"By the gods! You dare to relight the fire I extinguished!"
Hiyalkho cried out in irritation. Yet, woven into his voice was an unmistakable hint of intrigue, as if he had stumbled upon an unexpectedly amusing situation. The blade of Hiyalkho gleamed sharply as it fixed upon the masked figure.
"Treis mónoi! Epíthesis!" (Only three! Attack!)
As the Minotaur commander's order rang out, the surrounding Minotaurs began to move in unison. But this time, it was different from before. Gone was the reckless charge; instead, they shifted with order, forming a disciplined formation.
The Minotaurs swiftly repositioned themselves, attempting to encircle the three intruders. Their movements betrayed clear tactics: some drew attention from the front, while others tightened the net from the flanks.
"Kýklos! Kýklos poieîte!" (Form a circle! Make a circle!)
Following the commander's directive, the Minotaurs split into three groups. Each squad, comprising about thirty Minotaurs, dispersed their focus toward Daroon, Tirrellda, and Hiyalkho, rapidly completing the encirclement.
"Diktyá pherete!" (Bring the nets!)
At the commander's next command, Minotaurs dragged enormous nets from various spots around the camp.
The nets were woven from thick ropes, studded throughout with sharp iron spikes. Designed to ensnare foes, the spikes would embed into flesh upon impact, immobilizing the victim.
"The Minotaurs are trying to separate us!"
Tirrellda shouted urgently. Her voice carried a mix of haste and wariness. In her hand, she held a newly formed ice sword, from whose tip waves of chilling aura emanated.
Yet, the fingertips gripping that ice sword trembled faintly.
Thin beads of sweat dotted Tirrellda's forehead, her stamina rapidly depleting from continuous magic use. Her breathing grew increasingly ragged.
"We must stay together!"
Daroon swung his halberd upward in a diagonal arc from below. The heavy shaft cleaved through the air with a low, resonant whoosh, and along its path, the keen axe blade slashed three Minotaurs in one stroke.
The first one struck collapsed, bleeding from a gash in its side; the second slumped with a deep abdominal wound; the third, caught at the halberd's tip, fell silently as its neck was severed, spurting blood.
But in the moment they toppled, Minotaurs charging from behind immediately filled the gap. Trampling over their fallen corpses, they let out low roars and lunged at Daroon.
Daroon's shoulders heaved roughly, his breaths growing deeper and more labored.
Just then, the masked figure perched on the commander's shoulder stirred again. He detached a wooden fragment from his necklace and drew a small palm-sized wooden doll from his bosom.
This doll was slightly larger than the fragments used before, its surface faintly aglow. He carefully placed it on his palm and twisted its neck with his fingertips.
With a sharp crack—like something snapping—the doll released a thick purple smoke. The smoke billowed upward in a clump before dispersing rapidly, slowly settling over the bodies of the fallen Minotaurs.
Then, several of the Minotaurs that had fallen earlier began to rise, one by one. Pierced through the chest by the ice sword, bodies smeared in blood, clutching their half-spilled entrails with their hands—they gripped their weapons and stood once more on the battlefield.
As if death itself had retreated, as if their mangled forms refused to yield, the Minotaurs advanced toward Daroon with their red, hazy eyes.
Their movements were altered—slower, more awkward. Yet, they were undeniably alive again, ready to fight. A red gleam, absent before, now flickered in their eyes.
"What is that! The ones we took down are rising again!"
Daroon exclaimed in shock. For the first time, a note of bewilderment seeped into his voice. He had endured countless battles, but witnessing the dead rise was unprecedented. His grip on the halberd tightened, knuckles cracking audibly.
The revived Minotaurs moved with puppet-like stiffness. But their strength remained undiminished—no, in some ways, they seemed more dangerous. Freed from the fear of death, they abandoned all defense, focusing solely on assault.
"The dead are rising? Then we'll just cut them down again! Come on, Daroon! Tirrellda! Ahahahaha!"
Hiyalkho burst into laughter, the voice resonating wildly. Hiyalkho was utterly enthralled by the excitement. The chilling aura emanating from the blade intensified, transforming the surrounding ten cubits (five meters) into an icy realm. Ice crystals bloomed like flowers on the ground, and even tiny airborne water droplets froze into glittering powder, cascading down.
Hiyalkho seemed to revel in the peril. The edge gleamed, and Hiyalkho whirled around the Minotaurs in a taunting, dance-like motion.
"Such entertaining foes—too good to face alone!"
At that instant, the Minotaur commander leaned forward and bellowed a roar-like command.
"Epíthesis!" (Attack!)
As the Minotaur commander's sharp order pierced the air, the Minotaurs charged en masse toward Hiyalkho. Their massive hooves pounded the earth in thunderous unison, savage breaths rippling through the horde.
However, as they drew nearer, the frigid aura radiating from Hiyalkho grew stronger. The cold emanating from his tip spread across the ground, rapidly propagating ice crystals centered in the heart of the camp.
Just then, footsteps echoed from deep within the forest. At first, a mere faint tremor, it swelled into a colossal rumble.
Thud. Thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thud-thud.
Dozens, hundreds of Minotaurs were stampeding toward the camp. Their heavy footfalls combined to shake the entire ground. Trees quivered from the vibrations, leaves rustling as they fell.
Through the trees, torch flames flickered in the wind.
The red lights multiplied, pushing back the darkness, dyeing the forest in crimson hues. As the torches swayed, tree trunks flushed red, and between them, massive silhouettes approached.
Gleaming eyes and hulking forms emerged in lines amid the flames.
-Booooooowwooo-
A Minotaur bearing a massive horn trumpet threw back its head and blew with all its might.
"Doûs boētheian!" (Aid is needed!)
"Epibáinōmen! Epibáinōmen autous!" (Charge! Charge them!)
The cries of approaching Minotaurs grew nearer. It was the clamor of battle, shaking the entire forest. Even startled burrowing animals fled their dens to escape.
Daroon paused to catch his breath, gazing toward the citadel. His keen eyes pierced the darkness, surveying the area around the Moonlit Citadel. Cracks began to form in the tight encirclement of Minotaurs surrounding the citadel. A significant number were mobilizing to aid the battle at the camp.
And through those gaps, like a river swollen by torrential rain overflowing its banks, the Dawi and Muwa soldiers emerged from the citadel, quietly advancing toward the eastern forest.
A few Minotaurs lunged to intercept them, but the soldiers reacted swiftly, cutting them down in an instant to clear the path.
After the brief skirmish, they reformed their ranks and proceeded into the eastern forest, with a handful of Minotaurs, realizing the situation too late, giving chase.
Daroon watched the scene and exhaled quietly.
'With that number of Minotaurs... they can handle it well enough.'
A bit of tension eased from his shoulders, and a fleeting smile crossed his lips.
"The plan is succeeding!"
Daroon shouted with a sigh of relief. Seeing his soldiers and subordinates retreating safely lightened his heart considerably.
"Now we must escape deeper into the forest as well!"
Daroon called out to Tirrellda and Hiyalkho. But his voice was nearly drowned out by the swelling roars of the oncoming Minotaur horde. The sounds from the forest drew ever closer, and now massive shadows of Minotaurs were visible between the trees.
Just then, a familiar voice echoed from the sky.
"Captain! Over here!"
It was Beuboa's voice. He soared high above the camp, clutching something in his talons. After a quick scan below, he seized the opportune moment and dropped it toward Daroon.
It was Daroon's helm.
Forged from black iron, the sturdy helm thudded heavily into the ground with a dull 'thunk,' embedding itself like a fallen weight.
Emblazoned on the helmet's front was the emblem of the Baheekhari Clan: two claws interlocked in a mutual grasp. Moonlight filtered through the deep grooves of the metal, casting sharp contours on the unyielding iron surface.
The instant Daroon heard the sound, all surrounding noises suddenly receded. The Minotaurs' roars, Hiyalkho's resonant cries, Tirrellda's voice—even his own heartbeat—faded into distance.
Time seemed to slow.
Everything unfolding around him moved as if through deep water— sluggish, heavy, and fluid.
The Minotaurs charging, Hiyalkho swinging his blade, Tirrellda casting her spell—
All passed before his eyes in a drawn-out, weighty flow.
Daroon slowly knelt and picked up the helm. Its weight settled into his hand.
The Baheekhari helm.
It held the history of the Dawi, the will and glory of his father, grandfather, and generations before.
He lifted the helm with both hands and examined it closely. Fine scratches marred its surface—marks of battles endured by every warrior of the Baheekhari Clan.
Daroon slowly placed the helm on his head. As it fully enclosed him, he bowed his head briefly and drew a deep breath. In that single inhalation, countless thoughts and resolves were swallowed whole.
Something within his mind clicked into place. The myriad burdens that had tormented him—responsibility, pressure, fear—all converged into a singular, potent will.
The will to protect his comrades, to fulfill his mission, and to never yield to any foe.
He slowly raised his head.
Beneath the helmet's shadow, Daroon's gaze had transformed utterly.
That cold, piercing stare bored straight through the Minotaurs.
A faint smile tugged at Daroon's lips. It was far from warm—more akin to a predator spotting prey. Dangerous, brimming with confidence, and laced with cruelty.
He gripped the halberd firmly once more. This time, there was no tremor in his hands. The halberd felt like an extension of his arm. He raised it slowly, pointing it toward the Minotaurs.
"Let's continue, then, you Minotaur bastards."
Daroon's low, composed voice echoed throughout the camp. Though not loud, the intimidation infused within it overwhelmed all other sounds. Even the roars of the approaching Minotaurs from the forest seemed diminished before it.
Upon hearing that voice, some Minotaurs instinctively halted. They sensed the shift. The Dawi warrior standing before them was no longer the same. He was something entirely different.
The aura of intimidation emanating from the helmed Daroon weighed down the very air around him.
The Minotaur commander noticed the change as well. His eyes glinted sharply beneath his own helm, and he tightened his grip on his double-bladed axe. The masked figure on his shoulder fidgeted uneasily with the necklace.