The Skrins' cannon fodder troops had been exhausted, leaving only the elite warriors of perseverance. However, their numbers were still overwhelming, encircling the camp layer by layer.
Compared to the barely clothed fodder from before, these elite Skrins were not only well-equipped, but also displayed intelligence far beyond their lesser kin.
The cannon fodder Skrins had fought like mindless beasts, rushing to kill while mindlessly repeating guttural phrases. Their intelligence was nearly nonexistent—they were less like warriors and more like war beasts driven purely by instinct.
But these elites were different.
They exhibited proper combat skills, occasionally communicating with their comrades in battle. Judging by their gestures, their discussions weren't tactical brilliance, but rather crude insults:
"Why are you so weak?"
"Are you even hitting them?"
Even so, this still marked a stark contrast from the brainless mobs that had preceded them.
---
The Protoss soldiers, though mighty, had endured wave after wave of battle. They were no longer as sharp as before, and the tide of battle was turning against them.
Where they had once felled Skrins in a single strike, now it took multiple blows. Their fatigue was starting to show, and for the first time—
The dead began to appear.
More and more Skrins breached the camp's defenses, flooding into the inner areas.
Commander Heimdall led his men in fierce combat, engaging the enemy within the camp itself. Meanwhile, Medical Officer Scala was tasked with protecting non-combatants such as doctors and healers.
Then, a section of the defensive perimeter collapsed.
A flood of elite Skrins surged through the breach, their armored bodies gleaming in the dim light. They moved with purpose, making their way straight toward the healers.
Scala's eyes flashed with fury, his beard bristling as he roared.
With a crack of thunder, he unleashed a massive wave of lightning. Bolts of raw energy snaked through the horde, electrocuting dozens of Skrins in an instant.
"BOOM!"
The crackle of arcane energy filled the air, turning several Skrins into charred husks.
But this time, it wasn't enough.
The sheer number of enemies overwhelmed the blast's radius. More kept pouring in, and the lightning's damage, though devastating, was not enough to stem the tide.
The remaining Protoss warriors, though exhausted, rushed into battle. These were the best-conditioned soldiers left in the camp, and despite their fatigue, they fought ferociously.
A Skrins' severed head landed at Rowe's feet, its dark green blood splattering onto his boots. The stench was pungent and overwhelming, like rotten flesh mixed with acid.
Sigurd gagged, covering his mouth and nose.
"You feel that, don't you?" he muttered. "The disgusting scent of the Skrins."
Rowe nodded grimly.
---
Then—
A familiar scream pierced the air.
Rowe's head snapped toward the sound, and his eyes widened in shock.
Not far away, Ander was under siege.
The young warrior was completely overwhelmed, his arms, legs, and neck wrapped in the grasp of multiple Skrins. His screams of pain echoed across the battlefield as he was dragged to the ground, his sword slipping from his grasp.
His situation was dire.
Rowe's grip tightened around Verigan's Fist, his jaw clenching as he charged forward.
"Rowe, what are you doing? Come back!" Sigurd called out, alarmed.
But Rowe didn't stop.
He ignored everything else, summoning his Holy Pact in his heart.
In an instant, a dense aura of holy light surged around Verigan's Fist, forming a radiant armor of divinity. The runes carved into the hammer began to glow, pulsating with sacred energy. At the same time, flames burst forth, wrapping the warhammer in a blazing inferno.
Rowe lifted his hammer high, focusing on the cluster of Skrins holding Ander hostage.
Then—
"JUDGMENT!"
A warhammer composed of pure holy light and fire shot out from Verigan's Fist, streaking through the battlefield like a meteor.
"BOOM!"
The hammer crashed into the Skrins, instantly obliterating one warrior and sending several others flying. Those caught in the blast radius were either incinerated or mortally wounded, their bodies torn apart by the divine explosion.
The attack had succeeded—but now, nearly half of the remaining Skrins turned toward Rowe, their eyes blazing with fury.
Rowe did not flinch.
With both hands, he gripped Verigan's Fist tightly, the light of the Holy Pact and the raging flames intertwining, forming an aura of pure destruction.
"HOLY LIGHT STRIKE!"
He swung his hammer in a wide arc, its radiant energy cleaving through the air. The force of the attack sent several Skrins reeling, their armor denting, their bones shattering. One took a direct hit to the skull—its head exploding like a crushed melon.
And yet—
Despite this overwhelming power, Rowe noticed something strange.
Normally, when attacking evil beings, the Holy Light would amplify its damage significantly. This had been proven in past battles against bandits and thieves.
But against the Skrins, the effect was… lacking.
The Holy Light did not amplify its power against them.
Were they not truly evil?
Rowe was momentarily puzzled, but there was no time to dwell on the thought.
---
He continued fighting his way toward Ander, who had managed to recover his sword and was now desperately fending off Skrins.
"Ander! Are you alright?" Rowe shouted.
The young warrior, panting heavily, glanced at him in disbelief.
"Rowe? You saved me?"
Rowe swung his hammer again, cleaving through another Skrins warrior, then grinned.
"Didn't you tell me to watch out for you?"
Ander shook his head with a wry smile, despite his battered state.
"I didn't think you'd take it this seriously."
The remaining Skrins tightened their formation, once again surrounding the pair.
Back-to-back, Rowe and Ander braced themselves, their weapons at the ready.
---
The Skrins were vile creatures—not just in appearance, but in habit.
Their stench was unbearable, but what was worse was their battle tactics.
They spat constantly, their thick, green saliva dripping onto their weapons and armor. The sheer volume of it was disgusting, and its overpowering stench made even the hardiest warriors gag.
Rowe grimaced.
"I'd rather take a sword to the gut than be hit by their spit."
Unfortunately, the Skrins had other plans.
One managed to slip through his guard, its weapon coated in a dark, viscous substance.
A sharp pain flared in Rowe's arm.
Poison.
Rowe cursed internally. The Skrins' venom wasn't deadly to an Aesir, but it slowed him down—and on a battlefield, that was lethal.
More wounds followed, small but piling up. His divine immunity was trying to purge the poison, but every new cut replenished it.
Just then—
A few steps away, a massive Skrins warrior emerged.
This one was different.
Its armor was immaculate, its weapon—a long, bloodstained spear—gleamed ominously.
Ander's eyes widened in recognition.
"A Lord of Skrins…" he whispered, breathing heavily.
Rowe tensed, gripping his hammer.
This… was going to be a real fight.