The Menace of Battle

The passageway between the towering ice walls was littered with a sickening sight, one that could prompt vomiting. The abominations lay brutally severed, their limbs cleanly cut. In some, the spray of gore was frozen mid-air, while others were completely pale as they died with wide eyes and screeches that never made it out.

Maroon blood painted the lower reaches of the wall, plastered in artistic savagery.

The terrifying cries of several more creatures thundered across the battlefield as they fell to the cold, sharp edges of the ice swords one after the other.

Hundreds had been laid to graceless rest—if they did rest at all. Their corpses piled upon one another, forming heaps behind the weaver of chaos who only pressed forward.

Northern was relentless, even though he was already feeling the fingers of exhaustion tickling his legs. He was nearing his physical limit with each movement of his hands, his legs, each slight pivot, each great leap.