After his booming shout whipped the mood on the spot to a pitch, Kal snapped around; at his waist, the Mountain's head swung out in an arc.
Treading on ground already slick and sticky with flowing blood, Kal strode in great steps toward the army outside.
Before the bristling spear line and shield wall like a forest and a rain, he felt not a trace of fear.
Relying on his reach and the exaggerated length of the two-handed greatsword in his right hand, before he had even closed, Kal hacked down in a sudden flurry.
The long spears pointing at him—one after another—burst the instant they met the greatsword, flying to pieces.
And before the Lannister soldiers could even react, Kal's speed added another 20%.
Stepping on the gaps between the corpses underfoot, he drove off with a push of his feet and vaulted straight up from level ground.
The two-handed greatsword in his grip lifted high once more.
Under the warm, dazzling sunlight, the blade no longer returned any gleam of its own.
What was more, a barely perceptible, eerie sheen wreathed the blade.
The Lannister soldiers in the shield wall had not yet come back to their senses from the shock of their spears shattering—of the webs of their hands torn open by the jolt—when the sight before them struck them anew: the giant who had leapt from level ground to about 2.4 m high.
Facing Kal head-on, that front rank of Lannister soldiers watched the giant blot out the sun and come crashing down toward them.
As the shadow drew closer, the shock in their eyes slowly turned to despair.
And Kal, in his leap, wore a feral grin.
He rose into the air—and then gravity caught him.
Midair, not only did he glide forward a stretch, he also swung the greatsword and executed a full turn before cleaving.
Under gravitational acceleration, Kal led with a driving knee, smashing the hide-covered greatshield before him.
Then the greatsword in his hands followed through in a crushing downward cleave.
Beneath the blade—besides the Lannister soldier whose shield had been smashed and who was pitching backward out of control—three more Lannister footmen stood crowded behind him.
They happened to be in a line.
Facing the cleave coming straight down on their heads, they had no time to scream, no time to move.
The greatsword flashed—and boom!—the three ironclad Lannister soldiers were smashed straight into two halves.
Yes.
Smashed.
Their armor, before that mountain-hewing cleave, was scarcely better than nothing.
Their iron helms, under the clash of the greatsword, first bent out of shape—and then the heads beneath burst apart.
Next came their bodies.
Breastplates split beneath the blade, their bodies with them, parting like water to either side.
From the rent torsos, entrails spilled, torn out like refuse and smashed into lumps.
The immense, unimaginable force fell on them, and the three whole men were, in an instant, hacked into six pieces.
Yet when Kal landed, his foot striking on a broken shield, he spared not a breath of mourning.
He did not even glance at those who had just died at his hand.
The moment his feet touched ground, Kal rose at once at full speed, raising both the greatsword and the gilded longsword in his hands, spreading them wide.
Then he began to spin—but not with eyes shut.
Far from closing his eyes, he only moved faster as he spun, his hands whirling the blades with ever-growing speed.
The two swords worked in concert in his grip, sweeping with a fierce gale.
With each step he spun and shifted, and now neither iron nor flesh could bar him for a heartbeat.
In the midst of the Lannister host, he had become a hurricane.
Limbs and meat chunks, crushed and shredded, vanished into the storm without touching ground.
A storm of metal stirred up a true rain of blood and gore.
Along the frontmost Lannister shield wall and spear line, he blew straight through them, crosswise.
Seeking efficiency, Kal did not linger to torment the foot soldiers as the Mountain had.
Each swing of his blades aimed as far as possible at the necks and heads of Lannister men.
Wherever the blades passed, heads sheared from shoulders, flung up into the sky.
Blood gushed from necks in showers, falling like rain, like flowers tossed in jubilant dance, celebrating a feast.
In that instant, the Lannister army's once-impenetrable line, beneath this hurricane as if born from Storm's End, was as fragile as dandelions at the roadside.
A mere breath scattered them to the wind.
Blood, life, death, hurricane—together they played a song of triumph.
...
At the very front, Kal Stone unleashed a merciless hurricane that swept away lives.
With a single roar, before the tribal warriors charging with him even reached the enemy, they saw their sworn leader—like a humanoid dragon—tear through and collapse the enemy's defenses all on his own.
Blood spattered everywhere, severed limbs flew.
Steel could give the Lannisters no sense of safety, nor could their numbers.
What had looked like an unshakable formation now seemed like nothing more than a drunkard's joke told in a tavern.
Yet those who saw it with their own eyes knew this was no hallucination.
This man was simply too strong.
So strong it exceeded imagination.
Like a god descending upon the mortal world.
And yet, faced with this bloody and terrifying scene, the warriors of the mountain clans—men who had lived their whole lives tucked away in the peaks, now seeing a city for the first time—did not feel the least fear.
Unwilling to yield, unwilling to be tamed.
Without morals, without manners, clinging to the traditions of their forebears.
They revered bloodshed and violence as the way to settle disputes. What they saw before their eyes was, to them, like an injection of pure fire into their veins.
For everything Kal was doing perfectly aligned with their values.
Only strength was the primal force that drove them to submit.
So faced with this scene, bloody and terrifying, like some god of slaughter being offered blood in tribute, the warriors of the clans felt only rising exhilaration.
They swung their weapons without a moment's hesitation, plunging into the feast of blood and death.
The roar of war became celebration, became song.
The sparks leaping from iron blades biting armor, the heavy thud of spears sinking into flesh.
The crack of breaking bones, the spray of blood.
The final cries before death, the screams of pain at its approach.
All of it became the notes that composed this symphony.
Beneath the Dragon Gate, Lannister deaths spread like plague.
Their bodies fell like grass swept by wind, piling higher and higher into mounds.
Scarlet blood sprayed everywhere, staining all around, even the very air.
Everything one saw was red.
The Lannisters' red-and-gold armor, and the blood running from their veins.
Blood flowed into rivers, only to be trampled underfoot into the mire, becoming something unspeakable.
High atop the wall, Kevan Lannister, his guard Vini, and the Lannister bowmen all stood stunned, staring at what unfolded before them.
Ser Kevan witnessed with his own eyes the reversal of the tide.
Below, the bloody hurricane had torn apart his army—his family's one hope.
And at its eye, Kal Stone's storm of blades only ceased once it had ripped through every bristling line of spears before him.
Then Kal slowed his steps.
Deliberately, he waited for the tribal warriors behind him to launch their counterattack against the Lannister host.
Indeed, the narrow gate could not admit many at once.
But that black tide of men, which in the midst of thousands of Lannisters looked like a mere drop in the sea, stood like a steadfast rock in the crimson ocean.
More than that—even as the bloody sea surged, this rock seemed to grow, as if feeding on life itself.
At the Dragon Gate, like a stone rising from a dragon's maw, it smashed through the Lannister army with a strange and unstoppable force.
Kal Stone was the rock's sharpest point, the spearhead that pierced the tough shield.
Watching all this unfold before his very eyes, Ser Kevan Lannister's ruddy face gradually turned deathly pale.
But the slaughter of the Lannister army at the hands of one man did not end there.
The battle, reignited, lasted only a short while.
Once the foremost formation was pierced, ravaged, broken—the collapse had only just begun.
A fight where the few triumphed over the many unfolded in a way beyond belief, one-sided all the same.
Like a black reef striking the red sea, surging forward through the crashing waves, it grew ever stronger.
Faced with such an invincible foe, the once orderly, arrogant Lannister army gradually crumbled.
Like a withered leaf, lit by a single spark at its edge.
Black spread outward.
Fear, like the sea breeze off Blackwater Bay, blew into the hearts of the elite soldiers beneath the walls.
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