roared to the skies.
The final clash began.
Claire and the Targan clone flanked left and right, striking in perfect coordination. The copy's attack from above was inverted—hitting low. Claire's left slash was reflected right. It was disorienting—even for someone like Targan.
He bled. Again and again.
But he adapted. He was learning the pattern. His blocks grew sharper.
Claire, realizing he was catching on, turned off her inversion—returning her strikes to their original form.
Blood splashed as she landed another hit.
Then came Norgai, swinging his battle axe like a madman. One final strike—
Targan's claw pierced through Claire's stomach.
Her eyes widened.
Blood poured from her mouth.
"No... no..."
With a swift motion, he ripped her head clean off.
He turned to Norgai.
"If you had just stayed quiet... you could've lived."
"My people are dead. What's left to live for?" Norgai answered, broken and defiant.
Targan didn't respond. He simply ended him.
AFTERMATH – EMPIRE CAMPS
The night ended in fire.
5,000 Beast King soldiers had rampaged through the Empire's camp. Tents burned, men screamed, the scent of death thick in the air.
Targan, standing tall, held two heads high—Claire and Norgai. He tossed them before the remaining Empire troops.
"Your leaders are dead. Run, or join them."
Michel, watching from afar, let out a cry of rage. Some barbarians charged at Targan—but his soldiers cut them down mercilessly.
Then, from the horizon, came the dawn—and with it, the Empire's main army.
Even Targan knew better than to face it head-on.
Satisfied with his night's work, Targan gave the order:
"Retreat."
And with that, the Beast King and his army vanished into the mist—leaving behind fire, blood, and the silence of fallen heroes.