Dashing past her comrades in arms and the scores of magicians offering offensive and support spells, Joyce cleared the sandbag at the end of her path, jumping over the trench cleanly, and landing on the embankment past it. She rolled down the hill and came off the roll with her swords, into a double slash. The enemy soldiers’ flesh was rent by the intense force behind her swing, their blood splashing on Sigurd’s shapely face.
Surprised by his crude yet bold actions, a few of the soldiers on her side wondered the same thing: “Who is that?” While others recognized the chiseled face that zoomed by: “Is that Sigurd?”
A roar escaped her mouth as three more soldiers charged her. Joyce was lightning fast however and swiped at the first soldier, sending him flying to her right. The second she kicked whilst piercing the third through the abdomen.
The kicked man lay in the dirt, staring frightened at the behemoth before him. Joyce thrust the third man, still impaled on his right sword, off the blade, thus clearing it of one more body. With her left sword, she stabbed the fallen soldier and moved onward.
‘This must be what hardcore drugs feel like!’ She thought, her clarity fading by the minute, engulfed in a fog of ecstasy.
More enemy soldiers appeared and attempted to offer up resistance, yet were felled as quickly as they came. Against Joyce’s herculean strength, their efforts were futile. One by one, she mowed down their forces. She moved with a grace and power that transcended mortal limits, each strike a testament to the godlike prowess bestowed upon her.
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Little by little, she could feel her body going numb. There was no pause to her actions, yet she didn’t feel in control of the situation, of her own movements. Joyce only knew one thing: she was charging blindly through the battlefield, like a frantic bull unleashed, unaware of anything else other than destruction. Amid her unbridled rampage, a part of her consciousness remained aware, a witness to the havoc she wreaked upon the battlefield.
Like the berserkers of legend, she moved with a primal velocity and charged into the heart of the enemy ranks. As she continued to slice through the bodies, Joyce felt a surge of exhilaration and fear intertwining within her. Laughter bubbled from her lips, a wild and untamed sound that mingled with the chaos of battle.
The enemy soldiers fell before her like wheat before the scythe, their cries of terror blending with her manic chortle. She was a whirlwind of destruction, a force of nature unleashed upon the battlefield.
Beneath the surface of that ferocious rage, Joyce grappled with a sense of loss and displacement. No longer in control of Sigurd’s body, she grappled with herself and the new power the goddess had bestowed upon her. The memories of her former life tugged at the edges of her consciousness, a reminder of the woman she once was and the reality she now faced.
‘What am I becoming?’, she thought. ‘It feels good, natural.’
With each step, Joyce found herself running for hundreds of yards in a single swoop, her movements fluid and precise despite the chaos that surrounded her. Within moments of entering the fray, she found herself charging up the hill of the enemy’s encampment. Vaulting over the sandbags and past their trenches, she hacked and slashed her way through every soldier and mage before arriving at the top of the hill.