PASSAGE 45: AGAINST THE ENDLESS HORDE

Alaric gritted his teeth as the shadowy army shuffled forward, their ragged forms armed with broken weapons that gleamed menacingly in the oppressive gloom. Surrounded by this nightmare horde, a flicker of fear danced in his eyes, but it was quickly quelled by a surge of defiance. He wouldn't go down without a fight.

One of the undead lunged, a rusted sword swinging down with surprising ferocity. Alaric reacted instinctively, the Crescent Reaver meeting the attack in a clang of metal. A grin – a touch too wide to be entirely confident – stretched across his face. Here he was, outnumbered but not outmatched. This wasn't like the Carrion Weaver. These were just mindless husks.

With a confident swing, he cleaved the undead creature in half. Or so he thought. A moment of horrifying silence followed, then to his utter disbelief, the two halves of the undead creature oozed back together, reforming with a sickening squelch. His grin faltered, replaced by a grimace. He could see right through them now, his attacks passing harmlessly through their spectral forms. Panic began to gnaw at the edges of his bravado. He couldn't cleave, couldn't slash, couldn't even feel a connection when his weapon met their decaying flesh. These weren't mere physical enemies; they were phantoms, ethereal horrors impervious to his usual arsenal. A cold sweat prickled his skin. How, in the nine hells, was he supposed to defeat an army he couldn't even touch? 

The desolate battlefield stretched out before Alaric, a testament to a grueling five-hour struggle. The sun, unseen in this realm of eternal twilight, would have marked the passage of time, but here, exhaustion was Alaric's only clock. He slumped against a jagged rock, his breaths ragged gasps in the oppressive silence. The army of the undead still shuffled around him, their spectral forms mocking reminders of his failure.

He'd tried everything. Every swing of the Crescent Reaver, every weapon combo etched into his muscle memory, even resorting to bare-knuckled brawling – all in vain. His attacks passed through the undead forms like a phantom blade through mist. Frustration gnawed at him, a bitter counterpoint to the growing ache in his limbs.

Lumina materialized beside him, her spectral form shimmering with concern. "Alaric," she said, her voice a gentle echo in his mind, "we need a new strategy. Brute force isn't working."

Alaric nodded, defeat momentarily washing over him. He'd never encountered enemies like these, entities impervious to his usual arsenal of death-dealing techniques. He forced himself to push back the despair. Giving up wasn't an option. "Do you have an idea, Lumina?" he rasped out, a flicker of hope rekindled in his eyes.

A thoughtful glint lit up Lumina's spectral form. "Yes," she replied, her voice laced with a hint of seriousness. "But it requires both speed and precise timing. Are you up for it?"

Alaric grinned, a spark of determination replacing the fatigue in his eyes. "Always," he declared, the weariness forgotten in the face of a new challenge. "It's a gamble, but one worth taking."

With renewed purpose, he gripped the hilt of the Crescent Reaver, the familiar weight a reassuring constant in this nightmarish realm. Lumina's plan, audacious as it was, offered a lifeline. It was a desperate gamble, but in the face of the impossible, even a desperate gamble was better than surrender. 

A wild light gleamed in Alaric's eyes as Lumina's plan clicked into place. With a mighty heave, he launched the Crescent Reaver through the air like a silver comet. It arced towards Garmr, a beacon of deadly hope against the backdrop of the desolate battlefield. The undead horde, caught in the path of the flying scythe, were sliced in two with a satisfying hiss. They reformed instantly, but Alaric was already moving.

Lumina's plan was simple yet audacious – outrun the regeneration. Alaric, fueled by adrenaline, surged forward, legs pumping like pistons, weaving through the gaps left by the cleaved undead. It was a bizarre ballet, a reaper in a desperate sprint mirroring the trajectory of his own weapon. The undead swiped at him with spectral claws, but he was a blur of black and determination, the speed a shield against their otherworldly touch.

Finally, Alaric burst through the ragged line of undead, skidding to a halt just before Garmr, who watched the scene unfold with a flicker of surprise in its icy blue eyes. The Crescent Reaver, robbed of momentum, bounced harmlessly off the monstrous wolf's thick fur. But that didn't matter. This was all part of the play.

Garmr roared, a sound that shook the very ground, and swiped at Alaric with a paw the size of a small car. But the reaper was already airborne, launching himself with a powerful jump that defied logic. He soared through the air, a dark speck against the monstrous wolf, until he was level with Garmr's colossal head. Time seemed to slow down as Alaric, defying gravity and the odds, focused all his strength into a single, desperate punch.

His fist, imbued with the power of the Eye of Chronos, connected with Garmr's forehead with a shockwave that echoed across the battlefield. The monstrous wolf, for the first time in the fight, stumbled back, a surprised yelp escaping its maw. The blow, while not enough to deal a mortal wound, was a defiant statement. And Alaric had just landed the first real blow on the guardian of Helheim.

Alaric landed with a satisfying thud, adrenaline coursing through his veins. A fist bump to the air, a silent cheer for his audacious plan coming to fruition. Garmr, the monstrous wolf, recoiled from his unexpected blow, shaking its head with a bewildered snarl. Alaric, panting, knew the blade of the Crescent Reaver was useless against this beast's hide. Time to improvise with good old-fashioned fisticuffs.

Garmr, regaining its bearings with an ungainly wobble, launched itself back, putting a respectable distance between them. With a snarl that could curdle dragon's blood, it unleashed another volley of fireballs. Alaric, with a practiced roll, dove for cover behind a conveniently placed rock formation.

"Damn it!" he cursed, frustration lacing his voice. "He's out of range again!"

"Alaric," Lumina's voice crackled in his mind, a hint of urgency sharpening her usual calm, "Try the same strategy again! It almost worked!"

Alaric, ever the pragmatist, nodded. The plan, however unorthodox, had shown promise. With a flick of his wrist, the Crescent Reaver materialized in his hand. He launched the weapon skyward once more, a silver streak against the bleak backdrop of Helheim. As before, he sprinted after it, weaving through the gaps left by the cleaved undead.

But this time, Garmr wasn't fooled. The monstrous wolf, with surprising agility for its size, leaped to the side just before the Crescent Reaver's deadly arc grazed its fur. Alaric, heart sinking, skidded to a halt just as his weapon flew harmlessly past Garmr.

"What the –?!" Lumina's voice mirrored Alaric's shock. "It… remembered our move? That overgrown mutt is smarter than he looks!"

Disbelief morphed into resignation as Garmr unleashed another fiery barrage. Alaric, with a sigh, rolled back behind his rock cover. This wasn't going to be a cakewalk, not by a long shot. Garmr, it seemed, wasn't just a mindless beast. It was a cunning guardian, one who adapted quickly to their tactics. Alaric needed a new plan, and fast.