"Fall back!" a soldier at the front of the formation shouted, his voice cracking with fear.
Chaos erupted instantly. Soldiers ran, collided with one another, abandoned their posts, while the monstrous creature from the lake emerged, dragging with it a wave of death.
The stragglers stood no chance. Its titanic jaws clamped down with a sickening crunch; muffled screams were drowned out by the splash of blood in the water.
A few, trembling yet determined, formed a semicircle around the beast. Their spears pointed unsteadily, their eyes filled more with terror than courage.
But it didn't matter how many of them there were. Ordinary men could never bring down a creature like that.
Fortunately —or perhaps unfortunately for Bill— among their ranks was one man who wasn't ordinary.
…
Propped against a rock, bleeding out from the wound where his arm had once been, Svend watched the slaughter. His wide-open eyes betrayed unspeakable terror. But buried deep within them, there was something else: satisfaction.
Half the soldiers had been annihilated. Some were devoured, others crushed beneath the titan's body, a few tossed aside as bait so their comrades could flee. Only the bravest —or the most foolish— stayed behind to fight the creature.
And then, from his makeshift shelter, Svend saw something move in the trees.
A figure emerged from the shadows: it was Bill, who had been waiting patiently for the number of enemies to dwindle—either by escape… or death.
…
Bill landed lightly on the grass near the lake.
In front of him, soldiers were falling one after another, their screams silenced by the monster's roar. He braced his legs, unsheathed his sword, and launched himself at the first soldier who noticed him.
The man had no time to react. Their eyes met for a brief instant, but before he could even raise his blade, Bill's sword pierced his chest with deadly precision.
Blood burst forth, hot and thick, soaking his glove. Bill yanked the sword free, turned swiftly, and faced his next target. A yellow window flashed before his eyes:
[You have killed a soldier of Camelot]
He ignored it. His eyes scanned the battlefield again.
A few soldiers noticed him, but most remained focused on the beast.
Bill positioned himself between three soldiers. With a sweeping horizontal slash, he decapitated the first two. The third, taller than the rest, took a deep cut to the shoulder. He immediately raised his blade to counter, but Bill shifted and brought his sword down hard on the man's head, splitting him in two.
As he dodged, cut, and killed, something stirred inside him.
"This is wrong…" he thought, breathing heavily, disturbed by the chaos.
He knew what was happening. The traces of Desmond Rusel—his cruelty, his mercilessness—were etched into him now. But that didn't mean he had to lose himself completely. Or his humanity.
If he didn't stay in control, what was the point of finding his family?
If, when he stood before them again, he was no longer the person they knew—just a bloodthirsty beast… wouldn't they reject him?
He couldn't let that happen. He couldn't become that monster.
And yet, the sword in his hand… it felt like he had been born to wield it. He had never held one before, and yet it moved like an extension of his body. It was the only thing he trusted, the only link between him and this broken world.
All he wanted was to find his family. And for now, that meant surviving.
But he couldn't go too far. He couldn't lose himself.
With that thought burning in his mind, Bill lunged at another soldier distracted by the monster. He struck the man's ankles with the hilt, sending him crashing to the ground. The soldier reached for his weapon, but Bill was faster—he sliced off his hand and moved on, leaving him writhing in pain.
Still, too many remained.
Far more than he'd expected.
Some were already charging at him, weapons drawn, eyes locked.
Bill inhaled deeply. He raised his eyes to the twilight-stained sky. Then he let out a long sigh and braced himself for what he was about to do.
"It's gonna be a long day…" he muttered, planting his feet and raising his sword as the wave of men surged toward him.
…
From his shelter on the rock, Svend—paler than ever—watched the scene unfold.
He saw Bill step out from the trees and carve his way through the soldiers.
First, he pierced one through the chest. Then he beheaded two more with a single swing. A third man took a slash to the shoulder, and before he could react, Bill split him open with a downward strike.
The grass and underbrush, once green, turned crimson. Severed limbs, entrails, and blood mixed with the fallen bodies—some struck down by Bill, others crushed or torn apart by the beast.
Svend watched in stunned horror, as if witnessing a nightmare. He'd seen atrocities before, but he would never get used to bodies flying apart like that.
"Insane bastards..." he muttered, eyes fixed on Bill.
Now Bill was surrounded. Fifty soldiers closing in.
But what chilled Svend's blood wasn't the number of enemies... it was Bill's calm.
He looked tranquil. As if he had accepted his fate.
But he was wrong.
The moment the first soldier charged, Bill dodged effortlessly and sliced across his torso. The man dropped instantly.
The others followed. Bill weaved through their strikes, retreating only inches at a time, taking shallow cuts to his arms, torso, even his legs—but nothing fatal.
His body moved like a storm. Sometimes disabling, sometimes killing with brutal precision.
The wounds piled up: on his arms, his sides, even his feet—bitten by fallen soldiers in their desperation.
Svend could do nothing but watch, his nerves fraying, wondering how much longer he could hold on.
Bill panted, blood leaking from every pore, but he didn't fall. Amid the hellscape, he let out a nearly lunatic laugh and, with a crooked smile, shouted:
"What are you waiting for?! Come on, you bastards!"
The men charged, bellowing their battle cry:
"For the glory of Camelot!"
He dove back into the fray. First the spearmen and shieldbearers—slow but deadly. Then the swordsmen—fast but fragile.
Every movement was a herculean effort. His muscles, on the verge of collapse, moved only through sheer will.
He showed no mercy. Left no one standing.
He understood now: mercy would only prolong his agony.
So he went for the kill.
One by one, the soldiers fell.
Until, at last, only one remained.
A light-armored swordsman, drenched in blood, hands trembling as he clutched his blade.
Bill, exhausted, leaned on his sword embedded in a corpse. His breathing was ragged. Sweat streamed down his face. Blood coated him like a second skin.
The soldier charged, aiming for his throat.
Bill barely reacted. He let himself fall, yanked his sword free, and raised it just in time.
The blades clashed, sending out sparks.
With a strangled cry, he kicked the man hard in the stomach, sending him flying.
Before he could rise, Bill was already on him. He thrust his sword through the man's neck with cold precision.
The soldier collapsed with a wet gurgle, blood bubbling from his mouth.
"Is it over...?" Bill panted.
Then he saw it.
The lake creature devouring the last six soldiers.
And behind it, a man on horseback.
Broad shoulders, powerful arms, gray hair neatly combed, and a white suit of armor bearing the crest of a raven on his chest.
A massive greatsword hung on his back.
Without hesitation, he dismounted, drew his sword, and with a mighty leap, landed squarely on the monster. His blade struck its flank.
The knight's arms tensed, veins bulging.
With all his strength, he drove the blade through the creature's thick scales.
And a second later, the weapon glowed with a blue light, splitting the monster in half in a burst of purple blood and entrails.
Bill watched, stunned.
Svend, still on the rock, trembled as he stared.
The knight cleaned his sword, strapped it to his back, and began walking toward Svend.
Bill, drained, lifted his gaze to the sky. The first stars were beginning to shimmer in the darkening heavens.
He thought bitterly:
"It's only my first day here..."
With heavy but steady steps, hiding his exhaustion, he walked toward the knight.