Angar, his maul crackling with lingering arcs of energy, sprang upward, driving his hammer into a brute’s oversized maw.

  The weapon plunged deep with a wet thud, the satisfying crunch the hammer made as it sunk into the face gladdening his heart.

  Glory Thunders erupted, its shockwave rending the beast’s head into a spray of gore, hurling many within the throng behind it backward in a chaotic tumble of limbs and roars.

  He needed distance now, to let cooldowns reset, to catch his breath. Besides that first head wound, the two serious injuries he suffered came after he unleashed Glory Thunders, thinking he was safe for a moment, but these behemoths were too able to shrug of damage and recover quickly. He had to be very careful here.

  He used Ground Current to escape, the earth swallowing him only to spit him out as far east as it’d take him.

  From his new vantage point, he watched as some brutes spotted him and followed, while the rest continued their relentless march towards Nalitha.

  Instead of sticking to the road, the horde took the shortest path to their goal, hugging the small hills and mountains to their right, something no native would do.

  He’d been at this for a long time. Again and again, drawing off more, slowly whittling down their numbers.

  If he had to guess, he’d say more than four hundred came out of the gateway, and he had maybe halved that number. If he was lucky.

  But this relentless dance of attrition cut both ways. The brutes he felled exacted their toll, with more and more fresh wounds and bruises blooming across his body with every tussle.

  As the injuries stacked, his limbs grew more leaden, his reflexes faltered, and every misstep sharpened the razor’s edge he danced upon.

  Survival seemed unlikely, a thought he scarcely dared cradle, but a stubborn voice in his mind murmured he might endure, might see these abominations broken before Nalitha’s gates.

  These monsters were not swift. Their might didn’t lay in speed but in their unholy endurance and resistance, and titanic strength.

  He’d get ahead of the lumbering army, charge in, halt their advance, and use Tempest. That Ability itself usually got two. If he were lucky, three or four. If he was unlucky, one or none. Then, Glory Thunders finished off some injured ones.

  And all this further slowed the advance of the monstrous horde.

  After, he’d use Ground Current to move east, peeling off another group, almost always ones already wounded.

  When that handful got close, he’d sprint south, get ahead of the column, charge in, cause their ranks to compress, start spinning like a cyclone of destruction, repeating the cycle.

  Glory Thunders replenished the Energy Points and Charge spent by Tempest, but not the single Energy Point needed for Ground Current. That's why he reserved Ground Current solely to escape.

  At one desperate point, he had bolted south for a while, his lungs burning with effort, and dropped to his knees, fervently praying. But time had pressed like a knife at his throat, and he couldn’t fully replenish his Energy Points, barely stoking his fading reserves. It was enough to keep him in the fight.

  Soon, he knew, even Ground Current’s eastward flight would demand too steep a price, its single Energy Point a luxury he’d have to forsake.

  When he stopped to pray, he gained 6 Glory Points, doubled to 12 from three Glorious Achievements for slaying one, ten, and a hundred brutes – officially named as such, though he felt ‘behemoths’ described them well enough.

  He planned on spending some Glory Points then, but had had no time to.

  When the injured brutes he had just separated from their ranks drew near, he sprinted south to position himself ahead of this monstrous army again.

  With a deep and ragged breath, Angar charged back into battle. He dodged a swinging club, the air whooshing past, and struck back. His maul connected with a jaw, the teeth shattering under the force of the blow.

  He had to fight normally like this until the horde slowed, their ranks compressing as more stopped, to guarantee Thunderstorm would strike enough of them. Otherwise, he wouldn't be able to unleash Glory Thunders.

  This part of the cycle was very risky. The fight was an ebb and flow of violence, each move calculated to maximize damage while preserving his own life.

  For a while, he had used Ground Current here for its stun effect, but now reserved it to flee east, unable to spare another Energy Point per cycle.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  When the army halted with five brutes in range, he unleashed his spin.

  There were two critical elements to this part of the cycle.

  Firstly, not getting hit took precedence over keeping the monsters in physical damage range. His head still throbbed from the first hit he took. Just one good blow, even during Tempest, could end this game of attrition.

  Secondly, he gradually lured them eastward, dodging their attacks, to prevent being crowded and overwhelmed, but ensuring Thunderstorm's lightning could gather enough charges for Glory Thunders, aiming to catch as many foes as possible in the Capstone's devastating cone when Tempest ended.

  Even after mentally revisiting those critical elements, as Tempest neared its end, a wild blow glanced off his side, barely impacting, but the contact was still enough to make him grimace in pain.

  Once the spin stopped, he unleashed Glory Thunders. The ground itself seemed to shudder as a shockwave extended from the chert head, the air crackling with Divine retribution.

  Brutes collapsed, their forms splayed across the ground, the shockwave tearing through them, but it was never enough to kill enough of them. Or cause much damage to the hail and hardy brutes.

  With both Tempest and Glory Thunders, he probably managed to slay five in total this time.

  And there were more, always more.

  Angar used Ground Current and drew some brutes eastward. Then, soon after, he was back in the thick of it again.

  He didn't stop. He couldn't. His maul rose and fell with the rhythm of his heart, each kill a step towards saving his world, or receiving a glorious death. Every moment of life was a confirmation of his oath to protect this world with his faith, his fury, his life, with an unyielding spirit, even in the face of unholy abominations from Hell.

  And on he fought, cycle after cycle, whittling his enemies down, slowing with each new injury he took, his stamina pushed to its limits, his chest heaving. He believed he had halved their number once more. Or was close to doing so.

  Once again, he had to run ahead to pray and gain back as many Energy Points as he could. He knelt west of the road, large hills to his left, knowing the brutes were heading straight past.

  While deep in fervent prayer, a sudden premonition of doom jolted him back to reality. He rolled to the right with his maul clutched tight, narrowly escaping a club that made a new crater where he had just knelt.

  The horde was upon him, and he hadn't even realized it. He needed to be more vigilant, but his thoughts were muddled by injury and exhaustion.

  He was hurting badly. His transformed hands and forearms seemed to have settled down, causing him little pain now, but his right arm screamed with every motion, his ribs were cracked, blood seeped from numerous wounds, and the throbbing from his head injury only hurt more as time went on.

  But back into the fray he went, and on he fought, continuing the cycles, doing the best he could, giving it all he had within him, though he didn’t have much left to give, and he knew he’d soon be dead. But he fought on, every second bringing him closer to his end.

  Then, as he was about to initiate another assault on the vanguard of brutes, certain it would be his last time doing so, rocks started tumbling down onto the column, followed by more.

  That was the main reason why natives always stuck to roads when traveling.

  Nearly all roads went through passes or nestled in valleys between two mountains or towering hills, made of denser rock and stone, unlike the porous mountains of towns and cities.

  The roads were always situated far from the base of any hill or mountain, and an inbred instinct ensured natives avoided traveling along the base of any terrain where rocks could tumble down, especially when outside of territories controlled by one's own people.

  The thought of rolling rocks down on the column had occurred to Angar, but he could kill a lot more a lot faster with what he called his cycles.

  But Angar was one man.

  Atop a jagged cliff, hundreds of figures stood silhouetted against the ash-choked sky, rolling or heaving massive stones over the edge, unleashing a cascade of rockslides and avalanches that roared down like the wrath of God.

  The tactic bore some fruit, though its harvest was bitter and scant.

  Angar saw a boulder, vast enough to grind a man to dust, slam into a brute’s skull with a resounding crack.

  The beast staggered, its head bloodied but unbroken, a testament to its unholy endurance. It dug its claws and feet into the cliff face and started to ascend. Soon, others followed, climbing toward their new attackers.

  Many brutes were crushed or buried under rocks. Either they were dead or out of the fight for some time. These men removed a third, at least, of the number of remaining brutes in one strike, maybe almost halving the number.

  The air was thick with dust, the scent of earth and strange Hellspawn blood mingling beneath the cries of battle, but the cliff seemed to tremble under the weight of the climbing brutes.

  Atop the cliff, Angar watched as the men, their faces streaked with dirt and sweat, heaved with all their might, pushing massive boulders over the edge, and pounded hammers on huge stakes of wood dug into the cliff’s edge.

  He noticed these men donned a patchwork of armor from the varied peoples they hailed from. Then he noticed many women among their ranks too.

  One man hoisted a large boulder above his head with strength no ordinary human could muster. There were other signs, clear indications that many among these folk possessed Classes, performing feats beyond the mundane.

  Stones rumbled down, crashing into the climbing brutes with a sound like thunder. One boulder smashed into a brute's shoulder, the impact clearly heard, but the creature only roared, its grip on the jagged rock holding strong.

  Below, the brutes, regardless of the rocks pounding them, clawed their way up the cliff face. Their bodies seemed almost impervious to the onslaught.

  One beast, its head bloodied after a massive stone shattered on it, dug its claws deeper into the stone, and continued to pull itself up with determination Angar couldn’t help but be impressed with.

  Then more rockslides, not big enough to be considered avalanches, knocked many climbers back to the ground.

  About ten of the leading brutes had completely avoided this attack. The men atop the cliff hadn't wanted to endanger Angar, so waited until the vanguard had passed before initiating their brutal assault.

  His heart, already resigned to death, flared with a small spark of hope as watched these warriors in action, and their defiant stand.

  Their presence kindled a warmth within him. He wasn’t forsaken in this bleak battle. Others joined in and shared his burden.

  But, as his eyes fell upon the group of brutes he’d still have to face, a shadow of despair crept back. Even just ten or so of these monsters were too many for him now. He was too injured, at the brink of his endurance.

  He hoped when this was over, the men atop the cliff stood as victors looking out over this blood-soaked battlefield, but he doubted he’d be standing with them.