Austin burst out of the tent flap, his lungs searing, the terror of the beast right behind him acting as a physical shove.

He heard a hideous rip as the Shadowheart, fueled by adrenaline and the agony of the sword and dagger wounds, tore the canvas tent apart in its haste.

The structure collapsed in a splintering mess of wood and cloth.

The creature emerged, fully revealed in the strange, eerie yellow light of the Eclipsed Moon.

It was an abyssal hybrid, standing taller than a man, with the heavy, muscled body of a bear, but elongated, clawed forelimbs and a thick, segmented tail ending in a bony, razor-sharp spike.

The purplish glow of the Shadowheart—the corrupted organ—was visible and pulsing beneath a patch of thin hide on its chest.

It let out a thunderous, pain-filled roar and instantly focused its gaze on the two fleeing figures.

Balvan, breathing hard, grabbed Austin's arm and yanked him toward the camp's center. "Keep moving! Don't look back!"

The shriek of the wounded beast and Balvan's shouted alarm had instantly galvanized the sleeping camp.

Lanterns flared to life, casting strobing shadows. Within seconds, the clearing filled not with panicked civilians, but with the disciplined fury of the Ironwood warriors.

They moved with the speed of men who had lived their entire lives under threat.

Chieftain Varek, clad only in rough armor but grasping his massive, twin-bladed axe, arrived first, followed closely by a phalanx of guards bearing tall, iron-rimmed shields.

The elders, though non-combatants, appeared on the edges of the chaos, their voices sharp and clear, issuing commands and coordinating the defense.

"Circle! Keep it centered! Shields low!" Varek bellowed, his voice overriding the creature's roars.

He spotted Balvan clutching only a small dagger, and his face twisted in a brief grimace.

The warriors snapped into formation, forming a rough, disciplined semicircle around the Shadowheart.

Austin, wide-eyed and shaking, found himself safely pushed behind the line of shields, near the elders.

The beast, maddened by the pain of the foreign steel and the small wound on its face, focused solely on the cluster of its attackers.

It didn't recognize the strategy; it only recognized obstacles.

The battle began with a brutal, visceral rush. The Shadowheart charged the nearest shield formation.

The guards braced, locking their shields together. The impact was like a battering ram, the combined force of the corrupted beast sending tremors through the line.

The shields held, but two men were hurled backward, their armor ringing with the shock.

The beast followed up with a sweeping attack of its massive forepaw, its claws raking across the shields, showering sparks and wood splinters.

The warriors were masters of evasion; they ducked the blows, their discipline forcing them to absorb the impact rather than break ranks.

Varek entered the fray, his massive axe a silver blur. He aimed a powerful overhead chop at the creature's neck, hoping to sever muscle, but the Shadowheart twisted with shocking speed.

The axe bit deep into the creature's thick shoulder flesh, drawing a fresh geyser of blackish-red blood, but the strike was not fatal.

The warriors knew what they faced: this was not a beast to be wounded, but a corruption to be targeted at its vital organ.

Every guard was jockeying for position, trying to expose the glowing heart, but the beast knew how to protect itself, keeping the pulsating organ tucked close behind its massive forelegs.

The Shadowheart was a maniacal force of pure aggression. It fought with relentless, staggering power. It did not bleed out, it did not tire; it simply roared its rage and attacked.

A warrior named Lykas attempted a low sweep with his sword, aiming for the legs, but the creature reacted with blinding speed. Its segmented, spiked tail lashed out like a whip.

Lykas barely had time to raise his shield. The heavy spike at the end of the Shadowheart's tail pierced directly through the warrior's leather and iron chest plate with a horrifying crunch.

A collective shout of anguish and fury erupted from the Ironwood line.

The Shadowheart didn't stop there. It didn't just strike—it used the spear-like tail as a lever.

With a sudden, savage heave, it lifted the struggling warrior Lykas mid-air, hoisting him several feet above the ground, his body dangling helplessly from the spike protruding from his back.

Then, with a savage, dismissive swing of its powerful tail, the beast hurled Lykas across the clearing like a ragdoll.

The warrior crashed into a pile of supplies near the elders, silent and motionless.

The sight of their comrade being skewered and thrown galvanized the clan. The noise of their collective rage was visceral, raw.

"They will pay for that blood!" Bor, the fierce warrior who had spoken in the council, screamed, his eyes burning with vengeance.

The organized defense instantly dissolved into a calculated, furious offensive.

Varek saw his opening—the moment the beast had used its tail, its chest had been exposed for a terrifying fraction of a second.

"Focus fire! Distract the limbs! Lima, keep the pressure on its left flank!" Varek commanded, his voice raw with fury.

Balvan, still holding the meager dagger, used the distraction. He lunged low, darting under the sweeping claws, and plunged the dagger repeatedly into the beast's exposed hind leg tendon.

The blows were superficial but effective, drawing quick, sharp yelps of pain and momentarily disrupting the creature's balance.

The other warriors responded with fierce, renewed zeal.

They were no longer simply defending; they were attacking with a desperate, coordinated fury, trying to pin the beast down, to create the one, clean path to the corrupt organ that housed its unholy life.

The Shadowheart, now bleeding profusely from multiple wounds—its movement impaired by the sword stuck in its shoulder and the rapid cuts on its leg—began to slow its monstrous rampage, focusing instead on shielding its glowing, purple core.

Austin, watching the brutal spectacle from behind the hastily established command post, felt the terror morph into a cold, hard determination.

He thought to what this thing had done, to his village, as he heard the speculations from the people of the clan.

But now, it was doing the same to these people who had offered him sanctuary.

The paralysis was now gone, replaced by a deep, hollow hatred for the corrupted beast.

He watched Varek prepare for the final, desperate thrust, his axe held high, waiting for the split-second opportunity to strike true.

The battle was poised on a knife-edge, with the Shadowheart reeling but still deadly, and the Ironwood Clan determined to avenge their fallen comrade.

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