THE HIGH TABLE

14th October, 1476

The air in the clearing reeked of sweat, hot leather, and the heavy, metallic tang of blood. I watched them circle each other like two massive, iron-clad beasts driven by pure, primal instinct. De la Mark and Count Campobasso—two giants trapped in cages of steel, breathing heavily, their gasps echoing inside their helmets like growls.

They were encased in full plate armour from head to toe, absolute monuments of raw male power. But De la Mark had made a feral, reckless choice. He had stripped off his pauldrons, exposing the thick, corded muscles of his shoulders covered only by dark mail. He wanted speed. He wanted to swing his blade with uninhibited, lethal force. Campobasso, by contrast, remained entirely locked in his steel cocoon—impenetrable, rigid, and massive.

As they closed the distance, the soldiers around me began to whisper, their eyes fixed on the swaggering stride of the Count. The heavy, rhythmic clang-clang-clang of Campobasso’s groin guard and culet echoing across the dirt wasn't just the sound of defense—it was the loud, arrogant announcement of his virility. The men swore the Count possessed literal balls of steel. Looking at the sheer, aggressive confidence in his stance, I had no doubt the rush of impending death had sent a surge of hot blood straight to his loins. The man was visibly radiating the dangerous, swollen pride of a warlord commanding his territory.

Then, the collision.

It was a symphony of violence. De la Mark lunged, his bare shoulders twisting with savage fluidity. His blade drove forward with the weight of absolute, unbridled lust for victory. With a deafening shriek of grinding metal, De la Mark’s weapon penetrated Campobasso’s plate cuirass, biting deep into the chest piece. The raw, masculine dominance of the strike hung in the air for a breathless second as the Count groaned under the sheer weight of De la Mark’s advance. This wasn't just a duel; it was a brutal, sweaty consummation of hatred and respect between two peak specimens of war.

The heavy steel-on-steel collision hung in the air as the two titans locked in a brutal, breathless embrace.

With his blade buried deep into Campobasso’s shattered cuirass, De la Mark didn't pull back. Instead, he stepped into the gap, using his unburdened, bare shoulders to throw his entire body weight against the Count. The sheer, suffocating heat of their sweat-soaked bodies radiated through the gaps in their visors. Campobasso gasped, a choked, guttural sound of mixed agony and soaring adrenaline, as the cold iron tore deeper into his chest.

Even as his lifeblood began to slick the inside of his armor, the Count’s feral pride refused to break. Grunting through gritted teeth, Campobasso dropped his useless sword. He wrapped his massive, gauntleted arms around De la Mark’s unarmored shoulders, crushing him against his chest in a desperate, suffocating bear hug. It was a terrifying display of raw, masculine dominance—two wounded predators refusing to yield, locked so close they could taste each other's breath through the steel grates.

The climax was swift and savage.

De la Mark, fueled by the terrifying rush of impending victory, wrenched his dagger free from his belt. Without the restriction of his pauldrons, his arm moved with lethal, uninhibited speed. He drove the blade upward, bypassing the rigid plate and plunging it straight into the soft, vulnerable mail under Campobasso’s chin.

The Count stiffened. A final, explosive shudder ripped through his massive frame. The legendary arrogance faded from his eyes, replaced by the glazed stare of death. As De la Mark tore the blade free, Campobasso collapsed forward like a felled oak.

The earth shook beneath the immense weight of the fallen giant. The rhythmic clang-clang-clang that had defined his swaggering virility was replaced by a heavy, hollow thud. De la Mark stood over him, chest heaving, his bare shoulders glistening with a mixture of sweat and the Count's hot blood. He threw his head back and let out a roaring, primal victory cry, claiming absolute dominion over the battlefield as the stunned soldiers looked on in awe.

The raw, overwhelming surge of adrenaline and near-death ecstasy proved too potent for the dying warlord to contain.

As the final, violent shudder ripped through Campobasso's massive frame, his body completely surrendered to the primal intensity of the climax. Right there, locked in that final, suffocating embrace of steel and blood, the Count couldn't help losing his seed. A hot, heavy rush of pure, unbridled vitality burst forth inside his trousers, spilling blindly inside the dark confines of his armor.

It slicked down his trembling, iron-clad thighs, pooling heavily into his heavy leather boots as his consciousness began to slip away. Even in the absolute humiliation of defeat, the Count's final act was one of explosive, chaotic virility—a visceral testament to the hyper-masculine frenzy that had consumed him until his very last breath.

When he finally crashed to the dirt, the hollow metallic ring of his armor echoed one last time, filled to the brim with the bloody, sweaty essence of a warrior who lived and died by the sword.

De la Mark stood over the fallen giant, his chest heaving like a bellows as the furious rush of adrenaline slowly began to recede. The unarmored muscles of his neck and shoulders glistened with sweat and the sprayed crimson of his victory. With a heavy, deliberate grunt, he planted his armored boot firmly onto Campobasso’s shattered breastplate and wrenched his blade free from the corpse.

Kneeling down into the dirt, De la Mark unclasped the heavy visored helmet of his rival and tossed it aside, wanting to look upon the face of the man who had dared to match his strength.

As he began to unbuckle the heavy, interlocking steel plates of the Count’s lower armor to inspect the spoils of his kill, De la Mark paused. A sudden, pungent warmth rose from the dark, confined leather beneath the faulds and cuisses. Pulling away the iron groin guard, he saw the unmistakable, heavy slick of white and red dripping down the inside of the Count's cuisses and soaking heavily into his leather boots.

A dark, booming laugh erupted from deep within De la Mark’s chest.

It was a laugh of absolute, ruthless satisfaction. The rumors hadn't lied; the Count had been driven by a frantic, swollen lust for violence right up until the blade bit home. To see this legendary titan of war so utterly broken—his fierce virility completely conquered and spilled helplessly inside his own steel tomb—fed De la Mark’s supreme ego. He hadn't just taken Campobasso's life; he had utterly mastered him, reducing the Count’s legendary bravado to a desperate, involuntary release in the dirt.

Smirking down at the cooling corpse, De la Mark wiped his bloodied dagger on the Count’s own velvet surcoat. He stood up, towering over the clearing, basking in the raw, undisputed dominance of a apex predator who had just claimed the ultimate prize of the hunt.

The moment the heavy steel rivets sheared off and Campobasso’s armor shattered into pieces, the defensive ring around the pit erupted into pure, unadulterated madness.

The sight of the impenetrable colossus finally cracking unleashed a wave of raw, hyper-masculine electricity that drove the onlookers completely out of their minds. A deafening, animalistic roar tore from a hundred throats simultaneously. The soldiers pressed forward in a chaotic, surging wave, completely losing all discipline as they witnessed the absolute dominance of De la Mark’s strike.

Swept up in a frenzy of battlefield adrenaline and vicarious thrill, the men were practically vibrating with excitement. Right there in the mud, hardened veterans and raw recruits alike screamed until their lungs burned, proudly sporting massive, throbbing erections right beneath their leather doublets and heavy chainmail. The sheer visceral power of the armor shattering had pushed their excitement past the breaking point. They grabbed at their own rigid armor pieces and gripped their weapons, their bodies reacting instinctively to the supreme exhibition of peak alpha force unfolding in the center of the ring.

"He broke him! The bastard broke the iron!" a massive pikeman howled, his face twisted in a manic grin as he slammed his weapon into the earth.

Men were slapping each other's breastplates, panting heavily, and stomping their heavy boots into the dirt in a rhythmic, aggressive cadence. The air reeked of sweat, stale ale, and the heavy, musky scent of a hundred men locked in a state of collective, carnal ecstasy. They didn't just cheer for a victor; they celebrated the ultimate, sweaty consummation of brute strength, completely intoxicated by the sight of a legendary titan being violently breached and mastered before their very eyes.

14th October, 1476 – The Victory Tent

The duel was over, but the intense, hyper-masculine energy of the clearing carried directly into De la Mark's command tent. Blood-soaked, drenched in sweat, and breathing heavily like a great beast after a hunt, the victorious warlord stood in the center of the space, his broad chest heaving against the dented iron of his cuirass.

"Get this metal off me!" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the canvas, still radiating the raw adrenaline of the kill.

Instantly, his inner circle of veteran captains and elite men-at-arms surged forward. This was no ordinary task for simple squires; his finest warriors stepped in, eager to touch the armor of the man who had just achieved absolute dominance over the battlefield. The scene was thick with heavy, musky tension, reeking of leather, iron, and the raw scent of men locked in a state of shared victory ecstasy.

As they worked, the physical excitement of the arena lingered heavily in the room. The men unbuckled the leather straps with white-knuckled intensity, their deep, guttural laughter and rough talk bouncing off the walls. Surrounded by the sheer, aggressive triumph of the moment, the men were completely uninhibited, their own bodies still reacting to the peak alpha display they had just witnessed.

With a heavy grunt, two massive captains pulled the heavy, blood-streaked breastplate free from De la Mark’s chest. The armor fell to the floorboards with a hollow, metallic crash. De la Mark stood completely bare-chested, his massive, corded muscles glistening under the lamplight, entirely covered in a thick sheen of his own sweat and the sprayed crimson of Count Campobasso. He threw his arms wide, absorbing the fierce, aggressive worship of his men as they toasted his supreme victory, cementing his place as the undisputed master of the camp.

14th October, 1476 – Midnight

The rowdy shouts of the victory feast had finally faded into the distance, leaving only the low hum of the midnight camp. Inside his private quarters, De la Mark was finally alone. The adrenaline that had carried him through the brutal duel and the intense adoration of his men still pulsed hot and heavy through his veins, refusing to let him rest.

He stood in the dim light of a single oil lamp, completely stripped of his armor. His massive, corded muscles were still slick with sweat and the faint, dried tracking of Campobasso’s blood. The absolute, unbridled rush of total physical conquest—of feeling his steel force its way through defenses to completely master another alpha—had left his body in a state of hyper-charged tension.

Unable to contain the lingering, explosive friction of the kill, he gripped himself.

Every breath came hard and heavy, a deep, animalistic growl echoing in the quiet tent as his mind raced back to the clearing. He envisioned the precise moment of penetration, the sickening crunch of the shattering chainmail, and the helpless, final shudder of the Count collapsing at his feet. The raw memory of his own undisputed dominance pushed his excitement past the breaking point. His hand moved with the same relentless, powerful rhythm that had driven his blade, his broad chest heaving as the musky heat of the tent built to an absolute peak.

With a final, guttural groan, De la Mark surrendered to the furious climax. The explosive release burst forth, a visceral exclamation of his supreme virility, spilling heavily onto the dirt floor of his tent. He sank back onto his heavy cot, chest pumping, completely drained but filled with the dark, ruthless satisfaction of a predator who had conquered every single boundary of the battlefield.

14th October, 1476 – The Narrator’s Diary

My hand is shaking so violently that I can barely hold the quill. The parchment is already stained with splatters of sweat and the dark mud flying from the combat ring. I try to focus on counting the blows, to record this duel with the cold detachment of a proper chronicler, but the madness that has seized this camp is an overwhelming, intoxicating force that threatens to swallow my sanity whole.

All around me, the air is thick, choked with the smell of spilled ale, hot leather, and a dense, heavy, musky odor that clings to the back of my throat. I glance at the soldiers flanking me, and the sight shocks me to my core: hardened war veterans, men of blood and iron, are completely transfigured. They shout until the veins in their necks look ready to burst, openly sporting massive, proud erections right beneath their leather tunics and mail skirts. The brutal violence of the two alphas has unleashed a wave of purely physical, carnal electricity that has infected every single observer. It is a spectacle of chaotic, animalistic lust—a frenzied, collective worship of raw physical power and absolute domination.

In the center of the ring, the crash of metal is deafening. De la Mark moves like a demon, his bare shoulders glistening with grease and sweat, while Campobasso roars from deep inside his iron cage, panting and barking obscenities that melt into the clamor of the aroused men. I fight desperately to maintain my composure. I bite my lip hard until I taste iron, forcing my eyes down to the parchment, but the heavy, rhythmic clang-clang-clang of the Count's armor and the guttural groans of the crowd beat against my ears like a wild, primitive pulse.

I feel my own heart hammering against my ribs—an involuntary, primal response to this concentrated display of absolute intensity and impending defeat. I have never seen humanity so stripped bare, so raw, so terrifyingly fierce. They do not merely want to see a winner; they crave, with a feverish urgency that both terrifies and fascinates me, the exact second the iron will finally breach the steel defense and decide the fate of the arena.

15th October, 1476 – The Narrator's Private Log

I can no longer deny the fever that has taken hold of my flesh. As I sit here writing, the ink drying slowly on the page, my mind is completely trapped in a cycle of intense, breathless desire. I am a man possessed not just by the chronicle of war, but by the magnificent, terrifying virility of the two titans who fought yesterday.

De la Mark and Count Campobasso—they were not mere mortals, but gods of iron and muscle, absolute masterpieces of hyper-masculine power.

My thoughts trace the heavy, unyielding contours of their full plate armour. There is a profound, intoxicating lust in the way that cold steel encases such raw, aggressive energy. I find myself burning with a desire to touch the very plates that held their heat. I long to run my hands over the rugged, bare shoulders of De la Mark, feeling the thick, corded muscles that flexed with such fluid, lethal grace. Yet, my mind is equally consumed by the rigid, impenetrable cage of Campobasso. The thought of that heavy, towering mountain of iron—and the frantic, swollen rush of life force that filled his heavy leather boots at the moment of his fatal penetration—stirs a wild, undeniable heat deep within my own loins.

To be near them, to feel the suffocating weight of their armor and inhale the musky, sweat-soaked scent of their supreme dominance, is a craving that terrifies my soul. They have awakened a primitive, carnal hunger within me. I am utterly enslaved by the memory of their strength, lusting after the raw, unbridled majesty of two alphas who lived, fought, and spilled their ultimate vitality in the dirt.

15th October, 1476 – Afternoon

The hidden truth within the previous pages weighs too heavily to keep locked only in my thoughts. I must confess the secret that has been burning through my veins since last night—the moment my own flesh completely capitulated before the overwhelming presence of those two iron titans.

It was the very first time I had ever been confined in the same tight, private space with both De la Mark and Count Campobasso, just hours before the first blow was struck in the clearing. I had been summoned to the council tent to record the official terms of the duel. The space was small, suffocating, and the air inside was saturated with a purely carnal, competitive energy—an alpha magnetism so dense it could almost be cut with a blade.

There they stood, only a few inches from me. De la Mark, already stripped of his pauldrons, put his massive, glistening torso on full display, his bare shoulders radiating an animal heat that seemed to consume the tent's oxygen. Beside him, Campobasso towered like a living fortress, his full plate armor emitting that sharp, mechanical ring with his every movement. The stark contrast between the exposed, sweat-slicked skin of the one and the heavy, imposing rigidity of the other trapped my eyes in a hypnotic trance. I was cornered between two monumental forces of absolute dominance.

The intense physical proximity of those bodies, the musky scent of hot leather, and the violent friction of their rivalry hit me like a physical blow. Feeling the sheer weight of the absolute masculinity radiating from both men, and looking upon the raw power of their armor, triggered an immediate, overwhelming reaction within my own body. My breath caught, my heart hammered furiously against my ribs, and in a rush of intense excitement, I realized I had completely lost control.

Without either of them even turning toward me, driven purely by the brutal intensity of sharing the same air with those two alphas, my body entirely surrendered. In a sudden, involuntary spasm, I spilled my seed uncontrollably. I felt the hot, heavy rush slick rapidly down my legs, soaking through my breeches and pooling down into the heels of my boots. I stood there trembling, my fingers gripping the quill with manic force just to keep my footing, completely conquered and marked by the sheer intensity of that encounter before a single drop of blood had even hit the mud.

15th October, 1476 – Continued

The torment and absolute ecstasy of that moment inside the council tent were far from over. As I stood there trying desperately to catch my breath, my knees still shaking and the warmth of my first sudden release beginning to cool inside my boots, the two titans took a heavy, aggressive step toward one another, their chests nearly colliding.

That was when the vicious, raw trash talk began—a brutal exchange of words that served as the final spark to burn away what little remained of my sanity.

"Take a good look at these bare shoulders, Campobasso!" De la Mark snarled, his deep voice vibrating so close to me that the hair on my arms stood on end. "I'm going to use every ounce of this freedom to shatter your iron casing and watch you crawl in the mud!"

Campobasso didn't yield a single inch. His visor was up, his bloodshot eyes locked onto his rival with supreme arrogance. The heavy iron of his armor let out a sharp metallic ring as he shifted his weight and barked back with crushing contempt: "You're begging for my steel, De la Mark? Well, know this—I'm fuckin' lovin' it! Even most when you'll be the penetrated knight, utterly broken beneath my weight!"

The sheer impact of those deep, booming voices, the explicit aggression, and the raw promise of mutual physical domination were too much for my body to endure. The tension inside that small space reached an intolerable boiling point. Witnessing the unfiltered, competitive drive of those two alphas challenging each other in such a primal manner shattered my final line of defense.

Before they could even finish their threats, my body surrendered to a second, even more violent spasm. I fuckin' came again, completely out of control! Another heavy, uncontrollable rush burst forth, flooding down my thighs, mixing with the previous release, and pouring down in heavy waves straight into my already soaked boots. I closed my eyes, panting silently in the dim lamplight, entirely mastered and overwhelmed by the savage trash talk of that ruthless pair.

15th October, 1476 – The Walk to the Clearing

When the council finally broke and the two titans marched out of the tent with an authoritative stride, I was left alone for a brief second, leaning heavily against the wooden table just to keep from collapsing. The physical shock of that double release had left my knees trembling like reeds in a storm. But the real trial was about to begin: I had to move, and I had to walk all the way across the crowded encampment to the combat ring in front of the entire army.

Taking that very first step was an experience of pure, suffocating intensity.

The moment I shifted my weight, I felt the heavy, thick pool of fluid—the dense, viscous mixture of my two consecutive releases—shift heavily at the bottom of the leather. With my boots completely filled, every single step caused my own seed to squish and squash constantly between my toes, making a muffled, wet sound inside the footwear. As I walked, the liquid sloshed up the sides of my heels and soaked through my wool socks, clinging to my skin with an oppressive warmth that reminded me, with every agonizing movement, of the raw trash talk and dominant energy of those two alphas.

Marching through the thick mud of the camp without stumbling required an almost superhuman effort. I had to force my posture upright, bite the inside of my cheek until it bled, and maintain a slow, rigid, and deliberate pace. Every heavy thud of my boots against the churned earth caused a slick, sliding sensation inside my shoes, making it feel as though I were carrying the physical weight of my own surrender across the battlefield.

Soldiers were jostling and shoving past me, eager to get a prime view of the clearing, completely blind to the fact that the chronicler walking right beside them had already been utterly mastered by his senses before the steel had even clashed. I finally reached the edge of the combat ring, my body burning, my boots completely sloshing in my own fluids, and my eyes locked onto De la Mark as I prepared to watch their brutal, hyper-masculine fantasy finally turn into a bloody reality.

15th October, 1476 – The View From the Front Row

I managed to reach the very front line of the combat ring, but my unusually rigid, heavily locked gait did not pass entirely unnoticed. As I tried to position myself with the diary tucked tight under my arm, a veteran infantry sergeant—a rugged, weather-beaten warrior who already sported a vigorous erection beneath his leather tunic, completely ruled by the raw testosterone hanging thick in the air—glanced down at me out of the corner of his eye. He knitted his brow, noticing the tense, awkward way I was planting my heels into the mud.

"What's wrong with you, scribe?" he grunted, his voice hoarse from shouting. "Looks like you've got your balls caught in iron, or you completely fouled yourself before the meat even started cooking!"

I simply swallowed hard, fixing my eyes onto the clearing without answering, unable to utter a single word that wouldn't completely betray my state. The sergeant let out a brutal laugh and shoved me forward, forgetting me instantly as the two knights slammed their visors shut. He would never know that what pinned my legs was not the fear of death, but the physical proof of my submission to the two alphas.

Throughout the entire physical clash, my existence was reduced to a suffocating duality of sound, metal, and heavy moisture. In the center of the clearing, the greatswords collided with an earth-shattering roar; with every crushing blow De la Mark delivered against Campobasso's heavy casing, my own body shuddered in perfect synchronization. Whenever I shifted my weight from one leg to the other in the deep mud, my senses boiled over: the thick, heavy fluid squished and forced its way between my toes, producing a muffled, wet squish-squish inside the leather that beat against my mind like the rhythm of the combat itself.

The exact second the Count's armor finally failed—when the rivets sheared off and the steel shattered with a terrifying metallic shriek—the collective shockwave hit me like a physical blow. The soldiers flanking me exploded into an animalistic roar, lunging against one another in a state of carnal frenzy. With the sudden surge of the crowd, I was violently jolted forward, and the sharp movement caused the mixed, warm semen to slosh and pour heavily over the sides of my heels, completely soaking the sole of my foot. To watch that grand fortress of iron be violently breached and laid open while I was drowning inside my own boots was the absolute zenith of my fever. I was physically bound to the destruction of that steel, entirely mastered by the absolute brutality of the spectacle.

15th October, 1476 – Night

The madness of the clearing has finally subsided, but the memory remains scorched into my mind. I am back inside the safety of my private tent, the flap securely tied shut against the chilly autumn wind. The distant noise of the camp's ongoing celebration—the clinking of horn cups, the raucous laughter, and the steady beat of iron drums—filters through the canvas, a constant reminder of the primal forces that conquered us all today.

My body is entirely spent. I have finally removed the leather boots that carried me through the crowd. The heavy, musky scent of the day's total physical surrender still hangs in the air of my quarters, a tangible reminder of the sheer, uncontrollable intensity of facing those two titans. My hands, though steady enough to hold the quill now, still feel the phantom vibration of the earth-shattering blows that brought down Count Campobasso.

Looking down at the open parchment, I see the ink has dried alongside the splatters of mud and sweat from the front line. This logbook is no longer just a record of a military campaign; it has become a testament to the raw, unvarnished reality of men pushed to the absolute limits of their strength, pride, and desire.

De la Mark now rules this camp with undisputed, absolute dominance. His bare-shouldered victory has rewritten the hierarchy of the mercenary band in blood and iron. As I close the pages for tonight, I know that the camp will march at dawn under a new master. The fortress of steel has fallen, and a new era of unchecked, feral power has begun.

15th October, 1476 – The Dead-Tent

Late into the night, I slipped past the drunken guards and entered the cold, silent tent where the spoils of the duel had been gathered. There, laid out on a heavy wooden trestle, were the shattered relics of Count Campobasso's full plate armour.

I approached with a racing pulse, my hands trembling as I reached out to touch the cold, twisted steel. The immense pressure of De la Mark’s strikes was carved directly into the metal; the breastplate was warped, and the heavy rivets had been completely sheared off, leaving jagged, broken edges. The iron still smelled heavily of smoke, friction, and the dark, musky sweat of the fallen titan. Touching the cracked pauldrons, I could still feel the phantom echo of the catastrophic collision that had shattered the camp's sanity.

Beside the armor lay the powerful body of the Count himself, stripped down to his linen undergarments. Even in death, he remained a monumental specimen of raw, masculine power—his chest broad as an anvil, his muscular thighs still rigid from the final, violent struggle.

As I drew back the heavy canvas shroud to inspect the full extent of the damage, my breath caught tightly in my throat. Despite the cold touch of mortality settling into his flesh, the sheer, explosive rush of battlefield adrenaline and raw virility had left an undeniable mark. Right there, beneath the stained fabric, the Count still maintained a massive, rigid erection.

The sheer intensity of the final moments seemed frozen in his powerful frame, a silent testament to the violence of the duel. Looking upon the fallen commander, the reality of the conflict and the fragile nature of even the strongest warriors became overwhelmingly clear. It was a sobering sight, capturing the stark contrast between the legendary status he held in life and the quiet stillness of the tent.

15th October, 1476 – Midnight

From my cramped hiding spot behind the wooden crates, I watched through the dark as De la Mark turned his absolute, unchecked fury away from the corpse and directly onto the legendary fortress of steel that had defined his rival.

"You thought this iron made you a god, Campobasso?!" De la Mark roared, his deep voice vibrating the canvas walls of the tent.

He stood spread-eagled, his heavy, thigh-high leather war boots planted firmly into the dirt floor, anchoring his massive frame as he raised his heavy broadsword high above his head. With a deafening, metallic crash, he brought the blade down onto the Count’s full plate cuirass. The steel shrieked under the impact, a massive dent collapsing inward as sparks exploded into the darkness of the tent.

De la Mark was entirely consumed by a raw, hyper-masculine adrenaline rush, his bare, sweat-glistened shoulders flexing violently with every strike. He swung again and again, smashing the rigid armor to pieces in a supreme display of dominance. The pauldrons were shattered, the faulds were torn apart, and the iron groin guard was flattened under the relentless weight of his broadsword.

With every shattering blow, the hollow clang-clang-bang of the collapsing metal echoed like a symphony of destruction. De la Mark panted heavily, his chest heaving as he systematically reduced the Count's legendary pride into a pile of useless, twisted scrap iron. Standing victorious over the ruined armor, his heavy boots covered in the soot and sparks of the shattered steel, he had officially erased every remaining trace of Campobasso's power, cementing his absolute rule over the mercenary army.

Published: 2026-09-11, viewed 31 times.