The ground groans under the weight of the Titan's pursuit. The ridge is agonizingly close—barely 500 meters—offering the only hope of cover from the giant's projectile barrages. But the Titan is faster than its size suggests.
Mikhail glances back, and his heart skips a beat. The behemoth has reached back, its massive knuckles white as it grips a fresh, uprooted trunk. It isn't just throwing; it's aiming.
"Spread out!" Mikhail's voice tears through the air, but the warning is barely out of his mouth when the tree blurs through the sky.
In that split second, the world slows. Mikhail's psychic resonance flares, unbidden and raw. For a terrifying heartbeat, the barrier between his mind and his men collapses. He doesn't just see them; he feels them.
No, I don't want to die, Lord...
Brother, I—
CRUNCH.
The tree strikes the center-left of the formation with the force of a falling star. Six spare horses and two elite mounted knights are erased from existence, reduced to a red mist and splintered bone in an instant. The spray of blood hits the backs of the surviving knights' armor.
Mikhail grits his teeth so hard he tastes copper. Fuck! he roars internally. He doesn't have time to mourn; he has to lead.
The survivors vault over the lip of the ridge, skidding into the valley below. The stone wall of the ridge finally blocks the Titan's line of sight, providing a momentary reprieve from the flying forests.
In the clearing ahead, the sound of rhythmic steel and grunted commands fills the air. A group of twenty-seven warriors is locked in a perfect defensive circle, surrounded by a swarm of Orcs. Unlike the terrified Eldrathian soldiers, these men move with a grim, professional grace. Their armor is a patchwork of hardened leather and dark steel, etched with the scars of a hundred battles.
At the center stands a man who seems to move like a hurricane. He's dual-wielding chained blades—wicked, curved shortswords connected to his wrists by heavy iron links. He dances through the Orcs, the chains snapping and whirring, decapitating two grunts in a single, fluid arc.
Mikhail narrows his eyes. This guy looks incredibly strong. But I've never seen this character model in the game. Who is he? He focuses his mind, attempting to pierce the man's mental defenses.
A blank. A total, impenetrable wall of silence.
Jackpot, Mikhail thinks, a dark thrill of excitement masking his anger. A high-level unit with mental resistance. This is exactly why I came out here.
As the last of the immediate Orc threats slumps to the ground, Mikhail pulls his stallion to a halt, the steam rising from the horse's flanks. He straightens his cape, projecting his most regal, commanding aura.
"Mercenaries!" Mikhail calls out, his voice echoing off the ridge. "I, the Crown Prince of the Great Empire, have come to rescue you. Prepare to move out!"
The mercenaries don't cheer. Instead, they stand still, their eyes turning toward their leader.
The man with the chained blades slowly wipes the green blood from his face. He doesn't bow. He doesn't show relief. Instead, he slowly raises one of his blades, the chain rattling ominously, and points the tip directly at Mikhail's throat.
"Imperial Prince," the man spits, his voice like grinding stones. "I'll kill you."
Mikhail's frown deepens, his hand instinctively twitching toward his own sword hilt. What the fuck is this guy's problem? I just saved his life, and he wants to kill me?