"Tell the tale of how a ten-year-old beat you in hell."
Those were the last words I heard before my head was separated from my body.
I still don't understand how it happened.
He was just a child. Barely taller than four feet. And yet, through every step of our duel, he dictated the course of it. Every move I made, he had already anticipated. Every strike I delivered, he evaded with effortless precision. The moment I laid eyes on him, I should have known. That was no ordinary boy. That was a monster.
Three days before my death, I received an urgent report—Drakseid's army was gathering, they will be coming to retake Fort Gehena. It didn't surprise me. I had expected this for years. I immediately sent word to the nearby Distia provinces, calling for reinforcements.
But deep down, I already knew—help would not come.
I am Gregor N. Hode—the Man-Eater of Verdune, a warrior whose level is Master.
A title earned not just through sheer size and strength, but through my countless victories on the battlefield. I was born in Verdune, towering over my peers even as a child. I crushed men with my bare hands before I had even learned how to properly wield a sword. At sixteen, I joined the Distia Imperial Army and fought in the Siege of Gehena. It was a brutal campaign—one that should have broken Drakseid for good.
We disguised ourselves as bandits, an old trick to avoid political consequences. If the world knew the Distia Empire was behind the attack, the Master of Magic himself would have laid sanctions upon us. We played the game well. We conquered Gehena.
But at a cost.
Two men stood in our way that day.
Two monsters.
One, a swordsman who could slice through soldiers as if they were made of paper. The other, a spearman whose attacks no shield could block. I still remember the bodies they left behind. We lost thousands that day—far more than we had planned.
And yet, in the end, we won. Gehena fell.
After the battle, I was given command of the fort. Our campaign to conquer Drakseid was to resume in a year, maybe two. But we never got the chance.
Our empire rotted from within.
Civil war erupted in the capital. Drought and famine swept through the provinces. The empire bled itself dry. Drakseid should have been easy prey after Gehena fell. But instead of finishing the job, we fell into chaos.
Two years ago, Verdune nearly collapsed under the weight of its own suffering. Civil unrest threatened to tear the city apart, just like the empire. We were saved by a single man—the Iron Man of Verdune. A commoner, yet one who held the city together when we needed him most. Even I respected him.
During that time, I also heard whispers.
Drakseid was changing.
A kingdom that should have been on its knees was standing tall once more. Their army was growing, their economy was flourishing, and their young prince—just a child—was leading the charge.
Rumors spread like wildfire.
That boy was coming for Gehena.
At first, we laughed. A child? Retaking Gehena? Impossible.
But as time passed, I realized the truth—he wasn't just coming. He was preparing.
Drakseid was no longer gathering levies. They were training soldiers. Their army wasn't made up of peasants holding spears; it was a force of warriors who had drilled formations into muscle memory. Even women had taken up arms. Strange, bizarre… and yet, effective.
We knew the attack would come. So, we prepared as well.
I reinforced our numbers. Five thousand men stood ready—three thousand frontline warriors, one thousand archers, and a reserve force keeping our fort running. We had more than enough food, weapons, and manpower to crush any force Drakseid could muster.
When scouts reported that only four thousand soldiers were marching toward us, our confidence soared. They dared to face us outnumbered?
We boiled in anger, taking it as an insult. They thought this would be easy. They thought we were weak.
That morning, the day of my death, we ate heartily, drinking and laughing like it was a festival.
I remember looking at my men, at the fortress I commanded, and thinking—Drakseid has made its final mistake.
I could never have been more wrong.
They came in formation—an iron tide moving with perfect synchronicity. Sunlight glinted off rows of polished armor, the harsh light reflecting into our eyes like the mocking gaze of a predator.
They didn't attack right away.
Instead, they set up camp outside the fort, resting and eating in plain view of our walls. Taunting us. They moved calmly, methodically—no war cries, no chaotic movement. Just cold, patient calculation.
They had siege engines. Strange ones. Machines I had never seen before. My gut tightened the moment I spotted them. What were they planning?
It was at noon when they finally made their move.
They split off into different directions. The cavalry disappeared into the surrounding forest.
I wasn't worried.
I had hidden forces in the forest—trained killers who knew the terrain better than anyone. They weren't the type to be taken down by mere cavalry.
I was wrong.
Very wrong.
Two thousand of us stood between them and the gates of Fort Gehena. Behind us, our archers lined the walls—bows drawn and arrows ready. Our numbers were greater. Our position was superior. This should have been an easy fight.
And then I saw him.
At the front of their formation stood a child. A boy of no more than ten years old, his small frame dwarfed by the armor he wore. His red hair, a smear of blood beneath the sun. A polished sword rested in his hand—too large for his body, and yet… he held it with the confidence of a seasoned killer.
His eyes were cold. Calculating.
This was their commander?
He raised his sword, the tip gleaming beneath the afternoon sun.
"Advance."
His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the battlefield like a blade.
His soldiers obeyed instantly. No hesitation. No noise.
They marched.
My men tensed. Some of them laughed—thinking the idea of a spear formation ridiculous. Spears have range, yes—but they're slow, heavy. Easily avoided in close quarters.
I regret having those naïve thoughts.
The spearmen closed ranks—hundreds of bronze shields locking together with a sound like rolling thunder. Long spears jutted from the wall in perfect alignment, forming a jagged line of death.
They moved as one.
Not a collection of soldiers—a machine.
Their boots struck the ground in perfect unison—thud, thud, thud—the rhythmic sound echoing through the air like the ticking of a death toll.
No shouting. No war cries. Just silence and precision.
And the spears—gleaming, impossibly long, extending from the shield wall like the fangs of a predator.
The line advanced, steady and inevitable. A tidal wave of bronze and death.
No chaos. No hesitation.
Just cold, disciplined murder marching toward us.
The sight of it shattered our spirit.
We had faced screaming hordes before—wild men foaming at the mouth, charging recklessly into death. But this…
This was different.
It was calculated inevitability. An unbroken wall of metal and spears, moving toward us without flaw or weakness.
Our archers let loose. Arrows rained down from the walls—a dark cloud blotting out the sun.
The first volley struck their shields. The second volley struck their shields. The third—
Not a single gap.
The formation didn't break. They didn't even flinch.
And then—like clockwork—they opened their shield wall.
A line of archers knelt behind the spearmen and fired.
Our archers fell.
They repeated the process twice more. Flawless. Efficient.
Within minutes, the walls above us were empty.
My men shifted uneasily. I could feel it—the brittle edge of panic spreading through the line.
We were alone now.
Facing that wall of metal.
My instincts screamed at me. Run.
But where would we run? The gates of Gehena were sealed behind us. The cavalry was still missing in the forest. The walls above us were silent.
I forced myself to stand my ground.
I am Gregor N. Hode—the Man-Eater of Verdune.
I've faced death before. I've killed stronger men. This was no different.
And yet…
As the bronze wall marched closer, their spears gleaming beneath the sunlight—steady, unyielding—something inside me whispered the truth.
This isn't a battle.
It's an execution.
I gathered my courage—or what little remained of it—and ordered my men to charge.
It wasn't strategy. It was panic. Rage. A desperate swing at survival.
My men charged with their swords and wooden shields, roaring like madmen. They were brave—braver than most—but bravery alone wasn't enough.
It never is.
The first line of spears struck before they even got within a meter of the shield wall. The sound of metal meeting flesh was sickening—dull thuds followed by sharp screams.
They kept moving forward. They died moving forward.
The closer we got, the thicker the wall of spears became. Perfectly timed, perfectly placed—like a death trap designed specifically for us.
I tried to outflank them—sent my best men to hit their sides—but the flanks were guarded. Archers and spearmen. Sharp-eyed and precise.
And then I saw it—the subtle shift in their lines.
They were spreading out.
Slowly. Carefully. Entrapping us.
We were being pushed toward the walls of Gehena, funneled like cattle into a slaughterhouse.
Panic crept into my voice as I shouted toward the fort. "Open the gates!"
The gates creaked open.
Relief surged through me. We were saved.
Or so I thought.
Because standing inside the fort—beneath the open gate—was another line of spearmen.
Shields red with blood. Spears glinting beneath the torchlight.
They closed ranks with terrifying precision.
My heart sank.
We were trapped.
Outside, death waited behind an unbroken wall of spears. Inside, death stood behind polished shields and cold eyes.
I raised my gaze toward the fort walls.
And there—just beyond the walls—I saw them.
My hidden forces—the ones I'd sent into the forest—being carried toward a mass grave. Their severed heads mounted on pikes.
My last gamble. My last hope. Gone.
We lost the day.
We lost the fort.
Later, I faced their commander.
A boy of ten.
I had thought it would be easy. I was Gregor N. Hode—the Man-Eater of Verdune. I was stronger, faster, and more experienced. He was just a child.
I made a mistake.
I underestimated him.
I treated him like any other ten-year-old.
And I paid for it with my life.
Every step of that duel—every strike, every parry—I was dancing in the palm of his hand. I could never guess his next move. His swordsmanship was calculated, precise. There was no wasted movement, no hesitation.
His victory was certain.
My death, inevitable.