Lord of the realm-Chapter 195: The might of the older Chosen

Rodney didn’t wait for the demons to recover. He leaped from the wall—a twenty-foot drop that should have broken his legs—and landed in a crouch that absorbed the impact through technique rather than just physical resilience.

Before the demons could react to his sudden appearance in their midst, he was moving.

His rapier was a blur. Not metaphorically—literally too fast for normal eyes to track. He moved through the demon ranks like water flowing downhill, following paths of least resistance, finding gaps in armor and formation with preternatural accuracy.

Five demons died in the first three seconds. Clean kills, precise strikes to throats or hearts or eye sockets. His blade found weakness, exploited it, and moved on before bodies had time to fall.

The demons tried to respond, tried to bring numbers to bear. Lesser demons swarmed toward him from all directions, claws and crude weapons raised. Black Orcs shouted orders, trying to coordinate a response that could pin down this impossibly fast human.

Rodney’s response was to accelerate further.

He’d trained for twenty years with that rapier. Studied under masters, refined technique to the point where every movement was optimal, where his body and blade moved as one unified weapon. And he’d enhanced those skills with aura—not as much as some warriors commanded, but enough to push his speed and precision beyond human limits.

The result was that he moved through packed demon ranks like they were standing still. His blade found targets with mechanical efficiency. Throat. Heart. Eye. Throat. Heart. Eye. A rhythm of death, each strike killing instantly, each movement positioning him for the next attack.

Ten demons. Twenty. Thirty.

The numbers climbed with terrifying speed.

Black Orcs finally reached him, the larger demons moving with coordination meant to overwhelm. Three attacked simultaneously from different angles, weapons swinging in patterns designed to force him into predictable dodges.

Rodney didn’t dodge. He flowed between the attacks like smoke, his body bending at angles that shouldn’t have been possible. His rapier flicked out three times in rapid succession, and all three Black Orcs fell—one with a pierced throat, one with a punctured heart, one with a blade through its eye socket into its brain.

"Chosen Dennholm is showing off again," Paxton observed from the wall, watching the carnage with professional interest.

"Let him," Anita said. "He’s drawing their attention, focusing them on ground assault rather than trying more ranged attacks. That’s tactically sound."

"It’s also incredibly dangerous," Marylla added, though she was smiling. "But that’s Rodney. Always has to be the hero."

Below, the golden-haired swordsman was proving her point. He’d penetrated deep into the demon formation now, surrounded on all sides by enemies who wanted nothing more than to tear him apart. By any reasonable tactical assessment, he should have been overwhelmed, dragged down by sheer numbers.

Instead, he was dancing.

That’s what it looked like from above—an elaborate, deadly dance where his partner was death itself. His rapier never stopped moving, never hesitated, each strike flowing seamlessly into the next. And demons kept falling, their blood soaking the ground, their bodies creating obstacles that further disrupted the legion’s cohesion.

Fifty demons. Sixty. Seventy.

"He’s going to tire eventually," Anita said. "Even Chosen have limits."

"Which is why he’s not doing this alone," Marylla said.

She raised her hands again, and this time her origin energy manifested differently. Instead of projectiles, she created barriers—force walls that appeared throughout the demon formation, cutting off reinforcements, isolating groups, creating kill zones where Rodney could work without being flanked.

The effect was immediate. Demons trying to reach the golden-haired swordsman found themselves suddenly separated from him by walls they couldn’t cross. Units attempting to coordinate found their communications disrupted by barriers that blocked line of sight.

"Perfect," Paxton said. He’d been watching, waiting for the right moment. "Time to work."

He dropped from the wall with the same casual disregard for height that Rodney had shown. But where the swordsman had landed openly and immediately engaged, Paxton simply... disappeared.

One moment he was visible, falling toward the ground. The next, he’d vanished completely—not through magic, but through pure skill. He’d used the fall to roll behind a dead demon’s body, positioning himself so that to any observer, he’d simply ceased to exist.

And then the real killing began.

*

Paxton was not a warrior in the conventional sense.

Warriors fought openly, faced their enemies directly, won through superior skill or strength or speed. They sought glory, recognition, songs sung about their deeds.

Paxton sought only results.

He moved through the demon ranks like a ghost, using every piece of cover, every blind spot, every moment of distraction. His daggers were out now—twin blades coated in poisons so lethal that even scratches could kill within seconds.

A Black Orc stood giving orders, organizing a response to Rodney’s assault. It never saw Paxton approach from behind, never felt the blade slide between its ribs into its heart. The poison acted instantly, stopping the demon’s heart before it could cry out. It simply collapsed, and Paxton was already gone, moving to the next target.

A fire demon was gathering flames, preparing to launch an attack at Rodney. Paxton’s dagger found the base of its skull, severing the spine and delivering poison directly into the creature’s brain. It died without firing its attack, without even knowing it had been targeted.

Three lesser demons were trying to circle around Marylla’s barriers, seeking a way to attack the defenders from an unexpected angle. Paxton materialized among them like death given form, his daggers striking three times in as many seconds. All three demons fell, dying before their nervous systems could fully register the wounds.

He killed in absolute silence. No battle cries, no dramatic declarations. Just efficient, brutal elimination of targets.

And unlike Rodney, whose kills were visible and counted, Paxton’s victims simply disappeared from the battlefield. Demons would turn around looking for companions who were suddenly absent, their bodies hidden or positioned to look like they’d fled rather than died.

It created paranoia. Made the demons question whether their numbers were actually as strong as they appeared. Made them look over their shoulders, checking for threats that might not be there.

Psychological warfare, conducted through systematic assassination.

"How many has he killed?" Anita asked from the wall, struggling to track Paxton’s movements even with her enhanced senses.

"No idea," Marylla admitted. "I can barely follow him myself. But look at the demon formation—they’re disorganized, commanders are dying before they can coordinate responses, units are breaking apart because nobody knows who’s actually still alive to command them."

She was right. The demon legion was collapsing inward, losing the disciplined structure they’d shown during their approach. Units bunched together for perceived safety, which only made them easier targets for both Paxton’s assassinations and Rodney’s blade work.

"Time to increase pressure," Anita decided.

Her origin energy flared, and the nature of her magic became clear. She wasn’t just a defensive specialist—she was a controller, someone who manipulated entire battlefields rather than individual targets.

The ground beneath the demon legion began to shake. Not violently, but enough to disrupt footing, to make standing difficult, to force demons to focus on balance rather than combat.

Then walls of force began appearing throughout the formation—not the simple barriers Marylla had created, but complex structures that channeled movement, created choke points, turned the demon army’s superior numbers into a disadvantage.

Demons found themselves funneled into narrow corridors where only a few could fight at once. Black Orcs trying to organize resistance discovered their troops were scattered across dozens of isolated pockets, unable to coordinate.

"She’s amazing," Paxton’s voice came from somewhere nearby, though his body remained invisible. "Remind me to buy her a drink after this."

"You can’t afford the drinks she likes," Rodney called back, not pausing in his systematic slaughter. "Trust me, I’ve tried."

His blade found another throat, another heart. The golden-haired swordsman had been fighting continuously for perhaps ten minutes now, and he showed no signs of slowing. If anything, he was accelerating, his movements becoming more efficient as he adapted to demon tactics and capabilities.

One hundred demons dead by his blade. Then one hundred fifty. Then two hundred.

"MARYLLA!" Rodney shouted suddenly. "Flanking force, north side!"

The elf-witch’s violet eyes snapped to where he indicated. A portion of the demon legion had split off, was trying to circle around toward the wall’s northern end. Perhaps a thousand demons, led by a massive Black Orc champion that stood at least ten feet tall.

"I see them," she said calmly.

Her hands wove new patterns, and this time her origin energy manifested as something more substantial. Constructs began forming—not simple barriers or projectiles, but actual entities made from solidified magic.

They looked vaguely humanoid but were clearly not human. Tall figures of violet energy, each one wielding weapons made from the same magical substance. Perhaps a dozen of them materialized between the flanking force and the wall.

"Summoning," Anita said with clear approval. "Impressive. Most witches can’t maintain that many constructs simultaneously."

"Most witches aren’t me," Marylla said without arrogance—just stating fact.

The magical constructs engaged the flanking demons with coordinated precision. They moved like trained soldiers, covering each other’s flanks, creating formations that maximized their combat effectiveness. And they were strong—each construct capable of matching multiple demons in direct combat.

The flanking force’s advance stopped. Then reversed. The massive Black Orc champion tried to rally its troops, tried to push through the magical defenders.

One of Marylla’s constructs engaged it directly. The champion’s massive weapon—a two-handed axe that could split logs with casual swings—struck the construct’s magical form. Instead of shattering, the construct absorbed the impact and countered, its own weapon scoring across the champion’s chest.

"They’re holding," Rodney observed. "But we need to finish the main force before dealing with that flank. Paxton, can you take their champion?"

"Give me three minutes," the assassin’s voice responded.

He materialized briefly—just long enough for the others to see him acknowledge the order—then vanished again, moving toward where the Black Orc champion fought.

Meanwhile, the main demon force was in complete disarray. Anita’s battlefield control had fractured their formation. Rodney’s relentless assault had killed hundreds and demoralized thousands more. And Paxton’s invisible assassinations had eliminated most of their command structure.

What had been an organized legion ten minutes ago was now a mob—dangerous, yes, but lacking the coordination that made them truly threatening.

"Press them," Anita commanded. "Don’t give them time to reorganize."

Marylla’s constructs multiplied. Two dozen. Three dozen. Each one engaging demons with magical efficiency, each kill reducing the enemy’s numbers and morale simultaneously.

Rodney accelerated further, his golden hair now stained red with demon blood, his rapier moving so fast it created afterimages. He’d killed three hundred demons personally. Then four hundred. Then five hundred.

His arm should have been exhausted. His body should have been depleted. But Chosen were selected specifically for their ability to push past normal human limits, and Rodney was proving why he’d held that status for fifteen years.

"NORTH FLANK!" Marylla shouted suddenly.

The massive Black Orc champion had broken through her constructs. Not through superior skill—through sheer brute force, smashing through magical defenders that would have stopped lesser demons completely.

It was charging toward the wall now, and a portion of the flanking force followed behind it. Perhaps three hundred demons, still organized, still dangerous.

Then the champion stopped mid-stride.

It looked down, confused, at the twin daggers protruding from its back. The blades had punched through armor, through thick hide, directly into its heart and spine simultaneously.

Paxton materialized behind it, his face showing the cold satisfaction of a perfect kill.

"Three minutes exactly," he said. "I’m very punctual."

The champion tried to turn, tried to respond to this threat that had appeared from nowhere. But the poison was already working. Its heart stuttered. Its muscles went rigid. It fell forward, hitting the ground with an impact that shook the earth.

The three hundred demons that had been following it stopped, stared at their fallen champion, and broke.

They scattered, running in all directions, abandoning the assault completely. Some fled east, back toward where they’d come from. Others fled south, seeking any escape from this nightmare battle.

"That’s the flank dealt with," Paxton said. "How’s the main force?"

"Collapsing," Rodney reported. He stood in the center of what had been the demon legion, surrounded by corpses, his rapier still moving with mechanical precision as he killed the few demons who hadn’t fled yet. "Maybe two thousand still alive, and most of those are routing."

"Let them run," Anita decided. "We don’t need to kill them all. Just break them badly enough that they won’t reform and threaten other towns."

"Agreed," Marylla said. Her constructs were dissolving now, their purpose served, the magic returning to her. "We’ve proven the point. A demon legion isn’t unstoppable. Not against Chosen."

The four defenders regrouped at the wall, watching as the remaining demons fled in disorder. What had been ten thousand strong perhaps thirty minutes ago was now scattered remnants running for their lives.

"Casualty count?" Anita asked.

"Me personally? Five hundred twelve confirmed kills," Rodney said, cleaning his rapier on a demon corpse’s clothing. "Plus or minus a few where I’m not certain the strikes were immediately fatal."

"Three hundred seventy-eight for me," Paxton added. "All confirmed. I don’t count maybes."

"My constructs killed approximately four hundred combined," Marylla said. "And my initial volley eliminated perhaps two hundred ranged threats."

"I coordinated but didn’t kill directly," Anita said. "So no personal count for me."

They did quick math. Between the three Chosen’s direct kills and Marylla’s magical assault, they’d eliminated roughly fifteen hundred demons. The remaining eight thousand five hundred had either fled or been so demoralized by the slaughter that they’d abandoned the assault.

"We held," Rodney said, and there was satisfaction in his voice. "Three Chosen and one witch. Against ten thousand demons. We actually held."

"We didn’t just hold," Marylla corrected. "We won decisively. This legion won’t threaten anyone for months, maybe years. They’ll need to rebuild, reorganize, and overcome the psychological damage of being destroyed by four people."

"The Mother Supreme will be pleased," Anita said. "This was... unprecedented. I’ve never heard of such a small force achieving victory against such overwhelming numbers."

"That’s what Chosen do," Paxton said with a shrug. "We make the impossible look routine."

He looked at his companions—the golden-haired swordsman still covered in demon blood, the elf-witch whose constructs had turned the tide, the senior witch who’d controlled an entire battlefield.

"We’re going to be insufferable about this, aren’t we?" he asked.

"Absolutely," Rodney confirmed. "I’m already composing the reports in my head. ’Dear Mother Supreme, you’ll never believe what we accomplished today...’"

"She’ll believe it," Anita said. "But she won’t be happy about it. This will make her realize how overstretched we are. Four defenders—even Chosen—shouldn’t be all we can spare for an entire town."

"Then maybe she’ll send more support next time," Marylla said. "More Chosen, more witches, actual armies instead of relying on tiny elite forces."

"Maybe," Anita said, though she sounded skeptical. "Or maybe she’ll just keep expecting us to perform miracles because we’ve proven we can."

They stood on the wall in companionable silence, watching the sun begin to set over the battlefield. Demon corpses stretched across perhaps a square mile, and scavenger birds were already circling overhead.

"We should clean up," Paxton said eventually. "Burn the bodies before they start attracting worse things than demons."

"Tomorrow," Rodney said. "Tonight, we rest. Celebrate being alive. Drink too much and tell exaggerated stories about our heroic deeds."

"Your deeds are already exaggerated," Marylla pointed out. "I watched you stop mid-fight to fix your hair."

"Style matters," Rodney said with mock seriousness. "I can’t let demons think Chosen are slobs."

Despite everything—the exhaustion, the danger, the knowledge that tomorrow would bring new battles—they laughed.

Because they were Chosen. Because they’d done the impossible. Because they were still alive to tell the tale.

They proved that heroes still existed. That courage and skill, and determination could overcome overwhelming odds.

That the light hadn’t been extinguished yet.

And as long as people like Rodney, Marylla, and Paxton stood ready to fight, it never would be.