Forged Destiny [Book 6: Ch. 13]

My eyes glowed and my hands – bare, but glowing red – sunk into the man's breastplate. He struggled, no longer to bring his sword to bear, but to escape. His armour kept him locked to me, however, and as it heated up, he learned just why my Passive – Fire from the Forge – was so useful.

The Knight burned alive in his own armour. At the last, he let out a horrible, ear-piercing scream. "Aieeeeeeeeee!"

[...]

I gave her the only mercy I could, a swift stab through the back of the neck and a twist. The Blade Dancer slumped, dead.

[...]

One – a Rogue – appeared in front of me swinging twin daggers. I caught one, ignored the other as it bounced off my chest, and snapped the man's wrist. A backhand turned him around completely before Crocea Mors burst from his chest in a spray of blood.

[...]

I cleaved the head from a Mistral Soldier who dared to celebrate.

[...]

The first wave of attackers was on us a moment later. I twisted into them, spinning and cutting in wide arcs, trusting my superior Strength to do the work it had to – ignoring my Dexterity entirely. Those that could dodged, but the press of bodies was too much and held them back. Whenever I swung, someone was at the end of my blade. The blood flowed.

It was madness. Bloodthirsty madness. I'd never been in a proper war. Not fighting in it. The Treaty kept us out, kept us safe from the brutality, and the small skirmishes I'd faced otherwise were just that. Me against one or two people, or the entire Guild against a far stronger foe. This was the opposite, and for the first time I was the stronger foe.

It should have felt exhilarating. It didn't. It felt methodical, miserable and cruel. Faces twisted in terror as I fell upon them. Screams were cut off before they could sound, and that was the mercy for those who were able to get it out revealed pitches of bloodcurdling fear I'd never experienced before, nor wanted to again.

And yet I did. Again and again. Because it had to be done.

[...]

My hand caught a sword and gripped the blade, dripping my blood down it. The blood fizzled and popped as the blade turned cherry red, folding in on itself, but also causing the man to drop it with a screech, their hands steaming and burned.

Quench. Quench. Quench.

The sword shattered violently, flinging shards of sharpened, super-hot metal everywhere. Soldiers gasped and fell, pierced by the shrapnel and screaming. The bits that hit me did the same damage, but only the metal itself. The impact. The heat counted as forging, and thus had no effect on me. The small explosion cleared my left flank entirely, and those nearby dared not approach, looking down on their badly wounded kin dotted with sharpened steel. Some cried on the floor, their faces and exposed pieces of skin burning.

[...]

Mistral saw the tide turning. How could they not? The lone Blacksmith that had already killed eight or more of theirs.

—Forged Destiny [Book 6: Ch. 13]