Chapter 10: The Unyielding

Thorgar Ironhide stood alone in the ash, surrounded by the twisted remains of creatures that dared to challenge his convoy, his warriors, his legacy. The Ruin Beast towered before him, its sprawling, many-eyed gaze settling hungrily on him. With every breath, he inhaled the acrid stench of the Burnt Sea, the taste of blood and soot coating his mouth. Ash sifted through the air, settling in thick clouds around them both as if marking the grim end that awaited.

He heard nothing but the sound of his heart, the relentless thudding like war drums in his chest. His muscles ached, his flesh stinging under broken armor. But pain was a distant memory. This was his purpose.

The Ruin Beast shifted, its limbs splitting the earth with each movement. Every step it took left a sickly glow in its wake, pulsing with twisted magic as if the land itself had begun to rot beneath its weight. The creature lurched forward, jaws gaping, rows of jagged teeth slick with the ichor of its last meal.

Thorgar’s lips curled into a grin as he drew on the essence buried deep within him, the iron strength hard-won through years of unrelenting ritual. He felt it surge, a molten fire filling his veins. I will not die today, he thought, not until I carve my mark on this beast.

He moved, his body a blur as he closed the distance in a heartbeat, his footsteps kicking up waves of ash. His fist struck the creature with all the force of his fury, cracking through its dense, stone-like hide. The beast staggered, a ripple of energy passing through its monstrous frame. Without waiting, he struck again, his blows relentless, each punch carrying the force of iron, every movement calculated to crush.

The Ruin Beast screamed, a hideous, earsplitting sound that vibrated through his bones, rattling him to his core. It flailed, its twisted limbs reaching for him, but Thorgar slipped between them, dodging with a warrior’s practiced grace. His fists sank into its flesh, sending tremors of pain rippling through the monster. Chunks of its stony hide broke away under his blows, leaving patches of raw, exposed tissue that oozed thick, tar-like blood.

Above, dragon riders and wyvern riders circled. They called out to him, voices carrying down through the ash-laden air.

“General! Pull back!” one rider yelled, desperation tightening his voice. “We’ll burn it down, but not with you so close!”

Another rider swept in close, a wyvern’s talons flashing as it struck the Ruin Beast’s side, the beast snarling in response. “Fall back, General! We need room to use our magic!”

Thorgar ignored them, his focus narrowing to the monstrous form before him. The riders’ cries were lost to him, mere sounds drowned out by the roar of blood and fury in his ears. He hadn’t been reforged through agony to retreat now. Seventeen essence rituals had turned his flesh to iron, had burned away every weakness from his bones. To turn his back on this creature would be to mock his every sacrifice. No, he thought, I’ll stand, even if my bones are shattered to dust.

He launched himself at the beast again, his fists a whirlwind of fury, each strike shattering pieces of the Ruin Beast’s hide. But the essence was waning, the burn fading from his limbs, his power slipping with every blow. The shamans’ magic, the surge that had driven him forward like a battering ram, had run dry. His fists sank into the creature’s hide with less force, his bones aching as they struck against unyielding stone. His strikes, once shattering, now barely broke the skin.

The Ruin Beast saw his slowing movements and lunged, a twisted claw lashing out and catching him across the side. Pain exploded through his ribs as the force sent him tumbling through the ash, the world spinning. He felt his bones splinter, sharp agony cutting through him, but he forced himself up, staggering to his feet. Blood trickled down his side, soaking into the ash, but he grinned, defiant.

“Come on!” he roared, his voice hoarse, each word a promise. “You’ll have to do better than that, beast!”

Above, the riders shared uncertain glances, their wings beating as they held their distance. They could see him faltering, his body shuddering with every breath. But he ignored their calls to retreat, even as they grew more desperate, his focus solely on the creature before him.

This is my fight, he thought, a grim pride flaring in his chest. They’ll see I’m no easy prey.

The Ruin Beast loomed above him, its limbs rippling with unnatural energy. A massive, clawed arm arced downward, crashing into his shoulder, forcing him to his knees. His bones cracked under the pressure, his left arm dangling uselessly at his side, flesh torn and bleeding. He gritted his teeth, fighting back a scream as he forced himself up, his broken arm hanging limp, his other hand balled into a fist.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he rasped, every word a struggle. He could feel his heartbeat, wild and erratic, the blood pumping through his veins slower with each labored breath. His vision blurred, the edges of the world fading, but he took a step forward, dragging his body into a final charge.

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The riders, seeing his reckless determination, took a desperate course. Their dragons and wyverns dove in low, weaving in and out, claws and talons tearing into the Ruin Beast, distracting it, keeping it off balance as Thorgar staggered forward. Their blades flashed, tearing gashes into the beast’s hide, but they did little to slow it. For every wound they inflicted, the beast retaliated, lashing out with limbs like stone clubs, throwing dragons and wyverns back into the ashen sky.

Thorgar pushed through the chaos, his own body betraying him, his legs buckling as he advanced. He could feel the cracks spreading in his bones, each step a splintering agony, but he refused to yield. The taste of iron filled his mouth as he spat blood into the ash, his mind a haze of determination.

Another punch, another crack in his fist, bones shattering under the force of his own attack. He ignored the pain, his other hand curling into a bloody, broken fist as he swung again. The impact barely made the creature flinch, his strength all but spent. But still, he struck, and still, he fought, refusing to fall.

The Ruin Beast’s many eyes glistened with cruel satisfaction as it watched him flail, its maw opening wider. It raised another limb, towering above him, and brought it down with the force of a hammer, smashing into his shoulder. Bones shattered under the blow, his chest compressing as blood sprayed from his mouth.

“General!” one rider screamed, the desperation breaking through the din.

Thorgar’s legs gave out, his body collapsing into the ash, his breaths shallow, his vision darkening. But he forced himself to his knees, blood streaming from countless wounds, his broken hand curling into a fist.

I am Thorgar Ironhide, he thought, clinging to the fading light of his consciousness. I am the Right Hand of High Chief Garrok, the Shield of Kaelos.

In that moment, something shifted in the air. The battlefield fell into an unnatural silence, the ashen winds ceasing their mournful howl. Thorgar's vision blurred, the towering form of the Ruin Beast wavering before him, and then he felt it—a presence, ancient and raw, settling over him like a weight. He felt the pulsing energy flow into him, cool and dark, coiling around his bones like a steel reinforcement.

Kaelos, he thought, a shiver of reverence mixing with awe. Kaelos—the Shattered God, the Unyielding, the very essence of war itself. And in his fractured state, Kaelos rarely granted mercy, rarely offered help. But here, now, the jagged form of Kaelos loomed over him, his scar-riddled body radiating a steady, controlled energy. The scars themselves were dull, as if the god’s usual wild rage had tempered for this fleeting moment.

“Your strength falters, my Ironhide,” Kaelos said, his voice dark and guttural. “But I will not let you break alone.”

Thorgar felt the god’s power filling him, seeping into every shattered bone and torn muscle. His pain vanished, replaced by a cold, unyielding strength. The agony that had once wracked his body was gone, his broken limbs feeling whole. Kaelos’ chaotic energy surged within him, lending him the power of the divine—a last, fleeting boon.

Let this be my final stand, he thought, his eyes blazing with newfound fire. Let Kaelos himself witness that I am no coward.

He threw himself at the Ruin Beast with all the ferocity of a living storm. His fists hammered into its hide, each blow shattering more of its stone-like flesh, sending shards of it flying. He moved faster, struck harder, each hit sending cracks spider-webbing across the beast’s monstrous frame. The creature screamed, its many eyes rolling in pain and confusion as it recoiled from this new force. For the first time, the monster took a step back, its twisted limbs faltering.

But even as his blows fell like meteors, he could feel the god’s blessing slipping, like water slipping through his fingers. The cracks in Kaelos’s form began to glow once more, the volatile, searing energy of his madness slowly bleeding through. The god’s power flickered within Thorgar, unstable, like a fire that had reached its peak and was now sputtering.

“Kaelos… grant me more,” Thorgar growled, refusing to slow his assault. But Kaelos’s voice whispered back, resigned, somber.

“My power fades, Ironhide. All things must end—even gods.”

Thorgar let out a roar of defiance, a final salute to Kaelos, even as his limbs weakened, his body’s injuries returning with a vengeance. His shattered bones and ruptured muscles failing him as he stumbled forward. The Ruin Beast, sensing the ebbing of Kaelos’ blessing, steadied itself and bore down on him once more.

Above him, the dragon riders called out in desperation. “General! Retreat! Let us finish it! You have done your part.”

But he heard them only as a distant echo, his focus locked solely on the monstrous form before him. The Ruin Beast saw the faltering in his blows, and it advanced, its eyes gleaming with malice. The riders, once again denied the space to unleash their full fury, could only circle, diving down with talons and steel, their blades flashing as they cut into the beast’s sides. But their efforts barely slowed it.

The creature’s massive, clawed limb struck him across the chest, and he felt his ribs snap, his breath leaving him in a ragged gasp. But even as he faltered, he felt no pain—only a numbness, as if Kaelos, in his final gift, had spared him the suffering he’d earned.

Thorgar dropped to one knee, his blood soaking the ash beneath him. His eyes remained fixed on the Ruin Beast, his vision blurring but never wavering in his defiance.

Above, the dragon and wyvern riders circled, but their efforts felt distant, their shouts dim. They were calling for him, pleading for him to fall back, but he was beyond hearing, beyond retreat. He was Thorgar Ironhide, the Right Hand of High Chief Garrok, the Shield of Kaelos.

The Ruin Beast’s maw opened wide, a roiling mass of eyes and teeth descending upon him. His last vision was the shattered god’s jagged, scarred visage watching from the void. He let himself sink into that vision, his final thoughts held no regret—only pride, only strength.

As he fell into the ash, his body broken but his spirit undimmed, the ashen winds began to rise once more, sweeping over him. The Ruin Beast howled in triumph, but as the caravan rolled onward, his kin felt his loss, a cold, unyielding weight. Yet they pressed forward, carrying his memory, his iron-willed spirit blazing within them.

The ladened caravan moved on, grinding its way into the wasteland, each wheel groaning with the echo of Thorgar’s defiance, a warrior’s final gift to the god of war.

And in that moment, General Thorgar Ironhide passed into legend.