Chapter 14: Dunlending Skirmish (Part 2 of 3)
The ground trembled under John Stark's boots, the pre-dawn air sharp with the tang of frost, the plains alive with the Dunlendings' charge, their barbaric shouts crashing like a tidal wave through the narrow pass. His sword was heavy in his hand, the grip slick with sweat, the Please Kill Me System humming relentlessly, a cold metronome that pulsed in his skull, a secret he buried behind a grimace as he braced at the pass's mouth. The air reeked of blood and unwashed leather, a thick, choking stench that coated his throat, his thumb rubbing the back of his neck as he fought to steady his breath. "Another day, another death. Bet I don't make it to lunch." The scouts flanked him, their faces pale, their shields raised, the clash of axes against steel a deafening cacophony that drowned out the world.
The fight erupted, a blur of motion and chaos. John moved like a ghost, his Agility a fluid dance, dodging axes with a precision that felt almost alien, his blade carving through leather armor with brutal efficiency. Two young scouts, barely more than boys, were cornered by a Dunlending trio, their axes raised, their eyes wild with panic. John shoved them aside, his body acting before his mind, the axe meant for them burying into his shoulder. Pain seared, a white-hot scream that tore through his chest, and darkness swallowed him, the system's hum fading into silence.
[Death x1: +3 Strength. Soul Wear: 48%. Dunlending punching bag? You again. Maybe try dodging next time, genius.]
He respawned in a thicket, thorns snagging his cloak, the cold shock of Soul Wear making his skin crawl, his breath a ragged gasp as he scrambled up, masking his return as a stumble. "Forty-eight percent. Too close, you bastard system." His thumb rubbed his neck, a nervous tic as he dove back into the fray, his new Strength surging, his sword hammering through a Dunlending's guard, the blade biting deep into flesh. A mace caught his ribs, the impact shattering bone, the pain a blinding flash that sent him reeling into darkness again.
[Death x2: +2 Agility. Soul Wear: 50%. Keep this up, and you'll be a husk before Helm's Deep. Not that I care, but… ouch.]
He reappeared, gasping, the Soul Wear a sickening wave that hollowed his chest, his hand rubbing his neck as he leaned against a rock, pretending to be winded. "Fifty percent. Halfway to breaking. I'm a damn glitch in this world." His Strength drove his blade through the Dunlending line, their morale cracking as the scouts rallied, their shouts hoarse but defiant, their blades flashing in the dawn's weak light. The pass was a cauldron of chaos, the ground slick with blood, the air thick with the stench of iron and desperation.
A massive Dunlending chief broke through, his notched axe swinging at Torvin, whose shield lay in splinters, his balance faltering on the uneven ground. John didn't think. He dove, shielding Torvin with his body, the axe slamming into his chest with a dull, bone-shattering thud. His vision went white, the system's voice a faint echo as he collapsed, the world fading into a cold, empty void.
[Death: +2 Stamina. Reputation: +1. Seriously? Saving you's my new cardio. Stop being a self-sacrificing idiot, Stark.]
He respawned behind a scrub, slipping back into the fray, his chest heaving as if winded, his thumb rubbing his neck to hide the tremble. Torvin stared, awe and fear warring in his eyes, as John forced a strained grin, leaning heavily on his sword, the blade planted in the earth.
"Saving you's my cardio, man," he said, his voice rough, the quip a desperate mask for the pain, his neck itching fiercely. "You owe me a large ale, yeah?"
Torvin nodded, speechless, his reverence a heavy weight that John felt in his bones. "The tales will spread. Stark the Ghost. Great. More eyes on me." The Dunlendings broke, their retreat a chaotic scramble, their shouts fading into the dawn as they fled, leaving the pass littered with bodies and broken weapons.
John walked the blood-soaked field, his boots crunching on churned earth, the air heavy with the stench of death, his thumb rubbing his neck as he scanned the detritus. He kicked through the wreckage, finding a sturdy shield, its wood splintered along one edge but strong at its core, bearing the crude carving of a broken hand—Saruman's mark. His arms trembled as he lifted it, the system flashing a warning, his neck itching as he fought the urge to drop it.
[Item: Sturdy Shield - Durability 85/100. Inventory: 3/5. Warning: Inventory Weight Exceeds Optimal. Shield's markings hint at Saruman. Nice find, packrat.]
"This shield's uglier than my old laptop, but it'll stop an axe," he muttered, fastening it to his horse, the practicality outweighing the strain, his muscles screaming with exhaustion. The sun rose, casting long shadows over the carnage, the pass a graveyard of broken blades and bodies. John gathered the scouts, their faces grim but victorious, their breaths visible in the cold dawn air. Éowyn's concern waited ahead, a warmth he craved but dreaded, knowing he'd have to deflect questions about his impossible survival. "She'll see through me one day. Then what? Another lie?"
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