The Seventh's Desperate Stand
"Support still not here?!"
Seventh Squad Captain Rushekan swung his sword relentlessly, grinding down the endless hordes of magic beasts, all while rolling his eyes this way and that.
The phrase "rolling his eyes" felt almost comical, in truth. Right in the middle of the battlefield. Where he was fending off magic beasts taller than a man with nothing but the greatsword in his grip—slashing, crushing, cleaving them aside. Constantly shifting his stance to avoid stepping on the corpses piling up at his feet. Rolling his eyes amid all that... anyone watching would think he had some leisure to spare.
But Rushekan had no such luxury. If he did, he'd have cursed a dozen more times by now. Even swearing felt like a waste at this point. Every breath. Every arm swing. Every sword stroke. All of it was precious.
The reason for those glances was simple: survival.
Right flank. Three wolf-like magic beasts. No, four. One's crouching low, lunging for his side.
Left flank. Two horned boar-types. Six smaller ones crouched behind them.
Front. No need to explain. Too many. Far too many to even count.
From the dark trees of the Black Pine Forest, more magic beasts kept pouring out.
Rushekan didn't like the sight. Or rather, he had no time to dislike it.
"Tighten the left!" he bellowed.
The response came instantly. "Yes, sir!"
The voice was loud. But cracked at the end. Short of breath.
The Seventh Squad. The Heavy Sword Squad. Known in the Geomgye as the roughest, heaviest, most straightforward unit. They wielded greatswords. Colossal blades. Two-handed swords—and sometimes weapons better called lumps of iron than swords. That was their style on the field: if it didn't die, swing again.
Brutish? Sure. But if they were truly just mindless brutes, they'd have been beast chow long ago.
No one swings a big sword lightly. They're too heavy. Obvious, but on the battlefield, that obvious truth decides life and death.
One swing takes time to recover from. One miss unbalances you. Lose your center, your footing slips. Slip, and you fall. Fall, and you're dead.
So the Seventh's "brutality" wasn't brute force at all. It was trained savagery. Calculated strength. Controlled violence. Swordplay built to shatter the battlefield.
But even trained savagery has limits.
Rushekan felt those limits closing in.
Crunch! His greatsword slammed down on a frontal magic beast—a sloppy mashup of wolf and bear. Horse-sized body, unnaturally thick neck, triple-layered fangs in its maw. Big enough to chomp a man headfirst.
That maw gaped toward his waist. Rushekan didn't dodge. Dodging would expose his men behind him. So he didn't.
He brought the sword down. Not a slash—a crush. The blade met skull, and the sensation of shattering bone raced up his arm. Skull. Jaw. Neck vertebrae. All at once.
The beast's body splattered into the mud. Black blood sprayed. It splattered his armored chest, dripped down his chin. Hot. Magic beast blood burned hotter than human blood. Stickier, too. The stench—rotten metal, scorched fur, old sewer sludge. Even that wouldn't capture it fully.
Rushekan spat. His spit was bloody. His own? The beast's? Or from chewing his cheek? Didn't matter.
"Captain!" A desperate shout from behind.
He didn't turn. Couldn't risk the front. "Report!"
"...All units are tied up too far out! Support's not coming!"
That moment, his sword hesitated. Just a fraction. Invisible to normal eyes.
But magic beasts sense those gaps. Instinctively exploit them.
A small one leaped from low left. Dog-sized. Small. But fanged. Likely venomous. Aiming for his thigh.
Rushekan spotted it late. His body didn't. He dipped his knee slightly. Too late for a full swing, so he jabbed the sword's pommel end.
Thud! The beast's head snapped back. He stomped it. Crunch. Shattered.
"Hah." A short laugh. More like an exhale.
"Damn it..." No real emotion in the words.
Of course support wasn't coming easy in this mess. Third Squad was probably holding the north line—break there, and refugees get swept up. Fourth was maxed on wounded evac and rear security. They'd have to punch through this horde to reach here; not their job. Fifth maintaining the barrier—lose it, and Black Pine's demonic energy floods deeper; regular troops drop just breathing it. Second likely up front, cutting the flow. Eighth leaking intel, hunting command entities. Ninth? Scouting internals. If the line split this precisely, intel leaked somewhere. And First... moving headquarters, awaiting the Commander-in-Chief's orders. Or maybe already en route.
Yet no support. Simple math: the Seventh holds alone. Now.
"Captain, what now?!" the reporting swordsman yelled. Fear laced his voice. He tried hiding it. Failed.
Rushekan didn't blame him. Fear was natural. No fear meant crazy. Veterans knew: courage isn't fearlessness. It's gripping the sword despite the terror. Fingers shaking. Lips dry. Feet itching to flee. Forcing them down anyway.
His men were doing that. So no anger.
Instead, he smirked. Just the corner of his mouth.
"What now?" He shouldered a charging beast head-on. Armor met bone. Dull impact. Beast staggered. His greatsword sliced in from the side. Boom! Torso exploded.
"We hold."
"No support? We hold. Support comes, then we curse. Until then: don't die."
"Yes, sir!"
"Louder!"
"Yes, sir!" A bit stronger. Still cracked.
That grated more. His men were spent. Way past spent. Not like battle's start, when they could still grin.
Now, opening their mouths wasted breath. Breath wasted meant slower swords. Slower swords meant death. So mouths shut.
Only beast cries filled the air. Growls. Screeches. Roars overlapping.
Claws gouging mud. Fangs scraping armor. Blades shattering bone. Groans. Rasping breaths.
And squelch. Squelch. Feet trampling blood-mud.
Rushekan heard it all. Unwanted or not, battlefield noise sharpens what matters. Nearby breath catching. Someone stumbling behind. Sword slipping from grip.
Those sounds herald death.
"Right flank!" Rushekan roared.
Too late. A front-line swordsman took a shoulder bite. Too deep for a bite—fangs pierced armor, tore flesh and muscle in one rip.
No scream. He tried. But another beast rammed from front before his mouth opened. He reeled back. Fall meant death. Real death.
Neighbor dropped his sword, grabbed him. "Hold on!"
"Grab your sword!"
"Yours first, idiot!"
In that brief clash, more beasts lunged. Rushekan ground his teeth. Too far. Really too far.
But he threw himself forward. Greatsword low. Kicked aside a blocking beast. Ankle jarred. Ignored. Swept horizontally.
Wide arc. Too wide. Could catch allies.
But Seventh swordsmen knew. They dropped low together. His blade whistled overhead. Sheared beast torsos.
Crunch-crunch! Three—no, four. Bisected at once. Meat and bone chunks flew.
Rushekan didn't stop. Kicked the bitten man rearward. "Alive?!"
"Yes, Captain!" Not the wounded man—his neighbor. Wounded one bubbled blood from his mouth.
Rushekan scowled. "Pull him back!"
"No Fourth Squad!"
"You're Fourth! Move!"
"Yes, sir!"
Brutish reply. But enough now. The swordsman dragged the wounded back. Heels carving bloody trails in mud.
Rushekan tried not looking. Saw anyway. That fueled the rage.
"Fucking beast bastards."
But his real fury wasn't just at the beasts.
Something off. Too off. Hordes happen. Eastern Front's always risky. Black Pine's steeped in demonic energy since forever; even after Demon King Army retreat, beasts twisted into magic beasts aplenty. Mass outbreaks possible.
But like this? This precisely? Targeting Seventh's position only?
Not beast behavior. Magic beasts charge from hunger, bite from rage, flee from fear.
This was neither. Calculation.
"It's behind them," Rushekan muttered. "The one herding these bastards."
Before words finished, the north woods hummed low. Woooong.
Wind at first. Through Black Pine branches.
Then everyone knew. Beast movements shifted. Frontal maniacs split left-right. Ones trampling corpses flattened. Small ones retreated. Big ones sidestepped.
Eerie. Like black waves parting.
And between them... something emerged.
Tree-shadow clump at first. That huge. That dark.
One step: tree snapped. Second: roots tore. Third: blood-mud cratered deep.
Rushekan held his breath.
It was a magic beast. Had to call it that.
Body elongated like a massive deer. But six legs. Joints bent backward. Hooves replaced by human-hand things clawing ground.
One head. Multiple faces. Wolf jaw. Deer antlers. Bird beak. Human eyes. All mismatched.
Back studded with black crystals. Red light pulsing inside. Heartlike.
Thump. Red glow.
Thump. Beasts' breaths synced.
Thump. Battlefield air compressed.
Rushekan got it then. That's the core. This horde's heart. The cause of this hell.
"Hah." He laughed. Closer to real this time.
"Finally showing your face."
Not fearless. How could he be? That thing's strong. Clash meant death. For normal swordsmen. Even most squad members. One hit, done.
Rushekan regripped his greatsword. Palms burned. Flesh torn inside gloves. Gripped harder.
"Hold formation."
Voice low. Men heard.
"I'll tank it. You hit the sides."
"Captain!"
"Captain, that's..."
"Shut it."
He glared at the Calamity Entity. "Me blocking's the cheapest option."
No joke. Battlefields demand the cheapest shield sometimes. Ironically, not defensive Third Squad, but Seventh's Captain Rushekan was thickest here.
No shield. But big body. Thick armor. Heavy sword. And he could still stand.
That sufficed.
The Calamity moved. Speed belying its mass. Distance vanished instantly.
Rushekan's eyes widened. Fast. Too fast.
Raised greatsword. Barely.
BOOM! Front limb collided. Shock exploded. He slid back. Feet dug furrows. Knee buckled. Shoulder throbbed. Arm bones creaked.
But held.
Teeth gritted. "Now!"
Seventh swordsmen charged flanks. Greatswords aimed at sides.
Crunch! Clang! Blades bit.
Or tried. Hide like wet iron plate. Pierced shallow. Seemed to grip the blades.
"Pull!" Rushekan yelled.
Too late. Calamity's back crystals flashed red. Black crystals resonated.
Thump.
Shockwave ejected the blades.
"Bastard!"
One head turned to Rushekan. Human eye there. Seemed... smiling.
No. Smiling.
Rushekan knew then. Not beast eyes. Someone beyond. Watching through this beast. Gauging Seventh's endurance. And when the Commander-in-Chief appears.
"That's what you want?" Rushekan growled low. "Lure out our Commander-in-Chief."
No answer. Instead, maw split—wolf jaw and bird beak cracking wide. Red light gathered inside.
Nearby beasts flattened.
Rushekan's body reacted first. Danger. Block it. Dodge, and rear dies.
Greatsword two-handed. Blade face forward.
"Everyone down!"
Red light erupted. Not mere light—demonic power. Curse. Blood. Heat. All mashed together, spewing frontally.
He took it.
RUMBLE-BOOOOOM! Ears rang silent from sheer volume.
Blade quaked. Arms tore. Shoulders wrenched. Knee buckled. Back bent. Feet shoved back. Mud gouged. Heat seeped armor gaps. Skin-cooking stench. His own.
No scream. Screaming saps strength. Strength gone, rear dies. So no.
Bit lip. Blood pooled. Swallowed.
Red faded. Rushekan still stood. Barely. Truly barely.
Greatsword's blade half red-hot. Edge partially melted. Pommel smoked. Gloves fused.
Slow exhale. White steam? No—black smoke-like.
"Captain..." Trailing voice from rear. Tear-choked.
No reply. Replying might make him forget why he stood.
Calamity unscathed. That damn thing stood fine. Back crystals pulsed redder.
Coming again. Rushekan knew. Next one unblockable.
Body screamed it. Arms past limit. Fingers numb. Shoulder shredded. Left knee wouldn't straighten. Sword too heavy. Unfamiliarly so.
Still, raised it.
"Stay back."
To the rear. "Not one step forward."
"But Captain!"
"Order."
Men halted.
Rushekan eyed the Calamity. Red gathering anew. Blood flowed.
"Support..." Slipped out. Not a shout. Not to anyone. Just a thought leaking.
Support still not here? That thought sparked self-anger. I'm waiting too, huh. For the peak to descend. Apex to move. Her to draw sword and end this madness.
Shameful.
But before shame, his men appeared in mind. Arm gone. Eye lost. Gut-clutched but sword gripped. Biting teeth to avoid friend's corpse.
So. Shame's fine. Survive. Save them.
Rushekan raised sword again. Would block. Might fail. Probably would.
Still, stance taken. That's captain.
Then wind stopped. Black Pine's shaking ceased.
Beast cries muted. No—crushed.
Battlefield silenced like gripped by invisible hand at nape.
Rushekan blinked. Lips dried. Cheek blood crusted fast.
Mud surface cracked white. Beast mouth foam dried.
Calamity's inner red flickered. Unsteadily. Like embers before greater flame.
Rushekan turned slowly.
Sky brightened. Black Pine's ever-dark—deep shadows even daytime, light dying blue-black between trees.
Not now. Light descended. No—darkness repelled.
And at light's edge... one person approached.
Black clothes. Black sheath. Silver-white hair.
Not a speck of blood on hem.
Neither slow nor rushed gait. As if this hell was mere prelude before her arrival.
Rushekan held breath.
No need to speak. All knew. Beasts knew. Seventh knew. Calamity knew.
Ena. Geomgye's Commander-in-Chief. Baekil's pinnacle. The approachable ceiling.
She'd come.
Ena passed Rushekan, said curtly: "Fall back."
Just that.
Normally, he'd argue. We can still fight. Seventh doesn't retreat. I'll handle it.
But not now. Couldn't.
Teeth gritted. He retreated. One step back. Legs buckled.
But didn't fall.
Ena's hand touched hilt.
Illyun. Sun in black sheath.
Click. Blade loosening in sheath. Tiny sound.
Yet echoed across battlefield.
Calamity bellowed. Forcing inner red light.
No wait. Fire before she drew.
But.
Late.
Shing. Sword drawn.
And.
Daylight came.
No visible stroke. Not from speed.
Couldn't explain that way. A line appeared. White line. Horizontal across field.
Beat later.
BOOOOOOM!
Flames erupted. Everywhere stroke passed. Ground split. Trees vaporized. Beasts withered soundlessly.
Calamity's red didn't burst. Extinguished in maw. Body halved. No blood from cut—dried before flowing.
Black crystals popped. Pop. Pop-pop. Pop-pop-pop. Red leaked, crushed by Baekil's heat before escaping.
Surviving beasts fled. Whither? Field now daylit.
Ena swung once more. Wrist only. Seemed so.
Horde swept away. Flame wall rose. Beasts shrank before touch. Jaws gaped. Eyes burst. Claws split. Black blood evaporated.
The line Seventh bled for—cleared in two strokes.
Too easily. Too quietly. Too naturally.
Rushekan watched, noticing his hands' late tremble.
Not rage. Not fear.
Just survival's realization hitting tardily.
Flames subsided. Black Pine front empty. No beasts. No Calamity. Only cracked earth, white-dried mud, charred corpse traces.
Ena stood center. Hem pristine. Blade bloodless.
She sheathed slowly.
Click.
Sound ended. Battlefield ended.
Rushekan forced a grin. Voice cracked. "Support's a bit late, Commander-in-Chief."
Tried joking. Sounded off.
Ena glanced. Briefly. Truly briefly.
"I was late."
Rushekan's reply delayed oddly. Throat clogged. Earlier blood and curses; now something else.
He bowed head. "Yes."
Paused. Added. "Indeed."
No reply. She turned to Black Pine depths. Unfinished direction. Whence horde and Calamity came.
Her gaze there—air dried again.
Rushekan shivered. Commander-in-Chief angry. No yell. No glare.
But furious. Clearly.
She said low: "Roen."
Footsteps approached from rear. First Squad adjutant Roen had arrived unseen. Face composed despite field. Hand subtly tense.
"Yes, Commander-in-Chief."
Ena, eyes fixed on forest: "Clear the path."
Roen bowed. "As ordered."
Rushekan leaned on broken greatsword, hearing. Path to where? Obvious. Beasts' origin. Calamity's sender. Her personal march.
She stepped forward. White hem brushed charred ground.
Behind, surviving Seventh swordsmen wordless. Armless. Kneeling. Still clutching snapped blades. Death-ready moments ago.
Just watched. The field they died holding—ended by one woman's two strokes.
And her now entering deeper hell.
Rushekan inhaled slow. Blood scent. Char. Crusted mud.
Amid it all... strangely, daylight's scent. Golden sun promising victory.