Chapter 68

Battle of the Monsters

The quaking grew only larger and more thunderous the closer the behemoth approached. Inevitably, Sylas began seeing the first signs of it—the toppling trees in the distance. One by one they fell, rolling to the sides, opening up a path. Even the Ghouls became sluggish, whatever few instincts they had remaining likely screaming at them incessantly.

Derrek and Sylas, however, remained standing on the wall. It was much easier for him, Sylas mused, yet he still came off less heroic than Derrek. It’s the face, isn’t it? Clicking his tongue, he couldn’t help but admit if they were in a movie, he’d have been put into the background of the shot, just random noise to the heroic figure upfront.

Chiseled features, piercing eyes, body made of granite, height, broadness, handsomeness, the golden hair to be the contrast to the ashen snow… the man simply had all the makings of a hero in the story. Well, visually at least. His personality was still a suspect as Sylas grandly recalled him shouting when he got trapped in the Shard as though he was beyond a human.

It was around a minute later that the last of the trees fell, revealing the behemoth’s form. It was exactly the same as Sylas remembered it—but Derrek seemed stumped for some reason.

“What’s wrong?” Sylas asked.

“This… this isn’t a Thrall,” Derrek stuttered strangely. “It’s… it’s the Thrall.”

“… alright, you lost me. What’s the difference?”

“The… the difference? It’s the main Thrall, Sylas!!” Derrek almost shrieked. “As in, it would be like asking what’s the difference between an ordinary soldier and an army’s commander!”

“Oh. So, he’s stronger?”

“Beyond stronger! There’s… there’s no way we can defeat it! We’re doomed!” Ah, yes, our hero, ladies and gentlemen. Sylas, however, hardly faulted the man; Derrek himself never claimed to be a selfless hero, it was just something Sylas fronted due to the jealousy.

“The plan remains the same,” Sylas’ voice turned encouraging. “Think of those behind us, Derrek. If we can’t stop this thing… the entire castle will fall. And not just the castle—all those people that are rushing to our rescue… they will die too. Unless we figure out a way to stop this thing… we truly would all be doomed. But, we’ll figure it out. I mean, how hard can it be? It’s just a tall, slow giant, right?”

“… it’s, it’s not that,” Derrek said, taking a deep breath and recovering somewhat. “I’ve never faced the Thrall, but I’ve read stories. Beyond their physical prowess, what made them essentially undefeatable monsters was the fact that they held absolute control over their element. As in, forming magic with the element came as naturally as breathing to them. Unless we have someone on our end who can match that, we don’t stand a chance.”

“We have you.”

“Me?” Derrek glanced at him, smiling bitterly. “You think magic comes as naturally as breathing to me? I don’t know what kind of a person you consider me to be, but I am far from the most talented Knight of my Order. Were it not for my Master’s graces, I’d long since have been demoted and relegated to be some Noble’s Guardian.”

“Well, here’s your chance,” though Sylas was grateful he was learning more about the man, now truly was not the time. “To prove your Master wasn’t wrong. We’ll do it together. You are not alone.”

“…”

“Besides,” Sylas added, looking forward. “It doesn’t look like the thing will give us much of a choice.”

“… yes,” Derrek nodded, taking another deep breath. He would die—of that he was beyond certain. But, he wouldn’t die a worthless death, one in which he resigned to his fate. He’d defy it until the very end, no matter how stacked the odds were against him. “Let’s go, then.”

Derrek withdrew the sword from his scabbard and suddenly heaved forward, jumping from the wall and leaving Sylas aghast. Midflight, the sword lit up in the colors of blazing fire, illuminating the world down below—the rotting corpses, the bones, the dried blood… everything became far clearer than before.

He landed squarely, kicking up some snow and dust and dirt, affirmed on the ground. Rolling his eyes, Sylas skirted to the side and jumped down himself—directly onto the pile of corpses. Luckily, they were all fresh, and though it was beyond disgusting and vomit-inducing and nowhere near as cool as Derrek's leap, at least he didn't rush down the stairs and go around.

Fighting out of the gore and rotting flesh, he landed onto the ground as well and walked toward the two figures before suddenly stopping—he felt it. The surge of energy. It was… terrifying. In fact, it was so terrifying it froze the blood in his veins. Though he always suspected that Derrek was at least as strong as Dyn, likely even stronger, he’d never seen the man go all out. But now he was seeing exactly that.

Immediately, Sylas realized he had no place on that battlefield—though he’d gotten remarkably stronger compared to anything he experienced in his life, he was human strong—not… magic strong. The sheer quantity of energy rolled up winds that discreetly began shoveling snow between the two away. It was a few moments of silence that Sylas recognized—it was the seconds that signaled the key, turning point in life. Like the few seconds of silence he experienced during the paternity results. Or the few seconds he experienced before being told the diagnosis. Or the few seconds after hearing it.

But when the silence passed, the life came roaring—abruptly, wildly, unbridled, surging forward like the raging ocean’s waves, pelting against anything and everything and anyone and everyone in their wake.

Derrek roared, the fire of his blade seemingly resonating with his soul, surging alongside the roar that shook the trees and the stone. He stepped forward, bending the blade at an angle and swinging, alighting the darkness as an array of fire went flying toward the giant. The Thrall responded in kind, roaring and bending forward, slamming its fist toward the fire and easily destroying it. The surging explosion blew the surrounding trees back and caused winds that forced Sylas to take a few steps back.

It was happening again, he realized—just like when two shadows who disappeared fought, he was witnessing something that his mind was yet to adjust to. Though aware of magic, it was the low type of magic—not the kind that could cause permanent changes to terrain with a flick of a finger.

Derrek continued running forward, stepping aside when the giant blew its fist forward, digging it into the ground and rupturing it, causing a massive quake to shake the world. The man heaved and jumped, the alighted blade cruising like a dragon through the air, slamming against the Thrall's body. And yet, even such a majestic attack seemed to cause no damage, bounced back effortlessly. Sylas could swear he heard the click of the tongue and the gnashing of the teeth as Derrek found himself flying backward, using invisible hands of the energy to stabilize himself midair before landing.

He didn't wait for the reprive, however, rushing forward once more, as though possessed. He had to leave everything on the line, every last drop of his strength. In his soul, in his heart, and in his mind, he knew that the battle was unwinnable. No one human had ever won a battle against the Thrall—and those who supposedly did also just happened to give birth to planets with their fingers, as in, they were just legends.

And then there was him—barely a Knight, nowhere near close to a legend. But he couldn’t falter. He couldn’t fall. He couldn’t roll over and accept his defeat. Too many people counted on him. Even if he initially came here to look for the cult and had no intention of staying through the winter, he had. The place… won him over. The people. The grit. Even the permanently cold air that irritated his nostrils. For better or worse, this place began feeling more like home than the Order did. In here, he was respected, listened to, recognized. He mattered.

Grinding his teeth together, he dodged yet another fist by undercutting it, gleaming forth a surge of energy and turning it into a raging tempest at the tip of his sword, stabbing forward. He managed to put a dent, a tiny nick in the flesh, but it was a wound—he saw it, the red of blood dripping down. He’d wounded the beast, but he wasn’t just satisfied with it.

He paused suddenly, noticing a phantom from the corner of his eyes—from behind the giant, Sylas appeared, sword in hand. Though he’d accepted that the man was somewhat of a prophet or at least someone who was really good at putting the pieces together and forming a plausible story, he hardly considered the man stronger than him, or someone capable of harming even a Thrall, let alone the representative of them all. And yet, for a moment, that faith in the inevitable wavered.

The speed of that stab… it was inhuman. No, calling it inhuman was likely misleading—not even he, using the full brunt of his magic, could come anywhere close to that speed. It was a blur. But speed was irrelevant when facing the Thrall—and so the stab didn’t penetrate the skin. And yet, rather than bouncing back, as though possessed, Sylas latched himself onto the giant’s back and stabbed yet again, this time even faster, more ferocious. The giant, for the first time, turned his attention away from Derrek. The latter, realizing that he had to buy time and, more importantly, cause the giant’s heart to tremble, roared at the top of his lungs and began using his energy without reservations. He knew that this battle would determine everything—and holding back even slightly… would kill them both, as well as everyone else.

He decided to put faith in the fake messiah, in the man whom he considered a cheater and a liar until a week ago. It was funny, he mused, how life worked. In many ways, it was far more magical than even the magic itself.