Overwhelming Firepower-Chapter 47: The weight of victory

Once the battle was over, Lucen collapsed onto the dirt, eyes drifting up toward the golden sky, the same one Alpha had seen before his final breath. Then he heard the notification sound.

[Level Up]

[Passive Skill: Battle Instinct (Rank Up)]

(Novice) → (Intermediate)

He wasn’t as surprised, or irritated, or even elated as he was before when he heard the level-up notification.

Maybe it was the exhaustion dulling the edge of excitement, or maybe he’d just grown used to this surreal system that had become part of his life. Either way, he was too tired to care, or even sit up for that matter.

"You alive?" Harlik’s voice came from nearby, followed by the crunch of boots on dirt.

"Not sure," Lucen said, his voice hoarse. "Are you?"

"Who knows, can’t even tell anymore." Harlik shrugged his shoulders as he let out a tired laugh, slumping beside Lucen, sword still in hand, the blade covered in blood and soot.

"So any casualties?"

"Minor injuries. Nothing serious," Harlik said. "Overall, we did pretty damn well."

Lucen gave a breath of a laugh. "Heh, I told you as long as you have enough firepower, you can solve anything."

Crows circled overhead, and the scent of smoke still clung to the wind.

"Hmph, I guess you’re right about that little leader," Harlik said, glancing at the battlefield still littered with the dead. "So what are we going to do now?"

"For now we rest, since once again victory is ours!" Lucen, who was lying on the ground, raised his open palm upward to the sky, fingers trembling, and then clenched it into a fist.

The surrounding members of Thornefang smiled and cheered.

"We won!"

"Victory is ours!"

"Thornefang is invincible!"

Their cheers rang out across the blood-soaked field, raw, triumphant, and alive. Once again, they had survived. Once again, they had defied the odds.

What made this even more incredible to them was that they were outnumbered four to one, but even then, they were able to win. They once again remembered something Lucen said when he convinced them to join him.

"I’m offering you something more, something eternal! A future filled with honor and glory. A future where your stories will be told throughout the ages!"

That speech was echoing in their ears right now. Back then, those words had felt like a fantasy, just grand promises from a bold young noble brat.

But now, after a few months with Lucen, they could see the hazy dream slowly coming into view.

***

Several minutes before the end of the battle, in the basement of the inn, the villagers were huddled together, waiting.

The loud sounds of explosions could be heard from the basement, and it even shook the ground several times.

The children were crying and scared of their parents, trying their best to calm them down. Milos and several men were holding weapons given to them by Thornefang, a few swords and some daggers.

Every time something exploded outside, someone gasped. Someone prayed. They prayed to Varkun for Thornefang’s victory. They prayed to Thalara to punish the evil people attacking them.

Anna, Milos’s childhood friend, stood beside him, feeling incredibly nervous.

"Do you think they can win?" Anna asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

When Milos heard Anna’s question, he remembered the back of the young child who had defeated a giant of a man towering over him.

"Yeah," Milos said finally. "They’ll win. I’m sure of it. Thornefang will win."

Milos’s voice wasn’t loud, but in the silence of the basement, it carried. Hearing what he said with such confidence uplifted the spirits of everyone. Anna reached out and grabbed his free hand, squeezing it tightly.

The loud sounds coming from outside were dying down until it became silent. The villagers tensed up as the men tightened their grip on the weapons in their hands. They heard someone breaking down the barricaded door.

The tension was rising as some people gulped dryly. It felt like you could even hear someone’s sweat dropping onto the floor.

The sound of footsteps was getting closer, and a few children whimpered. No one dared to speak, or even breathe, for that matter. The footsteps suddenly stopped as they saw the door’s handle was slowly turning.

The tension had risen as the sound of people grinding their teeth, waiting for whoever was on the other side of the door. When the door was flung open, one of the men could not hold it in and threw the dagger in his hand. The person who opened the door caught the dagger.

"Whoa there," said a familiar voice. "What was that for?"

Renz stood there, holding the dagger with a grin. "You could’ve killed somebody. Preferably not me, though."

A beat of silence, and then, relief washed over them.

Some of the villagers laughed, others fell to the floor as if the strings holding them up had been cut off. The fear that was spreading lifted like a cloud.

Thornefang had won.

***

Milos stepped out of the inn, and the first thing he noticed was the stench. A thick, cloying wall of rot and blood.

It was like the world had soured. His stomach clenched violently, and before he could stop it, he turned to the side and threw up.

He wasn’t the only one. Around him, others were gagging, eyes watering. This was the smell of death.

After puking, he looked around, and what he saw was not what he expected. He thought victory would feel like the ballads... Glorious, radiant, triumphant. But this... This was something else entirely.

There was no golden light shining through clean banners. Just the acrid scent of black powder, burned flesh, spilled entrails, and the coppery tang of blood so thick it stuck to your boots.

Milos looked around and saw what victory really looked like.

Corpses, dozens of them, littered the field. Some were slumped over the barricades, weapons still clutched in lifeless hands. Others were sprawled across the ground, twisted at unnatural angles, eyes staring into nothing.

Blood and viscera smeared the ground in streaks of crimson, brown, and sickly yellow, staining everything in a grotesque palette.

The air hung heavy with the stench of smoke, powder, and something else, something sour and primal that clawed at the back of his throat.

Crows pecked at the remains already. A few soldiers were chasing them off, shouting hoarsely, waving their arms with dull exhaustion.

Others moved stiffly, piling bodies into carts or dragging them outside the village. Some were taking whatever usable weapon or armor could be salvaged from the bodies.

The sight before him was something Milos would never forget. Even though it was not as glorious as the stories the bards sang, he somehow felt the shining sun was warmer now.

They had survived, and Thornefang had protected them. Milos strengthened his resolve to join Thornefang and become part of their story.

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