Point of View: Squad Leader
Thirty meters.
That was the distance separating us from our pursuers—though within that storm, perception itself was distorted to the point of near uselessness. The snow fell violently, thick and unrelenting, forming a white wall that reduced visibility to barely thirty meters, while the wind struck us head-on with an icy fury that made every breath burn in our lungs.
Even so…
I could see them.
Their eyes glowed through the blizzard like embers buried beneath the snow, moving with a speed we could no longer match in our current state.
My legs felt heavier with every step.
Each stride demanded more effort than the last, while the cold began to seep even through our natural resistance, tightening muscles and making every movement slower… clumsier.
Continuing to run no longer made sense.
If we kept going, they would catch us anyway…
And when that happened, we would be too exhausted to respond.
The ground trembled beneath us again—stronger this time—clearly conveying the number of lycanthropes chasing us.
Too many.
I stopped abruptly, digging my claws into the snow to halt, as the wind lifted a white curtain around us.
"Prepare yourselves! Tight formation!"
My subordinates didn't hesitate. Despite their obvious exhaustion, they turned with me and formed a compact line, reducing the gaps between us as the storm roared around, making any attempt to anticipate the next attack even harder.
The first one appeared as a shadow cutting through the blizzard.
It leapt.
That was the signal.
We activated our Arts at the same time, releasing all the energy we had left—no restraint, no intention of holding back. We didn't need orders.
We all knew what to do.
In Rasganorte, fights like this were part of our existence, and my role had always been the same: hold the front line alongside others, contain the enemy long enough for those behind to eliminate them.
I took the impact without stepping back.
Its claws tore across the surface of my armor, leaving deep frost-covered grooves as the force traveled into my bones—but I clenched my teeth and endured, holding my ground long enough for one of ours to deliver a direct strike to its head, crushing it instantly.
There was no time to celebrate.
More figures emerged from the storm, one after another, as if winter itself were spitting them out at us.
One lunged for my forearm, sinking its fangs through the armor and into flesh. The pain was immediate—sharp—but not enough to stop me. I grabbed it and crushed its skull with a direct blow.
To my left, one of ours was knocked down by three enemies at once, yet still managed to rise with a brutal charge, pushing them back, though his armor was already visibly cracked.
We were giving everything.
But it wasn't enough.
The ground stopped trembling intermittently and began to shake constantly, reflecting a truth impossible to ignore:
There were too many.
"Hold the line!" I roared, forcing my voice over the wind.
I checked the map.
Ten seconds.
A lycanthrope tried to bypass me with a leap, aiming for my back, but one of my subordinates intercepted it midair, tearing into its side. I seized the opening and grabbed its neck with my jaws, ripping out its throat as warm blood clashed violently against the freezing air.
My breathing grew heavier.
Despite our efforts, we began to fall back step by step. Breaking formation meant death…
But maintaining it only delayed the inevitable.
One of ours dropped to his knees, covered in wounds, his movements slower… less precise. We replaced him immediately, but by then the lycanthropes were already surrounding us.
I counted them as they emerged through the snow.
One hundred fifty.
One hundred eighty.
Nearly two hundred.
And all of them were Ascended.
We were barely fifty.
It wasn't fear I felt.
I am a warrior.
Falling on the battlefield had always been an accepted possibility—and in the worst case, I would awaken again at the resurrection altar in Dalaran.
But I didn't want to die like this.
Not surrounded.
Not overwhelmed without fulfilling my role.
My body—like that of my subordinates—was beginning to fail. Muscles burned, vision blurred beneath the accumulating snow, and each breath felt heavier than the last.
And then I heard it.
A roar.
Deep.
Distant.
It wasn't ours…
But it was coming toward us.
Another followed.
Then several more.
From the west, new silhouettes cut through the storm, advancing against the wind with unshakable determination.
Reinforcements.
"Reinforcements!" one of ours roared, his voice carrying a tone I hadn't heard since the pursuit began.
We answered with our own roars, marking our position and lifting morale.
There were no greetings. No wasted words.
The moment they reached us, they activated their Arts mid-movement and charged straight into battle, crashing into the lycanthropes like a second wave that broke their advance.
The pressure on our line lessened.
Regrouping wasn't easy. The enemy surrounded us from every angle, and carving a path through that sea of bodies demanded brutal effort—but little by little, we closed the distance, merging both formations into one.
Now we were one hundred.
Against nearly two hundred.
The disadvantage was still clear…
But for the first time—
There was something else.
Hope.
The battle grew even more violent.
More chaotic.
More intense.
With greater numbers, we managed to stabilize the line for brief moments, responding with better coordination—but the pressure never disappeared.
Slowly…
It began to rise again.
In a moment of distraction, while helping a wounded subordinate back to his feet after he had fallen out of formation, a lycanthrope lunged at me. Its claws passed dangerously close to my neck before I managed to block with my forearm.
The armor shattered with a dry crack.
I saw blood slide beneath the frost.
I tried to push it back.
But my body no longer responded the same.
Another impact from the side knocked me down.
I fell onto my back in the snow.
I tried to rise immediately—but the response was slower than it should have been. My comrades shouted, trying to reach me, but they were too busy holding the line.
And then I saw it.
A lycanthrope leaping straight at me, jaws open, descending toward my throat.
I had no time.
No strength left.
For a moment…
I knew I was going to die.
But before it could reach me—
A roar.
The sound was overwhelming, powerful enough to dominate even the battle and the storm itself.
The air seemed to compress.
The lycanthrope's body was deflected mid-leap by a brutal strike—precise and violent—sending it crashing into the snow several meters away without even the chance to react.
I felt the presence before I looked.
Heavy.
Dominant.
Unmistakable.
And when I raised my gaze…
I saw him.
The King.
He appeared before me, motionless, covered in blood that wasn't his, his eyes fixed on the battlefield as his Arts remained active.
His mere presence halted the fight—
If only for an instant.
The lycanthropes hesitated.
Just one second.
But it was enough.
I took a deep breath, feeling the weight crushing my chest disappear for the first time since the pursuit began.
And in that moment…
I knew with absolute certainty—
We would survive.