Just as Pegwalsge was about to kill Yuhen, an explosion of force shattered the darkness on the battlefield. A new presence had arrived Creasya, clad in war-worn armor, his eyes shining with an icy authority. Behind him stood twenty elite soldiers, each bearing the silver-and-obsidian banner of the Mellthur Kingdom.
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Pegwalsge stepped back, his expression unchanged. But when the fluttering banner caught his eye, his gaze narrowed.
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“Aswang’s little mutts,” he growled. “Did that bastard really send this many dogs just to stop me?”
Creasya stepped forward, gripping his spear tightly but it wasn’t Pegwalsge’s words that caught his attention it was the masks.
The faces of Pegwalsge’s crew were hidden beneath black cloths masks that covered their mouths and noses. Symbols were etched into the fabric: on some, the Red Sand of Jaleron; on others, the Three-Headed Dragon of Xakha.
Creasya’s brows furrowed.
He had seen those signs before.
They were the enemy’s emblems. He suspected that these are men of Shera and Batsu.
Narrowing his eyes, his voice cold and firm, he spoke:
“You wear the symbols of the Glatsyans… Are you Shera’s men? Or Batsu’s?”
Pegwalsge didn’t blink. The mocking smile beneath his mask reached his eyes, curving slowly in a savage arc.
“Strange questions from a man who mistakes being dog for loyalty,” he said. “Does it matter? Whoever we serve, it won’t change your fate.”
Creasya didn’t lower his spear.
“Answer me.”
Pegwalsge tilted his head slightly, as if thinking. Then shrugged.
“Names are ghosts. I serve a goal higher than you could have ever imagine.”
One of Pegwalsge’s crew let out a dry chuckle. Another’s hand shifted over the hilt of his blade. But none of them spoke. None removed their masks. The symbols were visible, but their true identities remained hidden beneath hatred and silence.
Creasya’s voice was ice now.
“These signs belong to monsters.”
“And what do I look like to you?” Pegwalsge replied, almost cheerfully. His stance was relaxed, his eyes glittering with mockery.
Creasya didn’t answer. For a brief moment, silence fell over the scene, and then
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Creasya stepped forward, gripping his spear tightly.
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Pegwalsge let out a mocking laugh. “So you’re the new commander? Did that Ulinah bastard finally croak?”
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Creasya’s eyes sharpened. “A demon like you killed him in cowardice. And I made sure that demon died screaming.”
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Pegwalsge grinned. “Then he was nothing like me.”
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The tension between them thickened, slicing through the air.
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Without another word, the battlefield descended back into chaos.
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Pegwalsge’s cursed crew—Narth, Karra, Vorun, Savael, Eizma—charged into Creasya’s elite unit. But Mellthur’s warriors were nothing like Horozon’s fallen marines.
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Panega, a broad-shouldered woman wielding twin axes, clashed with Savael. Their Xhus collided in showers of sparks and vibrating force. Enlurr, swift and razor-eyed, dodged Vorun’s chain strikes and countered with twin blades inscribed with celestial seals. Laera, the opposite of her sister Panega in form but a master of Mind Zenxhu, faced off against Karra. Both possessed such intense Rasa Zenxhus that neither could fully dominate the other.
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Creasya headed straight for Pegwalsge.
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Every move he made was sharp and deliberate. His spear, wielded like a dancer’s extension, met Pegwalsge’s black blade with a thunderous clash. They spun, struck, and studied one another Creasya’s attacks fueled by righteous fury, Pegwalsge’s by indomitable will.
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For the first time in centuries, Pegwalsge was thrilled to face someone with Xhu strong enough to rival Yuhen’s someone worthy of drawing blood.
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“Neither your whore king nor your lying gods will save you,” Pegwalsge hissed, sparks leaping from his sword.
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“I'll stick your filthy head on my spear and present it to our king,” Creasya snapped, driving his weapon forward.
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The battlefield became a storm of Xhu and steel howls, curses, and the roar of flames filled the air. The clash of such potent Xhu unleashed a chaos growing with every second.
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Creasya’s spear danced like lightning through the mist. Each blow deflected with ruthless grace, each block returned with a cursed burst of black flame. This was no longer a test of strength it was the unravelling of rage and faith.
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Pegwalsge’s blade tore through the air, grazing Creasya’s shoulder, leaving behind the smell of charred flesh. Blood hit the soil, blending with ash.
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But Creasya didn’t flinch. He spun and smashed his elbow into Pegwalsge’s jaw, then kicked him back. The battle around them faded this had become personal.
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“You speak of gods and existence,” Creasya growled. “But you’ve rotted inside your heretic shell.”
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Pegwalsge wiped blood from his lips, smirking. “And even rotting, I’m more real than your gods or kings.”
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Their blades clashed again screeching like metal teeth. Their Xhus flared with fury. The earth itself shuddered.
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Suddenly, Pegwalsge feinted and slammed into Creasya like a collapsing mountain. They crashed to the ground.
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Pegwalsge mounted him, fists falling like hammers. One. Two. Three. Bones cracked. Blood erupted from Creasya’s nose, mouth, and brow.
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“Do you feel it?” Pegwalsge bellowed, voice raw and deranged. “The naked truth beneath your holy justice? This is the gods’ language! Their justice is a joke, their mercy rot! Look how they answer you now!”
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Creasya tried to raise an arm, but another punch shattered his defense. Pegwalsge’s knuckles were torn, dripping blood into soot.
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“You were born for this!” he roared. “To bleed, to break, to crawl! Can’t you see, Aswang’s mutt? All your vows, banners, loyalties they’re just silk wrapping a corpse already decaying!”
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Creasya’s body convulsed beneath the assault but his eyes never dimmed.
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With a defiant growl, he headbutted Pegwalsge, stunning him just enough to throw him off.
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Creasya rose, blood streaking from his temple. His breath was ragged. His armor was dented, his flesh torn.
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But he stood.
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“If I die,” he spat, “it’ll be for the king. And you’ll die with me.”
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Pegwalsge rose slowly, licking blood from his lips. A grin spread across his face.
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“How do you kill something the gods already cast out?”
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Around them, the battle had turned to slaughter. Eizma plunged her claws into a Mellthur soldier’s eyes, whispering lullabies through his screams. Panega and Savael, locked in a brutal dance of rage, tore into each other’s bones and sinew. Laera, her shield shattered, bled light from her wounds to blind Karra just long enough to strike.
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Vorun’s chain wrapped around Enlurr’s leg, yanking him down but Enlurr drove both his blades into Vorun’s gut before he hit the ground.
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From this blood-drenched chaos, not everyone would walk away.
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