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Chapter: Trial

The ranks of Skrinthian cannon fodder had been depleted, leaving only their hardened elites, who now encircled the camp in successive layers.

In stark contrast to the scantily clad cannon fodder, these elite Skrins were not only well-equipped but also displayed signs of intelligence.

While the cannon fodder Skrins charged mindlessly, often repeating a few phrases and relying on sheer aggression, these elites demonstrated actual combat skills and occasionally communicated through gestures, even if their exchanges seemed to consist largely of phrases like "You look so delicious ?" or "Will it hit?"...

Following the previous battle, the weary Protoss soldiers found it difficult to dispatch these elite Skrins with a single blow.

Casualties mounted, and the dead began to litter the battlefield.

More Skrins poured into the camp.

Commander Heimdall led a contingent of soldiers to engage the enemy within the camp, while Medical Officer Skala took charge of safeguarding non-combatants such as the healers.

A breach in the perimeter defense line allowed a horde of Skrins to pour through, heading straight towards the healers.

Skala bellowed, conjuring another thunderous arc that crackled like a dragon, aimed at the approaching enemy.

*Boom!*

But this time, the enemy numbers overwhelmed even the thunderous assault.

Soldiers beside Skala entered the fray, swiftly dispatching the newly arrived enemies. These were well-trained soldiers stationed within the camp who handled the threat with efficiency.

*Boom!*

A Skrins' head landed at Forseti's feet, dark green blood splattering, its foul stench assaulting his senses.

Sigurd covered his mouth and nose, muttering, "The stench of the Skrins is revolting."

Forseti nodded grimly.

"Ah!" Suddenly, a familiar scream pierced the chaos.

Forseti turned to see Ander surrounded by Skrins, grappling desperately.

Multiple enemies had seized Ander, their grip unrelenting. He cried out in pain, his struggles growing weaker by the second.

Tightening his grip on Verrigan's handle, Forseti gritted his teeth and dashed forward.

"What are you doing? Fall back!" Sigurd exclaimed, alarmed.

Ignoring Sigurd, Forseti focused on Verrigan, channeling the Holy Pact within him.

In an instant, a dense layer of holy light enveloped Verrigan's handle. Mysterious runes etched into the hammer glowed, radiating a sacred aura. Flames flickered to life, wreathing the warhammer.

Ten steps from the enemy, Forseti shouted and swung with all his might.

Judgment!

An energy hammer composed of holy light and flame hurtled towards the Skrins, striking with deadly force.

*Boom!*

One Skrins was rent asunder, several others tossed aside by the holy flames and light, either dead or wounded.

Forseti's decisive action drew the attention of nearly half the Skrins who had surrounded Ander.

Maintaining his focus, Forseti tightened his grip on Verrigan, the holy light and flames shimmering brilliantly.

Holy Light Strike!

The hammer swung, its holy light carving through Skrins. Chests caved in, heads exploded on impact—the power was undeniable.

But the effectiveness seemed less than expected.

The Holy Light's potency usually intensified against morally corrupt targets, as Forseti had experienced with thieves in the past.

So why was it not as effective against the Skrins?

Aren't the Skrins evil?

Forseti pondered briefly but dared not falter in his assault.

Verrigan swung, flames trailing behind, each strike repelling the Skrins' advances.

With each Skrins slain, Forseti drew closer to Ander.

"Ander, are you alright?" Forseti called out.

With half their number reduced, Ander fought back fiercely, wielding his broadsword to sever Skrins limbs, temporarily escaping their grasp.

"Forseti, why... why did you?" Ander panted, bewildered to see Forseti come to his aid.

Forseti continued to fend off the Skrins, his attention divided. "You asked me to watch your back, didn't you?"

Ander shook his head in disbelief. "I never imagined..."

The relentless Skrins, undeterred, closed in once more.

Back to back, Forseti and Ander stood firm, each fending off their share of enemies amidst the siege.

As Sigurd had remarked, the Skrins proved repulsive not just in blood and odor but also in their penchant for spitting during battle—a grotesque habit that dampened morale.

Forseti would rather suffer a few stabs than endure the Skrins' bodily fluids.

His thoughts interrupted by a sudden pain, Forseti felt a Skrins blade pierce his arm.

Though the blade wasn't sharp, it managed to draw a shallow cut, its poison already seeping into his system.

Poison!

Forseti recognized the venom but had no time to fetch the antidote amidst the skirmish.

As the toxin slowed his movements, even temporarily, Forseti found himself vulnerable on the battlefield.

While the poison posed no serious threat to an Aesir, its debilitating effects in battle proved critical.

Cursing inwardly, Forseti resolved to learn the Holy Storm, envisioning its devastating effect on the Skrins.

Incensed, he cursed the Skrins and their relentless assault.

The advancing Skrins now comprised elites—better equipped, more skilled in combat.

Ander, now grievously injured, struggled to maintain his footing. Numerous wounds marked his body, including a near-fatal blow to his neck, leaving him gasping for air.

Forseti wasn't faring much better.

Close by Ander stood a towering, fully armored Skrins, distinguishable from the others.

This Skrinsian, spear in hand, approached slowly, eyes fixed coldly on Ander, awaiting an opportune moment.

"A Lord of Skrins..." Ander whispered, his vigilance apparent.

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