The Tale of Dragons and Dungeons

Chapter 12: Sow the Wind

The tension in the air was palpable, as though you could grab a handful and swallow it whole. One man stood at one end of the field. He was alone. He stood tall and wide, thick as a dragon in his stance, and despite the obvious weight he carried, his posture conveyed a nimble physique. At the other end, there was an army. A pile of Bladers and Isaacs stood around one another, some easing their Damascus from their sheath, light in their hands, the shape of each blade glimmering cyan in the faded light of the clouds.
Blader-2 stood ready for melee, hoping to outmaneuver him with raw speed. Blader-13 held his sword loosely, as though it were a walking stick, hoping to use the length of the sword to get a few swipes around his center. Blader-42 held the hilt of his tightly, prepared to block every any attack thrown at him. Blader-69's blade dangled over a curved handle, flopping steel sharpened but loose, as though it were fresh from the kiln. Blader-90 adjusted his rainbow colored shutter-glasses, getting a good look at the man standing across from them. He pushed them up on his nose, crossed his arms, and stood, prepared. The tension stuck there, holding everybody statue still. Nobody dared move a muscle. Nobody dared to breathe.
Finally, one man moved. In an instant, the tension in the air was converted into electricity. "HERE HE COMES!" And with that, the army charged forward blindly, a cacophony of maddening battle cries and laughter following them.
Hundreds flew into the air from the first impact alone. Every blow shattered bones, threw off balance, punched bursts of air which rustled the hair of every man behind them. The figure proceeded through the crowd without stopping. One punch led into a roundhouse kick into a second punch, a third, a headbutt, and so on. It was like a tornado was ripping itself through a sleepy little valley town, laying waste to all those before it. Everybody had their own attacks to try, some hit, some missed. A punch was met by a sidestep, a snap of the bone, and a kick. A sword swing was dodged multiple times before finally being taken and stabbed into the owner's chest. "Oh. Would you look at that! I've been impaled!" He kicked him back. Blader-90 made his best attempt to fight with his Fortnite brand pickaxe. A dodge, a dodge, and it was stuck in the ground.

It was truly a sight to behold.

The sound of steel on steel on flesh. Breathing. Footsteps. Raindrops. Millions of the same face stood together, increasingly daring blades making themselves known to one behemoth in the middle. For every cut on his face, the blood knight stepped out of the way and executed the attacker with deadly precision. One flying from his right. A punch, a kick, and a stab into the ground. One darted behind him. A grasp of his blade and a kick back into the crowd, held by many more of his kind. All wearing that same tired smile, some with more bloodlust, some with less. The center blood knight wore an expression of stone. No joy or pain was taken in his actions; only the actions.

Every Blader killed simply rose and began the fight again with a new position. Scars healed quicker than he could make them, and the attacks were coming in at high speed. However, no matter how hard they tried, each individual had their attack blocked, dodged, or redirected, in an unending display of nigh perfect footwork and coordination. And, as he moved further in and out of his perfect center, he struck as many as he could hit. A stalemate was quickly becoming apparent: one side continued to drive on through hits, the other could not be hit. An unstoppable force was hitting an immovable object, and the victor would never be clear.

A flurry of bodies were flung in and out of the crowd, drawing various cries of quotable phrases as the Bladers flew into the scenery around them. Grass that lay untouched drifted uneasily in the breeze, dripping red into the soil. Glass eyes fluttered among the mob, keeping track of every little move as they came at him. One might find it ironic how big of an advantage one man has vs. a million. With every step for him, there was an attack. Every step for them only brought them closer to an attack. They naturally divided themselves enough to allow an unspoken almost turn based combat among them all, but each swift attack was met with a swifter end. The lone murderer stood mostly untouched.