B6C13

The commander nodded to the other beside him, a woman with the Class of Blade Dancer. She wore mostly leather, with two swords, one on each hip. "Kill the fool. Make a show of it. We wouldn't want the villagers getting ideas."

[...]

The girl was fast, I'd give her that. Faster than me. Compared to someone like Blake or Ruby, however, she was incredibly slow. Compared to Pyrrha, her attack was incredibly telegraphed. I'd put her somewhere around Level Twenty at a guess. Give or take five or six levels. Enough with the Stat Distribution to take on any member of the Labour Caste her own level. Enough that with her companions, she'd have no difficulty destroying a small village like ours.

But not enough to take on a Hero. Or someone who fought like one.

Rather than parry her twin strikes, I stepped into them, letting them hit my shoulders early, before they had the proper swing or strength behind them. The woman gasped and leapt back, but it was already too late.

[...]

Not only had I moved faster than someone of my Class should, but the Strength I'd displayed in a single swing, not to mention the durability in taking two blows without so much as a wince, made it clear something was wrong.

[...]

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.

[...]

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.

[...]

Blood ran from me, too. I had no armour and the myriad cuts that dotted my body oozed blood lazily. They burned at the same time, like a thousand angry wasp stings.

[...]

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.

[...]

With a furious howl, he dashed in, drawing and stabbing his sword towards my stomach. He was good, I'd admit. Despite my best efforts, he got past my guard and the sword stabbed into my side, drawing blood.

But when my hand settled on his wrist, preventing him from drawing it out, he realised his mistake. Crocea Mors sheared down, enacting a lesson I'd learned early on. My piss-poor Dexterity didn't matter much if I held my opponent in place.

"Arghhh!" he screamed, falling back, his hand taken off between elbow and wrist.

My fist slammed into his face a second later, lifting him from his feet. He landed hard, me kneeling on top of him. Crocea Mors was stabbed down into the dirt nearby. My hands settled on his shoulder plates, dragging his armoured upper body up to face me.

"What is Mistral planning?"

"F-Fuck you."

"Wrong answer." I slapped him, hard. His skull rattled. "Let's try again. Why are you burning villages on the way to Vale?"

"O-Orders."

"From who?"

"H-His Divine Majesty."

The King? Fuck. I'd hoped deep inside that the answers would be Greycloaks – that this would be a move by them to try and sabotage the peace process and perpetuate the war. If that were true, I could bring evidence of this and there would still be peace. But if the King was involved, if this were his idea?

Then the Peace Treaty would already not work.

"Why?"

"To prevent news reaching the city," the Commander whispered. "No messengers to tell of… our army. No witnesses." He laughed. "Vale will fall. No matter what you accomplish here."

"You've already broken the Grand Treaty," I pointed out. "What makes you think Beacon won't move on this? Army or not, you can't hope to take a city whose walls are manned with Heroes. It would be suicide."

"N-Not if all your Heroes are dead already."

My eyes narrowed. "Explain."

"You'll change nothing, Blacksmith."

I hit him again. "Tell me what's going to happen!"

"Nothing more… than an NPC… scum."

The man in my hands fell back, dead. I released him, letting him crash to the ground. As I stood, I drew Crocea Mors and turned back towards the gates of Ansel. People were rushing out now, women and children tending to the wounded while the elderly brought pails of water. I saw the Soldiers, the few we had, take up a perimeter, covered in blood and exhausted as they were. Captain Anders looked like he was on the verge of death, but he still made his way toward me.

"Anders," I greeted.

"Jaune Arc…" He shook his head. "Never in my years. To see this… An old man doesn't know whether he should feel proud or despair."

"The people needed to fight."

"But they are Labour Caste…"

"The Caste System was designed to protect us, Anders. It wouldn't have done that here."

The old Soldier looked out over the dead bodies, more of them Mistral than Vale. "No, I suppose it would not have. I must sound ungrateful. It's the blood loss. If I could, I would bow to you right now."

"He spoke of an army, Anders. One on its way to Vale."

"The Festival of Peace. We are betrayed."

"Not yet we're not. I need to go to Vale. I need to warn them."