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Ketal tightened his grip on the axe until the haft groaned under the strain. With a single sweeping motion, he carved a long diagonal through the air. The world seemed to split apart. A razor-sharp gust surged outward, cutting down everything within its reach. In that instant, hundreds of monsters fell—erased by a single swing.
New shapes swarmed over the bodies before they finished settling. Ketal crushed a charging beast’s skull in his palm and, while bone powdered between his fingers, measured the field with the coolness of a man counting stones.
There are many, he thought.
The enemy extended past the rim of sight. Even with his senses stretched until his mind thrummed, the edge of the host did not appear. Counting was pointless. The number was not a number anymore; it was a condition.
They are strong, too.
Dozens of demons had the weight of Heroes in their breath. Transcendent-level demons and beasts numbered in the hundreds without effort. In any land of the Mortal Realm, this would have been a war fit to end a line of kings.
Now Ketal understood why the gods had once moved as a matter of course. Each enemy alone was a nuisance, but all of them together were something else. The Hero-class demons in particular mattered. Those blades could cut him. Even a little blood sharpened a field.
Hell had emptied its arsenal. The Tower Master and Helia felt it in their bones and stood as though poise alone could ward off the cold. There was no shame in that. To be human was to understand the weight of overwhelming numbers.
However, Ketal felt none of it as a burden. He had stood inside this situation before. In the White Snowfield, he had fought until the sky forgot it was sky and tried to be stone. He had stood against living swarms...
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