The Blizzard howled like a starving wolf, gnashing its teeth across the white wasteland. Snow slashed sideways, a curtain of fury pulled across the Northern skies.
Amid this white storm stood a lone man, broad shoulders, topless and defiant in front of the cold snow. His bronze skin shimmered under the falling snow marred by dozens of scars from his intense training and battles he had faced throughout his time in this harsh world where his family must protect this country.
But there was no scar on his neck and above because none were able to touch his face and none dared as Gregory's golden eyes cut through the haze like twin suns in an eternal winter.
A man, one of the dissidents Gregory was hunting under the orders of the Crown who his family serves charged first, screaming through his cracked lips with his blades raised high but seeing this Gregory did not flinch. He shifted his footing, pressing his heel into the crunching frost as the attacker came within his reach. Gregory twisted his body sidestepping the wild strike. With a roar, he slammed his elbow into the man's temple, upon impact the bone cracked, eyes rolled white and the body collapsed in the snow twitching like a dying fish.
Another dissident leapt from the fog, a lean one swinging two short swords with frantic precision. Gregory's eye tracked the movements, watching the slight drag in his left leg, a weak spot. When the blades came, Gregory stepped inside with his fists up. One hand caught a wrist and the other drove into the man's solar plexus with a terrifying force. Air escaped in a wet gasp, he twisted the arm snapping it backwards and impaled the man with his own blade, pushing it deep until the hilt kissed the flesh.
Three more emerged, emboldened by the numbers and circling him like jackals. Gregory exhaled through his nose and ducked low, grabbing a handful of snow before hurling it into the eyes of the man on his right. In that moment of blindness Gregory surged towards the one on his left, shoulder first lifting him from the ground with a brutal tackle. The impact slammed the man into a snow covered rock which caused his spine to shatter on impact and he did not rise up after.
The man blinded with snow wiped his eyes just in time to see Gregory's boot meet his face. Teeth scattered across the snow like spilled yellow pearls and a second kick crushed his windpipe which caused him to die while gasping for air with mouth open to freeze under the cold.
The third one tried to run witnessing his comrades brutal end which Gregory allowed to happen for four steps, then his hand went into the snow and pulled a free jagged stone which was dense, frostbitten and sharp. Gregory hurled it with feral precision and the stone struck the back of the man's skull with a sickening thunk, he dropped without a scream.
Another one charged, this one was taller along with armour and was battle worn. He had a spear and Gregory respected that. As the spear thrust forward, Gregory sidestepped and caught the shaft under his arm. Muscles flexed a dense cord of strength forged through years of combat and he yanked the weapon forward bringing the wielder off balance. Gregory brought his forehead down like a hammer. Once, twice as the blood sprayed on the third impact as the bone caved in.
The body slumped, Gregory spun the spear in his grip and the spear was now his weapon, the shaft was warm with the stolen blood as he held it.
A new foe came, a shield bearer who was moving cautiously seeing the amount of corpses on the battlefield. His shield raised as he advanced step by step, sword angled low which was smart but not enough to handle Gregory who sprinted towards him, ducking a wild swing and struck the shield with the butt of the spear he took from one of the dissidents.
This move staggered the man although not enough to knock him down but enough to open his guard. Gregory jabbed the spear down into the gap between the collarbone and armour as twisting it hard. The man screamed, dropping both sword and shield before crumpling into the snow while twitching.
From behind a heavy axeman roared, Gregory turned just in time raising the shaft to block the overhead cleave. The axe bit into the wood, stopping inches from his skull. Gregory kicked the man's knee inwards causing the bone to crack and the man dropped. Gregory wrenched the axe free, reversed his grip, and buried it deep into the man's collar which caused blood to fountain steaming in the winter air while turning the snow red.
Now came a pair as if they were twin brothers and moving in unison, one slashed high and the other low like if they were one person striking from two angles simultaneously. Gregory rolled backwards using a slope behind him to his advantage, as they closed in he struck like lightning. The spear's tip pierced the throat of one and then twisted into the stomach of the other. A wet gurgling harmony followed them into the snow.
Ten down as the snow was no longer white beneath his feet. It was marred with a crimson, steaming pool of death painting a grotesque masterpiece.
Another dissident approached slower than the others, wary, eyes darting from corpse to corpse. A longsword school in his grasp, Gregory dropped the spear which was cracked due to blocking the strike from the axe earlier. He raised his hands with his fists clenching like a stone.
The man lunged, and Gregory weaved under the blade, stepping into the man's space. A right hook to the ribs causing a cracking sound to be heard and a left jab to the throat causing the man to cause gurgling sounds since the throat was basically crushed. The finishing blow was an open palm straight to the chest, enough to send the man flying backwards a bit. He ended up landing limp with his spine bent at a deathly angle against a half buried tree slump.
Suddenly two of them come together, one wielding a scimitar and the other a flail. They circled him with the intention of overwhelming him from all the sides with coordinating attacks. The flail came first whistling through the air but Gregory ducked hearing the chain slice past his ear.
He sprang forward and took the flail wielder by surprise delivering a punch to the gut before grabbing the flail wielder by his neck and then snapped it sideways with a twist which echoed but the scimitar came fast although Gregory caught the blade on his forearms, a red thin line opening. His first wound in this battle, he grinned seeing it and then without hesitation he grabbed the attacker's wrist, twisted, and jammed the scimitar into the man's own gut. "Learn not to flinch." He muttered those words coldly.
A dissident charged forward holding a warhammer, big and loud while screaming something incoherent as he swung the warhammer but it was slow enough for Gregory to move away from the trajectory of the attack but the snow got blasted near him due to the hammer hitting the ground and embedded itself in the ice.
Gregory did not let the enemy recover as he closed the distance and slammed his knees up into the man's chin. As the warhammer fell from the nerveless hands, Gregory grabbed it midair and brought it crashing down into the man's skull, a wet sound was heard as it struck the man.
The Blizzard thickened a bit but his opponent used it to their advantage, moving across the shadow of the snow with their breath hidden to hide the presence. When the figure lunged from the side with a dagger aimed for Gregory's ribs, Gregory spun and caught the wrist inches away from his skin. Twisting with brute force till the man let go of the dagger but he ended up shattering the bones in the process.
The attacker didn't give up as he revealed another dagger while launching it towards Gregory's neck but Gregory went forward to bite the man's ears off and then headbutted him down. Then he grabbed the dagger which was dropped by the man just to slam its pommel down on his face till the skull opened up.
There were some archers keeping their distance who revealed their presence since many have already fallen to Gregory. Seeing the Archers he moved first to avoid the attacks while ducking and weaving, since it was snowing it slowed the impact of arrows making it less effective but still the enemies managed to graze one of the arrows on his shoulder.
The pain only angered him because getting struck was like a sign of defeat for him, Gregory began to use the terrain as diving into a trench like depression in the snow. The moment he came up it was behind one of the archers. One hand snapped the bow, the other twisted the man's neck until it broke like dry wood. The second Archer tried to flee the scene but Gregory hurled the broken bow like a javelin and it caught the runner in the back, and he fell face first into the snow. Gregory then stomped the Archer's face multiple times enough to crack the skull open.
The next one remained quiet and unnerving while watching from a distance as his sword planted on the ground. Gregory respected it, the sight of seeing someone who did not flee after seeing the bloodshed. He decided to approach the man slowly, their eyes locked and no wasted movements. When the man raised his sword, Gregory slipped under it and grabbed the man's belt as lifting and slammed him onto a jagged outcrop of ice. The scream was short lived followed by a downward fist that collapsed the man's sternum like a brittle shell.
Two others came to him from opposite sides, spears aimed towards his ribs. Gregory dove forward and rolled, popping up behind the rightmost one. He grabbed the man's spear spear shaft and wrenched it free, spinning it around and impaling the wielder before launching the same spear into the chest of the other, the snow caught them both as they fell in synchronised agony.
One of them tried to reason with Gregory, he held no weapon but just trembling hands and stuttering pleas. Gregory didn't hesitate. "Mercy died in the fire of my duty." He gripped the man by the jaw and slammed the back of his head against a frozen boulder, once, twice and many more until the face was unrecognisable and the body limp in his grasp.
The wind howled again like a banshee witnessing the massacre, Gregory's chest rose and fell calm, steady as if this was a normal routine for him since he faced similar or worse situations like this. Around him the snow was no longer pure white but it was painted in Crimson arcs and steaming trails. Blood has melted the frost where the man has been killed but the blizzard raged on but it was not the cold that made the ground tremble, it was him.
As Gregory stood there menacingly, a dissident approached him. The man was a brute, all muscle, wielding twin axes with fury. He came screaming, face covered in black paint worn by soldiers who have expertise in guerrilla and jungle combat but they were half melted by sweat and frost.
Gregory didn't back down at all, he met the charge with his arms raised up. One axe aimed at his ribs which Gregory caught using his forearms but the blade bit on his flesh although he didn't flinch at the pain. Using his other hand he grabbed the man's face and slammed him backwards by using the momentum to drive him into a frozen tree trunk.
The second axe came too slow which made Gregory yank it from the man's hand, reversed it, and buried it into the dissident's chest so deep that the wooden shaft of the axe splintered from the force.
A smaller one suddenly appeared out from the snow, he was faster compared to the others and with throwing knives glinting between frostbitten fingers. The first blade flew but Gregory tilted his head letting it pass near him and the second he caught midair but the third struck his shoulders as getting embedded in his skin.
Gregory charged immediately to close the gap before the man could throw another, he was quick enough to close the gap and deliver a quick punch which shattered his cheekbones. He did not stop there punching more, dislocating the man's jaw and he finished it off by driving the knife he caught right into the crown of the skull and the blade disappeared into the bone like ice breaking under pressure.
All of a sudden three of the enemies came at him together, they were moving in a formation revealing that they were soldiers once because their movements were more disciplined and methodical. Gregory took some steps back making his enemies think like they were intimidating him with their movements and superiority in numbers but in reality that is exactly what Gregory wanted them to think.
When one of them lunged forward, he parried with his forearm, then kicked his knee in, collapsing the stance. As he dropped, Gregory used the fallen man's body as a springboard and launched himself toward the second. A flying elbow crushed the man's nose, and he tumbled down. The third raised his blade to block, but Gregory caught his arm mid-swing and tore the blade free. It sliced across the man's throat before he even realized it was no longer his.
But one of the dissidents tried to impale Gregory while he was still finishing the last because it was the perfect opportunity due to distraction, the man swung his blade, it was a shallow cut but still bleeding. Gregory turned, grabbing the attacker's wrist with crushing strength and using his knee to snap the elbow inward, shattering it in two places. The man screamed but it didn't last long because his head got seized by Gregory who used both his hands to twist them rendering the body lifeless as it fell onto the snow.
Another one who said this happened reacted violently out of fear, slashing wildly, screaming curses and prayers. Gregory dodged them because they were very clumsy attacks which lacked precision due to fear as the attacker wasn't thinking their moves correctly. Gregory stepped in to launch a punch right on his guts when he saw a wide attack which gave him enough space to attack.
The punch to the gut was too much that he bent down and began vomiting blood but that wasn't all, Gregory grabbed the man by his scalp while he could hear begging begging for mercy but he didn't care, he smashed the man against a ice slab in the ground till the ice turned red.
Two more left with one of them moving forward, this person had a dented and worn out armour. He came out steady avoiding any silly errors while swinging his mace slowly but deadly. Gregory watched him, waiting for the perfect moment to strike and when he saw the pace going down for a moment Gregory sidestepped and punched the armoured gut which didn't do much except make his fist shake a bit due to the pain.
Since it didn't work, Gregory decided to go low by striking the knees of the man to make him fall which worked and he then wedged his fingers beneath the helmet and ripped it off from the man's head. The man was disoriented so Gregory held the part of the helmet on his arm and then used it to strike the man's face till the helmet was dented inwards like a crushed fruit.
The last one perhaps thinking others have softened Gregory and made him tired but ne was wrong, Gregory was slowed by the snow but he still approached that last one without hesitation which only made the last standing dissident to feel fear, his breath was fogged in fear and began to swing his blades desperately but Gregory dodged all of it just to grab the man by his neck.
Gregory hoisted the man up using one of his arms as if he was raising a doll. The man clawed at Gregory's wrist, eyes bulging, feet kicking. "You came here for salvation after betraying your motherland," Gregory whispered, voice low, barely heard over the wind. "But you'll find only rot." He then slammed the body into the ice multiple times till the body stopped moving.
Snow fell like ash now, slow and quiet. The field was still. Thirty bodies lay crumpled across the battlefield with their limbs twisted, faces frozen in terror, blood soaking the snow like wine spilled at a cursed feast. Gregory stood among them, bare-chested, blood-slicked, his breath steady, golden eyes unblinking and white hair covered in blood.
No challengers remained. No witnesses either. The blizzard raged, but it could not drown out the memory of what had happened here. The north would remember. The ground would remember.
And when word returned to the crown that he had completed their task through the messenger bird Gregory had sent and at the throne room a messenger's voice shook. "All thirty of the rebel blades lie dead in the snow."
There was no response.
"He survived. Gregory Rotrigor. Alone. He walks south again."
A soft murmur rippled through the Royal Court where the nobles shifted in silk and velvet, whispers hushed as quickly as they came. The torches dimmed, though no wind stirred them and from the shadowed throne came no panic or surprise but only silence.
"…So he walks still." The voice that followed was not thunderous but rather calm, measured, yet it crawled along the bones of everyone present. It sounded less like a man and more like something old pretending to be one.
"They always send wolves to die in the cold," the voice murmured. "But what returns… is never the wolf."
The figure leaned forward, just enough to stretch the silhouette, and suddenly the throne itself seemed to grow taller. The torches dimmed again. The stone beneath the messenger's knees turned colder.
"Let him come south," the voice whispered. "Let him taste warmth. Let him dream of vengeance."