Chapter Seventeen: Battle Cry

The icy water sent a shiver through Sven, startling him—he had not expected to plunge headfirst into the pool. As a Viking, he was no stranger to water. He had grown up near the sea, and though he disliked swimming, it was never a challenge for him. Yet, the darkness surrounding him was overwhelming. Just moments ago, fire brightened the area; now, he found himself enveloped in pitch black, unable to see his own hand before his face.

His eyes struggled to adjust. Human vision, shifting from sunlight to moonlight, usually requires at least fifteen minutes for adaptation. Professionals like him could do so faster, but even Sven could not instantly pierce the gloom.

He needed to find solid ground. Sven swung his arms and swam toward the edge. This must be a reservoir—it couldn't be too large. If he reached a place where he could stand and exert force, then, even with the fire extinguished, he would remain undefeated.

He made the instinctive choice, unaware that this very action was a sign of weakness.

As he swam, Vaid moved silently through the water, sword raised. Professionals are not made of iron; the scars on this man's body proved he was flesh and blood, vulnerable to blades. Using only his remaining right arm, Vaid aimed for the man's ankle.

The sword flashed—a cut, and blood unraveled like silk beneath the surface. Vaid did not linger. He struck once and moved away, intent on slowly wearing down the Viking's endurance. Sven's physique was formidable; attacking him head-on, aiming for the heart, might only lodge the sword in his muscle.

Vaid chose instead to sever the man’s Achilles tendons, striking from every direction. In the darkness, he watched Sven flail wildly with sword and fists, like a child throwing a tantrum. No matter how Sven cursed, he could not strike Vaid. He became disoriented in the small pool, his flame wavering, his inner calm shattered.

Both feet crippled, Sven could no longer swim, only keep his head above water to gasp for air. Vaid denied him even that chance, adhering to a hit-and-run tactic—any cut was a gain, and missing was acceptable.

At last, exploiting his immense advantage, Vaid felled the giant after more than thirty blows, akin to an archer atop a high tower raining arrows upon helpless targets below. Sven’s massive frame sank to the bottom. Though not dead, he could no longer breathe, deprived of oxygen beneath the surface.

Vaid, cautious, did not approach. He watched in silence as the man’s life flame faded. Such terrifying vitality—even with wounds across his body and lungs filled with icy water, Sven held on for a long time. When Vaid counted to six hundred twenty-three, Sven’s life finally ebbed away, drowned at the bottom.

He was dead at last.

Vaid felt his spirit lighten. His only real losses were the broken ribs, which could be replaced, and he could still sense his left arm—once reattached, he would be whole again. His skull was intact, and nothing irreplaceable had been lost.

With the pirate chief dead, the remaining pirates were no threat. So long had passed without their leader’s presence that the Vikings had grown uneasy; even the slightest disturbance would shatter their resolve. No further action was needed.

Vaid pondered how best to frighten the pirates, then called Mia into the water. Though he was a villain, the pirate chief was undeniably a formidable adversary; his soul would be substantial.

Mia, drifting like a jellyfish, hovered above the corpse and began to draw out the soul. This time, the soul flame was not pale but red, like a true fire.

Vaid stood guard as Mia absorbed the soul, noting she could not devour it in a single gulp—it would take more time.

While waiting, Vaid listened to noises above. Footsteps and shouts echoed.

“Vikings, get out of Tania!”

The villagers had gathered, launching a counterattack against the pirates. Perhaps it was grief for lost loved ones, or rage at their homes set ablaze. They shouted, took up arms, and charged bravely at their foes.

Some rushed ahead, firing arrows that bounced off the pirates’ iron helmets. Though no harm was done, it sounded like the trumpet of battle; men and women surged forward.

Women hurled stones from their aprons, men brandished pitchforks and charged like knights. Their equipment paled in comparison to that of the pirates. Each Viking wore protective helmets, wielded matching swords and shields, some clad in chainmail—better equipped than many soldiers of minor lords.

In contrast, the villagers lacked even proper weapons; nearly half wielded farm tools instead of blades.

If the pirates could calm themselves and form a battle line, they might have mounted a defense. But their pillar of strength, the invincible Sven, had vanished before their eyes.

Their leader was gone, swallowed by an eternal darkness.

Already, twenty-three had died, and the killer still had not appeared. Their leader, who went to track him, was nowhere to be found.

Perhaps the chief had already been slain.

As the villagers’ cries reached their ears, fear gripped every pirate. Why did these villagers have such courage? Were they not afraid to die?

While they pondered this, the professional from Tania, riddled with arrows, let out a battle cry—the basic skill, Disruptive Roar. With his last strength, he sought to intimidate the pirates.

It was far less effective than when he charged the chief, barely enough to numb their bodies, but it shattered the pirates’ psychological defenses.

The first pirate dropped his sword and fled into the snowstorm. Then the second, third, fourth followed.

Their morale collapsed. On the battlefield, once a soldier’s spirit breaks, even superior numbers cannot prevent the tide from turning.

The villagers drove out the invaders, lifted their wounded champion, called for the “heroic hunter,” and seized fallen pirates, mercilessly smashing their heads with hoes.

Vaid listened to the commotion above. He knew he need do nothing more. There was no need to show himself—a skeleton had no reason to appear.

All was finished. He could wait quietly now, and pursue the secrets of his existence.

So be it.

He descended to the bottom and picked up Sven’s sword. Compared to the man's enormous stature, the blade seemed delicate, but it fit perfectly in Vaid’s hand.

He saw the runes etched on its surface—a supernatural weapon. That explained why the chief wielded a sword so mismatched to his size.

Vaid glanced at Mia, still absorbing the soul, then at the sword in his hand, thinking that this had not been a futile endeavor. There was, after all, some reward.