Chapter 33: Killing Mode

Robert Baratheon's sudden appearance on the sidelines of the group's tournament, fully armed, caused a commotion. No one had anticipated that King Robert himself intended to participate in the battle, especially in a group tournament using live weapons.

Many thought Robert was reckless, if not outright mad. Only a year had passed since the Usurper's War, and remnants of Targaryen loyalists were still scheming to overthrow the Baratheon dynasty. By stepping into such a dangerous situation, Robert was openly exposing himself to potential harm. Should anything happen to him, the fragile Baratheon rule might collapse, plunging the realm into chaos once more.

The gathered nobles instinctively turned their eyes toward the King's Hand, Jon Arryn, who trailed behind Robert with a grim expression. Everyone present understood Robert's stubborn nature. Among the inhabitants of King's Landing, only Jon Arryn possessed enough sway to temper the king's impulsiveness. Yet, it seemed even the seasoned Hand had failed to deter Robert from this perilous folly.

It wasn't just Jon Arryn who had failed to stop him. Queen Cersei's efforts to dissuade the king were evident in her appearance—her bloodshot eyes hinted at a sleepless night spent in vain attempts to change Robert's mind.

What left the crowd even more astonished was Robert's choice of companions. Instead of leading his Kingsguard, the king had selected twenty guards from House Baratheon's garrison at Storm's End to join him. Though the decision seemed foolhardy, it bolstered his image as a valorous and just ruler, subtly earning admiration from the surrounding knights and warriors.

When Robert entered the arena, he wasted no time with ceremonial words. "Let's begin!" he declared impatiently before striding into the center of the arena.

The crowd hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances as they followed him. Despite their positions as participants, none dared initiate combat against their king. A heavy silence hung over the field, broken only when Robert's patience wore thin.

"Do it! You idiots!" Robert bellowed, his voice echoing across the arena. Without waiting for a response, he charged the nearest Lannister warrior, swinging his warhammer with brutal force. The blow landed squarely on the man's chest, sending him flying out of the ring. Judging by the gruesomely caved-in chest, the warrior's life had been snuffed out in an instant.

This violent display shattered the participants' hesitations, setting the arena ablaze with battle. Whatever concerns they harbored about Robert's royal status were abandoned in the face of immediate danger. Weapons were raised, and alliances dissolved into individual struggles for survival. Coordination gave way to instinct as each warrior fought in their own way, turning the melee into a chaotic free-for-all.

Among the fighters was Lynd, standing alone in the tumultuous ring. To the surrounding warriors, he appeared an easy target. Fighters from Houses Arryn, Martell, and Tully converged on him simultaneously, intending to eliminate him quickly.

Yet Lynd showed no fear. He had spent countless days training to handle multiple opponents, and as they charged, he swiftly calculated ten different countermeasures, settling on the optimal one in an instant.

With a quick sliding step, he dodged an Arryn warrior's thrusting sword, countering with a precise strike to the man's exposed armpit. The blade, forged by Willas, sliced through leather armor effortlessly. The cut traveled upward, carving through the man's torso and spilling blood and entrails onto the arena floor.

Lynd's movements didn't falter. Using the momentum of his dodge, he spun on his feet and leapt, evading incoming strikes. His rotation powered his dual long swords, one of which cleaved through the neck of another attacker. Though the Martell warrior managed to block initially, Lynd's spinning force overwhelmed the defense, sending the opponent's weapon flying. A moment later, the man's head rolled from his shoulders.

In mere seconds, four warriors lay dead at Lynd's feet. His solitary position had already drawn attention, but his astonishingly efficient killing now made him the center of everyone's focus.

Among the onlookers was Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer. When Jaime followed Robert Baratheon to the edge of the fighting ring and saw Lynd standing alone for the first time, he immediately recognized the Tyrell guard-soldier from that day.

Lynd had left a lasting impression on Jaime—not just because of the honor of the Shadowcat, but also because he was the only person in the past year who hadn't looked at him, the Kingslayer, with judgment or unease. Even Cersei, his sister and closest confidant, carried a subtle but undeniable tone of peculiar emotion when discussing the Kingslaying. Lynd's unflinching neutrality had struck Jaime as unusual, and he couldn't help but feel curious about the young soldier.

Jaime had wanted to speak with Lynd after that day, hoping to understand why he was different, but his duties at the Red Keep had kept him occupied. He set the thought aside, never imagining he'd encounter Lynd again—let alone in a tournament. But there Lynd was, displaying exceptional swordsmanship that only deepened Jaime's intrigue.

As soon as Lynd felled four opponents in rapid succession, a wide berth formed around him. The other participants, recognizing his skill, instinctively avoided him, choosing less formidable targets. Lynd, for his part, didn't pursue anyone further. Instead, he stood still, calmly observing the chaos unfolding in the arena.

With hundreds of participants, the fighting ring had devolved into utter disarray. Warriors attacked indiscriminately, and even allies accidentally injured each other in the frenzy. Lynd understood that diving into such chaos would nullify his advantage in mobility and leave him exposed to attacks from all sides. He also knew the tournament would be long and grueling. By conserving his energy now, he could endure the later, more challenging stages of the competition.

However, Lynd's strategic passivity did not sit well with some of the onlookers. Frustrated participants hurled insults at him, calling him a coward and demanding the others attack him. Lynd, unfazed, ignored the taunts and remained motionless, his focus unwavering.

The hostility soon extended to House Tyrell on the sidelines. Insults were aimed at the rose-emblazoned sigil Lynd wore, causing Lord Mace Tyrell to grow visibly irritated. He seemed ready to command Lynd to fight but was stopped by Garlan and Vortimer. Even Maester Mollos, who respected Lynd, stepped in to dissuade the Lord Paramount, arguing that the tournament's fighters should act of their own accord. Their intervention spared Mace Tyrell from issuing a rash and ill-advised order.

But while House Tyrell held back, other nobles were less restrained. Two northern warriors, acting on their masters' orders, disengaged from their current skirmishes and moved to strike Lynd from behind. The attack was sudden, and Lynd, appearing unaware, kept his attention fixed on the combat in front of him.

The two attackers closed in, their axe and longsword poised to strike Lynd's head. The Tyrell spectators shouted warnings, their voices barely audible over the clamor of the battlefield. Yet before their cries could reach him, something extraordinary happened.

Lynd vanished.

To the attackers' shock, the target before them seemingly disappeared. In the same instant, they felt sharp, searing pain in their chests. A tremendous impact sent them flying, their bodies landing heavily on the bloodied ground. Neither man rose again, their forms leaking blood from deep wounds in their chests, staining the dirt red.

The crowd, however, had witnessed the event clearly. Lynd had not vanished by magic but through incredible physical dexterity. He had dropped his tall frame to nearly half its height, slipping under the arc of their weapons with uncanny precision. Then, as though he had eyes in the back of his head, he pinpointed their positions and launched himself backward with explosive force. His lithe body catapulted into one attacker, and his twin swords, moving fluidly under his arms, pierced both men's chests in one fluid motion. The entire sequence had been over in a flash.

The sheer brilliance of Lynd's counterattack stunned the audience. His combination of agility, precision, and deadly efficiency left an indelible mark on all who watched. Those who had earlier jeered at his inaction now erupted in cheers, their initial disdain replaced by awe. The same crowd that had insulted him moments ago now celebrated his mastery, their roars echoing across the arena.

In the Tyrell camp, Lynd's former sparring partners erupted with excitement, their voices ringing out as they shouted his nickname: Bear Hunter. Their enthusiasm mirrored the admiration spreading through the crowd, but Lynd remained focused, his guard never wavering.

After dispatching two attackers, five or six more warriors from various houses charged at him, spurred on by orders from their lords. Undeterred by the ease with which Lynd had killed moments ago, they pressed forward, confident in their strength and numbers. Yet their lack of coordination proved their undoing. Unlike the disciplined fighters of a single house, their attacks were haphazard, leaving openings Lynd easily exploited.

With calculated footwork and precise movements, Lynd danced through their clumsy assault, avoiding every strike. His long sword found the weaknesses in their armor, delivering decisive blows to vital points. Each swing brought death, leaving no time for counterattacks.

To the onlookers, the sight was surreal. Lynd, a warrior with the strength of a bear, moved with the nimbleness of a civet cat. His long sword seemed to glide through the air with unnatural grace, weaving a path of destruction.

The juxtaposition of raw power and fluid agility was mesmerizing, a combination that felt both awe-inspiring and entirely alien. The arena was alive with gasps and cheers as Lynd carved through his opponents like an artist painting death.

When the skirmish ended, the full extent of Lynd's lethality became apparent. In a matter of minutes, he had killed more than ten enemies, a feat unmatched even by King Robert himself, who fought with the support of his men. The crowd, once skeptical of Lynd's earlier passivity, now roared his name, their cheers echoing across the arena.

Inside the fighting ring, the warriors were too consumed by rage and survival to hear the cheers. Lynd, however, was no longer standing still. His earlier strategy of conserving energy had given way to a more aggressive approach. This shift came after he noticed leading warriors from the Tully, Stark, and Arryn houses had begun to eye him as a serious threat. Though still engaged with their current opponents, they maneuvered to encircle him, their intent to trap and overwhelm him clear.

Unlike the uncoordinated fighters Lynd had faced earlier, these seasoned veterans were no strangers to teamwork. Their combined experience and skill posed a far greater danger. Recognizing this, Lynd preemptively disrupted their plans, moving swiftly to attack isolated targets and scatter their formation before they could close in.

To the spectators, it was as if Lynd had become one with the chaos of the battlefield. His movements were fluid, his strikes unerring. He navigated the arena with a predator's instinct, dodging attacks with uncanny precision and countering with lethal efficiency. Each swing of his blade claimed another life. To those watching, he seemed less a man and more an avatar of the Stranger, the divine messenger of death, sent to harvest souls.

Some spectators began counting Lynd's kills, their amazement growing as the number climbed. It soon surpassed 50 and showed no sign of slowing, edging closer to 100. Among the crowd, murmurs grew that Lynd was destined to be the tournament's final victor.

In the heat of the battle, Lynd entered a trance-like state, a killing state where all distractions faded away. His thoughts no longer lingered on the tournament's purpose or its aftermath. The world narrowed to a single goal: to kill every enemy and be the last one standing.

In this state, Lynd discovered the full extent of the changes in his body and senses. The battlefield, chaotic to others, appeared slowed and clear to him. He could perceive the trajectory of every attack and anticipate movements with eerie accuracy. It was as though time itself bent to his will, giving him the space to dodge, counter, and kill with devastating precision.

In this heightened state, Lynd became unstoppable. The elite warriors of the great houses, despite their skill and experience, were no more than weeds in a field to be cut down. With every strike, another foe fell, lifeless before they even realized they had been defeated. Lynd's dominance seemed absolute.

But the body has limits, no matter how sharp the mind or refined the skill. Lynd, so consumed by his killing trance, failed to notice the toll it was taking on him. His stamina drained rapidly, and exhaustion began creeping into his movements. By the time he realized what was happening, his energy reserves were nearly spent.

Sensing his condition, Lynd broke out of his killing state. He withdrew his sword from an enemy's neck and paused, standing still in the midst of the chaos. He focused on steadying his breathing, masking his exhaustion with a calm and composed demeanor. His posture projected an air of invincibility, fooling those around him into believing he was as strong as ever.

The psychological effect was immediate. The warriors who had been considering an attack hesitated, their confidence shaken by the sight of the corpses piled at Lynd's feet. None dared approach him, wary of meeting the same fate as the dozens who had already fallen.

A strange scene unfolded in the arena. While the rest of the battlefield remained a chaotic melee, a wide, eerie circle of emptiness formed around Lynd. Within a twenty-meter radius, there were no living combatants—only a lone figure standing amidst a sea of the dead.