[Host: Ryan Eowenríel]
Level: 3
Experience: 0 / 300
Combat Rank: Top Epic
(Ranks: Warrior, Elite, Epic, Legendary,Mythic, Transcendent)
Buffs:
Born King – Innate gift. Radiates natural leadership and command.
Personal Growth ×3 – All personal attributes grow at triple the normal rate.
Warrior Growth ×3 – All sworn soldiers gain triple the rate of growth in strength, skill, and endurance.
Desperate Valor – When over half the army lies dead or wounded, morale, stamina, and willpower surge tremendously.
When Ryan read the new buff, his heart leapt with fierce joy.
This — this was perfect.
It was as though fate itself had bent toward him. His army, battered and bloodied from the day before, had already crossed the threshold of that grim condition — "over fifty percent casualties." Half dead or wounded, their numbers were thin — but their resolve had never burned brighter.
Even as Ryan cleaved through another snarling Orc before him, he cast a glance across the battlefield — and saw it taking hold.
Where moments ago despair had begun to dull their eyes, now every soldier bared his teeth and roared defiance.
They struck with renewed fury, fearless and unyielding. From their throats came a chorus of war-cries that shook the stars:
"RAHHH!"
"Kill them!"
"For Eowenríel!"
"Glory to Lord Ryan!"
"Die, you filth!"
All five bastioned faces of Minas-Elion blazed with battle — the ring of steel, the shouts of men, and the bestial shrieks of monsters interwoven into a dreadful harmony.
Yet the fortress held. The bastion's star-shaped walls had been built for this very storm; no matter how the Trolls and Orcs pressed, their cursed siege could not break through.
The lumbering Trolls, too huge for ladders, could only howl in frustration below the ramparts — a chorus of impotent rage.
Far off, Sakaban watched the shifting tide of battle, his expression unreadable. Then he turned to the black-robed priest beside him.
"Send the Trolls to the gate," he ordered coldly.
The priest raised his staff and began to chant in that low, malignant tongue. The spell slithered through the night like smoke.
At once the Trolls stirred, as if a cord had been pulled tight within their brutish minds. They turned and lumbered toward the southern bastion, where the main gate rose three meters above the moat. To Orcs, that height was unreachable — but to creatures thrice a man's size, it was nothing.
They swung their massive clubs and struck the gate again and again.
BOOM.BOOM.BOOM.
Each blow sent a tremor through the fortress. Cracks split the heavy timbers; splinters rained down.
Ryan's blood ran cold.
"Erken! Hold this wall!" he shouted across the parapet.
The warrior heard and came running, his axe dripping black blood as he took Ryan's place.
"You ten — with me! To the gate!"
Without another word, Ryan sprinted down the steps. Behind him thundered ten men clad in heavy mail, shields and spears gleaming in the torchlight.
At the base, the gate quivered under the next strike. The wood screamed.
"Form ranks!" Ryan bellowed, unsheathing his sword.
"HAA!"
The soldiers slammed their shields down in two lines, the sound echoing through the chamber.
BOOM!BOOM!BOOM!
The next blow shattered the gate with a crash like thunder. A jagged gap split the wood, and the enemy surged forward to exploit it.
Dozens of Orcs scrambled up the backs of the Trolls and poured through the opening like a flood.
"Thrust!"
At Ryan's command, the spears shot out in perfect unison, impaling the first wave before they could set foot inside.
"Push!"
The shield wall drove forward, slamming into the second rank of Orcs and throwing them back into the dark.
"Kill!"
Ryan's shout cut through the clash of steel. He leapt high, his blade flashing — Glamdring sang, and another beast fell in two halves before him.
The narrow gate passage allowed only three to enter abreast. For the monstrous Trolls, there was no room at all — they could only bellow and strike from outside.
And there Ryan stood, alone before the breach.
A single man, a single sword — yet none could pass him.
Steel and fury became one. Every swing of his blade cut down another foe; every step he took left blood on the stones. Behind him, the heavy infantry fought like iron statues, spears rising and falling in grim rhythm.
He held the line. He was the line.
In that moment, he was more than a man — he was the wall itself.
His defiance lit the hearts of all who saw him. Soldiers who had nearly spent their last breath rose again to fight. The tide of monsters faltered.
Time blurred. The world became blood and iron and the endless rhythm of killing.
At last, exhaustion began to gnaw at him — his limbs leaden, his lungs aflame. Only sheer will kept him upright.
Minas-Elion had become a grinder of flesh. The bodies of Orcs piled high beneath the gate; the stones ran slick with black blood.
And then — the fear came.
The Orcs' madness, once fanned by dark magic, now broke under the weight of terror. Their roars turned to shrieks; their eyes, wide and lucid once more, filled with horror.
They began to flee. One turned, then another — and suddenly the retreat became a rout.
"Now!" Ryan seized a spear from the ranks behind him and hurled it.
Thwack!
The long shaft buried itself in a Troll's skull. The giant fell backward with a groan that shook the ground. Another spear — another beast down.
The enemy line broke.
Orcs, Trolls, and Wargs scattered, fleeing into the depths of the Troll-woods, their howls fading into the dark.
The battle was over.
The moat lay clogged with corpses, a grotesque bridge of flesh and bone.
Ryan wasted no time. "Rebuild the gate!" he commanded. "Use steel bands — make it stronger than before!"
Then he climbed back to the battlements, the moonlight gleaming cold on his bloodied mail. From the tower's height, he looked out toward the distant hillfolk host — and locked eyes with Sakaban.
His gaze burned with disdain.
"So this is what you've become, hill-chief? Hiding behind beasts like a coward?" His voice carried far into the night. "Listen well, Sakaban — tomorrow, I'll take your head myself. That will be the end of your fate!"
Upon his war-chariot, Sakaban's face darkened as if the words had struck him. His hands trembled on the haft of his staff; in his eyes flared something he had not felt in years — fear.
And not only in him. Among the ranks of the hillfolk, that same fear gleamed in every gaze. They had seen what he had seen — the slaughter, the invincible fortress, the lone man at the gate.
If Minas-Elion's few hundred could fight like this, what hope would there be when Ryan commanded thousands?
For the first time, even the proud mountain warlord began to doubt.
Ryan Eowenríel — the name struck him like a curse.
Such a man could not be allowed to live.
Sakaban's eyes hardened, his voice low and ragged as he gave his command:
"Withdraw. Gather every fighter we have. We will raze this place to the ground. We will kill Ryan Eowenríel — and crush any hope of a kingdom rising in the North."