The silence that preceded the first movement was almost sacred.

The wind blew between the tense bodies, lifting grains of sand that cut through the air like tiny blades. Breaths were heavy, and every heartbeat seemed to announce the inevitable.

Strax stood motionless in the center of the courtyard, his feet planted firmly on the ground, his gaze fixed ahead—too calm for someone surrounded by fifty warriors hungry to prove their worth.

Then, the first man shouted and charged at him.

Strax didn't move until the last instant.

When the fist came, he simply leaned his body to the side and returned the blow—a short, dry, quick straight punch like a hammer blow.

The sound of the impact echoed through the courtyard, dense, muffled—THUM.

The man fell on his back, unconscious, before he even hit the ground.

The second came right after, a muscular orc, teeth bared in a savage roar. He tried to grab Strax by the shoulders, but the lord caught him by the forearm and spun his body in a fluid movement, using the opponent's own weight.

The orc flew—literally flew—and landed on three other men, shattering the air with a crash.

A chorus of shouts erupted.

The rest of the warriors didn't wait for orders—they attacked en masse.

Strax advanced.

The first impact was a side kick that went through a man's chest and sent him crashing against a pillar.

The second came with a spinning elbow strike that shattered the man's posture too quickly for his own good.

The third blow—a straight punch—exploded the air like thunder, and the sound echoed between the newly rebuilt walls of the city.

Dust rose.

Screams mingled.

The courtyard became a battlefield.

Strax moved with monstrous precision—as if every movement was calculated before it even began. He dodged, grabbed, twisted.

The cracking of bones was clear. The air smelled of sweat and iron.

A fist whizzed past his face—he intercepted it in mid-air, twisted the enemy's wrist, and pushed his elbow back.

The man's arm bent at an impossible angle.

The scream came before the pain arrived.

Another tried to attack him from behind. Strax felt the displacement of air and rotated his hips—his heel struck the attacker's chin in a perfect arc. The sound of the impact was dry, like splitting wood. The man fell hard, his body limp.

But others were coming.

Ten, fifteen, twenty.

The crowd closed in around him, and Strax plunged into the chaos with a half-smile—not of amusement, but of pure certainty.

He struck with his fists, blocked with his forearms, used his shoulders and knees as weapons.

Every movement was an impact, a blow, a cut without a blade.

From atop the walls, Monica watched, incredulous.

The entire ground trembled under the sequence of impacts.

Kali simply crossed her arms.

"Look at that..." she murmured. "He fights as if he were born to punch the world."

In the courtyard, a group tried to surround him. Four men came from behind, two from the front.

Strax lowered his center of gravity, spun, and in a single movement grabbed one of the attackers by the collar and threw him against the others—bodies colliding like dolls.

Before the last of them could get up, Strax's heel came down on his stomach with the force of a war hammer.

Another advanced, trying to apply a grappling hold.

Strax allowed it.

The man enveloped him in a desperate grip, trying to immobilize him. Strax sighed, relaxed his muscles—and then exploded with force in his shoulders and torso, breaking the embrace as if tearing chains.

A second later, he delivered a headbutt that sent his opponent crashing down, his eyes rolling back.

The sounds filled the courtyard:

The air being cut.

Fists meeting flesh.

Ground cracking under firm feet.

A group of dwarves tried to attack him together—coordinated, in sync, small and agile.

Strax respected them enough not to hold back his strength.

He dodged a punch, grabbed the dwarf by the shoulder, and used him as a shield against another's blow.

One of the three fell, the other hesitated—Strax took advantage of the opening and hit the last one's solar plexus with a short hook.

The dwarf collapsed to his knees, gasping, trying to breathe and failing.

A tall human attacked him from the front, trying to use his size to his advantage.

Strax ducked at the right moment and raised his knee—straight into the opponent's stomach.

The sound of the air being expelled was almost comical.

The man fell to his hands and knees, vomiting.

Five more came in quick succession.

One tried to hit Strax's face with a spinning punch.

He grabbed the fist in mid-air, twisted the enemy's arm until the shoulder dislocated, and, before the man could even scream, threw him onto another who was running towards him.

The body hit the other with force.

Two fell together.

Strax continued walking, unhurriedly.

With each step, two or three more came.

With each step, two or three more fell.

The dust now covered everything—a thick veil that transformed the courtyard into a scene of ancient warfare.

Screams echoed.

The sound of the impacts reverberated like muffled thunder.

But Strax's gaze was the same: cold, impassive, calculated.

He moved with perfect economy—no unnecessary gestures, no exaltation.

The fight, for him, was pure physical logic.

An agile man attempted a spinning kick.

Strax leaned his body to the side and grabbed the leg in mid-air.

With his other arm, he pulled the man's body and threw him to the ground.

The impact sent the dust rising like a wave.

Another man came right after, trying to take advantage of the movement.

Strax met him with a knee to the abdomen and, before he fell, an elbow strike to the back of the neck.

The end.

Twenty-seven.

Twenty-eight.

Twenty-nine.

The number of fallen opponents only increased.

And then came a bear of a man—a huge warrior, weighing almost twice as much as Strax.

He roared and punched him with full force.

The blow landed on his chest—and Strax only took a step back, his body absorbing the impact.

The sound of the punch was loud, but the golden gaze did not waver.

Strax tilted his head.

"Is that all?"

The man tried another punch.

This time, Strax intercepted it, locking the arm with his own hand, and landed three blows in the same spot: one to the abdomen, another to the ribs, another to the jaw.

The giant staggered, but did not fall.

Strax advanced and, with a clean movement, delivered a straight punch—without a roar, without warning.

The sound was dry. The giant's body was thrown three meters back and fell unconscious.

Kali whistled from above.

— That hurt just to watch.

Monica crossed her arms, observing every movement.

— He's pacing himself. — she murmured. — It's not strength… it's control.

Below, the dust dissipated enough to reveal the scene: bodies on the ground, some groaning, others motionless.

But there were still about twenty warriors left — the most stubborn, the most proud, those who refused to give up.

They looked at each other, their faces covered in sweat, blood dripping from their noses, but without hesitation.

A nod was enough.

They surrounded Strax.

He took a deep breath, his shoulders moving slightly.

Then, he smiled.

The attack began.

One came from the right, another from the left, two from the front.

Strax lowered his body and spun, letting the blows pass over him.

He rose with a double hook — one blow from each side — and both attackers were thrown into the air.

The third tried to grab him from behind.

Strax grabbed him by the forearm and threw him over his own shoulder, using the momentum.

The body fell with a thud.

Strax kicked another in the face before the man touched the ground.

An elbow came, he blocked it with his forearm.

Another punch, he dodged.

Another kick, he caught it in mid-air and twisted the enemy's ankle until the dry sound echoed.

Every movement of his was heavy, but fluid.

It was like watching nature itself in a fury — inevitable, relentless, absolutely beautiful in its brutality.

The courtyard turned into a storm of bodies.

Twelve still standing.

Eleven.

Nine.

One tried to escape.

Strax grabbed him by the collar before he could take two steps, lifted him with one hand and threw him back to the ground. The man shouted, and stayed there.

Three tried to attack him together—one from above, another from the side, and another from the front.

Strax dodged the first, grabbed the second, and used him as a shield against the third.

The two collided and fell.

He finished off the last one with a short punch to the jaw, so fast that the sound came after the movement.

His golden eyes now shone with something more than focus.

It was pure intensity—the reflection of someone who didn't see opponents, but polished diamonds through pain.

Another opponent advanced, punching hard.

Strax defended with his forearm, the impact making the air vibrate.

Before the man could retreat, he rotated his hips and landed a left hook that sent blood spraying into the air in an arc.

The body toppled like a sack of stones.

Five still standing.

Strax walked towards them.

"Do you still want to try?" he asked, breathless, unharmed. Only sweat trickled down his temple.

One of them spat on the ground.

"Until the end."

Strax nodded.

"Then come."

What followed was pure, coordinated brutality.

Five against one.

Dust, screams, impacts—a sequence that lasted less than a minute, but felt like an eternity.

Fists colliding with flesh. Knees tearing through the air. Shoulders clashing.

When the dust settled, Strax was standing.

The five, fallen.

He breathed deeply, his chest rising and falling slowly.

The silence was absolute—even the hammers of the forges had stopped.

Kali jumped from the wall, landing lightly on the ground.

"Well... I guess now you have your Einherjar," she said, looking at the ground covered with bodies.

Some groaned.

Others tried to get up, leaning on each other.

Few succeeded.

Strax scanned the group.

He approached a man who was trembling, trying to stand.

He grabbed him by the arm and helped him up.

"Stand up, warrior," he said, his voice deep and calm. "You didn't fall. You only learned."

The man looked at him, panting, and nodded.

Strax stepped back and spoke loudly, for all to hear:

"Those who still breathe, rise!" the sound echoed like thunder. "Those who retreat now will not be judged. But those who stay..." he gave a slight smile. "...will bear the name of the Einherjar."

Silence.

And then, one by one, the men began to rise.

Trembling, bleeding, their bodies bruised—but standing. The sun broke through the clouds at that moment, casting light upon the courtyard.

The golden light reflected in the dust particles, and Strax, covered in sweat and the blood of others, looked like a living statue.

He raised his clenched fist, and fifty hoarse voices followed him in a unified roar—the first cry of the Einherjar.

From above, Monica smiled.

Kali laughed, shaking her head.

"He did it again..." she murmured. "He transformed chaos into devotion."

Strax looked at the wounded warriors before him—all of them, without exception, with their eyes burning with a new fire.

"Now, yes," he said softly, satisfied. "Now, you are mine."

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