Chapter 303
The tunnel echoed with the clash of steel and the roar of battle. The zealots group simply pounced on them.
Kael and Rhys fought side by side like predators who had trained in the same jungle.
Their movements were sharp and calculated. When Kael ducked under a heavy swing and drove his fist into a zealot’s gut, the man folded like a sack of grain. Kael didn’t hesitate—he grabbed the zealot’s collar and flung him sideways into a beam, the crack of bone ringing louder than his scream.
Beside him, Rhys took down another attacker with brutal grace. Her knee struck the zealot’s jaw, knocking his weapon into the air. She snatched it mid-spin and tossed it back to one of her soldiers behind them. "Drive them back! Hold the line!" she barked, voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.
Kael vaulted over a rusted pipe, landed with a grunt, and drove his boot into the kneecap of another zealot. The man fell howling, clutching his shattered leg. "Don’t let them box us in!" Kael roared, eyes bloodshot and mouth curled in a grin too wild for the moment.
The zealots, though lacking polish, fought with desperation.
Their armor was mismatched, some with cracked chest plates, others with rusted swords, but they fought like wolves.
A few formed a defensive half-circle near the rear, slashing low at incoming zealots while their comrades covered them. Others used what they could find.pipes, broken boards, even their fists.
Oil packs were tossed down and spread along the ground. The floor turned slick, slowing down the zealots’ charge.
One guard yanked a rusted grate from the wall, jamming it into the tunnel entrance as a crude barrier. Another stabbed a zealot in the thigh, only to be tackled by a second one. Rhys yanked the attacker off the downed guard and stabbed him in the side without missing a beat.
The zealots were unhinged. Their eyes glowed with wild belief, their faces hidden behind cloth wraps or broken masks with symbols scratched into them.
They shouted verses, random cries, or just screamed as they swung their weapons. They fought dirty—biting, spitting, lunging low, using broken blades and jagged rebar. Their clothes were stained and torn, like monks twisted by nightmares. They weren’t just here to kill; they were here to bleed for something.