Elden Ring: 2,000 Hour Speedrunner Becomes a Dragon Chapter 16 16: Quick Blade

In a standard duel, a regular soldier of the Golden Dynasty could rely on superior steel to ignore the crude weaponry of the demi-humans. Their bone-tipped arrows, though jagged, rarely bit through heavy leather or plate.

But this was no duel. With the advantage of the high ground, the coalition unleashed a vertical hell. Strong-ard Misbegotten archers joined the fray, and the whistling of thousands of arrows filled the pass like a swarm of locusts.

Soldiers were riddled before they could even draw their steel. The narrow funnel of Sunset Pass offered no cover; the blood spray condensed into a pale red mist within minutes, illuminated by the dying screams of n.

The mont the sky darkened with arrows, Clavell pulled a crystal bottle from his robes and shattered it. A shimring cloud of luminous powder enveloped him, coating his skin, his clothes, and his mount in a translucent film. Stray arrows that struck him didn't pierce; they sparked against the film with a tallic clang and fell harmlessly into the dirt.

Aromatic: War Fever.

This ancient recipe, a secret of the Court Perfurs, turned a man's hide as hard as forged iron while surging his physical limits. It was a masterpiece of the Golden Age, far superior to the diluted "Ironjar" or "Bloodboil" aromatics that would be used by amateurs in later centuries. During the War of Unification, Court Perfurs weren't just dics—they were front-line nightmares.

Hectov, finally shaking off his shock, saw his personal guard being systematically erased. His eyes turned a rabid, blood-veined red.

"Clavell! You traitorous dog!" he roared, spurring his horse forward. He drew a massive greatsword—a hand and a half wide—from his back, the sheer weight of the steel whistling through the air as he aid a killing blow at the Perfur.

Suddenly, a sound like a thunderclap tore through the valley. A giant arrow, as thick as a young tree trunk and wrapped in a spiraling slipstream, shrieked toward Hectov.

Cursing, the Regent threw himself from his stirrups. The massive projectile grazed his cloak and slamd into his horse, detonating the beast into a cloud of red mist and splintered bone.

On a ridge hundreds of paces away, a Mountain Demon—a Troll warrior over five ters tall—slowly lowered his Greatbow. He didn't spare a second look for Hectov; instead, he reached for another arrow, aiming at a cluster of Caelid soldiers attempting to form a shield wall. Dozens of his kin appeared along the cliffs, their massive bows pulled into the shape of full moons, relentlessly suppressing the valley.

Hectov scrambled to his feet, gasping for air. His heart sank. This was the first ti the Mountain Demons had fought in an organized formation alongside the smaller tribes. Between the overwhelming numbers and the Greatbows raining death from above, his army was already dead; they just hadn't stopped moving yet.

At the rear of the column, the supply wagons were being crushed by falling logs and boulders. The wreckage piled up, sealing the exit and trapping the City Guard in a killing box of their own making. After several more volleys, the demi-human tribes launched their final charge, screaming as they descended the slopes.

Hectov abandoned any thought of escape. His only hope now was to capture Clavell and use him as a bargaining chip with the tribes. But before he could take a step, Clavell leaped from his horse, his body blurring into a black shadow fueled by the War Fever aromatic.

Hectov instinctively swung his greatsword to parry. A sharp crack of tal echoed as a trendous force slamd into the flat of his blade. The impact sent a shockwave through Hectov's organs, and he was thrown backward into the dirt, coughing up a mouthful of blood.

"What...?" Hectov stared at the Perfur in terror.

But he never got his answer. A sudden, cold killing intent erupted from his blind spot, making the hair on his neck stand up.

Hectov spun, raising his sword just as a Caelid longsword seed to materialize out of thin air. Turak had closed the ten-pace gap in a heartbeat, his wrist twisting to unleash three ruthless, blindingly fast slashes.

The first strike caught Hectov's blade just above the hilt, knocking the heavy steel aside and exposing his chest.

The second strike was a reverse-grip lunge; the blade bit through Hectov's steel breastplate and carved upward through his neck guard.

The third was a horizontal sweep—a flash of cold light followed by a fountain of blood.

Hectov's head was severed cleanly. The look of utter confusion in his eyes lasted for a fraction of a second before his head hit the ground and rolled into the mud.

Hectov, the "hero-rivaling" knight, had been dismantled in three moves by a rcenary he didn't even know existed.

Clavell, watching from a distance, felt a flicker of surprise. He had known Turak was the Northwind's strongest fighter, but the sheer economy of that swordsmanship was chilling. Even with the advantage of a surprise attack, killing a Regent that quickly was the mark of a master.

With their commander dead, the City Guard collapsed. Morale evaporated as the few remaining officers were picked off. The soldiers tried to surrender, but the demi-humans and Misbegotten held three years of blood-feuds in their hearts. They ignored the pleas for rcy, forming small hunting parties to exterminate every man in the valley.

Twenty-five minutes after the first arrow was loosed, the last scream faded. The Caelid expedition had been utterly annihilated.