Chapter 47 - Chapter 47: Ragnar Bloodaxe

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Chaos consumed the wildling tribe. Screams of terror. Roars of rage. Weapons clanging wildly.

Wildlings stumbled through smoke and flame like headless flies. Some tried to organize resistance, only to be felled by poisoned arrows from the dark. Most fled instinctively toward the valley's only exit—straight into Lynn's traps.

Agonized shrieks echoed from the valley mouth, adding despair to the chaos.

Torren and Harvey's squads executed Lynn's orders perfectly. They swept the camp's edges, each charge claiming lives and igniting tents before melting back into darkness. No chance for counterattack.

Their goal wasn't slaughter—it was panic. They succeeded.

The tribe was in total disarray.

Lynn crouched in shadow outside the bearskin tent, watching coldly. His heartbeat was steady. His breathing calm. The hellscape before him stirred nothing inside.

Now for the leader.

The tent flap tore open. A tower of a man burst out—bare-chested, bronze skin covered in blood-red tattoos. Muscles coiled like cables, radiating explosive power. In his hand: a massive bone war-axe, its edge stained dark.

"ROOOAR!"

His bellow drowned out all other noise—a bear's roar. Wildlings in chaos gravitated toward him, finding their anchor.

Ragnar Bloodaxe. The chieftain.

Ragnar's crimson eyes swept the burning camp. He assessed instantly.

"It's the crows from the south!" he roared in the wildling tongue. "Not many! Don't fear! Warriors! Grab your weapons! Kill these damned crows!"

His voice rallied them. Warriors began clustering around him, forming resistance.

Too late.

As Ragnar focused on the chaos, a black shadow lunged from behind.

Lynn.

He'd been waiting for this moment.

As Ragnar turned, Lynn exploded forward. His Valyrian steel dagger flashed in firelight, aimed at Ragnar's spine.

Lightning-fast. Lethal angle.

But Ragnar's reaction defied expectation. As if he had eyes in his back, he twisted violently.

SLASH.

The blade grazed his ribs, carving a wound to the bone. Blood sprayed. But it missed vital organs.

"AAGH!"

Pain ignited Ragnar's fury. He spun. The bone axe screamed through air in a horizontal sweep.

Lynn's pupils contracted. He kicked off the ground, body snapping backward. The axe blade whistled past his nose. The wind cut his cheek.

Fast reaction. Insane strength.

Surprise flickered through Lynn. This chieftain's tougher than expected.

Lynn sheathed the dagger and drew his longsword, gripping it two-handed in a combat stance.

Ragnar steadied himself, crimson eyes locking onto Lynn.

"A little rat." He bared white teeth in a cruel grin. "Dared to sneak up on me. I'll tear you to pieces."

He licked his lips and charged.

His bone axe swung in massive arcs—each strike heavy, vicious, whipping up gales.

Lynn didn't meet him head-on. The Frostheart Grass boosted his strength, but not enough to match this monster.

Can't block directly.

He unleashed his Light Sword mastery. His figure danced through Ragnar's storm like a leaf in wind—unpredictable, elusive. Each time, he dodged the deadly blade by a hair's breadth.

CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.

Lynn's sword met the axe in sharp bursts. He didn't block with the flat—he used the edge. Deflecting. Redirecting. Shedding force. Each clash left a shallow notch in the bone axe.

Ragnar's alarm grew. This crow looks fragile, but he's slippery as an eel!

Every attack hit empty air. Power wasted. Meanwhile, the crow's blade struck like a viper's fang—unexpected angles, relentless. Each cut was shallow, but they drained stamina and patience.

Infuriating!

"Damn crow! Stop dodging!" Ragnar roared.

Lynn answered with another precise thrust. The sword snaked past the axe haft, stabbing at Ragnar's wrist.

Ragnar pulled back to block.

CLANG!

Sparks flew. His palm went numb, arm tingling. Shockingly, the crow was overpowering him.

Impossible!

In that moment of distraction—

Lynn's eyes flashed cold. Now.

He stopped dodging. Stepped forward hard, closing into Ragnar's guard. His sword pulled back—then thrust.

This strike abandoned all technique. Pure speed. Pure power.

SQUELCH.

The cold blade punched through Ragnar's solid chest without resistance. The tip burst from his back, dripping hot blood.

~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~

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