30. Blood and Fire

The wind carried the scent of rain and blood.

Harsh stood atop the wooden watchtower, his sharp gaze fixed on the dark treeline beyond the village. The distant growl of thunder rumbled like an approaching beast. The air was thick with tension, an unbearable stillness before the coming storm.

Below him, villagers moved with quiet urgency, reinforcing crude barricades, sharpening weapons that had never before been used for war. They were farmers, traders, and craftsmen—never warriors. But tonight, they would either learn to fight or perish.

Vira stood beside him, arms crossed, scanning the distant road. Her face, illuminated by the dim torchlight, bore a glimmer of amusement beneath her hardened expression.

"They won't stop," she murmured.

Harsh exhaled. "I know."

The assassins had failed once. They would return, and this time, they would be more careful, more brutal.

Vira smirked. "So, what's the plan?"

He turned to her, his mind already set. "We make an example of them."

Her smirk widened. "Now you're speaking my language."

A shadow loomed in the distance. The time had come.

---

The attack began before the sun could rise.

Silent figures slithered through the village, ghosts moving under the cover of darkness.

Harsh had anticipated them. He had studied the way they moved, the routes they took, the arrogance in their belief that these villagers were too weak to resist. He would teach them otherwise.

The first assassin never saw the arrow coming. It struck true, piercing his eye, the iron tip emerging from the back of his skull. His body crumpled to the ground without a sound.

The second barely managed to react before he was dragged into the darkness by strong hands. A blade pressed against his throat, slicing deep, cutting off his scream before it could escape. Blood gushed in spurts as he collapsed.

The third turned sharply, sensing the ambush, but it was too late.

Harsh moved like a beast, his enhanced strength making him twice as fast, twice as deadly. He caught the assassin's wrist mid-strike, twisting with unnatural force. The sickening crunch of shattering bone echoed in the night. The assassin screamed, but his cry was swiftly silenced as Harsh drove his blade into his chest.

Then the real slaughter began.

---

More figures poured in—mercenaries, killers-for-hire, men who thrived on the blood of the helpless.

But tonight, the helpless fought back.

The villagers, once afraid, now stood their ground.

A young woman, no older than eighteen, swung a heavy wooden club with all her strength. The brutal impact cracked a man's skull, sending him collapsing onto the dirt. She stood over the corpse, breathless, wide-eyed, yet unflinching.

A farmer, face twisted in rage, drove a pitchfork into an attacker's stomach, twisting viciously as intestines spilled onto the ground.

An older man, once a simple trader, wielded a rusted sword with surprising skill, cutting through an enemy's throat in a single stroke. Blood sprayed across his face, yet he did not falter.

Vira was a blur of motion, her sword dancing through the chaos. She moved with the grace of a specter, cutting down enemies as easily as reaping wheat. One by one, they fell before her, their blood painting the ground.

Harsh did not stay back.

He charged into the heart of battle, his body a weapon forged in strength and precision. A man lunged at him with a dagger—Harsh caught his wrist, twisted, and broke the bone cleanly. The man shrieked, only for Harsh to drive his knee into his ribs, feeling them crack under the force.

Another enemy came from behind. Harsh spun, ducked under a clumsy swing, and retaliated with a brutal punch to the jaw. The impact sent the attacker crashing onto the ground, dazed. Without hesitation, Harsh stomped down, crushing his skull with a sickening crunch.

Screams filled the night.

The dirt turned to mud, slick with blood and rain.

The mercenaries fought with desperation, but they had not expected resistance.

By the time the last one fell, silence reigned.

---

The villagers stood amidst the carnage, panting, hands trembling from exhaustion and adrenaline.

Corpses lay scattered across the village—some of their own, but mostly their enemies. The ground was a dark, sodden mess of blood and mud. The scent of death clung to the air.

Harsh wiped the blood from his blade and turned to the villagers.

They were not the same as before.

Their eyes no longer held only fear. There was something else now—something far more dangerous.

Power.

They had taken lives.

And they had survived.

Harsh stepped forward, his voice steady, unwavering. "This is what it means to fight."

The villagers watched him, silent.

He took another step. "This is what it means to take your fate into your own hands."

One man swallowed, gripping the bloody weapon in his hands. "We killed them." His voice was barely a whisper. "We… won."

Another woman, still catching her breath, nodded slowly. "We won."

A murmur spread through the crowd.

Harsh met their gazes one by one. "This is not the end," he said. "They will return, stronger, more prepared." His expression darkened. "And so must we."

He could see the understanding settle in their minds.

This was not a single battle.

This was war.

And for the first time, they knew they had the power to fight it.

---

As dawn broke, the dead were gathered. Some of the villagers hesitated as they approached the corpses of the mercenaries.

One woman glanced at Harsh. "What do we do with them?"

Harsh's answer was simple.

"Burn them."

There were no proper burials for men who had come to kill them. No honor for those who had sought to spill innocent blood.

The pyres were lit, thick smoke rising into the sky.

As the bodies burned, Harsh addressed the villagers once more.

"We fought as survivors," he said. "Now, we must fight as something more." His gaze swept across them. "You stood your ground tonight. You proved that you are not weak."

A heavy silence followed.

Then, slowly, one man dropped to his knee.

"No."

The word cut through the air like a blade. The man froze, looking up in confusion.

Harsh stepped forward, eyes cold. "You will not kneel to me."

The villagers exchanged uncertain glances.

Harsh's voice was firm. "You should kneel only to your gods and your ancestors. Not to me. Not to any man."

A murmur ran through the crowd. Some hesitated, others nodded, understanding.

Vira watched with an amused smirk. "You always have to be different, don't you?"

Harsh exhaled, glancing at the burning corpses. "If I wanted to be like every other ruler," he murmured, "I wouldn't be standing here."

She chuckled. "Fair enough."

As the flames consumed the dead, the villagers stood taller.

They had taken their first step toward becoming warriors.

And Harsh had taken his first step toward building an army.

An army that would one day change everything.

---