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Chapter 5 - CHAPTER 5

Fire raged between the tents. The enemy was already awake, their camp thrown into chaos. Soldiers of Khalid's army stormed forward, eyes gleaming like stars in the desert night. 

General Hanna moved among them like a shadow. Every strike was swift, precise—each enemy falling before they even realized from where the attack had come. Screams and confusion filled the air as bodies stumbled through the firelit maze of tents. 

Groups of enemies tried to flee. A few, braver or more desperate, turned to face Hanna. He cut them down without hesitation, his pace relentless, always driving toward the far side of the camp. But the chaos thickened—more shouts, more blood. 

Then—suddenly—an enemy dropped from the flames, catching Hanna unprepared. Black cloth wrapped his body, a silver mask gleaming against the firelight. The two warriors faced each other in silence, corpses scattered at their feet. 

The masked man struck first. His movements were quick, almost spectral. Hanna shifted his stance, spear ready. The enemy leapt again, blade flashing. Hanna countered, thrusting low for the leg—but his spear bit only dirt. The masked warrior pressed him hard, forcing Hanna to block strike after strike. Each flash of silver blurred before his eyes. 

Planting his feet, Hanna steadied his breath. When the enemy lunged again, Hanna pivoted and drove his spear through him. The masked figure shuddered, fell, and was still—another body lost to the desert night. 

Around them the camp burned brighter. Hanna pushed on, forcing through the tide of soldiers that surged against him. Ahead, enemy lines faltered under a storm of arrows. Their men stumbled in the dark, unable to see where death came from. 

Hanna advanced, weaving through fire and confusion, cutting down those who dared stand. The flames spread, licking the tents until whole rows ignited, and Khalid's men drove the enemy back with spear and torch. 

Through the smoke Hanna caught sight of Attar. Standing high upon a rock, clad in red, bow drawn, Attar loosed arrow after arrow. Each shot struck true, dropping enemies as if fate itself guided his hand. Hanna watched long enough to know Attar held his ground, then turned back to the fray. 

The battlefield shifted. Enemy soldiers scattered, fleeing in all directions, while Attar's spearmen drove them down. Hanna pressed forward, surrounding pockets of resistance, forcing them toward the center of their camp. 

The firelight cast Hanna in bronze and gold as he seized a fresh spear. Around him lay the dead—friend and foe alike. His face was unreadable, though his eyes carried the weight of every loss. No time for grief. Only the fight. 

But the tide turned again. Hanna found himself surrounded, cut off from his allies. The ground was slick with blood and mud, spears bristling around him in a jagged ring. The enemy hesitated, wary of his presence, but their points never lowered. 

Hanna exhaled, steady. Then he roared, breaking the tension like thunder. Feet shifted. One enemy, bolder than the rest, rushed him. Hanna struck fast, piercing through him, and the breach was made. He pushed forward, a storm breaking through the ring. 

His spear became lightning—each thrust dropping another man. One after another, they fell. Hanna's breath grew ragged, but still he pressed on until the last of them lay at his feet. 

The survivors fled. The night was theirs. Hanna, chest heaving, lowered his weapon and scanned the carnage. Fires roared, painting the battlefield in orange and black. 

Then his gaze fell upon a soldier—the same man who had once handed him a spear during the fight with the giants. Now the young warrior lay motionless, eyes open to the sky. 

Hanna's expression hardened. He knelt, closing the soldier's eyes with a calloused hand. A brief moment of silence amid the storm. 

Then General Hanna rose, turned his back to grief, and strode once more toward the center of the enemy camp. The battle was not yet done. 

 

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