After an embarrassing defeat at the Sandusky Plains by a combined force led by the Theoledon army, General Waxacaxli gathered his ten thousand soldiers - whittled down from seventy thousand - at their makeshift camp. He had to say something to rally his troops.

"Soldiers..." a heavy sigh came out. His voice then boomed with each syllable. "I know your pain, tears, and loss." He struggled to wall off his emotions, but he kept a strong face for them. "This war may have just started, and as the Villainous Legion, our reputation is great. However, today was... not our finest."

Waxacaxli's men were in plain clothing, having removed their weighty weapons and armour. Many of them had characteristic black hair trailing to moderate brown.

"It was our worst. I felt I couldn't take life as usual!" A muscular tanned male soldier with a poorly stitched chest scar expressed frustration. Several near him agreed.

"I understand." The general nodded; his beefy body with longsword by his side. His facial features were prominent, especially his eyes looking down from a great height. "We need to regroup, refocus, and re-strategise. We have conquered many lands and many people, no different from any other empire. A few days will be enough to claim victory once more."

"BULLSHIT," said an older female soldier coming out from one of the white tents placed circularly.

That word stung. 

The crowd became restless. Unsavoury thoughts rattled throughout.

Waxacaxli tightened his grip, slowly drawing his sword. The purple sheath where his blade resided had three triangles with a bar underneath - the design repeated throughout its length. This was the emblem of the Legion. In one go, a visible slash sailed over the camp and cut into the land. Even the central bonfire was shaken. The slash was about a metre deep and ten metres from end to end.

Everyone went quiet at such drastic action, a contrast to their fellow animals of war roaring. They feared him. The sound of his attack was almost deafening. 

"You worthless trash! All of us deserve this!" He returned his sword to its slender home. "We were slower, dumber, less ferocious than the Theoledon and their allies. But of course, I know you want to taste blood; the blood of those on the wide, open plains. As a signal of generosity, I will give you more time to recover. A week is sufficient." The general formed a grin - and to no one's surprise - he burst into diabolical laughter. His soldiers were disturbed and only joined him due to the worry they would be like the cut soil.

Now, hovering over them, was a murderous, vengeful aura. It nearly had texture. Represented by wavy, dark lines, it slithered above and around them to the tune of maniacal cackles rushing over the Sandusky Plains throughout the night.

***

A week passed, and the Legion was rearing to go. They had broken down the camp and took the initiative to move early.

Their spy had informed them of the enemy's location through letters delivered by carrier pigeon - the hook to reel them in. With full stomachs, healed wounds and fresh mental states, they were off.

The forces comprised a mounted division of one hundred tigers and a sole lion - which the General rode himself, five hundred and fifty arbalists, one thousand and two thousand spearmen, and the rest as regular infantry. They had the advantage of calvary due to the enemies' loss of much of their own in their previous battles. And also some explosives stuffed inside leather backpacks for when things get hairy.

They were quiet but swift. The arbalists, spearmen, and some regular soldiers jumped onto some tigers manned by riders and went in different directions, going far away from the core group. They were on the hunt. They would surprise their adversaries with this move.

As they neared the combined forces, about two thousand warriors - mainly spearmen and foot soldiers - broke off from the primary group to go in different directions.

Their impending arrival broke the petting session between the Theoledon candidate and lioness. The candidate fed it food scraps, causing it to belch. It was a gluttonous one.

Her army and their allies were about half a day from Speil - a small city-state affluent from silk and spices.

The Theoledon's prized horned helmet and sabre never separated from her. And with it, she ripped it out and bellowed for her men to go forward, with its tip glowing emerald, to kill those who have come for them. She didn't linger on how they were able to know her exact location or how they managed to get to them right before they were gearing up to make the final push home. The plains were so vast, it was easy to get lost.

But she didn't think about that. She would rather let her blade speak.

She was one of the candidates selected by the current Theoledon to make a stake for the title. In a week's time, a new one would be crowned. And for her to claim it, she had to prove herself in battle just like the others. For Yalapol, her name, she had to provoke war in a land where there was relative peace - as was tradition in becoming Theoledon. Strength was the determining factor for such a society.

They did well in plundering multiple towns and forts belonging to the Villaneous Legion - prompting them to take action. When they arrived, they had already caused enough destruction. This pushed the Legion to make chase, with the two forces having several battles up to now.

Yalapol had to ensure that she remained unscathed, as it would heighten her chances of being the new Theoledon. Her rivals had already gone out of their way to make it difficult. Chikles' one-man stand against the undersea forces of Bel Pier or the elegant swordswomanship of Elas in the invasion of the pyramids of Hermulphalie was hard to beat. And shockingly, there was one - an engineer - that used their tactical prowess to defeat an army thirty times bigger by using scarecrows that pop up when activated by stepping on a pressure plate during the Battle of Miserly Woods. The Theoledon was so impressed with the margin of victory without swinging a single sword, he pardoned the measure, taking into consideration that force is the primary means of determining who will take the position.

The two armies clashed, neither wasting time to commit bloodshed. Yalapol's blue eyes locked onto each enemy as she cleaved them with her blade. Her kill tally racked up with such speed. But the most powerful was the shield. Every member of the combined forces had one, and they served well for offence as well as defence.

A familiar pattern: block and shield charge, were decimating Waxacaxli's front lines. Despite the frequent aerial slashes having an impact, it wasn't enough. One man is not an army.

The general flung a slice Yalapol's way, zipping over the deceased and the stunted grass. She used her sabre of dragon scales to defend herself, not her shield. This caused her chainlink armour to rattle as it dissipated. The hilt was long enough for one of her hands to fit on the handle and small enough for it to slip into the loop guard. She then repositioned to continue the fight.

Yalapol grabbed a cavalryman's throat, choke-slamming him and placing a big cut across his chest, where he bled to death. Her feline friend was devouring a soldier's intestines and liver when a spear thrust into her heart. The lioness transitioned into the afterlife without haste.

The sadness was unbearable. She wanted to cry. Memories such as finding her as a cub in the Elantria jungle, bathing her, feeding her milk, brushing her fur and cuddling during a chilly night was all she had of her. Her best friend; the cat that was with her through her impoverished childhood gave her comfort. But that had to be replaced with rage. The thought of not growing old, their teeth falling out, greying hair and finally dying together became impossible. And now, she had to accept that reality. Refusing fate, her power spiked, changing the colour of some scales to create a fusion glow of emerald and carmine.

With it, everything within her range suffered. Her ferocity made you want to stand back and watch. Every dodge. Every strike. Every block. All of it beautifully savage.

Waacaxli became frustrated. She was becoming too much for even a handful. What he was going to do?

Then it came.

A combined army soldier collapsed from a speedy arrow. They made it. The two thousand men mowed them down with arrows and spears that could not be countered by their shield. The outmanoeuvre gave them opportunities to slip past their defences and take out many of the remaining jaguars.

"Men! Get into formation!" Yalapol's men knew what to do. They bundled together to create the Turtle Shell Defense. It provided three hundred and sixty degree protection against many long-range and short-range attacks. They wanted to retaliate, but they lacked piercing or stabbing weaponry to keep them distant.

As they absorbed strike after strike, a crossbowman noticed a gap at their ankles coming downwards. He took aim and let off one, going through the sheeting of armour to pierce his skin and shatter his tibia. The man fell to his knees, leaving him vulnerable to a barrage to decorate his body. Others under Yalapol shared a similar fate. The arbalists not with the felines had a vantage point they could exploit well.

They rushed to bring their shields down, but now their brain matter was at risk of getting skewered. And for some, they did. They decided to hold out for a while longer until their moment came.

The CLANK of the shields persisted. The crossbowmen were pushing the battle towards Waxacaxli. It looked like he didn't have much to worry about. He was favoured to finally win. He knew it. All he had to was to maintain the pressure. They only had so many men to reform their defensive technique.

But the onslaught stopped. They were out of ammunition. Waxacaxli wished to congratulate them afterwards as they fell back to allow the bombers to set the plains alight. The arbalists did more than enough for today.

All of them quickly broke apart, applying pressure to the bomber squad to blow them up before they perform their unison move. They made sure to be in their general direction as they grabbed their shields near the lower right and left corners with both hands to slam them.

As the shockwave came while warping the plains directly ahead like a surrealist painting, the bombs were lit one by one and were rolled towards their enemies at a good pace. The bomber squad had to be quite meaty individuals to underarm roll these heavy balls of blackened iron. If the bombs only had longer fuses, they could've blown them up for a surprise, but, they had to make do with the limitations.

The black powder packed inside each one kicked up a firestorm, but the shockwave kept going, displacing everyone and knocking out or killing many.

The bombs ran out quicker than expected. All they did was made even more of a mess. Not one died by them. The Shield Slam Shockwave (S3) was too powerful as usual.

Their chance to effect victory was dwindling. And just like that, then thousand shrunk to an amount unfit for a general. Waxacaxli looked around to see the last of his men being taken out.

He realized he was alone. Only bodies surrounded him. Yalapol permitted him to run away like a coward. He covered a good distance hoping he would return to the safety of one of his forts or even a cobblestone village.

She took off her helmet to reveal her spitfire hair wrapped in a bun and her straight nose. Yalapol stuck her illuminating sword into the grass, picked up a spear, and closed her left eye to aim. With good form, the weapon raced to her target, severing the spinal cord and exiting the mouth. His tongue was skewered in the process. She didn't allow him to beg for god's mercy as the blood and life escaped his body.

General Waxacaxli and the Villaneous Legion were defeated. She stared at him to make sure it was his last breath. Yalapol sheathed her sword to cut off the radiating energy so she can take out the two remaining big cats. The tigers were distraught and lashed out at the deaths of their leader and those that followed him. But Yalapol put an end to that with chokeholds.

Once she estrangled one and tamed the other with her biceps, she examined herself to see claw marks and some bite marks alongside smudges of dirt, blood and a host of other minor scratches, holes, and bruises. The only one that concerned her was the canine lodged in her forearm. That one really stung and it looked like there was plaque covering the enamel. She swiftly yanked it out and threw it to the side. The candidate, however, did not get everyone. His lion managed to flee at top speed. He was able to get away long before she went against the jaguars.

Mounting on her newly tamed steed, she returned to Speil with whatever that remained as she left behind corpses to rot and destruction to settle.