"I write this with hands still stained from the work of war, knowing well the power that flows through me, and fearing it more with each passing battle. Victory is not merely a triumph; it is the slow unmaking of those who stand against me. I do not simply overcome—I obliterate. I feel it, deep and dark, like a shadow clawing through me. The roots of defiance, once proud and strong, are scorched under my heel, and there is no voice left to challenge, no breath of hope left to steal. I am the destroyer, the relentless tide, unyielding in my path. And yet, as the bones of the world grind to dust beneath my feet, I wonder—can such power be wielded without being consumed?" - Excerpt from 'The Book of the Dark Wren'

The thing you have to remember is that nearly a thousand hostile soldiers, bearing down on you with all the subtlety of a runaway cheese wheel at a country fair, look pretty overwhelming.

Especially if they’re heavily armed, bellowing war cries, clanging their weapons, and generally turning the pathway to Lazytown’s gates into a cacophony of metal and fury. Their shadows stretched out like a dark tide, an endless surge of anger and violence poised to crash down, promising ruin with every pounding step.

The other thing you have to remember is that just because there are lots of them—clanking around, yelling their heads off, and generally acting like the end of the world’s at hand—doesn’t actually mean they’re all that.

Most of what the Empire, the Rebels, and the Crusaders have got here look like they’re Levels 4 and 5, maybe the occasional Level 6 if they’ve been hitting their daily quests or whatever. I get that this probably represents quite a significant amount of training in this world – not everyone can be a Freeloading freak – but when you actually look at what they’re bringing to the party, it’s not that impressive.

Take the Crusade of the Eternal Flame, for instance. Most of the abilities I can see them popping off are named things like Holy Smite and Basic Purification. Very impressive-sounding, sure, but all they’d been doing so far was whacking things with fiery sticks and chanting ominously while looking a touch constipated.

Across the field, I could see one of them chanting over a wounded Rebel, presumably attempting some low-level Purification Ritual while the Rebel just looked increasingly uncomfortable, probably debating whether a holy flaming stick to the forehead would be likely to offend.

And the Rebels themselves weren’t much better. They mostly had skills like Quick Jab and Drunken Brawl Technique, which was less combat training and more “learned from three pints at the local tavern.” I watched one of them—a short, stocky guy with a bandana—get into it with an Imperial knight. The Rebel’s strategy appeared to be kicking the knight in the shins and laughing about it, while the knight tried to swat him off like an oversized fly. Not exactly the stuff of legends.

And the Empire soldiers who’d just taken down our gates? Well, as far as I could tell, a Level 5 Sword Thrust just meant poking things in the vague hope they’d move.

So yeah, this mob of a thousand or so bad guys look and feel like the coming of the end of the world, but none of them is really the business.

Lia, on the other hand . . .

The difference between a Level 5 and a Level 15, as far as I could tell, was less like a ten-level climb and more like crossing into a new dimension of existence where the rules of reality politely handed you a resignation letter and backed away slowly.

A Level 5 thinks they’re getting somewhere in life. They’ve got a few skills, maybe a fancy move or two they can whip out when they want to. They’ve learned to handle a sword without accidentally dropping it on their own foot, and they can probably parry an attack if it’s coming at them slow enough. A Level 5 has aspirations of competence. They know the basics, and they’re on their way to—well, let’s say, in the grand scheme of things, mild adequacy.

But a Level 15? That’s not even the same conversation.

A Level 15 doesn’t just have abilities; they have abilities that make the universe sit up, pay attention, and maybe re-evaluate some of its life choices. Whatever a Level 5 can do, a Level 15 does it in capital letters, underlined twice, with “Doombringer” or “Worldshaker” appended to the name.

It’s like a Level 5 and a Level 15 aren’t even reading from the same book of abilities—they’re in entirely different libraries.

As far as I could figure, a Level 5 might, at best, do things with a little more force or flair. They’ve got Fireball, so they can create a bit of fire. Sure. Singe the edges of a cloak, make everyone raise their eyebrows. But when a Level 15 throws a fireball? That’s not just “a little more fire.” That’s the equivalent of an unplanned remodelling of the entire block. It’s as if fire itself has decided to show up to work with a personal vendetta and a slight drinking problem.

A Level 15 doesn’t just cast a spell—they bring out something that makes the whole world flinch.

And let’s talk stats, because this is where things truly go cosmic. A Level 5 might have just enough Agility to dodge if they’re feeling spry, maybe shake off a hit if it isn’t aimed too well. But a Level 15? At that point, their stats start rewriting the laws of physics. It’s not about being a bit better at dodging; it’s about dodging so fast they’re practically halfway to a new plane of existence by the time the swing lands.

Not that I know all the specifics, mind you—I'm guessing here from available context, but if I had to put it in simple terms, the difference between a Level 5 and a Level 15 is like the difference between a stray mutt and a dragon that happens to also be a lawyer.

So, here’s the thing: I’m saying all this to try and wrap my head around what Lia is currently doing to the Imperial army.

Watching her at work is like watching a god-tier blender tackle a bucket of wet spaghetti. I mean, sure, I’ve seen her in fights before, but holding the gate against what must be several hundred trained Imperials, scything through them like she’s mowing grass?

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

That’s a whole other level of violent artistry.

She’s practically gliding from one poor sod to the next, cutting down soldiers in arcs of flashing steel and blood, and if there’s anything remotely resembling strategy on their end, it’s lost in the rising panic as Lia wades through them with the unstoppable force of a hurricane with homicidal tendencies.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realise that she’s probably picking up all the passive buffs I’m pumping out, which she definitely doesn’t need. I see Passive Assistance: Strength Buff Activated ping across my vision as she sinks her blade into yet another Imperial knight, armour splitting like an overripe avocado under the onslaught.

But with her stats and skills, it’s like handing a rocket launcher to the God of War. Every buff that’s supposed to give her a small edge is turning her into a nightmare.

Her attacks are relentless, her blade flashing with each swing. The Imperials keep trying to come at her, but for all their numbers, it’s like throwing a parade of unfortunate potatoes into a meat grinder.

Blood sprays across the stone as she pivots and twists.

I’m watching her kick, slice, and punch her way through the Imperial ranks, and it’s starting to dawn on me that my commentary on the whole “Levels” situation is mostly to keep myself from outright gawking.

Of course, the Maker keeps trying to get in on the action.

Twice now, I’ve felt the strange pixelating blur of a cut scene starting to impose itself on the field. It’s a sensation I’m starting to recognise—the world trying to press itself into that blocky plastic shininess. Trying to snap into a pre-scripted narrative. And each time, I push back, mentally shoving it down like swatting a fly.

I don’t know how I’m doing it, but if I concentrate, I can feel the Maker’s grasp slacken, the pixelation dissolving as the “real” world reasserts itself around me.

But whatever. The Maker can take his cut-scenes and stick them up his arse.

Because Lia . . .

Lia is holding the gate with a brutality that needs no help from cheesy, pre-set animation sequences. She’s handling this massacre all on her own, and it’s a massacre of cinematic proportions.

She ducks a spear, seizes the shaft, and yanks the soldier forward so she can drive her knee up into his face. He goes down like a sack of shit, and she steps over him without a second thought, already moving on to the next fool with a weapon in hand and a complete lack of survival instincts.

And then I see him.

The Harbinger—Wanker the Leather Enthusiast—pushing his way through the lines, barking orders and glaring at Lia with a face twisted somewhere between rage and confusion. The title “Harbinger of the Empire” floats over his head, along with a neatly highlighted Level 10 that he’s apparently quite proud of.

Judging by the set of his jaw and the ferocity in his eyes, he’s out to prove something, though from where I’m standing, it looks more like he’s auditioning for the role of “Next in Line to Get Bent Over.”

Lia notices him, too. Her grin is a terrifying thing to behold, like a wolf who’s just spotted a particularly fat rabbit wandering too close. She’s barely panting, her blade dripping crimson, her hair wild and matted with blood. If the Harbinger had any sense, he’d turn tail and rethink his entire career path, but instead, he steps forward with a sneer that could curdle milk.

“Dark Wren,” he snarls. “Your antics end here.”

“Yeah?” Lia replies, laughing as she sidesteps a newly disembowelled Imperial who was too slow to realise she’d already moved on from him. “You’ll have to keep up first.”

The two of them clash, and it’s nothing like the fights the other Imperials have put up so far. The Harbinger swings his blade with a fair bit of skill, his leather armour creaking with each step as he presses forward.

He’s got that Level 10 aura, after all—each strike carries more weight, more speed, more skill than your average Imperial grunt could even dream of. But Lia’s not some entry-level wannabe. Every time he swings, she’s already out of range.

He tries to bring his sword down in a sweep that would’ve flattened a normal foe, but Lia’s out of the way before it even connects. She’s taunting him, even as she sidesteps and dodges, every word a dagger aimed right at his ego.

“Bit slow, aren’t we?” she says, leaning in just out of reach as his blade swings past her. “I thought you were supposed to be a Harbinger?”

He roars and charges at her again, his blade powered by every bit of speed he can muster. She parries and turns, and the sound of their weapons clashing rings through the air. He tries to land a blow, but she moves too quickly, slipping past him and delivering a powerful punch to his ribs that I hear crack from here.

I can tell he’s starting to panic, his frustration mounting with each miss. He’s supposed to be a big deal—the Harbinger of the Empire, a feared leader, a man who’s probably been pampered and coddled his whole life with tales of his own prowess.

But here he is, fighting a small, stacked powerhouse like some petulant child throwing a tantrum.

And Lia . . . well, my girl’s just getting started.

The Maker tries again to force a cut-scene, the world blurring as if it’s being nudged into some narrative framework, probably eager to save the Harbinger from what’s clearly a losing battle. But I concentrate, and once more, the pixels dissolve, the shimmering effect fading as Lia and the Harbinger snap back into real-time.

There’ll be no cheesy escape for him today.

Lia lands a blow on his shoulder, tearing through the leather with ease and going down to the bone. He staggers back, clutching at the wound, and his sneer has morphed into something far more like utter terror, his eyes wide with something dangerously close to outright gibbering panic.

However, and fair play to him here, instead of retreating, he snarls and charges her, swinging with desperate fury.

Then it’s all over.

Lia sidesteps his lunge, grabs his wrist, and wrenches him off balance, slamming him face-first into the ground with a sickening crunch. He barely has time to spit out a mouthful of dirt before she’s got her sword raised above his head.

“You had your chance,” she says, almost conversationally, before swinging her blade down.

There’s no cut-scene to save him.

Her sword slices clean through his neck, and the Harbinger’s head rolls across the dirt with a finality that’s oddly satisfying.

The Imperial forces nearby freeze, horror etched across their faces. Leaders don’t die in this world, at least not properly. They’re supposed to be defeated, humiliated, knocked down a peg or two and then whisked off by some divine intervention.

They’re not supposed to be outright beheaded.

For a moment, there’s complete, stunned silence as the soldiers stare at the spot where their commander’s headless body lies sprawled in the dirt. And then, like a tidal wave of panic, the reality of what they’ve just witnessed sets in. They stagger back, several of them looking at each other as if they’re suddenly not so sure about this whole ‘attack Lazytown’ plan.

And right on cue, Lia starts to glow. A brilliant, golden aura surrounds her, her entire form lighting up like she’s just won the world’s bloodiest lottery. Level Up pulses above her head in massive, shimmering letters, and I can only assume that her power has jumped yet another notch as she absorbs the spoils of her victory.

The Imperials stare at her, wide-eyed, as if watching a goddess descend to rain terror on mortals.

So, no one was in a particularly punchy state of mind when Scar worked out how to switch the Steam Cannon on.

I’m going to say this was probably overkill at this stage of proceedings.