The Greater Draugr met her charge head-on.

  Its fist came up—ice-plated and massive—swinging with brutal efficiency.

  Mazoga braced, letting the blow land square on her pauldron.

  Boarback Resilience held her steady—rooted, immovable—but the cold hit harder than the strike.

  She gritted her teeth and swung.

  Her hammer met the Greater's forearm. The enchantment flared—channeling momentum into concussive force. Ice cracked. The arm deflected, but the thing didn't stagger.

  It swung again.

  Mazoga ducked low, felt the frigid air pass overhead. Countered with an upward strike aimed at the thing's ribs.

  The hammer connected.

  Ice shattered. Frost sprayed outward.

  The Greater stumbled half a step back.

  Then it lunged.

  Clawed hands raked toward her throat. Mazoga twisted, caught the strike on her vambrace. The claws scraped across reinforced leather, tearing gouges but not breaking through.

  Cold spread up her arm.

  Behind her, Doc's plasma gun cracked. Once. Twice. The sounds were distant—muffled by the howling wind and the press of bodies between them.

  The Greater pressed forward.

  Its movements were fluid—not stiff like the lesser draugr. Each strike came with purpose, coordinated, relentless.

  Mazoga gave ground.

  One step. Two.

  The thing's fist caught her shoulder. She braced, absorbed it, felt the impact settle deep in her bones.

  Echo Breaker stirred—a reservoir building inside her chest. Not enough yet. Not even close.

  She needed more.

  The Greater swung low.

  Mazoga raised her hammer to block—metal met ice with a resonant clang. Frost crept along the haft, spreading toward her hands. She felt her fingers stiffen.

  The air was colder now.

  Not just around the Greater. Everywhere.

  Snow swirled faster. Wind cut sharper. Each breath burned her lungs.

  The thing was doing this. Drawing heat from the air itself, feeding on it.

  Mazoga's next swing came slower.

  The Greater caught her wrist mid-strike. Ice flared—crystalline tendrils racing up her forearm, locking the joint.

  She yanked free, shattering the thin layer before it hardened completely.

  But the cold remained.

  Her muscles felt heavier. Stiff.

  The Greater lunged again—faster this time.

  Its shoulder slammed into her chest. Mazoga's boots skidded backward through snow and frozen dirt. She planted her heel, stopped herself from falling.

  Took the hit.

  Felt it settle into the growing well inside her.

  Still not enough.

  Doc's plasma blade flashed in her peripheral vision—azure light cutting through a draugr that had broken away from the horde. Fish phase-shifted beside him, jaws snapping down on another's spine.

  They were keeping the stragglers off her.

  Good.

  Mazoga refocused on the Greater.

  It stood five paces away now, pale eyes burning steady. Frost trailed from its hands. Ice crept along the ground beneath its feet, spreading outward in jagged lines.

  The temperature dropped further.

  Mazoga's breath misted thick. Her armor felt brittle. The leather creaked with each movement.

  She tightened her grip on the hammer.

  The Greater charged with sudden, explosive movement.

  Its fist drove toward her face.

  Mazoga twisted—barely dodged—felt knuckles graze her cheek. Cold burned across her skin. Blood welled from the shallow cut, freezing before it could fall.

  Her hammer came around in a tight arc.

  It caught the Greater's ribs again. Ice shattered. The thing staggered sideways.

  Mazoga followed.

  Strike. Block. Strike.

  Each hit she absorbed fed the reservoir. Each blow she landed chipped away at the ice plating.

  But the cold kept spreading.

  Her movements slowed. The hammer felt heavier. Her lungs burned with every breath.

  The Greater's claws raked across her armor. She braced, took it. Felt the impact settle.

  Echo Breaker swelled inside her chest—a coiled spring winding tighter with every strike absorbed.

  Almost.

  The Greater raised both arms.

  Frost erupted from its hands—a wave of crystalline shards cascading toward her.

  Mazoga dropped low, planted her feet, raised her hammer.

  The frost wave hit like a hammer.

  Ice shards battered her armor, her helm, her shoulders. Cold sank through reinforced leather, through enchanted plating, through flesh.

  Mazoga felt it settle.

  Felt Echo Breaker activate—coiled energy wound tight, ready to release.

  Now.

  She roared.

  The sound tore from her chest—primal and guttural. Power flooded her veins, burning away the stiffness, the cold, the weight. Strength surged. Her vision sharpened. The hammer felt light in her hands.

  The Greater Draugr stepped forward, arms still raised, preparing another strike.

  Mazoga charged.

  She swung low—forcing the Greater to drop its guard, to block downward. It did. Ice-plated arms came down to intercept.

  Mazoga twisted mid-stride, pivoted left. The hammer arced wide, missing entirely.

  The Greater shifted to follow.

  Perfect.

  She planted her lead foot, reversed momentum, drove the hammer back across her body in a brutal horizontal sweep.

  The strike caught the Greater's exposed ribs.

  The hammer's enchantment channeled every ounce of her momentum into the impact.

  Ice cracked. Bone beneath fractured.

  The Greater staggered sideways.

  Mazoga pressed.

  Strike. Strike. Block.

  Each blow she landed weakened its plating. Each hit she absorbed fed the reservoir deeper.

  The Greater retaliated—claws raking across her vambrace, fist slamming into her shoulder. She braced through it, let Boarback Resilience hold her ground. Felt the force transfer through her, redirecting, storing.

  Echo Breaker swelled to bursting.

  The Greater lunged again—both hands coming down in a double-fisted strike aimed at her skull.

  Mazoga didn't dodge.

  She raised her arms, crossed them overhead, and caught the blow.

  The impact drove her boots into the frozen ground. Frost exploded outward from the point of contact. Her armor groaned. Her bones ached.

  But she held.

  And the reservoir filled.

  The Greater pressed down—ice spreading along her vambraces, her pauldrons, her helm. Trying to lock her in place.

  Mazoga grinned beneath the frost.

  "Got you."

  She activated Seismic Step.

  The ground beneath her feet shattered. A shockwave rippled outward, cracking ice, destabilizing everything within arm's reach.

  The Greater's stance broke.

  For one heartbeat, it was off-balance—arms extended, torso exposed, eyes locked on hers.

  Mazoga planted her back foot. Twisted her hips. Brought the hammer around in a full-body swing aimed at the Greater's chest.

  And released Echo Breaker.

  Every blow she'd absorbed—every strike, every impact, every hit she'd braced through—erupted outward in a single devastating wave.

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  The hammer connected.

  The enchantment flared violet-white, channeling the accumulated force into a concentrated pulse of disruptive energy.

  The Greater's chest caved.

  Ice plating shattered. Ribs cracked. The thing's core—lodged deep in its torso—splintered under the pressure.

  The Greater Draugr stumbled backward.

  Its pale eyes flickered. Dimmed.

  Mazoga stepped forward and swung again.

  This time, the hammer took its head clean off.

  The body collapsed.

  Frost dissipated. The unnatural cold lifted. The wind stilled.

  Mazoga stood over the remains, breathing hard. Her muscles burned. Her joints ached. Blood dripped from the shallow cut on her cheek, finally thawed.

  Behind her, the lesser draugr faltered. Without the Greater's presence, their coordination shattered. They staggered, scattered, confused.

  Doc's plasma blade flashed. Fish tore through another. Arrows rained from the wall.

  Mazoga lowered her hammer.

  Looked back toward the settlement.

  Rurran stood on the wall, spear in hand, eyes wide.

  Mazoga raised her free hand.

  Gave a short nod.

  Done.

  The orc woman and her companions moved along the eastern wall, away from the main assault. Smart—flanking while the horde stayed focused on the gate.

  When they dropped from the wall, the Greater noticed immediately. Raised one arm. Twenty draugr peeled away from the horde's edge, shambling toward them.

  Mazoga charged straight through them like they weren't there. Her hammer swung wide, crushing frozen skulls with casual brutality. Behind her, Doc and his wolf moved like shadows—cutting down anything that tried to follow.

  The defenders held the gate. Arrows flew. Spears thrust between gaps in the barrier. But their eyes kept drifting toward the battlefield.

  Toward Mazoga.

  The Greater Draugr stood in the center of the horde, pale eyes locked on her. Taller than Rurran by half, ice plating its torso and arms like armor. Its movements were deliberate ane calculating.

  Mazoga closed the distance without hesitation.

  When the first strike came—a sweeping claw aimed at her chest—Mazoga didn't dodge.

  She braced.

  The blow landed with bone-rattling force. The impact echoed across the clearing, visible even from the wall—frost exploding outward from the point of contact.

  She didn't fall.

  Rurran's grip tightened on his spear.

  No one tanks hits from a Greater.

  But she did.

  Her hammer came around fast—slammed into the Greater's ribs. Ice cracked loud enough to hear from fifty paces.

  And then it hit back.

  The fight became a blur of ice and iron.

  At the gate, the assault continued—but the pressure had lessened. With more draugr redirected to intercept Mazoga and the Greater focused on her, the main horde fought without coordination.

  Mindless now.

  Rurran's defenders held the line. Spears thrust. Arrows flew. But his attention kept drifting toward the eastern flank.

  Toward the real fight.

  Doc moved with unnatural speed. His blade flashed azure light, cutting clean through bone and frozen flesh. Every strike was precise and withour hesitation.

  The shadow wolf was worse.

  It didn't run. It appeared.

  One moment beside Doc. The next, materializing behind a draugr ten paces away. Violet light shimmered along its form as it phased through reality itself, tearing into cores with claws that shouldn't exist.

  Rurran had heard stories of beast tamers—legends of warriors bonded so deeply to their companions that they moved as one.

  This was that.

  Doc raised his off-hand weapon—a strange device with no blade, no string, no mechanism Rurran recognized. Blue light flared. A draugr's head exploded.

  The wolf blinked into existence beside him. Doc stepped forward. The blade swept low. Another draugr collapsed.

  They carved a perimeter around Mazoga.

  Every draugr that veered toward her met light or shadow. Every one that broke through the line died before it reached her back.

  And Mazoga kept fighting.

  Rurran lost count of the exchanges. The Greater's ice cracked under her hammer, reformed, cracked again. She took hits that should have dropped her—claws that tore armor, fists that cratered stone—and kept pressing forward.

  Then the Greater raised both arms.

  A wave of frost erupted outward—sharp, glittering, deadly. It swept across the battlefield like a storm.

  Mazoga didn't run.

  She planted herself. The wave crashed into her—ice and crystalline shards battering her armor, her helm, her stance.

  She vanished behind the wall of white.

  For three heartbeats, Rurran couldn't see her.

  Then the roar came.

  Raw. Furious. Alive.

  Mazoga burst from the frost, hammer raised, and charged.

  The Greater tried to reset its guard—dropped low, braced for impact.

  She feinted. Her hammer swung wide. The Greater shifted to block.

  And she reversed.

  The hammer came back across in a brutal arc. Caught the Greater's ribs clean. Ice exploded. The thing staggered sideways.

  Mazoga didn't stop. Each blow hammered the Greater backward, chipping away at whatever kept the thing standing.

  The Greater retaliated—claws raked her shoulder, fist slammed her chest.

  She weathered it.

  Then the Greater lunged with both arms raised—a final, desperate strike aimed at her skull.

  Mazoga met it head-on.

  Raised her arms. Caught the blow.

  The impact was visible even from the wall—frost erupting outward in a ring, the ground beneath her cratering.

  She held.

  Then the earth shattered.

  A shockwave rippled outward from where she stood. The Greater's footing broke. Its stance collapsed.

  Mazoga swung.

  The hammer hit center mass. Light flared—violet and white, bright enough to sting Rurran's eyes. The Greater's chest caved inward with a sound like breaking ice.

  It stumbled.

  Mazoga stepped forward.

  Her hammer came down one last time.

  The Greater's head separated clean. The body dropped.

  The horde faltered. Without their leader, the lesser draugr scattered—confused, directionless, broken.

  Rurran exhaled slowly.

  Mazoga turned.

  Looked back toward the wall.

  Met his eyes across the distance.

  Raised her free hand.

  Gave a short nod.

  Rurran tore his gaze from the battlefield and spun toward his defenders. No time to process what he'd just witnessed. The Greater was dead—that's what mattered.

  Yarrik stood at the gate, spear still raised, fur matted with frost. Varrik leaned against the palisade ten paces away, breathing hard.

  Both still standing.

  Rurran moved to them first.

  "Wounded?" His voice came out rough.

  Yarrik shook his head. "Scratches. Nothing deep."

  Rurran checked anyway. Grabbed Yarrik's arm, turned it over. Shallow cuts along the forearm—clean, no blackened edges. No spreading frost. He released it and moved to Varrik.

  The scout's shoulder had taken a hit. Blood seeped through torn leather, but the skin beneath was pale gray, not blue-black. Rurran pressed two fingers near the wound. Varrik hissed but didn't pull away.

  "Do you feel drained?"

  "No."

  Rurran studied him for three heartbeats. Varrik's eyes were clear. No tremor in his stance. Good enough.

  He turned toward the wall's interior.

  Calen and Bran stood near the supply crates, chests still heaving. The young human—Calen—gripped a short blade slick with dark ichor. Bran planted his spear, checking the blade before meeting Rurran's gaze.

  They'd fought. Held the line when the draugr pressed close.

  Rurran crossed to them.

  "You held."

  Calen wiped his blade on his thigh. Nodded once.

  Bran straightened. "We did."

  "Can you check on the younglings. Make sure none of them got near the fighting. Then find Ygrana. Tell her we need her out here."

  Bran nodded. "On it."

  Calen following a step behind.

  Rurran scanned the courtyard.

  Three gnolls down. One kobold clutching his leg. Two goblins sitting against the wall, exhausted but breathing.

  He raised his voice. "Krev! Warrick! Take the ones still standing—kill the stragglers. Don't go past the tree line."

  Krev—a scarred gnoll with a notched spear—nodded and signaled to four others. They moved through the gate, weapons ready.

  Rurran stepped over broken spear shafts and patches of frozen blood. Found Kraggir kneeling beside a kobold whose arm hung at an ugly angle.

  "How bad?" Rurran crouched beside them.

  Kraggir looked up. His slate-blue scales were streaked with frost and grime. He grinned—tight, but genuine. "I'll live."

  The injured kobold—Merrik—groaned. "Arm's broken. Not dying."

  Rurran exhaled. "Good."

  He straightened, looked at Kraggir. "No rest yet. We need to see to the injured."

  Kraggir pushed himself upright, wincing as he favored his left side. "Already on it."

  He turned and raised his voice. "Thessa! Get Ironbark paste and clean cloth. Sivra, help me move Merrik inside. Anyone bleeding—come forward now."

  Goblins and kobolds moved immediately. No hesitation. They knew the drill.

  Rurran watched them organize—efficient, practiced. Kraggir had done this before.

  So had he.

  He scanned the courtyard again. Counted heads. Checked movement patterns. Looked for the tell-tale stiffness of necrotic cold spreading through limbs.

  No one stumbling. No one shaking uncontrollably.

  Good.

  At the gate, Krev and his group finished off the last twitching draugr. Spears thrust down. Skulls shattered. The movements were methodical. Clean.

  Beyond the wall, the stranger—Doc—moved among the fallen. His blade flashed once. Twice. Making sure nothing got back up.

  Mazoga stood near the Greater's corpse, hammer resting against her shoulder.

  Fish—the wolf—circled her once, then sat.

  Rurran turned back toward the interior.

  Ygrana emerged from the central chamber, Bran and Calen trailing behind her. She swept the courtyard with sharp yellow eyes, taking in the wounded, the blood, the exhaustion.

  Her expression didn't change.

  She walked straight to Kraggir. "How many?"

  "Three serious. Maybe six with cuts that need watching."

  She nodded. "Bring them inside. I'll see to them."

  Kraggir gestured to the nearest goblins. They moved immediately—lifting, supporting, guiding the injured toward the hearth.

  Ygrana paused beside Rurran. "Your people?"

  "Holding."

  She studied him for a moment. Then nodded. "Good."

  She moved past him, following the wounded.

  Rurran exhaled slowly.

  The horde was dead. The Greater destroyed. His people were alive.

  For now.

  Doc walked through the scattered remains of the draugr horde, plasma blade still humming faintly in his grip. Ice crystals clung to broken limbs and shattered skulls. He stopped at each fallen creature, checking for movement, core integrity, residual energy.

  Nothing.

  Still, he crouched beside one of the lesser draugr. The creature's chest cavity had collapsed inward, ribs frozen solid. Where a heart should have been, a fragment of crystalline core glinted—cracked and dim.

  Lux, confirm. No active signatures?

  Negative. All draugr signatures have ceased. Ambient necrotic energy dissipating at standard decay rates.

  Doc straightened, deactivating his blade. The silver-veined weapon collapsed back into the hilt with a soft hiss.

  He exhaled slowly.

  Fungal horrors that hijacked living tissue and turned it into spore-choked puppets. Now actual undead—corpses reanimated by some type of necrotic energy.

  Back on Nexus Prime, both would've been classified under the same xenobiological threat category: parasitic reanimation. Here, they were just... part of the landscape.

  This world keeps adding variables, he thought.

  Accurate, Lux replied. Current anomaly count has increased by eleven percent since arrival.

  Doc glanced toward the Greater Draugr's remains. The thing had been massive—easily seven feet tall, plated in ice that had absorbed Mazoga's strikes like armor. Until it hadn't.

  Fish padded past him, sniffing at a draugr corpse before moving on. She didn't seem concerned.

  Doc turned and walked toward Mazoga.

  She stood near the Greater's headless body, hammer resting against her shoulder. Frost still clung to the weapon's head, but the runes Dulric had etched into it pulsed steadily—blue-white light cutting through the ice.

  Doc stopped beside her.

  His gaze swept over her armor, lots of dents and blood but the tears and gouges he'd seen on her skin during the fight was gone. Even the frost burns had vanished.

  "You leveled up," he said.

  Mazoga glanced at him. Smiled. "I did."

  She rolled her shoulder, testing the joint. "Hit forty-six."

  Doc nodded. He'd seen it before. The moment the system triggered growth, injuries sealed, exhaustion faded. Instant recalibration.

  Still strange. Still impossible by his standards.

  Mazoga looked down at the Greater's corpse. "That fight..." She shook her head. "A few months ago, I wouldn't have stood a chance."

  Doc followed her gaze. The creature's ice plating had cracked in a dozen places. Its chest caved in and core shattered.

  "You handled it," Doc said.

  Mazoga snorted. Quiet. Almost thoughtful. "We handled it."

  She shifted the hammer, letting it settle more comfortably against her shoulder. "You and Fish kept the stragglers off me. Gave me room to work."

  Doc didn't respond immediately. Tactical assessment said she was right—the three of them had functioned as a unit. Controlled variables. Maximized efficiency.

  But she'd been the one to shatter the Greater's core.

  "You alright?" he asked.

  Mazoga looked up at him. The smile returned—small, but genuine. "Yeah."

  She gestured toward the settlement. "Let's get back."

  Doc nodded.

  They started walking.

  Fish fell into step beside them, her violet-black fur shimmering faintly in the cold air. Behind them, A gnoll team finished clearing the last of the stragglers. Spears rose and fell. Skulls cracked.

  The draugr horde was gone.

  Doc glanced at Mazoga. She walked steady, breathing even. No tremor in her grip. No hesitation in her stride.

  He matched her pace.

  The settlement walls rose ahead.

  On the eastern ridge, a hooded figure stood motionless against the pale sky.

  The battlefield stretched below him—scattered corpses, trampled snow, the settlement's wooden walls. Smoke rose from the northern gate where defenders still moved along the ramparts.

  He tilted his head slightly, watching.

  The Greater Draugr lay headless in the snow. Its ice plating shattered. Core gone.

  A waste.

  The figure's breath misted faintly in the cold air. He'd spent weeks gathering the necrotic energy, binding it to the corpses, shaping the horde into something functional. The Greater had been the anchor—strong enough to hold the lesser draugr together, direct them, coordinate their movement.

  Now it was gone.

  He studied the three figures walking back toward the settlement.

  The orc woman moved with the steady confidence of someone who'd survived countless battles. Level forty or higher. Her hammer pulsed with frost-touched runes—dwarven work, well-crafted. A Warden, most likely. Dangerous, but predictable.

  The wolf beside her shimmered faintly, its fur shifting between black and violet. Phase-touched. Rare, but not unprecedented. Beast tamers occasionally bonded with creatures that evolved beyond natural limits.

  Then there was the armored figure.

  The hooded man's gaze lingered.

  The armor was strange—It moved with the wearer like a second skin, adapting to each step with unnatural precision.

  But it was the weapon that caught his attention.

  The blade. Azure light threaded with silver veins. Even deactivated, it radiated faint energy—divine in nature, unmistakable.

  Only one type of warrior carried weapons like that.

  A Chosen.

  One of the Emperor's Paladins.

  The hooded figure watched as the trio reached the settlement gate and disappeared inside.

  He remained still.

  A Paladin. Here. This far beyond the Empire's frontier.

  That changed things.

  The horde had failed, yes. But failure provided knowledge. The Greater had landed multiple strikes against the orc woman—she'd endured, adapted, retaliated. The Paladin had moved with enhanced reflexes, cutting through lesser draugr with surgical precision. The wolf had phased between targets, disrupting formation.

  All three worked in tandem. Coordinated. Efficient.

  Experienced.

  The hooded figure stepped back from the ridge, turning toward the forest.

  The necrotic energy would take time to gather again. Weeks, perhaps longer. But that was acceptable.

  He'd seen what he needed to see.

  "Interesting."

  Thanks for reading!

  Chapter 65 Drops next Tuesday!