Chapter 22: The Unyielding Chaos
The Crafter Base was in complete disarray, engulfed by chaos as fires raged and goblins rampaged through the stronghold. The defenders struggled to organise against their cunning adversaries. The goblins, swift and unpredictable launched their attacks in sudden bursts and vanished just as quickly, compelling the human soldiers to remain constantly vigilant. They moved like a relentless tide, never staying in one spot, striking swiftly and retreating before a proper counter could be mounted. Their strategy was not sustainable for a prolonged assault; however, their objective was not to hold ground, but to buy time. And time was something they were securing in abundance. Fires raged across the terrain, turning the night into an inferno of destruction.
Amid the turmoil, the sharp clang of steel and cries of battle echoed across the terrain. On the rooftop of a scorched stone barrack, a lone figure stood, silhouetted against the blazing horizon, his scarred face twisted in a grimace as he surveyed the chaos. The hobgoblin commander, Grukk Thornscar, surveyed the battlefield with a calculating gaze, his scarred face illuminated by the glow of the inferno below. He rested his massive battle axe on the ground beside him, its blade still dripping with blood. His enormous frame and bulging muscles exuded an aura of brute strength. Resting his bloodied battle axe on his shoulder, Grukk growled in frustration.
"Grr.. If that fool had not lit the fire, we would have had more time to prepare," He muttered, his gravelly voice Filled with frustration. "Never mind. We have bought plenty of time already."
The charred roof tiles cracked slightly beneath his weight as he shifted, his eyes narrowing on the scattered movements of enemy soldiers. Moments earlier, a human soldier had tried to ambush him, leaping out of the shadows with a dagger. Grukk swiftly dispatched the man, his axe effortlessly slicing through armour and bone. The soldier's lifeless body lay crumpled at the base of the building, a stark testament to Grukk's brutal efficiency. The seasoned commander's skill and sheer physicality made him a force to be reckoned with.
As Grukk cleaned his axe with haphazard swipes, a leaner hobgoblin emerged from the shadows behind him. Zivka Sharpclaw moved with the agility of a predator, his keen eyes glinting in the firelight. Zivka Sharpclaw, lean and wiry, was the commander's trusted scout and strategist. He approached with a sly grin that did little to mask the concern in his sharp, yellow eyes.
"Are you all right, Commander?" Zivka asked, his voice a mix of concern and sly curiosity.
Grukk snorted. "I'm fine, Zivka. How is the mission progressing?"
Zivka's expression shifted, his tone measured. "So far, we've encountered little resistance and suffered minimal casualties. But…"
Grukk's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on the axe handle. "But what?" His voice, though deeper, held no anger, only the weight of authority and a demand for clarity.
Zivka hesitated briefly before replying. "Some of our men crossed paths with an unusual soldier. He was... relentless. He cut down several of our warriors with precision, never stopping to aid his comrades. I've ordered the others to steer clear of him to avoid unnecessary losses."
Grukk's brow furrowed, and his grip tightened on his axe as he pondered Zivka's report. He glanced at the battlefield again, his gaze lingering on the distant movements of the defenders. "Grr... A fearless soldier cutting down our men and running without pause? Grr, the humans are organising. Judging by your description, that soldier was likely a messenger."
His voice trailed off as he stared into the horizon, piecing together the unfolding events in his mind. The humans, despite their initial chaos, appeared to be reorganizing themselves. It was only a matter of time before their forces regained momentum. Grukk's knuckles whitened as he gripped the axe tighter, a grimace forming on his scarred face.
"I hope Mogrul Blackfang and Rukla Bonecrusher are finishing their tasks quickly," he muttered, his tone low and deliberate.
Zivka tilted his head, catching the words but saying nothing. His loyalty was unshakable, and he trusted his commander's instincts. As the two stood on the rooftop, the battle raged on below, the glow of flames casting flickering shadows over their hulking forms.
With a final, contemplative glance at the battlefield, Grukk shifted his gaze back to the task. The goblins' mission was not over yet, and failure was not an option. The scene dissolved into smoke and chaos, leaving an ominous muffled sound of the battlefield's turmoil.
Eamon Greystone moved swiftly through the battlefield, his boots kicking up dust as he weaved through the carnage. Of medium height and sturdy build, Eamon was a man forged by conflict. His short, sandy-brown hair clung to his damp forehead, and his warm hazel eyes—though filled with determination—betrayed a flicker of exhaustion. A few minor scars etched across his skin, reminders of past battles, hinted at his courage and resilience.
As the second-in-command to Thorne Ravenshade, the Crafter Base's formidable commander, Eamon bore a critical responsibility. Thorne had entrusted him with relaying the action plan to the field leaders amidst the chaos. Every step he took was purposeful, every movement calculated. His blade flashed in the dim light, cutting down any goblin foolish enough to cross his path. Those he couldn't kill with a single blow were shoved aside or avoided entirely—he couldn't afford to be delayed.
The battlefield was a sprawling mess of fire, smoke, and scattered cries of battle. Eamon's sharp eyes scanned the area relentlessly, searching for Thorne or the officers he needed to contact. Yet, in the shifting tides of the fray, even glimpsing familiar faces proved a monumental challenge. The goblins' strategy of hit-and-run attacks only added to the confusion, and fleeting shadows darted at the edge of his vision. Whenever he turned to confront them, they melted into the chaos like spectres.
Eamon's heart pounded in his chest, not from fear, but from the gravity of his task. The goblins were relentless and if the base defence hadn't organised promptly, their forces would collapse under pressure. He knew time was running out. Scattered officers tasked with missions were likely experiencing the same difficulties, each carrying fragments of the to deliver to their respective leaders However, Eamon had a final, crucial order—one that could alter the course of this battle.
As he sprinted across the bloodied ground, his breath came in short, controlled bursts. He gripped his sword tightly, the familiar weight of the weapon grounding him amidst the chaos. He could feel the strain in his muscles, the fatigue threatening to creep in, but he pressed on. His mission wasn't over.
Then, through the haze of battle, he spotted his target: the knight-commander. The man was locked in combat, his sword arcing through the air as he fended off a swarm of goblins. His men were pinned down, encircled by a horde that seemed to multiply with every passing second. Despite their dire situation, the knight-commander and his soldiers fought valiantly, refusing to yield.
Eamon's jaw tightened. The message had to be delivered, but he couldn't leave them to their fate. Without hesitation, he surged forward, his sword slicing through the air as he closed the distance. The metallic steel against steel and the guttural growls of goblins could be heard from the distance as Eamon forged his path ahead.
The flames roared higher, casting dancing shadows over the battlefield, as Eamon charged to their aid. The scene faded into smoke and chaos, leaving the outcome uncertain.
In the shadows of the battlefield, Rukla Bonecrusher and Mogrul Blackfang moved with practised precision, leading a party of twenty hobgoblins. Unlike the brutish frontline warriors wreaking havoc elsewhere, these goblins bore leaner builds and swifter armor, designed for stealth and agility. Their movements were fluid, almost ghostly, as they darted through the chaos, slipping past battles and avoiding heavy skirmishes.
Their mission was clear: locate the fragment hidden within the ruins and escape undetected. Confrontation was a last resort.
Rukla's heavy footsteps slowed as he approached Mogrul. Rukla Bonecrusher's deep voice broke the tense silence as he turned to his companion. "Mogrul, any progress? Did you find it?" he asked, his voice low and urgent.
Mogrul Blackfang paused, pulling an object from his satchel—a strange contraption resembling a compass. The wooden casing cradled a transparent glass sphere with a floating needle suspended in a transparent viscous liquid. This needle, forged from the fragment itself, was the key to their mission. Only Mogrul, with his seasoned expertise, understood its workings and secrets.
He studied the needle, noting its lack of movement, and growled under his breath. "Not yet," he said. "But we're close. The needle isn't responding, which means the fragment is still concealed."
Rukla nodded, his expression grim. "Then it's with the boy, just as we suspected. He's hiding it. We'll have to force his hand."
The fragments, relics of immense power, possessed a unique magnetic homing function. When one fragment was in its true form, it could locate others like it. However, if the target fragment was disguised or transfigured, the homing function became inert. This fact had vexed many fragment hunters before them, but not Mogrul Blackfang. He had hunted fragments for years, decades even, and could recognise their presence without the device. It was a rather educated intuition he had acquired over the years, it was not perfect, as it was intuition and not an acquired skill. Yet this intuition rarely failed him in the past and so he and his allies trusted his words beyond anything else.
"Someone activated it earlier," Mogrul said, his tone tinged with satisfaction. "That's how I knew for certain. When it transformed, The compass felt its powers and reacted. "Now, we must complete the task."
The group pressed forward, their movements swift and calculated. The chaotic din of battle raged around them, but they remained undetected, navigating the shadows with the precision of assassins. Victory seemed within their grasp until the atmosphere shifted and a figure emerged from the darkness.
The hobgoblins froze, their instincts screaming danger. This was no ordinary opponent. The mana detection spells could tell them how powerful this entity was. Even at a distance, the figure's presence radiated power. His mana aura was overwhelming—a blazing beacon of blinding light that outshone anything they'd encountered.
Rukla and Mogrul exchanged glances. They were seasoned warriors, fully aware, that they were confronting an extraordinary adversary.
Rukla tightened his grip on his weapon and muttered, "Mogrul, you go. Find the fragment. I'll stay here with the rest and deal with this Beast. "Be quick, though—I don't think we will be able to hold him for long."
Mogrul hesitated, his eyes narrowing. "And what about you?"
A grim smile flickered across Rukla's scarred face. "I'll manage somehow the mission takes priority. The compass shows we're close. You'll find the fragment soon enough. Once you have it, head straight to the commander. Don't come back here. We'll meet later."
After a tense moment, Mogrul gave a curt nod. "Don't get yourself killed, Bonecrusher. I won't be able to face your family if you..."
"Just move," Rukla growled breaking his sentencemid-coursee.
Mogrul seized the first opening, darting past the figure with the agility of a shadow. Behind him, Rukla and the remaining hobgoblins prepared for a desperate stand.
The mysterious figure stepped forward, his mana aura flaring like a blazing inferno. Those still using the detection spells felt like the sun had risen in the night and the whole night was light as bright as the day. Rukla tightened his grip on his weapon, bracing himself for the fight of his life.
As Mogrul disappeared into the shadows, the scene faded, leaving the fate of the battle shrouded in uncertainty. Just who is this shadowy entity?
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