Thirty soldiers were between the gatekeepers and the enemy soldiers.
They blocked the path, ready.
The Narkhazhir soldier charged towards them.
At their center, the captain stepped forward. A white line ran across his helmet, and his right gauntlet bore deep, personal carvings — not decorative, but practical. Each mark stood for a kill.
He raised his sword slightly.
"No breaks. No mercy," he said.
The Narkhazhir soldier didn't slow.
He struck the first man in the line. Not with his blade. With his arm.
The spike on his elbow punched through the soldier's chest like paper. The soldier's mouth opened, a gasp escaping — then silence. He fell back, blood gushing.
Another soldier swung. The blade hit the enemy's side — and bounced off. It barely left a mark.
The enemy spun. His armored knee slammed into the man's ribs. Bones cracked. A scream was swallowed. The soldier collapsed, vomiting blood.
Another came. Then another. Swords slashed. Metal clanged.
But the Narkhazhir soldier moved like a beast.
He ducked one swing, then drove his sword straight through the attacker's throat. Pulled it out sideways.
He caught another blade with his gauntlet — a move that should have cost him fingers. But his armor didn't break. He gripped the attacker's wrist, twisted, and drove his forehead — with its horned helmet — into the man's nose. Blood sprayed. The soldier dropped.
Three more tried to take him together.
One went low. The other two high.
He kicked the low one — a fast, brutal snap. The man's leg bent the wrong way. He screamed once, then passed out.
The two above swung together. The Narkhazhir soldier stepped in, letting both swords hit his armor. They bounced off. He slammed his shoulder into one soldier's chest, lifting him off the ground and slamming him into the stone wall. He didn't move after that.
He turned on the other. The soldier held firm, raised his sword again.
The Narkhazhir grabbed the blade with both hands and snapped it in half. Then, using the broken edge, he stabbed the man in the armpit, right where the armor opened.
Six down.
The rest tightened formation.
The captain stepped forward.
"Surround. Press left," he said. His voice didn't shake.
They did.
Seven soldiers came from one side, others from the back. The captain moved to the front, sword raised. His footwork was precise. The ground under him didn't make a sound.
He jabbed first — a feint. The Narkhazhir parried. The captain spun, using the motion to deliver a real strike. The blade nicked the enemy's thigh armor, but again, it didn't go through.
The enemy swung low. The captain jumped, barely clearing it.
Two other soldiers tried to attack from behind.
The Narkhazhir ducked and grabbed one of them by the ankle. He yanked him forward and kicked him into the other. They both went down.
He turned and smashed one of their heads with his boot.
Ten gone.
The captain kept moving. He changed grip. His sword curved behind him now, reversed.
He dodged another strike, slid under the swing, and tried stabbing upward at the enemy's armpit. The blade slid under the spike — but struck another layer of armor beneath.
The Narkhazhir laughed — a dry, bitter sound.
He brought both fists down. The captain rolled away, but not fast enough.
One gauntlet scraped his shoulder. Blood leaked.
Another soldier tried to drag the captain out.
The Narkhazhir soldier grabbed him by the head and twisted.
A loud crack. He dropped.
Fifteen down.
Still, the soldiers fought. They never stepped back. Not once.
The captain stood. Blood dripped from his arm, but his eyes stayed sharp.
He rushed in again, this time feinting high and ducking low. He aimed for the back of the knee.
Sparks flew. No damage.
The Narkhazhir warrior used his forearm to slam the captain backward.
The man flew into another soldier.
Another pair came in from both sides.
The enemy spun — his sword stretched out — and caught both at the throat.
One fell forward, the other staggered and choked on blood before falling to his knees.
Twenty gone.
The captain said. "Don't let him breathe!"
They tried.
Three more charged. One got close enough to land a strike on the arm joint.
It bounced.
The enemy slammed his palm into the man's chest. Ribs broke. The soldier flew back, hit the wall, and didn't rise.
The other two were cut down in a blur.
Twenty-five down.
The last five stood around the captain. Breathing hard. Still holding their swords.
The Narkhazhir soldier paused. His sword lowered slightly.
"You could beg," he said.
The captain smiled. Spat blood.
"We're not from Narkhazhir," he said. "We don't kneel to roaches."
The Narkhazhir soldier nodded once.
Then moved.
The next seconds were slaughter.
He used no fancy technique. Just speed. Brutal force.
One man's arm was torn clean off.
Another's sword hand was broken before he could swing.
A third had his throat punched in by a spiked fist.
The fourth went down with a knee through the stomach.
The captain tried to hold.
He feinted, slashed, spun — a perfect combination.
None of it broke the armor.
The enemy grabbed him by the neck, lifted him off the ground.
They stared at each other.
The captain spat again, straight into his enemy's eyes.
The Narkhazhir soldier drove his sword through the captain's chest. It burst out through the back.
The body dropped.
Thirty men. Gone.
The Narkhazhir soldier turned back toward the five gatekeepers.
Then paused.
His helmet shifted slightly, like he'd heard something.
A whisper.
Not a voice. Not words. A thin slicing sound in the air.
Too late.
Then—
Thwip.
An arrow shot through his left eye — the only part of his face not covered in armor.
He paused. Another arrow pierced his right eye.
He fell back. Dead.
The gatekeepers didn't turn around, but they knew.
They didn't turn — but smiled faintly, as if they knew they were no longer alone.
One of the gatekeepers stepped forward. He pressed his sword into the fallen soldier's neck and pulled it back slowly. He dipped two fingers in the blood, then looked at it.
"I always heard Narkhazhir's blood was green," he said. "Guess not. Or maybe only your king bleeds green."
The insult was deep. Everyone knew what he meant — cockroaches, the only creatures with green blood. A direct blow to pride.
Another soldier jumped off his horse and ran toward the gate.
An arrow hit his left eye mid-stride. He dropped.
Three more followed.
The first slowed, just slightly, eyes darting around the rooftops. He muttered something — too low to hear — then drew his blade.
Thwip.
Too late.
The arrow buried itself where previous did. He dropped.
The second raised his shield. His feet moved fast, but his hands trembled.
He looked at the blood pooling beneath his comrade's head.
Thwip.
Left eye.
The third had better reflexes. His sword came up fast.
He caught the first arrow with the flat of his blade.
For a second, he looked proud. Almost smiled.
Then—
Five arrows.
All in the same breath.
All to the left eye.
He staggered. Dropped his sword. Then his knees. Then everything else.
The gatekeeper didn't move. His voice was calm. "Scared?"
Some of the Narkhazhir soldiers shifted in their saddles.
One lowered his helmet's visor. Another pulled his sword to cover his eyes.
The horses neighed, uneasy. One backed away from the gate entirely.
No one spoke. But the tension rippled like heat on stone.
Then came the wave.
A whistle through the wind — soft, almost musical.
Then chaos.
Arrows rained down.
Every shot, precise. Left eye.
One soldier screamed. Only one.
He wasn't killed instantly.
The arrow struck just below the eye, through the cheekbone. He reached up, clawing at it.
Another arrow found the mark. Silence.
Horses panicked. Several threw their riders and galloped off.
None of the riders stood back up.
The black carriage didn't move. No sound came from inside.
The people in the crowd stayed still. No one spoke. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Over twenty-five soldiers had come.
Not one survived.