The horde of orcs and gnolls slowed, their charge faltering.

The golden light radiating from Asael wasn’t just bright—

It was suffocating.

An overwhelming pressure crushed the air around them, heavy and oppressive, sinking into their bones.

A chill crawled down their spines, primal and unforgiving.

They weren’t staring at a dying man anymore.

They were staring at something else entirely.

“…It can’t be.”

Leimer’s voice barely escaped his lips, strangled by the weight of the moment.

His hands trembled, fingers clenching the hilt of his sword, though he barely noticed the ache in his grip.

A cold dread filled his chest.

“Why is he here?”

Fran turned to him, confusion flashing in his eyes.

“What? What’s wrong?”

Leimer’s throat tightened.

The answer clawed its way out, a whisper filled with disbelief.

“Hero.”

Silence.

Fran’s breath caught.

He had heard the legends. Everyone had.

A being chosen by the gods.

A warrior forged to slay the Demon King.

A force of nature.

A walking calamity.

But this man…

The warrior standing before them was drenched in blood, his body a patchwork of wounds and torn flesh.

He should have been on the verge of death, barely clinging to life.

Yet his presence alone sent a wave of unease rippling through their ranks.

Fran clenched his fists, trying to steady himself.

“…We need to retreat. We have to inform the others.”

His voice lacked its usual bravado.

But Fran… Fran was different.

“No.”

Leimer snapped his head toward him, eyes blazing.

“What? Are you insane?”

Fran’s lips curled into a sharp grin, his orcish pride burning like a fire that refused to be extinguished.

“He’s badly injured.” His voice held a dangerous excitement. “If we take him down here, our names will rise above the rest.”

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Leimer’s stomach twisted with fury.

“You stupid orc. Injuries mean nothing to a Hero.” His voice was sharp, cutting through the tense air.

"His divine power can heal severed limbs as if they were mere scratches.”

Fran’s confidence flickered, if only for a moment.

But before he could argue—

Before either of them could react—

The air shifted.

The monsters watching Asael hesitated.

But Asael—

He did not.

His hand lifted, slow and deliberate.

And then—

The sword that had fallen away during the battle trembled.

A metallic screech rang through the air, sharp enough to send shivers down their spines.

And then—

It moved.

The blade shot across the battlefield like a silver phantom.

Anything—anyone—unfortunate enough to be in its path was torn apart.

A gnoll, too slow to react, barely had time to let out a choked gasp before his torso was cleaved in two, his upper half crashing to the ground with a wet, lifeless thud.

An orc, standing in the wrong place at the wrong time, didn’t even realize he was dead until his head tumbled from his shoulders, his body crumpling a second later.

Blood sprayed.

Limbs scattered like discarded rags.

The battlefield, once filled with snarling beasts and eager killers, was now painted in crimson.

And then, as if drawn by an unseen force—

The sword landed perfectly in Asael’s grasp.

The moment his fingers curled around the hilt, something changed.

The weapon pulsed, as if coming alive.

The metal groaned, twisting, expanding, warping beyond its original form.

The blade widened, thickened, the weight of it impossible for any normal man to wield.

But Asael held it with ease, as though it had been forged for him and him alone.

It was no longer just a sword.

It was an executioner’s tool.

A weapon meant for demigods.

A weapon meant for slaughter.

The orcs and gnolls shuddered, some taking instinctive steps back as they recognized it.

Not the sword—no, the sword was new.

But the presence it carried…

They had felt it before.

The one who carried such greatsword.

Movok.

The great warlord.

The monster of monsters.

The one who cleaved through armies like they were nothing more than blades of grass.

The fear they had once felt toward him, the sheer, suffocating terror of facing something beyond mortal comprehension, now crawled back into their souls, gnawing at their resolve.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

It was his eyes.

Or what should have been his eyes.

Empty sockets, once gouged out by his own hands, now pulsed with golden radiance.

The divine light seared through the darkness, illuminating the battlefield like a vengeful star.

The way they stared at them—

Cold.

Unfeeling.

Devoid of mercy.

Very much like how Movok looked at his opponents.

Asael did not see them as warriors.

He did not see them as enemies.

He saw them as prey.

And this time—

There was no escape.

---

The orcs and gnolls finally understood.

If they stayed, they would die.

But realization came too late.

A blinding golden flash erupted from Asael—

A single, devastating arc of his greatsword carved through the horde like a divine scythe through wheat.

The air split with the sound of flesh rending, bones snapping, and steel cleaving through sinew.

Blood sprayed in violent arcs, drenching the earth in warm crimson.

Screams were filled in the surrounding.

Brief and agonizing.

Only cut short by the sword.

Orcs and gnolls collapsed in pieces, their severed limbs and torsos strewn across the battlefield like grotesque remnants of a butcher’s workshop.

The ground, once firm, became slick with entrails and pulped flesh.

Some tried to fight.

Desperation glinted in their eyes as they swung their weapons in defiance.

But—

It didn’t matter.

Every axe. Every spear. Every clawed hand—

Shattered. Broken. Crushed.

Their efforts were dust against the inevitable.

Their fate was sealed.

Leimer’s breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving with terror.

His instincts screamed at him—run.

“I’m retreating!” he gasped, turning on his heel.

But before he could move much distance.

A shrill whistle.

Metal slicing air.

And then—

A sickening crack heard.

Leimer’s body jerked violently.

His vision swam, his breath catching in his throat as a gleaming steel tip burst through his chest.

His eyes widened. Horror froze his features.

The heat of his own blood gushed down his stomach, soaking his armor.

He tried to inhale, but his lungs failed him.

A wet, choking gasp.

His limbs twitched, trembling as life ebbed from his veins.

Then the blade was gone.

Torn from his flesh like a cruel afterthought.

His lifeless body crumpled to the earth, discarded like a butchered carcass.

The greatsword spun through the air—

Then, as if bound by fate—

It soared back into Asael’s grasp.

Fran’s hands trembled.

His grip on his weapon turned slick with sweat.

This was not a battle.

This was not a fight.

This was slaughter.

“You…!” Fran’s voice wavered, barely more than a whisper.

His pride warred with the raw terror clawing at his throat.

Then, desperation overtook fear.

“Everyone attack! If you don’t want to die, fight!”

There was no choice.

The orcs and gnolls charged.

And that was the moment it began.

A massacre.

A brutal, unrelenting, blood-soaked massacre.

An orc lunged, his axe raised high—

A silver blur.

The orc’s momentum carried him forward a step before his torso separated, a diagonal wound splitting him from shoulder to waist.

A moment later, his intestines spilled onto the ground, steaming against the cold air.

A gnoll pounced towards Asael.

Asael turned, slamming the flat of his blade into its ribs.

The impact alone was enough to rupture its organs, its chest cavity bursting open like an overripe fruit.

An orc tried to flee.

A single, effortless swing, it was all needed to finish him.

Three heads left their shoulders in another fluid motion.

Their bodies staggered forward a few paces—

Then collapsed.

The battlefield transformed into a slaughterhouse.

The grass drowned in crimson.

The metallic stench of blood and charred flesh saturated the air, thick and suffocating.

Even his allies felt a cold unease settle deep in their bones.

This wasn’t Asael.

Not the friend they knew.

This was something else.

Anne swallowed hard.

Her heart pounded against her ribs as she took an unsteady step forward.

“…Are you alright?” she whispered, barely able to keep her voice from breaking.

No response.

Asael stood motionless, his blade dripping, his golden eyes vacant.

Then—

He moved.

Slow. Deliberate.

Towards them.

“Asael?” Anne called again, her breath hitching.

Something was wrong.

He wasn't Asael at that moment.

His grip on the greatsword tightened.

It was Hero.

His gaze locked onto them.

And in those golden eyes—

His friends were no longer human.

They were monsters.

And the sole purpose of a Hero—

Was to hunt monsters.