The first line of hunters surged, chains and blades raised high.
The Hound moved.
His greatsword howled through the air, carving a crescent of destruction. Men flew, torn apart by steel and shockwave alike. The earth itself split, soil and dust exploding upward as if the world recoiled from his strength.
He stepped forward, not fast, not desperate — but with the steady rhythm of inevitability. His swings were not wild. They were deliberate, each one meant to kill, each one meant to end.
A spear thrust toward him. The Hound caught it with his gauntlet, crushed the shaft into splinters, and drove his blade downward, splitting three men at once.
The hunters screamed, rallying in dozens, surrounding him from all sides.
But the Hound's voice rumbled, calm and merciless:
"Numbers mean nothing."
He spun the greatsword in a full circle. The weight of it should have been impossible — but in his hands, it was as swift as wind. Hunters were shredded, armor crumpling like parchment, bodies torn from the ground. Blood sprayed in arcs across the field, the children flinching at every scream.
Kairo's crimson eyes narrowed. Even he felt it — this wasn't just brute force. The Hound's blade carried discipline, the precision of someone who had lived on battlefields long before this night.
Still, more hunters pressed forward, torches flaring, bows snapping. Enchanted arrows streaked the sky.
The Hound raised his sword. With a single upward swing, the steel's wind tore the volley apart, arrows shattering mid-flight. His advance never slowed.
The hunters began to break.