Chapter 11: A Familiar Laugh.
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The first wave was nearly upon him. Their footsteps were erratic, their wild shrieks growing louder. Arthur steeled himself, planting his feet firmly on the cracked asphalt. The blade of his greatsword caught the faint light, casting a sharp glint that seemed to warn the oncoming horde.
Arthur's first swing with the Greatsword of the Lowborn was both calculated and brutal. The blade arced through the air with deadly grace, slicing cleanly through the first charging enemy as though they were nothing more than paper. The figure dropped without a sound, and Arthur's feet shifted seamlessly into his next stance, his movements almost instinctual.
The next opponent came at him with a rusted pipe, its jagged edges aimed for his head. Arthur tilted his body slightly, the attack narrowly missing him. His free hand shot out, grabbing the attacker by the wrist, twisting it with such force that a sickening crack echoed through the air. Without hesitation, he drove the pommel of his greatsword into their chest, sending them sprawling backward.