Inside the gate, a dozen villagers and soldiers formed a line desperately propping the gate with their bodies, sticks, carts and wood beams. They pushed against the gate with their backs, arms, and bodies…groaning under the intense strain.
Each blow against the gate made the villagers tremble like an earthquake. They feared the gate would not hold much longer.
"Hold!"
"Hold!"
The men screamed encouraging each other.
FWAP!!! FWAP!!! FWAP!!!
Muffled roars were heard followed by a heavy smell of blood and sweat that saturated the air.
"Aah! Blood! The ground is soaked in blood! We are going to die!" One villager cried in a panic as soon as he noticed something wet oozing under the gate.
"Calm down and open the gate." The archer said as he approached from the palisade walkway.
"Open the gate? Are you crazy? We will die if we do!" Another villager cried out.
"Relax…the orcs at the gate are dead. Our reinforcement has arrived." He said with a confident smile.
The gates opened with a pained creak…clearly damaged from the battering it suffered. By the gate entrance stood a young man covered in blood and surrounded by dead orc. His hair partially gold and partially soaked red. He wore a bronze color armor, unimpressive at first, but upon closer inspection it seemed alive. Despite his youthful and handsome appearance, his golden colored eyes held the steady and unshaken resolve of a veteran of many battles.
"Who are you?" Asked a stunned villager…not knowing if he should thank him or run away.
"Sorry, no time to chat. There are more orcs on the other side, and they will break through if we don't stop them…this way! On me!" Arthos yelled.
For some inexplicable reason the soldiers and villagers followed his lead. Perhaps it was because he had saved them earlier, or perhaps it was because he had single handily defeated a party of orcs…or perhaps it was his aura…the unmistakable and magnetic aura of a leader.
When there is a good leader, good men follow.
Arthos and his forces sprinted through the village heading to the north side. As he ran through the village, he waved his sword like a banner while shouting at the men and women cowering in fear inside their homes.
"This way! On me! Fight for your homes! Fight for you families! For your children! For your Future!"
Arthos roared, "this is YOUR home! Stand up and fight! FIGHT!"
The effect was electrifying…this was not a battle cry…nor was it a rallying-call.
It was a release.
Any fear, doubt, or worries they felt were washed away…like a flood gate being opened. Arthos's rallying call inspired the men and women. It gave them courage and filled their souls with fire. A chorus of brave shouts rang loud in response…like an avalanche of fire erupting from the heart and soul.
Hundreds of men and women followed him, together they ran, together they fought.
The northern wall had fallen, the orcs had cleaved a massive hole in the wall and were pouring into the village. The orc's roars clashed with the human's shouts as the two forces collide by the northern wall.
Arthos was the first to reach the orcs…like an enraged lion he pounced on the nearest orc chopping him in half with one quick strike. Something changed in Arthos…this was no longer a game…no longer about money…no longer about his friends.
This was real.
Real people, real families, real lives being destroyed or saved.
Knowledge is intangible, but it has tremendous weight.
The knowledge and the realization of what was at stake filled Arthos' heart with unwavering courage and determination. His body reacted faster and faster, arms swung stronger, eyesight grew keener. He was leveling up…he no longer had a system to tell him…but he felt it in his soul…he was leveling up.
The Ray villagers fought like an untrained army. Their attacks were clumsy and raw…but they fought with courage and tenacity. It took five or six villagers swarming together to stop and defeat a single orc.
Among the army of brave men and women fighting on the frontline, one man watched keenly as he fired arrows from a distance. His gaze was magnetically attached to Arthos. He silently witnessed from afar how the young man inspired others, rallied them to be more than villagers, more than soldiers…even if just for a moment. The archer watched in awe the steeliness of the young man's resolve, and the vibrant color of his character.
Something inside the archer felt touched…felt motivated to do more, to fight harder, shoot faster, push to the limits and beyond. The archer gasped…his heart stirred violently. Memories flooded his mind, memories of a time long past, of a distant battlefield, of a doomed battle vastly outnumbered, of a man who stood tall in the face of certain annihilation, of a man with golden hair rallying his forces against all odds, of a man wielding Calibur…the sword of the First King.
As the archer unleashed a hailstorm of arrows, he continued to watch the young man…how he fought, how he moved, how he countered and dodged…his natural rhythm and tempo. It was just like that man from his memories.
As a veteran of many battles, the archer realized something important…
Commanders bark orders…generals lead…but only a King can inspire.