As the deck beneath his feet trembled violently, a massive warship forged from black iron appeared on the horizon. Its hull was decorated with countless skulls and chains, and thick black smoke poured from its chimneys as it advanced toward ship Aldric's on.
Before him, the monstrous octopus lay in ruin — every one of its enormous eyes shattered, and seven or eight of its thick tentacles severed. The writhing limbs twitched and coiled like venomous serpents across the deck before dissolving into bubbling foam within the flames.
Using the spinning, slicing motions of Pirouette Swordsmanship, Aldric wielded [Nahl's Flame Greatsword] to devastating effect. The sheer length of the weapon allowed him to hack apart every tentacle that dared to reach for him. The creature's regeneration could not keep up with the relentless destruction — for every new limb it grew, two more were already gone.
Above, bird-headed warriors hurled bone spears down from the skies. The Witcher caught them all barehanded — and wherever his fingers touched the shaft, the bone hissed and sizzled as if melting in acid.
Before the spears could disintegrate completely, he hurled them back with terrifying force. Moments later, several birdmen were nailed to distant rocks, their corpses proof of his deadly accuracy.
When the last of them fell, Aldric looked toward the approaching iron warship. His blood surged with heat. The thrill of battle burned within him — and for a fleeting moment, he realized he had been completely consumed by the pure, intoxicating urge to kill.
Were these abominations mere manifestations of Chaos itself? The Witcher could feel it, the black steel vessel radiated danger far beyond anything he had faced so far.
Amid flying blood and scattered limbs, each strike he made grew more savage, more deliberate. He found himself deliberately avoiding the enemy's vital points just to hear them scream a little longer before dying.
A massive shark-headed pirate charged at him, roaring ferociously — only for Aldric to whirl gracefully, severing both of the creature's legs in a single fluid motion. The pirate's upper body was sent flying, his blood spraying across the air like crimson rain.
Before the body even hit the deck, the Witcher had already completed a second spin. His greatsword flashed again, and both of the shark-man's muscular arms — along with his weapons — were sliced cleanly away.
When the body finally landed, what remained was a mutilated stump of flesh, reduced to a helpless, screaming head on the floor.
At some point, the corpses of his enemies had stopped dissolving into foam. Now they remained — real, tangible flesh and blood, littering the deck as undeniable proof of the slaughter.
Aldric panted heavily, feeling as if he had transformed into a storm of slaughter, pushing the Pirouette swordsmanship to its limit. He had cut down so many foes that he'd lost count. None could withstand even a single exchange. Not even his mentor, Sir Gonz, had ever achieved such efficiency in killing.
Nothing external could distract him except for killing his enemies faster and more cruelly.
He stepped on the chest of a dying shark-man pirate. The creature's pleas and screams reached his ears like the sweetest symphony. It made him feel calm… exhilarated. With every cry of agony, his strength surged higher, his blood boiled hotter, and his heart pounded with a savage, thrilling power.
At some point, the flames that had once surrounded him flickered out. His entire body was drenched in blood. He wiped the blood from his face; he could barely open his eyes, everything he saw was blood red!
From afar, the silver-haired woman watched him, her breathing quickening. The roses that surrounded her shimmered faintly, and her silver-lit eyes locked firmly onto the Witcher's blood-drenched form.
"Precision. Efficiency. Kill with one strike. Any wasted movement lowers your effectiveness."
Those were the words his instructor had drilled into him during his days in the NetherfallTraining Camp.
"We are commissars — the nightmare of our enemies! We are the living legends! We kill for a higher purpose! We don't need others' understanding. Everything we do is for—"
That was what his academy instructor used to shout during drills… before drunkenly vomiting mid-slogan.
"Swordsmanship is decision — to cut, to sever. One must first cut away emotion and desire. Simply put, when you wield a sword, do not let emotion rule you."
That was the teaching of his master at the Sword Hall.
And then, the last thing that flashed through Aldric's mind was the iron fist of Old Devil Victor Wilde, the dean of the National Loyalty Academy. The steel pentagram on the glove left its mark as the familiar voice thundered:
"Attention, soldier!"
Aldric snapped awake!
Just in time to see the enormous black warship crash violently into the corpse of the octopus. A massive banner inscribed with blood-red runes was driven into the creature's head.
From the shattered remains of the monster, a horde of warriors emerged — bare-chested, armed with brutal weapons, marching across the body of the slain beast onto the deck.
At the forefront rode a towering warrior clad in thick, blood-red armor. A massive horned helm adorned his head, and beneath him snorted a monstrous brass rhino, its hooves leaving molten prints on the scorched deck.
The Chaos warriors surged forward. One who was too slow was crushed under the rhino's hoof, his skull pulped into meat and the beast began to calmly chew on the remains.
None of the others reacted. They simply roared and clashed with the surviving shark-men pirates, hacking them apart with wild abandon.
As the tide of Chaos swept across the deck, the Witcher stood unmoving — a lone rock in a raging sea, splitting the human wave in half.
The red-armored champion looked down at Aldric and the mutilated corpses at his feet, as if waiting for him to make a choice.
"Blood, radiant blood, the source of life.
When blood spills, I descend.
When blood flows, I live.
When blood ceases, I die."
Through the slit of his helm, the warrior's voice echoed — a chant in praise of Chaos.
Under the silver-haired woman's gaze, Aldric silently shook his head. Then, with one clean stroke, he ended the life of the whimpering enemy beneath his boot.
He lifted his right hand, extended his index finger toward the red warrior then dragged his thumb sharply across his throat.
The surrounding Chaos warriors erupted in anger, but none dared raise a blade against him — because their leader had already drawn his own massive battle-axe. The weapon blazed with blood-red fire, its aura far more menacing than the Witcher's earlier flames.
He was the prey of the champion!
"Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!" the brass-clad knight bellowed, spurring his mount forward in a deafening charge.
Like an unstoppable war machine, he crushed everything in his path. Masts splintered, bodies exploded, and even the Chaos warriors who stood in his way were cleaved apart in his berserk fury.
Aldric lowered his stance, brought his greatsword before his chest, and glared at the oncoming rider.
"Come then," he growled. "Show me what else you've got!"
(End of Chapter)