General Titus stood at the center of the battlefield, his eyes moving between the scattered knights. Sir Kay stood guard over Lancelot's fallen form. Sir Tristan and Sir Percival dragged Sir Galahad to safety. They had split themselves apart divided, vulnerable, weak.
Which target should he pursue first?
His jaw tightened.
Anger hot and unfamiliar rose in his chest. These knights had wounded him. Had outsmarted him. Had made him look foolish in front of Caesar's shadow.
"Oh well." His voice was low, dangerous. "I guess I'll have to attack everything and everyone at the same time."
He squatted.
His calf muscles compressed coiling like springs, storing force, power, destruction. The sand beneath him cracked under the pressure.
He jumped.
BOOM!
The force was immense. A shockwave exploded outward, slamming into the ground, carving a crater where he had been standing. Sand and rock flew in every direction, a testament to the power he had unleashed.
He rose higher.
Higher.
Higher.
The grey sky of Valhalla rushed toward him, the wind screaming past his ears. He looked down at the battlefield at the ants below, at the knights who thought they could defeat him.
He looked at his wound.
The scar was gone. The flesh was smooth. The damage they had inflicted the lung wound, the chest wound, the humiliation was fully healed.
He smiled.
"Time to go all out."
He stretched his two hands into the air.
From his palms from the center of his flesh, from the core of his being two long rods emerged. They grew like black flowers, like weapons born from his will.
Then more appeared.
Two became four. Four became eight. Eight became sixteen. The multiplication was exponential, unstoppable, terrifying. Each rod was different some as small as needles, some as long as spears, some as massive as pillars.
They filled the sky.
A thousand rods black, gleaming, deadly hovered above the battlefield, casting shadows across the sand. They blocked the grey light, turning the world dark.
Titus looked down at the knights below at their upturned faces, at the fear in their eyes, at the hopelessness of their position.
He waved his hands down.
The rods rained.
They fell like black rain, like judgment, like death. The knights were forced into position blocking, dodging, surviving. They could not advance. Could not retreat. Could only defend.
It was a very good strategy.
Titus's plan was simple: drain their stamina. Make them exhaust themselves blocking his endless barrage. Then when they were weak, when their arms trembled, when their breaths failed he would descend.
And he would kill them all.
One by one.
He would have them in a complete chokehold.
He hung in the sky, watching the rods fall, watching the knights struggle, and smiled.
General Titus had now taken his second step toward victory.
The sky was black with steel.
And death rained down.