Panic spread like fire through the ranks.
"Hold the line!" their commander roared. "He bleeds like any man!"
But the Hound did not bleed. Not yet.
He tore through squads, his blade collapsing shields, his gauntlet snapping necks like twigs. The ground became slick, the hunters' cries drowning in the ringing steel.
A wave of thirty rushed him together, spears tipped with sigils glowing red. Their formation was tight, trained, deadly.
The Hound's jaw clenched. He drove his sword into the soil, releasing it for the first time. His fists clenched like stone.
Then he lunged.
The first spear broke against his chestplate. His gauntlet seized another, snapping the weapon before dragging its wielder headfirst into the dirt. With his free hand, he tore a man from the formation and flung him into his comrades.
The greatsword came free again with a roar of iron. One swing, and the sigil-armed formation was cleaved in two, the earth split from impact.
The children's breaths trembled. Igron smirked despite himself. Kairo's expression remained unreadable, but his gaze was fixed — memorizing every detail.
By the time the Hound stopped, nearly a hundred hunters lay broken across the field. The survivors staggered back, eyes wide with terror, the commander screaming in vain for order.
The Hound planted his blade in the ground, eyes scanning what remained.
"...Run, or die here."
The hunters hesitated, fear choking them — and for the first time, doubt spread through their army.