“Artyom.” A large hand falls on his shoulder. “You’ve won, you are the Úlfhéðnar, “ [Frost Jarl] Jokull of the North says with a friendly smile and a wave of his massive hand towards the large crowd. “Go, enjoy yourself.”

The cheering of the crowd washes over Artyom, his name getting screamed and shouted as he silently walks down the steps beside the [Frost Jarl]. If not for Artyom’s strength, Jokull’s arm might have broken bone. As is, he barely feels the weight.

“This is…”

“Bah,“ Jokull scoffs. “You defeated Aldowin and claimed victory. This part is for you, so stop acting shy.”

Artyom sighs and shakes his head as he is guided down to the eatery. Friendly faces greet him, Vidar, Shiro, Ulfric, Szuzad, and even a drunken Zeek waves with a smile.

Jokull sighs beside him. “If only you won two years ago. You would’ve married my daughter,” Jokull chuckles at Artyom’s annoyed look while he leads him to the seats of honor in the thousand-man feasting hall.

“Sit my Úlfhéðnar,” Jokull commands while gesturing to a throne set next to his. It is not nearly as large as the [Frost Jarl]’s, but it stands taller than any of the others.

Artyom seats himself in the chair made for much larger men. Jokull sits on his left, and the royal family sits to the left of Jokull.

Jokull bites into a wyvern leg and chugs down an entire mug of dwarven mead, one of the few brews that can affect a man of his constitution.

The party continues, Artyom eats and occasionally speaks when someone asks him a question. Earning the title of Úlfhéðnar was not something he necessarily wanted but he was told the title would stop him from being hounded. At least, that’s what Jokull said.

Artyom sighs. “Jokull, are you sure this will stop them?”

Jokull, partially drunk, looks down at the Russian man. “What? The letters from [Emperor] Flavion? Probably, though I don’t see why you even give the letters any mind.” Jokull shakes his head. “What was it this time? Did he offer you a coliseum or something? More sex [Slaves] maybe?”

Artyom glares at Jokull who only chuckles. Ever since he was outed as a [Hero], Artyom has been getting invitations and missives from kingdoms across all of Orbis. [Kings] promised [Princesses] and [Royal] classes, churches promised rank and obeisance, Guilds and trading houses promised wealth and influence, and the most persistent of them all was [Emperor] Flavion. Artyom ignored them, but the [Emperor] was incessant. As possibly the wealthiest man on Orbis, his offers have been the most excessive and the most aggressive.

“Threats,” Artyom says softly. “His recent messages have promised problems if I do not accept his requests.”

Jokull begins laughing, hard enough to even spill his unfinished drink. “Threats? Ha! He wouldn’t dare, not here. Too much cost and too much effort. Especially now that you are the Úlfhéðnar.”

Artyom sighs and shakes his head. He wishes he could believe the man, but he can’t. Perhaps it’s pessimism, but he can’t shake the feeling of an axe hovering above his head.

Eventually, after a few more hours, Artyom stands up. “I’m going to go rest,” he says to Jokull.

The [Frost Jarl] gives him a nod before going back to a heated conversation with two of his wives.

Artyom walks to the back where the women are working. He glances inside and frowns.

“Úlfhéðnar, can we help you?”

A tall, skinny woman asks while holding a tray in her hands.

“Have you seen Alissa? I saw her this morning, but she seems to have disappeared since.”

The tall woman frowns. “I think she said she was going up to her room, but that was quite a while ago.”

Artyom grunts and nods. “Thank you,” he says and turns back towards the stairs. He begins climbing, walking through the frozen ice hallways till he reaches her room. He knocks several times, but gets no answer.

Shrugging, he steps away and goes to his own room. He opens the door and freezes. His eyes go wide in horror and his Domain explodes as he rushes to his bed.

Allissa, in lingerie, lies dead on his bed. A dagger is shoved into her chest, with a bloody letter next to it, a letter carrying Flavion’s seal.

For a moment, Artyom stands still. His domain touches all, feels every inch of her cold, dead body.

Then, he screams.

______________________________________________________________________________________

Shiro tears open the flaps of Artyom’s tent and runs in. With practiced movement, he moves to the screaming [Hero] and attempts to hold the man down.

“Artyom! WAKE UP! WAKE UP!” he shouts while trying to keep the man from flailing too much. Not that he can do much; Artyom is perhaps the strongest man he’s ever met, stronger than even the [Frost Jarl].

Eventually, the flailing stops as Artyom awakens with a deep breath. The [Hero] starts coughing while Shiro steps away.

Several dozen seconds pass before Artyom regains his faculties and then goes silent.

“Same dream?” Shiro asks warily.

The [Hero] nods slowly.

“Thanks… Shiro.”

Shiro shakes his head. “No worries. You’re my friend, I’ll always be there for you.”

Shiro watches as Artyom leans out and grabs a pitcher of water, which he downs all at once.

Seeing his friend calm again, he stands up and steps away from the bedroll.

“I’ll be out soon, just give me a moment,” says Artyom.

Shiro nods and exits the tent.

________________________________________________________________________________

Artyom scowls. It’s always the same memory, every detail perfectly preserved in his dream. Even when he was in the army, surrounded by so much death, it was never truly memorable. Even when his friends died, he never felt more than passing sadness.

But this, Alissa’s death, he feels is his fault; a fault which he wishes he’d never made, a death he wishes had never happened. He let his guard down, he let the situation escalate, and she paid the price of his inattention.

With a deep sigh to settle his mind, Artyom stands and quickly dresses.

Departing his tent, the scent of the woods touches his nose, followed by the scent of blood. With his tent atop a hill, he has a full view of the battlefield and the innumerable [Slave] corpses decorating the field. After beating an army outnumbered fifty to one, he can say that the Northern army he leads is an army of elites, ones who could be injured, but unless killed, they can always come back to the field.

A week has passed since his men met the awaiting force, and a week’s worth of corpses have piled up into a distasteful mound, and the mound still grows every second.

Artyom makes his way to the command tent, entering with a grunt. He is met with several of the elites including Shiro.

“Úlfhéðnar,” they say in unison.

Artyom nods to the group, all of whom carry a leadership class. It is unfortunate that the North has no [Generals], but what they lack in leadership they make up for with levels and pure might.

“Where’s Jokull?” he asks.

“Fighting,” Shiro answers. “The [Slave General] Kael attempted to send a force around the mountain to strike us from behind. Jokull is dealing with it and will return when he is done.”

Artyom grumbles with annoyance. Ever since Kael arrived, things have become more difficult. The [Slaves] fight harder, sometimes even sacrificing themselves to try and kill the armies elites.

An only somewhat successful tactic since the [Slaves] are no match for the Northern warriors.

The problem, unfortunately, is the presence of massed [Archers]. Under that threat, he is forced to keep the [Frost Witches] on standby to counter any volleys instead of bombarding the tightly packed infantry.

“And the front line?”

“The same,” a [Jarl] by the name of Greznic answers. “They send weaklings to keep us fighting and expending stamina.

Artyom grunts. A neverending army. He was not prepared to fight something like that.

“I’ll go thin the herd. Refresh the units in the meantime.”

Artyom turns and walks out of the tent. He gazes at the millions of packed bodies, most of which are armed [Slaves], barely better than a [Peasant] with a pitchfork.

But even cliffs and stone may erode under an endless tide.

Artyom walks to a cleared area of the hill. He raises up his fist, glancing at the legendary crystal gauntlets covering his hands.

Then, slowly, his Domain expands. Information floods his conscious and unconscious mind as his power spreads out. First the hills, then his army, the crush of densely packed bodies, and finally, he senses the elites hidden within the army of [Slaves]. No Kael though. The [Slave General] keeps himself far from the frontline. Not that he needs to be close. His skills affect his army even from miles away.

Bending his knees, Artyom feels the tendons stretch and his muscles bunch in preparation.

A moment passes and then Artyom jumps, the ground beneath his feet explodes as he skyrockets into the air.

He soars into the sky, reaching a little over a mile above the ground. He retracts his fist and feels the muscles in his hand tighten.

“[Champion’s Arrival].”

His body glows vibrant red as his power rapidly rises.

One moment he is just floating in the air, and the next, he releases a sonic boom as he accelerates past the speed of sound towards the enemy army. He lands like a meteor, punching the ground and releasing a shockwave that instantly kills thousands of [Slaves] and craters the battlefield.

Once the buff state ends, Artyom wastes no time hopping out of the crater and engaging the enemy army.

With one punch he fells a man. With a second, he sends out a shockwave of air that kills another. Each strike releases enough force to travel through the air several meters before dissipating. Thundering jabs break the sound barrier, their noise alone enough to make the nearest men collapse.

Enemies struggle in return. [Slaves] and [Soldiers] surge forward to attack, but Artyom dodges and blocks with ease. No skill or spell reaches him. Fissures form beneath his feet, each step rends the earth asunder and tosses the weaklings further away. Each lunge leaves the ground shaking. The sky trembles above.

Artyom rampages, tearing through men and women alike. In turn, his soldiers shift their tired frontline back for [Healing] while rested men return with a smile.

_______________________________________________________________________________

Kael, the [Slave General], glares at a report placed on his desk.

“Level 271 [Seismic Brawler],” he reads the most important part of the report. He glares at the paper, wishing it would burn and disintegrate alongside the [Tactician] who put it on his desk.

“Yes [General], he is leveling. Quickly, too. He’s risen four since yesterday,” the [Tactician] states.

Kael rubs his wrinkled forehead. “And what of the foray around the mountain, Menaz?”

“Avalanche, sir. Killed most of the [Slave Soldiers] and Jokull is mopping up the rest.”

Kael looks away from the [Tactician], doing his best to rein in his anger. Everywhere, incompetence! These men are barely better than the [Slaves]. If he didn’t need the man alive, he would have long since been flayed before his peers.

Unfortunately, he lost a great many of his commanders within the first two days of engagement. That [Hero] is a grave problem. Anytime he positions leaders at the front of the army, they are hunted down, all while avoiding attacks from his higher leveled elites.

“What of my request for a [Hero] or one of the Amazons?”

Menaz shakes his head. “The [Generals] down south have refused again. They believe you should be able to deal with the North with the forces currently under your control.”

“Idiots,” he grimaces. “They send a single [General] and an army of low level [Slave Soldiers] to fight an entire kingdom. All I can do is delay them for a time, especially since so few of their soldiers ever die.”

At the outburst, silence descends within the tent.The [Tactician] is unmoving, waiting for the [Slave General] to speak as he has been advised to do. Kael's anger may violently spark at a moment, but fades quickly. After several moments, the commander's shoulders relax and an opportunity to speak presents itself.

“If I may ask, what of your legendary skill? Can it not divert the tide of battle? I don't think they have a [General] to counter you.”

Kael's anger rekindles, but does not last nearly as long. “My skill is the lone reason that I am not targeted. It would be so very simple to sacrifice half my army to kill a single individual. The [Hero] would die, but then my skill will be spent and I could not use it for an entire month.”

The [Tactician] frowns. He is confused by [General]’s answer.

“Half an army seems like a small price to pay to kill a [Hero].”

Kael shakes his head. “If I was sure that the Untouchable was absent, I would have already cast my skill. Instead, I must save my skill in case his presence is revealed.”

Menaz eyes widen in realization. “They sent you here to stall. They never expected you to win.”

Kael anger rekindles, so suddenly that the [Slave General]’s overwhelming aura is released. Dominance and violence given form, so potent the entire army of over a million feels his presence.

The [Tactician] falls to his knees as he loses control of his body. He attempts to defend against the Aura’s effect with his own, but the weight of Kael’s own crushes him

Then, like a candle extinguishing, the feeling vanishes. The [Tactician] releases a breath he did not realise he was holding.

Slowly, he raises his head and sees Kael’s anger quickly abating. But he stays silent, no longer willing to risk Kael's wrath. After all, if Kael were to end his life, few would dare complain against a man who has already slain a Named before.