Raid

The entire group shook. The quiet atmosphere of the great forest suddenly seemed to be choked by the appearance of the man named Veyron. The pressure from him was like an invisible tsunami that swept through each person. Those who had once carried swords and spears, who had once pledged their lives to Chaos, now also began to feel their hearts shake. Not because of fear of death, but because of surprise — they had not expected to be discovered so quickly.

One by one, dark figures began to appear on the tall tree branches, all around were soldiers of the Empire in shining armor, spears and crossbows in hand, all ready to be strung. They surrounded the group like an iron net that gradually tightened, leaving no room for escape. In an instant, the forest became an arena. There was no way back.

Veyron slowly walked forward, the sound of his iron boots tapping on the soft, moist forest floor. His face was filled with arrogance, but also very sober. He was no mere murderer—he was a warrior of the Imperial faith, a brutal and sharp instrument of justice.

"You are the scum of this world," he continued coldly, his eyes fixed on a young woman in the group. "Chaos is just an excuse for you to deny the existence of order. But that game is over. There is no god left to save you."

Some of the group began to grip their weapons. The air was thick, as if a spark would set everything ablaze. Radivel, still standing silently behind the group, his eyes as still as the water in a deep well, watched every move. He knew that if nothing changed, the massacre was about to begin—and this time, not to storm the city, but to defend against the Empire's sword.

"What should we do?" a trembling voice asked from behind. But no one answered. Everyone's eyes were focused on an elderly man in a dark cloak – the temporary leader of the expedition. He held the chaotic staff tightly in his hand, his eyes without hesitation, and he said in a harsh voice:

"We are the apostles of Chaos. If we must die, then die in glorious chaos!"

At that moment, Veyron curled his lips: "Very good."

Then he raised his short sword, the steel flashing like lightning.

"Begin the purge."

The chaos exploded like a silent bomb that had been suppressed for too long. No one gave a signal, nor did they need any orders. From the moment Veyron swung his short sword, everything seemed to be burned in a cloud of gray smoke and the sound of steel clashing against steel. The entire forest roared like a wild beast awakening.

The apostles of Chaos were not weak, nameless warriors. They were people who had sacrificed their bodies and souls to chaos, in return for abnormal abilities that surpassed human limits. One waved his hand, and immediately the ground beneath the Imperial soldiers cracked open like a demon's mouth, swallowing a few unfortunate people. Another apostle roared, his eyes of chaos opened, causing a group of Imperial soldiers to go crazy, rushing to kill each other without control.

However, the Imperial army was not easily overthrown. Even though they were affected by the power of chaos, their formation was still tight and well-trained. The crossbowmen shot like a storm from the trees, each arrow piercing the air and hitting the apostles who had not yet deployed their defenses. The cavalry from outside the encirclement also advanced, leading giant armored beasts, causing the ground to shake from time to time.

Veyron was like a mad wolf in the crowd. He rushed into the heart of the apostles, his short sword flashing with each vicious slash. He did not use magical power, only pure skill, but each strike caused someone to fall. Blood splattered everywhere, but he still walked as if he were dancing in a deadly dance.

Radivel, still standing silently on the edge of the battle, his eyes could not take their eyes off the horrifying scenes before him. He saw his fellow clansmen stabbed through the heart, saw his fellow villagers who had laughed at him now lying dead in a begging position. But what made him stunned was the silence in his heart. No fear. No anger. No sadness.

An energy ball from an apostle exploded, blowing away an ancient tree branch. The flames spread and burned the entire forest like a prelude to hell. The screams of people, the sound of broken steel, and the prayers from the apostles' mouths echoed together in a perfect cacophony of chaos.

The ground was soon soaked in blood. This battle was no longer an ambush — it had become a full-scale war.

And at the center of it… a forgotten person began to step onto the stage.

Radivel drew an old short knife from his belt, the blade dull and chipped like himself—forgotten, rusty, and scarred by time. He had no flashy weapon, no armor to shield him. But his eyes now shone like two blades honed over forty years in the dark.

In front of him, a tall Imperial soldier turned his back, slashing at another apostle. Radivel did not hesitate. He charged like a ghost, the blade aimed straight at the opponent's neck. But the soldier heard the footsteps, and turned around just in time. His long sword was raised, blocking the thrust with the back of his sword.

"Keng!" — the clang of steel on steel rang out.

Radivel slid to the left, dodging a horizontal slash. The soldier took a step back, regaining his distance, his eyes filled with contempt when he saw that the man in front of him was only holding a short knife. "You think that toy can kill me?" he growled.

Radivel did not answer. He stepped forward, lowering his center of gravity, the blade gleaming like a crescent moon. The soldier roared, slashing downwards. Radivel dodged to the left, so close that the blade was only a hair's breadth from his cheek. Immediately afterwards, he leaped up like a wild beast, his left hand grabbing the opponent's collar, his right hand stabbing the knife diagonally from hip to rib.

The soldier howled, retreating, blood spurting from his armor. But he was not down yet. He countered with a hook kick to Radivel's stomach, sending him back a few steps, coughing from suffocation.

"Good job, rat..." the soldier muttered, his eyes bloodshot. "But I won't die that easily."

The fight continued.

The soldier swept his sword faster, harder. Radivel ducked, leaned back, retreated, advanced — each movement seemed like he had practiced it a thousand times in the lonely darkness. He stabbed, slashed, slashed—each blow not immediately fatal, but causing the soldier pain and gradual loss of blood.

Finally, Radivel managed to trick his opponent into a shaky defense. He slid under the blow, slipped under the soldier's armpit, and plunged the knife deep into the middle of his opponent's back—right over the heart.

The soldier jerked, his hand dropping the sword. Radivel pulled the knife out, blood spurting out. He caught the soldier's body, gently placing him on the ground, as if not wanting him to fall on the battlefield.

Radivel gasped. Blood was splattered on his body, but his eyes were completely calm. He had just killed a man for the first time… and for the first time, he had touched his own fate.

Radivel looked down at the soldier's body at his feet, panting, his heart pounding in his chest as if it were about to tear his flesh. Sweat and blood mingled on his bony face. But then — in the midst of his gasps, he felt something strange.

His body felt lighter.

The pain in his knees, which had haunted him for years, disappeared. His back straightened without effort. The calluses and cracks on his hands suddenly faded as if erased. He touched his face — the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes had faded. His face looked several years younger.

"...What is this?" he muttered, his eyes bewildered.

There was no answer. But the battlefield did not wait for contemplation. Another soldier saw him, roared, and rushed forward with his battleaxe. Radivel turned to dodge the blow by a hair's breadth, his hand seizing the opportunity to stab the soldier straight in the stomach with a downward thrust of the blade.

More blood.

And again — it came: a strange pleasure, as if sucking something invisible. A hot current ran down his spine. His eyes widened. He felt younger.

Without thinking, Radivel charged into the imperial formation like a wild animal newly awakened to its hunting instincts. His knife swung like the wind, each slash a human life. And with each fall, his body changed — his muscles tightened, his breathing became more supple, his eyes sharpened.

In a moment, he was a different person: from a tired middle-aged man to a warrior in his thirties, supple, agile, with movements that seemed to dance between life and death. The soldiers began to realize that something was wrong — screams of panic rang out, retreating before the wild gaze of the unstoppable.

On the ground dyed red with blood, amidst the roaring screams and the blazing fire, Radivel was suddenly stopped. In front of him, a tall, muscular man, with razor-sharp eyes and a scar extending from his forehead to his left cheek, stepped out from the ranks of the imperial army. On his shoulders was a crimson cloak stained with battle blood, beneath which was a heavy, dark-black armor that shone with a cold, deadly light. In his right hand he held a giant axe, the blade as wide as a door, carved with strange patterns, seemingly a weapon specially made for high-ranking generals.

"Who are you?" Radivel asked, his voice not afraid, only cautious.

"I am Grask – Vice-Division Commander of the 5th Division of the Empire. And you, bastard from the chaos sect, will die under my axe today," he roared like a wild beast, then without another word, immediately charged forward.

The first swing of the axe whistled through the air, creating a terrifying pressure that hit Radivel's face. He retreated, dodging to the side just a hair's breadth, the axe blade passed close by, slashing the ground, creating a deep hole. Rocks and dirt flew everywhere. Not giving his opponent a chance to breathe, Radivel jumped forward like a ghost, the knife stabbed straight at Grask's neck, but was blocked by the thick armor. The blow bounced back, making his hand numb.

Grask chuckled, then kicked Radivel in the stomach, sending him flying nearly ten meters away. He crawled up, blood dripping from his lips, but his eyes were brighter than ever. He charged again, this time without hesitation. The two began a deadly dance in the middle of the chaotic battlefield.

Grask was as strong as a monster, each swing of the axe made the ground shake, the trees behind him were mercilessly chopped apart. But Radivel was fast and tenacious, circling around his opponent, dodging each blow by inches, and constantly looking for opportunities to counterattack. Blood was already smeared across both of their armors. Wound after wound.

On the tenth encounter, Radivel suddenly rushed towards Grask, using his own body to take a light blow, then thrust his sharp blade into the gap in the opponent's armor under his armpit - a weak spot that few people noticed. The knife stabbed deeply, blood spurting out like a fountain. Grask roared in pain, staggered, and swung his axe wildly. Radivel avoided most of it, but still received a slash across his shoulder.

Not missing the opportunity, he turned around, stabbing his opponent three more times in the neck and stomach. Grask fell to his knees, his eyes still unwilling, but his massive body was gradually losing its vitality.

Grask did not fall immediately. Although three fatal stabs had penetrated the gap in his armor, blood was still pouring from his mouth and chest, but his fighting instincts and the iron will of an imperial warrior kept him standing. He gripped the axe handle tightly, his eyes burning, grinning as if the pain was nothing.

"You… are interesting… but I am not dead!" – Grask roared, then pulled the pin on his axe's hilt. An internal mechanism activated, causing the axe blade to burn with blood-red energy. The giant axe was now not only a physical weapon, but also ignited the magical fire of the empire – the one that had burned down an entire fortress in the past.

Radivel gasped, the wound on his shoulder was still bleeding, but his eyes were fearless. He spun the small blade in his hand, slashing a trail of blood on the ground – the blood on the blade glowed. A layer of chaotic haze surrounded him like a thin smoke.

Grask roared and charged like a bull. He spun the axe in a deadly spiral, each slash tearing the ground and burning the nearby grass. The whole space around him shook with his power.

Radivel dodged the blows by instinct and intuition. Despite Grask's incredible speed, he remained calm. He did not seek a direct confrontation - he dodged, waited, wore down his opponent with the patience of one who had lived in solitude.

Grask brought a straight blow down on his head - Radivel leaned to the left, the axe blade stuck straight into the ground. Waiting for that, he jumped on the shaft, ran along the shaft like a wolf climbing a tree, and then drove the knife into Grask's neck again - this time from above.

Grask screamed, blood spurting, he recoiled, but Radivel grabbed his collar, dove after him, and with his free hand pulled a second small blade from his cloak - stabbing deep into Grask's chest.

The sound of steel piercing flesh rang out in a terrifying way.

The two fell to the ground at the same time. Grask struggled, blood gushing from his mouth and nose, his large hand gripping Radivel, but the force was getting weaker and weaker. In the final moment, the warrior's eyes showed acceptance.

"You... are not like those trashy believers... You... are a true warrior..." - he whispered.

Radivel looked at him, her eyes emotionless. "I don't need your recognition."

After the bloody battle in the middle of the forest, Radivel stood among the cooling corpses of the imperial soldiers. His breathing was still ragged, blood flowing from his wounds, but his eyes were burning with something cold and burning. Around him, the apostles of Chaos were also screaming in victory, although most of them were wounded, covered in blood and dirt.

Fires smoldered from the places that had been the temporary bases of the empire. Near the base of the great tree, many corpses of imperial soldiers lay scattered, their weapons shattered, their armor torn by chaos or magical fire. But the empire could not stop the advance of the fanatics.

Led by people like Radivel - those who had awakened the chaos within - the army of apostles finally pushed back the imperial army. They fought like wild beasts: extremely brutal, tireless, fearless of death. Despite the heavy casualties, they held their ground, advancing step by step with the unwavering belief that Chaos was watching and protecting them.

As the last remnants of the empire fled the forest, the air was filled with smoke, blood, and echoing songs. Radivel said nothing. He simply looked up at an opening in the forest – where light shone down from the towering treetops like a guide – and nodded slightly.

"We have opened the way… The World Tree awaits." – an apostle beside him said.

Radivel stepped forward, blood dripping onto the ground, his eyes no longer hesitant. In the distance, the giant Yggdrasil tree towered up into the sky like a pillar connecting heaven and earth. The light from it emitted magical colors – both beautiful and eerie.