The field was drowned in blood and silence. Smoke curled from shattered torches, bodies sprawled like broken dolls across the dirt. Of the two hundred who came, less than half still stood.
The commander's voice cracked as he roared, desperate.
"Stand! Stand, you cowards! He's only one man!"
But his words fell on deaf ears. The men's eyes were no longer on their prey. They were on the Hound. On the monster.
The Hound's greatsword rested on his shoulder, dripping red. His armor was dented, his breath steady — but his gaze was worse than any wound. Cold. Certain. Endless.
He stepped forward. Just once.
The hunters flinched back as though the ground itself had shifted.
"You came with numbers," the Hound growled. "You thought them enough. You thought these children prey."
He lowered his sword, its tip dragging across the earth, leaving a gouge like a scar.
"But prey does not have a Hound."
The commander raised his blade in trembling defiance. "Kill him! Kill—"
The Hound moved.
One swing silenced the order. Steel split steel, and the commander's sword — along with the arm that held it — was torn away in a spray of blood. The man collapsed, screaming, clutching the stump.
The Hound did not finish him. He didn't need to.
Instead, he turned his gaze to the others. His voice thundered across the field, a sentence heavier than chains:
"Your will is broken. Leave now… or be ground into the earth."
And in that moment, the hunters' spirit shattered.
They dropped weapons. They fled, stumbling, trampling one another in their desperation. The field that had been filled with war cries now echoed only with the sound of retreat, of men running from the shadow of one man.
The Hound drove his blade into the ground, the earth quaking as it lodged deep. He said nothing more. He didn't need to.
Behind him, the children stood frozen, caught between awe and terror.
Kairo's crimson eyes glowed faintly. He understood — this wasn't just strength. This was dominance. This was why the world whispered the name Hound of Eryndor.