Blood of the Forgotten Gods

Into the Iron Hollow

The rain was relentless as Sergeant Vale's squad advanced toward the edge of Iron Hollow, the once firm ground beneath their boots now a thick, clinging mud. Fog twisted through the twisted trees, wrapping itself around the squad like a shroud. The world ahead of them seemed more shadow than substance. Every step felt like they were trudging deeper into something that wanted to swallow them whole.

Vale raised his fist, signaling the squad to halt. Dan stopped in place, sinking into a crouch behind a large boulder, his eyes straining to pierce the curtain of mist and rain ahead. Around him, Gareth and Tomas mirrored his movements, weapons drawn, their faces tense. Even with the rain muffling sound, the silence of the forest was too loud, broken only by the ragged breaths of the men and the steady drip of water from their soaked cloaks.

"We're close," Vale whispered, his voice barely audible over the storm. "Bandits are just beyond that ridge. We'll take them quietly—on my signal."

Dan's heart pounded in his chest, every muscle in his body tensing. This wasn't a drill. This wasn't Zone Six. The weight of his sword felt different today—heavier, more real. He swallowed hard, trying to steady his nerves, but the knowledge that he was about to face real people—living, breathing men—made his stomach twist.

Vale shifted, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the dark woods ahead. "Corvin will be hitting them from the west," he muttered to no one in particular, his eyes glancing toward the far end of the hollow. "We hit them here, we meet up with the captain."

Corvin was out there, leading his own half of the squad through the other side of the hollow. Vale, ever the disciplined soldier, had made it clear that Corvin's orders were paramount. But right now, Dan knew, it was Vale they had to follow.

The sergeant's hand clenched into a fist, signaling them to move.

The squad crept forward, their steps barely audible over the soft squelch of the mud beneath them. Dan moved carefully, trying to control his breath, each inhale laced with the cold, damp air. Ahead, through the thick fog, he saw them—dark shapes moving through the trees. Bandits. At least a dozen, maybe more, their forms barely visible through the haze.

They were close now. Too close.

"Hold the line," Vale hissed. "We ambush. Quick and clean."

Dan crouched lower, sword in hand, ready for Vale's signal. The rain had soaked through every layer of his clothing, and the cold bit into his skin. But it wasn't the rain that made him shiver—it was the reality of what was about to happen. This is real. No going back.

The bandits moved closer, their forms shifting through the mist. They were ragged men, their clothes torn and filthy, their weapons crude but deadly. There was no mistaking their purpose. These weren't desperate travelers—they were killers, thieves who thrived on ambushes in the wild lands.

Dan's grip tightened on his sword. His heart was hammering in his chest, his breath shallow. He could hear Gareth next to him, muttering a silent prayer under his breath.

Then, Vale gave the signal.

The squad surged from their positions, steel flashing in the dim light as they charged into the midst of the bandits. Dan felt the rush of adrenaline as he sprinted forward, his sword raised high. His first strike clanged against the weapon of a tall bandit, the man's eyes widening in shock as Dan's blade slid off his guard.

There was no time to think, no time to hesitate. The fight was chaos—mud, rain, and blood blending together as steel met steel. Dan swung his sword again, this time with more force, driving it into the bandit's chest. He felt the blade connect with bone, heard the man's ragged gasp as he crumpled to the ground, blood spraying from the wound.

For a brief moment, Dan froze, staring down at the man he had just killed. His first kill. The reality hit him like a punch to the gut. This wasn't practice. This wasn't a simulation. The blood pooling around the man's body was real. The life he had just taken was real.

But there was no time to process it.

Another bandit came at him, swinging a rusted axe. Dan barely had time to raise his sword, the force of the blow sending a shock up his arms. The bandit growled, pressing forward with brutal strength, the stench of unwashed skin and blood mixing with the rain. Dan gritted his teeth, twisting his body and shoving the man back. His sword flashed, catching the bandit's arm, severing it with a spray of blood.

The man screamed, dropping to the ground in agony, clutching the bleeding stump where his arm had been.

Dan stumbled back, the taste of bile rising in his throat. The sight of the blood—the raw, violent reality of it—made his hands shake. This was different. Too different. Training never prepared them for the brutality of real combat. The mud beneath his feet was slick with blood and rain, the battlefield becoming a hellish quagmire.

Around him, the rest of the squad was locked in vicious combat. Gareth was to his right, fighting off two bandits, his sword moving with precision, but his face was pale, his movements tense. Tomas had taken a blow to the side but was still fighting, grunting with every strike, blood already staining his armor.

Sergeant Vale was at the center of the fray, his sword cutting through the air with deadly accuracy. His face was grim, his movements quick and decisive. No hesitation, no mercy—just like a militant should be. Dan could see why Corvin trusted him. Vale didn't flinch, didn't falter, even as the bandits pressed hard against their line.

One of the bandits let out a guttural scream as Vale drove his sword deep into his chest, blood spraying from the wound as the man collapsed into the mud. But even as he fell, more were coming.

"Reinforcements!" someone shouted from behind. Dan's head whipped around just in time to see more bandits emerging from the trees, their dark shapes moving through the fog like ghosts.

"There's more of them!" Dan shouted, his voice hoarse. His heart pounded in his ears as he took in the sight—at least ten more bandits, slipping through the mist, weapons drawn.

Vale's eyes darted toward the approaching threat. "Fall back to the ridge!" he ordered, his voice cutting through the chaos. "We regroup with Corvin! Hold the line until we're in position!"

Dan scrambled back, slipping in the mud as the squad retreated toward higher ground. His legs burned with the effort, his lungs aching from the cold air and the intensity of the fight. The mud sucked at his boots, making every step feel like a struggle, but they had no choice.

The bandits were close now—too close.

"Hold them off!" Vale barked, his sword raised as he turned to face the advancing enemy. The squad formed a tight line at the base of the ridge, weapons ready. Dan fell into position, his breath ragged, his hands slick with rain and blood.

The bandits charged up the hill, their faces twisted with rage, their weapons gleaming in the dim light. Dan braced himself, raising his sword as the first of them reached him. The clash of steel rang out, the force of the attack nearly knocking him off his feet.

The man was strong—far stronger than Dan had anticipated. His eyes were wild, his mouth twisted into a snarl as he pressed forward, his axe swinging down in brutal arcs. Dan blocked the first strike, but the force of it sent a shock up his arms. He gritted his teeth, barely managing to dodge the second blow.

The bandit's movements were sloppy, driven by anger rather than skill. Dan sidestepped the next swing, bringing his sword down in a quick, decisive strike. The blade cut through the man's shoulder, slicing deep into flesh and bone. Blood sprayed across Dan's face, warm and slick in the cold rain. The bandit let out a choked gasp, stumbling back before collapsing into the mud.

Dan stood there for a moment, his chest heaving, the world around him spinning. This was real combat. Blood and death.