Chapter 445 Adventure

Chapter 445: Chapter 445 Adventure

The march began under a gray, unwelcoming sky, and most of the men were far from pleased.

Boots dragged through mud and dust, armor clinked dully with every step, and faces were set in hard, resentful lines.

They had been soldiers long enough to know better than to protest openly, but that didn’t stop the low grumbling that spread through the ranks like a sickness.

Complaints were whispered when officers weren’t close, curses muttered beneath breath, doubts shared in hushed tones.

Still, they marched.

Training overrode fear and resentment alike. Whatever misgivings they carried in their hearts, they kept their formation, followed their banners, and did exactly as they were told.

In the end, obedience was the one thing they could not abandon.

Days turned into a week of relentless movement.

The land grew harsher, the air heavier, as if even the world itself was warning them of what lay ahead.

Then, at last, they saw it.

The enemy camp sprawled across the plains like a living beast.

Fires dotted the land in impossible numbers, stretching far into the distance.

Rows upon rows of tents formed a sea of dark shapes, and the constant movement of men made the camp look alive, restless, and hungry.

When Monique’s scouts crawled close enough to truly grasp its scale, terror gripped them.

Some nearly lost control of their bowels, their hands shaking as they counted banners and troops again and again, hoping they were mistaken.

They were not.

That very night, the scouts returned, exhausted and pale, their faces drained of all color.

They were ushered into Monique’s tent, where the officers and key figures had already gathered, waiting in tense silence.

"Duchess," one of the scouts said, dropping to a knee, his voice tight and uneven, "their numbers are overwhelming. At least ten thousand strong—likely more. If they decide to march at dawn, they could crush us outright. We can’t win this fight. Not head-on."

Murmurs rippled through the tent. Some men clenched their fists.

Others stared at the ground, already imagining the slaughter to come.

Monique listened without interruption.

Her expression remained composed, almost serene, as if she had expected this report all along.

"We will," she said at last, her voice calm but unwavering. "And you’ll see how—very, very soon."

Her certainty fell over the tent like a heavy cloak.

Yet despite her words, disbelief was written plainly on every face around her.

Officers exchanged uneasy glances, and the scouts shifted uncomfortably, doubt gnawing at them.

Facing an army of ten thousand with what they had felt less like strategy—and more like madness.

But Monique stood unmoved, eyes steady, as if she alone could already see the path to victory.

The next morning, they met the enemy at last.

A thick mist still clung to the battlefield when the Iron Grip Savages emerged from their camp, but even through the haze their presence was impossible to miss.

Their reaction to the sight of Monique’s forces was not caution, nor even curiosity—but open mockery.

"Hahaha! These bitches came here to die!" one of their leaders shouted, throwing his head back in raucous laughter.

The sound rolled across the field like thunder.

The Iron Grip Savages were monstrous in build—huge frames packed with raw muscle, skin darkened by sun and scarred by countless battles.

Many of them easily stood over seven feet tall, towering like giants among ordinary men.

Crude tattoos and ritual markings covered their bodies, and some wore necklaces of bone and teeth that clattered as they moved.

"Come on!" another savage yelled, licking his lips. "Let’s kill them all! Roast them in the pits and eat them!"

"They’ll be crunchy!" someone else added, drawing another wave of laughter.

"Eat!" thousands of voices roared together.

Then they charged.

Barefoot, the Iron Grip Savages thundered forward, their massive feet pounding into the earth.

Despite their size and lack of armor, they moved with terrifying speed and power.

The ground shook beneath their advance, dust and mist kicked up into the air as thousands of enormous men surged forward like an unstoppable tide.

For many in Riley’s camp, it was the most horrifying sight they had ever witnessed.

Hands tightened around spears and shields.

Some men swallowed hard, others felt cold sweat run down their backs.

A single mistake, a single moment of hesitation, and they would be swallowed whole.

Yet Riley’s forces did not move.

They stood perfectly still in formation, their eyes fixed not on the charging savages—but on Monique.

Every man waited for her signal, tension coiled tight in their bodies, ready to explode at the slightest command.

"Your Grace," the commander from the city lord’s men said, struggling to keep his voice steady, "should we ready the archers?"

"No need," Monique replied.

Her voice was calm. Too calm.

She neither raised her voice nor turned her head. Instead, she simply lifted her hand and gave a small, deliberate nod toward someone unseen.

Time seemed to hesitate.

Then—without warning—a man appeared in front of everyone’s eyes.

One breath, the space was empty.

The next, he was there.

No flash of light. No sound. No distortion of air. He simply existed.

Gasps rippled through the ranks.

"So fast..." the same thought struck every witness at once.

No one had seen him arrive.

Even those who had been staring directly at the spot where he now stood could not explain how he had gotten there.

It was as if distance itself had meant nothing to him.

The charging savages were still coming, their roars growing louder by the heartbeat—but for the first time since the morning began, uncertainty crept into the battlefield.

And Monique, watching silently, showed not a trace of doubt.

It was a man clad in dark, lightless garments, as though the shadows themselves had wrapped around his body.

A long cloak flowed behind him, barely stirring despite the violent winds of the battlefield, and a strip of black cloth concealed his face.

Only his eyes were visible—cold, sharp, and utterly devoid of emotion.

They did not burn with rage or thrill; they simply observed, as if all before him had already been judged and found wanting.

He spoke no words.

He gave no warning.

In the very next instant, the cloaked man vanished from where he stood and reappeared amidst the charging Iron Grip Savages.

What followed would be told and retold for generations.

A sword gleamed in his hand, its edge catching the light for a heartbeat before disappearing into motion.

The battlefield became his stage, and death followed his every step.

His movements were fluid, almost graceful—like a dancer gliding through a familiar routine.

Each swing of his blade was effortless, precise, and absolute.

Wherever he passed, bodies fell apart.

Savages were cleaved cleanly in half, their massive frames splitting as though made of paper.

Heads flew from shoulders, spinning through the air before striking the ground with dull, final thuds.

Limbs were severed mid-charge, great warriors collapsing before they even understood what had happened.

Blood sprayed across the dirt in wide arcs, staining the earth and soaking into the ground faster than it could be absorbed.

What made the sight truly horrifying was not the brutality—but the speed.

He did not slow. He did not stop. He did not need to recover between strikes.

In the span of a single breath, a hundred men fell to his sword.

Before the first corpses had fully collapsed, the blade had already claimed dozens more.

To the watching soldiers, it seemed as if the cloaked man existed in several places at once, his form flickering across the battlefield in blinding streaks of motion.

The Iron Grip Savages tried to fight back.

Axes swung through empty air. Spears thrust at shadows that were no longer there.

Their roars of bloodlust turned into screams of confusion and terror as ranks broke apart, formations collapsing into chaos.

Those who had laughed moments before now stumbled over bodies, slipping in blood as panic spread like wildfire.

The charge shattered.

What had begun as a terrifying wave of thousands became a churning slaughterhouse.

The ground was soon carpeted with corpses, and the stench of blood and death filled the air.

The cloaked man continued forward without pause, cutting a path straight through the heart of the enemy as if nothing before him could slow his advance.

From a distance, Riley’s forces watched in stunned silence.

Men who had been bracing themselves for death stood frozen, weapons forgotten in their hands.

Even seasoned veterans felt their knees weaken at the sight. This was not a battle.

It was an execution.

And at its center, the cloaked man moved on—silent, unstoppable, and utterly alone—turning an army into nothing more than a cautionary tale written in blood.l

"Fight back!"

"He’s only one man!"

"Kill him!"

The shouts rang out desperately as thousands of savages surged forward, trying to overwhelm skill with sheer numbers.

They believed mass alone could crush him. They believed courage and rage would be enough.

They were proven fools.

No matter how many rushed him at once, their ranks only fed the slaughter.

Every step they took forward became another death.

The more they pressed in, the faster they fell, their bodies piling atop one another as panic replaced confidence.

What should have been an advantage—overwhelming numbers—turned into a curse, trapping them in a killing ground where escape was impossible.

Against that single man, their army did not advance.

It was erased.