The Ice Fang leaped, landing on the mortars in the enemy's rear; a single swing of his arm cleaved through the four bodies. He didn't pause, charging toward the walls, aware of his limitations. In a contest of physical prowess, not even First or Alpha could stop his blows, but he lacked their overall quality. His unevenly sized limbs forced him into the impractical quadruped stance, and without his sword as a cane, the Ice Fang could barely traverse around fast. His organs swayed inside his body, saliva choked his lungs, denying him the stamina to perform feats of speed, and occasional confusion played tricks on his mind. He lacked speed, agility, endurance, and even health. When he fought the enemy, his body fought him.
But a true nobleman never lamented what he couldn't do. Second's plate was a marvel, equipped with several ranged turrets, which he used to scatter the unworthy from his path. Those who remained, the bigger imbeciles wielding pathetic excuses for swords and cracking with energy hammers, became his targets.
Foolishness had no place in war. Even a child would have understood that his rapid advance would not give the turrets enough time to score enough kills, and the mere fact that plates cracked under his projectiles should have convinced the foes to form a line and face him, trusting in their ability to survive long enough. Upon contact, they should have flanked him and later surrounded him, striking at the joints and denying him the answer to who their champions were.
That was what he would have done had he commanded a unit facing such an unexpected and brazen assault. Fortuitously, his opponents lacked the sophisticated and superior faculties of Ice Fangs or the brilliant combat instinct of his black-furred kin. And so grenade launchers mounted above his protected shoulder blades fired smoke grenades, enveloping the group, and holographic projectors in his limbs activated, surrounding Second with copies of his finest students. The first brute was baited into attacking a lithe, spear-armed Ice Fang, and his hammer flew through her ethereal head instead of blocking the incoming doom.
Second's swing was akin to a wrecking ball, lacking any innate elegance, yet precise enough to land under the hordeman's armpit. His sword plunged full length, slicing through the reinforced plates as if they were little more than freshly toasted bread. The man's torso slipped from his body, and the slash continued, one of the many prongs of his serrated blade slamming into another's helmet and lodging in the woman's head.
The body went limp and was dragged from her feet as the second-born of the Twins rose on two feet. It was an ugly sight; his purple cape swiped the dirt, one leg was a column, and another immediately buckled to stand on a knee as ragged breath and drool spilled through the half-open mouthguard of his helmet. Second pummeled two nearest foes into piles of broken bones using the very body of their comrade.
Such a display of savagery had several objectives. First, to lure them into a foolish belief in his poor thinking habits, falsely warning them of his armor rather than his intellect. Second, to partially evade the maddening shooting of the lesser threats. Durable as it was, his protection wouldn't last forever, and already notches and cracks were beginning to cover it. He needed to preserve the holograms as long as possible. Finally, Second had to cough the fluid that was clogging his airways through his swollen gums, and he found that standing upright helped.
His larger hand caught a panicked hordeman and slammed the hapless fool to the ground. Such uncivilized fighting might be worthy of a defender, but it was beneath a knight. Second hated every second of seeing the viscera on his armored fingers. What would First think of him now... He jumped into the fray and joined the soldiers.
"Sir!" the wounded retainer of the Sunblade House, a Normie, had saluted him then. His mouth barely twitched, but the rest of his unit recoiled, half-disgusted, half-terrified by the drooling, crawling creature. The lenses of various sizes on his head and the elaborate silver and gold combat plate only added to the ridiculous sight. "Has there been a change of plans?" asked the man with a hint of hope.
"Negative, officer." Second shook his head. "I am all the help we'll have."
Inspired troops fought harder, but a deceived unit was a source of future insubordination. On the slim chance that any of the present would survive, the Sunblade decided to stick to honesty, unwilling to participate in a deception that widened the rift between the Order and the Tribe.
"Shit. We have children here," the retainer cursed. "There aren't enough of us to guard every entrance, and I am worried that the fatties are about to level us off the face of the planet."
"They won't," Second assured him. Fatties, eh? What does this make me, then? "Not unless they are willing to forgo their prize. Come, everyone. Civilians are owed our protection, and in my name, I swear to stand alongside you until my very last drop of blood."
It was a less-than-optimal strategy as the bombardment resumed. But faced with the choice of being withered down attempting to silence the mobile artillery or being chipped away inside, he had picked the latter option, intending to hold for long. Miracles, or rather happy accidents resulting from a change in morale, did happen in war. There was a tiny chance of survival. For four hours, Second traveled through the food production facility, confronting the invaders in the narrow corridors. His perception of time slowed, and he memorized the last moments of soldiers dying under his command.
To be outside his capsule, to apply his theories to combat firsthand, was... exhilarating. For the first time in years, he tested his theories firsthand, organizing ambushes and retreats, taking into account the health of his precious allies. The turrets announced his arrival, lighting up the smoke-filled, partially ruined corridors with bursts of projectiles, and he followed, smashing, slicing, cutting, tearing, even biting. He had never even conceived himself capable of such fury, but as his weapon rendered the bodies, he accepted this part of himself as he accepted every flaw his fate had bestowed upon him.
The end of the road. He kept thinking that thought, gathering the remaining retainers at the center of the facility, in a place the enemy would not dare bombard. Civilian workers hid behind containers filled with precious metals, artifacts, or simple diamonds and gems. They clutched a gift far more precious, their children, to their chests, trying to calm down the little ones.
A meager dozen and a half combat-ready soldiers stood ready to protect them. The rest died; their commanding officer faced his doom after he was shot and then stomped by the hordemen, and Second assumed full command. He, a descendant of the Twins themselves, would die leading the Normies. Bereft of glory, denied a last charge unless he wished to abandon those he guarded.
Gashes covered his plate, pools of torn flesh across his flesh spurted blood, his bones ached, his lips parched from a catastrophic lack of water. The holograms no longer surrounded him, and even the remaining turrets fell silent.
"I have taken your every assault, your toughest blow, and I am still standing!" Second roared, rising to two legs. "Come! Is there no champion among you brave enough to collect my head or die a dog's death? Am I facing a swarm of insects or warriors? Face me if you dare!"
He frowned, confused at the sudden silence that had befallen the corridors. A mere second ago, he had heard laughter, curses, and the boasting of the foreign scum. They were taking up positions, fanning out, and surrounding the great hall with the intention of overwhelming the survivors in one fell swoop. Now there was nothing, not even the clicks of reloading machine guns.
A giggle came from the corridor leading to the main entrance. Then another came from a breach in the wall, a wicked mocking noise mimicking Second's sucking, watery speech. The giggle intensified, forming an orchestra of cruel mirth that echoed off the walls, frightening the children and their families and turning the soldiers' faces pale. Second himself stiffened as he noticed a tall figure racing through the shadows of the corridor. The speed of the figure overwhelmed his cameras, but the pallor of its skin and its height brought him to a halt.
"Took our toughest blow?" a high-pitched voice asked in a tone full of venom that made Second's ears hurt.
"Tease," growled another voice, a sound of an animal imitating brass tonality through the grinding of fangs.
"If face us thou wish…"
"Then face us, you get!"
A section of the wall leading into the hall erupted, briefly showing Second the standing hordemen. Covered in dust and debris, two figures burst in; one landed sprawled on the floor, and another pirouetted over the shocked defenders, landing with a clack of claws against the floor and wincing at the trembling children. Their bodies, naked except for their dangling, tangled, and dirty hair, bore no scars; their snouts stuck out a little farther than those of most Ice Fangs and Wolfkins. Tall as Sword Saints and Warlords, the newcomers possessed both the grace and might of the two groups, creating a perfect mockery of every shared virtue of both groups.
Second didn't waver. He did not wonder why the fallen had joined the Horde. They did not. Their goals were momentarily aligned to maximize monstrous amusement, and amusement meant one thing to the lost souls. These creatures were too dangerous to let them be.
His sword slashed at the standing skinwalker's head, but the woman shifted her body axis slightly, barely tilting her head, and the edge passed over her temple. She immediately returned to her standing position, fast enough that the humans might not even notice her movement. To the Normies, it looked as if the sword had phased through the skull. Then she kicked backward, sending Second rolling to the ground.
Strong. The pain of a single blow, masterfully calculated to be delivered at the exact moment of his brief release of tension to combat the innate spasm, throbbed in his gut. His own intestines were now pressing against his liver. He grasped the dented plate, forcefully fixing it, and tried to stand up.
"Why?" The skinwalker's head turned to face him, breaking her own neck in the process, and the families screamed at the gleaming bone piercing her skin. "Because the inside mirrors the outside."
He stopped, confused at the accusation, and the second skinwalker bounced off the floor, delivering a punch to the joint of his armor and numbing Second's larger arm. She held back the claws, but he heard the crack of bone.
"How could you be beautiful?" growled the second skinwalker, dancing away from his stab. "The Horde came for the riches. There they are." She motioned at the containers.
"And these are whom you swore to protect," said the first skinwalker, her claws closing around the head of a terrified girl. "Tasty, sweet… morsels."
"Begone!" Second swung overhead, and the skinwalker dodged the blow, jumping away from her prey.
She and her sister flashed around the Sunblade, laughing, giggling, and pointing fingers, inviting his aggression and skirting around his sword. Their counterattacks followed, aimed squarely at his joints. Both monsters growled with pleasure, enjoying the fire of the retainers, not even bothering to dodge the bullets as their bodies healed the damage in seconds.
"Calls himself a knight…"
"Yet he refuses to surrender goods to save his subjects!"
"Selfish! Greedy! Cries about his appearance!"
"And always hides in the bathtub!"
"How many of your students have died without your assistance!" Their accusations heaped on Second, bringing more pain than any of their blows ever could. "Hypocrite! What sort of teacher refuses to practice what he preaches? Asks the universe why, when the answer is obvious! Rotten on the inside, corrupt on the outside! An eternal disgrace to his parents!"
Their bobbing, blurry forms weaved around Second, lobbing righteous accusations at him, pointing out every hypocrisy in his actions, and tearing down every delusion he had. He didn't even ask how they knew about the exact deaths of his siblings. It was undeniable. Even monsters and lunatics acted, while he shut himself away in his shame, relying on the relief of the machines, providing words and expertise, as his siblings perished one by one, and their offspring shouldered the burden, braving the dangerous world. And he... what had he accomplished?
He hadn't even been able to save anyone. The battle for Houstad had undoubtedly already begun, and he wasn't at his brother's side.
Second was kicked around; his slashes no longer carried any precision, and even desperation couldn't fuel his weary limbs. He lost count of the shattered bones; the plate was pulled off him piece by piece, exposing his ugliness for all to see. A double kick to the stomach lifted him into the air, and another skinwalker elbowed him in the head, nearly popping his larger eye. He tried to bite her, but the creature laughed, stealing his front fangs as he was dropped on the containers, breaking them with his weight.
He rolled off them, afraid to crush the families, and two feet pierced his sides, bringing him down on the hiding people by force. The skinwalkers stood on one leg, juggling his sword between them, and laughed, one happily, another gleefully.
"You never acted! A dead weight for your sibling! And weights crush, hahahahahah! Look at you, an alcoholic sucking on a tit full of self-loathing and pity! And because of that, your appearance…" They stopped, and for a while the only sound in the hall was the gunfire. Then the dishes of their eyes widened, gaining something resembling focus, and Second himself heard it. A faint howl, a call of the person he thought to be a second mother. Ravager's noble proclamation that all would be well, and in it he found the strength to push himself higher, using only three limbs, and tried to claw at the thoughtful face with his dried-up appendage of an arm.
"…Doesn't matter." The legs let him go, and the skinwalker pushed the sword into his hand. They took him by the head and whispered in his ears. "You think yourself ugly, cursed, and useless. Silly, silly boy. Haven't you proven yourself wrong? Your teachings have helped the Order to shine. To them…" They gestured to the soldiers and civilians. "You are a savior. Your appearance no longer matters to them. Don't waste time crying over missed opportunities. Ain't worth your precious tears. Get what you can today. Become the pillar of the Order that you know you can be! Be a teacher, be a fighter, be a lord, but be, not hide! Carry on, and you'll be surprised how many don't give a shit how you look." They trembled, glanced up, and streaked toward the hordemen. "We're helping, Mom!" they cried, carving themselves a path through the escaping enemies. "We don't do mischief, honest!"
"What just happened, sir?" asked a young retainer, reloading her pistol.
"Not a faintest idea," Second answered, using his sword to stand. "But we can't get complacent. This place is safe no longer. Leave the valuables, and let's hurry north."