The soldiers of the Vanir Protoss quickly formed a defensive perimeter around the camp, their shields interlocking to create an impenetrable wall of divine steel.
The Skrinthian horde surged forward like an unrelenting tide, their grotesque forms writhing in hunger and bloodlust. But as they collided with the Vanir warriors, the battle shifted instantly—the first wave was annihilated in mere moments.
Against the divine prowess of the Protoss soldiers and their enchanted weapons, the Skrins were as fragile as parchment. Spears, swords, and war hammers cut through them with terrifying efficiency, reducing the vanguard to a mound of lifeless corpses in the blink of an eye.
Yet, despite their overwhelming power, the Protoss soldiers did not let down their guard. Their expressions remained taut with focus, their grips firm on their weapons. Some even appeared uneasy.
They knew this onslaught was far from over.
The Skrins, much like locusts, did not rely on the strength of individual warriors. Their true power lay in their sheer numbers, in their relentless and overwhelming swarms.
The first wave fell swiftly, and then the second wave came—rushing forward with renewed madness.
The result was the same.
The Vanir Protoss stood like an unshakable mountain, cutting through the second wave just as effortlessly.
Then came the third, the fourth, the fifth, and more. The Skrins never ceased their assault, their dying cries mingling with the clash of steel.
Before long, piles of corpses, stacked higher than a man, formed a gruesome barrier around the perimeter of the camp. Blood—dark green and foul-smelling—spilled across the battlefield, soaking into the soil.
The stench became unbearable.
It reeked of rot and acid, like a field of heather blooming in a slaughterhouse.
Even though Rowe remained inside his quarters, he could smell it from afar. He frowned, imagining the sheer horror of the soldiers trapped amidst the carnage.
---
Despite their unyielding defense, fatigue began to creep into the Protoss warriors. None had fallen, and injuries were rare, but the strain of battle was starting to show.
And then, another wave of Skrins arrived.
But this time, they were different.
Unlike the cannon fodder that had come before, this new force bore armor—crude, mismatched, but still stronger than the rags worn by their fallen brethren. Their weapons, too, were sharper and sturdier, crafted from actual metal rather than rusted bones and scavenged debris.
Scaling the mounds of their fallen kin, they leaped down, crashing into the Protoss lines with newfound ferocity.
Some of them broke through.
Though swiftly cut down, their breach was undeniable. From above, the once impenetrable golden shield of the Protoss defense now had streaks of green weaving into it—a swarm, slowly infiltrating the camp.
More Skrinthians slipped through.
The inner camp had to mobilize.
Soldiers inside rushed to eliminate the intruders, engaging in close-quarters combat. Though the Vanir warriors still held the advantage, they were now fighting within their own defenses, rather than merely repelling the horde.
The Skrinthian weapons were, for the most part, weak and brittle, unable to pierce Protoss armor. But some exceptions existed—warriors wielding forged blades, coated in a thick, venomous substance.
Even the immensely resilient bodies of the Vanir were not immune to such poisons.
From his window, Rowe could see the chaos unfolding—his chest tightening with unease.
Then, a knock on the door snapped him from his thoughts.
Knock. Knock.
He turned and opened it.
Standing before him was Sigurd, alongside a group of healers.
Sigurd held a dagger in his grip, his expression grim. "The scale of this attack is… massive. The enemy has already breached the camp. Lord Skala has ordered us to prepare."
A healer beside him added, "Take your dagger."
Rowe glanced at the offered weapon, then shook his head.
Instead, he reached for his war hammer—a gleaming, silver Verigan's Fist. He tested its weight in his palm, then looked at the group.
"I have this."
The silver glow radiating from the hammer reflected off the healers' faces. They exchanged looks, stunned.
One of them muttered, "Are… are we using war hammers now? Should I get one too…?"
"Enough talk," Sigurd cut in. "We need to move."
The group of healers quickly descended the stairs, moving toward the camp's central command post.
Rowe followed.
"Where exactly are we headed?" he asked.
"To Commander Heimdall," Sigurd replied. "The healers are to remain under his protection."
Rowe faltered slightly. "Heimdall?"
Sigurd smirked. "You've been in this camp for days, and you didn't even know the commander's name?"
Rowe remained silent.
Truthfully, this was new information to him.
He hadn't expected the third camp's commander to be none other than Heimdall, the legendary gatekeeper of Asgard—the very one who would, in the distant future, guard the Bifrost Bridge in Thor's era.
---
Upon arriving at the command post, Rowe saw him.
Heimdall.
The young commander stood tall, clad in heavy armor, his dark skin illuminated by the glow of nearby torches. Unlike the guardian sword he would wield in the future, Heimdall now rested his grip on an enormous battle-axe, its edge gleaming ominously.
The only familiar feature was his helm—a horned masterpiece, following the traditional Asgardian style. Its exaggerated, curved horns were both ornamental and deadly, long and pointed enough to skewer an enemy outright.
As Rowe observed him, Heimdall's gaze suddenly turned.
Their eyes met.
A chill ran down Rowe's spine.
Of course.
Heimdall possesses the All-Seeing Eyes…
There were no blind spots, no hidden places. As long as he willed it, Heimdall could see anything, anywhere.
Rowe swallowed. This guy must be a nightmare to date.
Before he could dwell on the thought, Heimdall spoke, lifting his battle-axe.
"Soldiers. Prepare for battle."
At that moment, a massive explosion shook the camp.
A gap had been blasted through the outer defenses.
From within the breach, a wave of heavily armored Skrinthians roared as they rushed forward.
Rowe instinctively prepared to witness Heimdall's strength, but—
To his surprise, it was Medical Officer Scala who acted first.
With a twitch of his beard, Scala rubbed his hands together.
CRACK!
Lightning burst forth, arcs of raw thunder surging from his palms. The storm coalesced into a single bolt, striking the invading Skrins.
BOOM!
The entire enemy squad was vaporized on the spot—reduced to nothing but charred husks.
Rowe stared in shock.
The gentle-looking Scala… was actually a powerful thunder mage?
Yet, the battle was far from over.
The outer defenses continued to crumble, and soon, more Skrins flooded through.
As their green blood mixed with the fallen, the camp was on the brink of being overrun.