The Abused is The Abuser in Another World

Chapter 41: The Cost of Survival

The first light of dawn barely kissed the horizon, the air thick with tension as the warriors of Drakharoth Enclave stood poised at the edge of Grimscar's walls. The fortress loomed before them, dark and foreboding, its defenses weakened but still dangerous. Lyralei crouched low, her sharp eyes scanning the eastern perimeter. As planned, the patrols were thin here, offering them a narrow window of opportunity. With a quick signal, she motioned for the others to move.

Noir, standing among his warriors, watched silently as his raiding party prepared to advance. His crimson eyes flickered with resolve, knowing that what they were about to do would either save the Enclave or doom them all. He had made his decision; now, there was no turning back.

"We move now," Noir whispered, his voice barely audible but commanding.

The warriors of the Enclave—Razor, Thalor, Grid, Lor, Zolin, and Lyralei—stepped forward with a deadly precision. Each of them knew their role, each of them understood the stakes. Grimscar may have been weakened, but they still had the advantage of home terrain. This raid would have to be fast, and any mistake could mean death.

As they approached the eastern wall, Lyralei held up her hand, signaling a stop. She turned to the others, her voice low.

"There's a small gap in their patrols, just as we expected. We slip through now, strike fast, and make our way to the storage."

Thalor nodded, his eyes calculating the distance and the potential threats. "We'll need to split off once we're inside. Razor, Lor, you two will take the vanguard and handle any resistance. Grid, Zolin, you're on support. Lyralei and I will locate the food storage."

Noir gave a curt nod of approval. "Remember the mission. Get the supplies, and get out. No heroics. This is about survival, nothing more."

Razor grinned, his sharp teeth glinting in the faint light. "Survival's what I'm good at."

The group moved swiftly, slipping past the weakened defenses of Grimscar with practiced ease. Inside the walls, the fortress was quieter than they had expected, but that did little to calm the nerves of the raiding party. They knew it wouldn't stay quiet for long.

Thalor pointed toward a narrow passage leading deeper into the fortress. "Lyralei, take point. Find the storage room. We'll cover the rear."

The plan unfolded with deadly precision. Lyralei moved ahead, her instincts sharp, guiding them through the labyrinth of stone halls. The others followed, their weapons drawn, ready for the inevitable clash.

As they rounded a corner, the first signs of resistance appeared. A small group of Grimscar soldiers, likely unaware of Kaelthor's fate, spotted the intruders and raised the alarm.

"Here they come," Razor growled, his claws gleaming as he launched himself at the first soldier, tearing through the man's armor with brutal efficiency.

Lor followed, his massive frame a wall of muscle and fury as he smashed through the enemy ranks. The sound of steel meeting flesh echoed through the narrow corridors, a stark reminder that this was no simple raid—this was war.

"Push forward! No time for delays," Thalor barked, his voice sharp as his blade struck down an approaching soldier.

Zolin and Grid fought with grim determination, keeping the path clear as Lyralei and Thalor pressed on.

Finally, Lyralei spotted what they had been searching for—a large, reinforced door at the end of a dimly lit hallway. She motioned to Thalor, and they moved swiftly, breaking through the door to reveal a storeroom filled with crates of provisions—food, water, and other supplies they desperately needed.