The Pig's Fury
At dawn, the eastern gatehouse stank of blood. Flies already swarmed the corpses of Halbrecht's knights, sprawled like broken dolls across the cobblestones.
Their dice still sat on the overturned table, stained with red. A torch burned low, sputtering in a pool of gore. One man's head had rolled into the gutter, eyes glassy, mouth frozen mid-scream.
Lord Halbrecht arrived in a fury, flanked by a half-dozen trembling guards. His fat face flushed crimson as he stared at the carnage. His jowls quivered.
"Six knights," he growled. "Six knights cut down like pigs at slaughter."
His captain of the guard swallowed hard. "My lord, the peasants whisper the gods struck here. They say the sky demons walk among them, leading—"
Halbrecht's backhand cracked across the captain's face, sending him sprawling.
"Gods?!" Halbrecht bellowed. "They are not gods! They are vermin! Peasants! They piss and shit like the rest of us!" He stomped his boot into one corpse, splattering blood across his greaves. "This is no miracle. This is rebellion. And rebellion…" His voice dropped to a growl. "…is a disease."
The priest at his side clutched his holy book. "But my lord, the villagers—"
Halbrecht rounded on him, spittle flying. "Then we purge the villagers! We burn their hovels, salt their fields, and string their corpses from the walls! Let them see what happens when they whisper 'gods' in my city!"
His guards shifted uneasily, but none dared speak.
Halbrecht raised his hands, fat fingers clenched into trembling fists. His voice rose, booming across the courtyard.
"Bring me every suspected rebel. Every peasant who failed to bow yesterday. Every tavern singer who dares hum a song of the sky demons. Bring them to me!"
His eyes burned with madness. "I will drown this city in its own blood if I must. Better ashes under my heel than thrones for false gods!"
The guards scattered to obey.
Behind him, the corpses of his knights lay silent. But the whisper was already spreading across the city:
The gods had struck. The pig had lost his knights.
Blood and Faith
The rebels crept back to their cellar hideout before dawn, reeking of sweat and blood but alive. For the first time, they weren't whispering in fear — they were shouting, laughing, clapping one another on the back.
"We killed knights!" one farmer roared, waving his pitchfork in the air like a trophy. "Gods be praised, we killed six of the fat pig's finest!"
Another villager fell to his knees before Damian, head bowed. "Lord of the Fallen Sky, you led us true."
"Not a lord," Damian corrected coldly. His eyes glimmered in the lamplight. "A ruler."
The rebels cheered louder.
Kael muttered under his breath, rubbing blood off his hands. "Ruler, lord, god — this is getting out of hand."
Riven slapped him on the back, nearly knocking him over. "Shut up and enjoy it, doc. These people will crawl through fire for us now. I say we keep feeding them victories until they start breathing war."
One by one, more villagers arrived through the hidden entrances. Some carried food. Others brought stolen weapons — rusty swords, broken shields, even crossbows taken from guard towers. Many came with nothing but their own desperation.
All came with faith.
"The gods are with us."
"The sky lords will free Greymoor."
"Halbrecht's reign is ending."
Every whisper fed the rebellion like dry kindling feeding flame.
For the first time, the three CEOs saw what they had truly created. Not just rebels.
A movement.
But above, Halbrecht moved swiftly. The corpses at the gatehouse were still warm when his purge began.
By noon, squads of knights were storming through alleys, dragging families from their homes.
"Who whispered the gods' names?" the guards demanded, torches burning in their hands. "Who prayed to them?"
If one villager hesitated, the torch was thrown. Entire homes went up in flames with families still inside.
In the square, gallows sprouted like weeds. Men and women dangled in the noose while priests shouted, "This is the fate of god-worshippers!"
One execution was slower — a blacksmith who had refused to denounce the "sky lords." He was tied to four horses, each lashed until the man was torn apart limb by limb. His screams echoed across Greymoor, but even louder were the sobs of his children forced to watch.
Halbrecht watched from his balcony, wine in hand. His smile was thin, vicious. "Let them worship screams instead of gods."
But the purge didn't break the city. It cracked it open.
For every hovel burned, three more peasants fled into the rebels' arms. For every body swinging from the gallows, ten more whispered that the gods had descended to bring vengeance.
By nightfall, the cellar was overflowing. Men, women, even children crammed inside, clutching stolen blades or makeshift clubs.
A young mother, soot still in her hair from her burned home, knelt before Kael, eyes blazing. "My family is gone. My lord, my god, give me a blade. Let me kill the pig."
Kael looked horrified. "I… I'm not your—"
Damian cut him off smoothly. "She will have her blade."
The woman kissed Damian's hands, tears staining the dirt.
Riven leaned against the wall, grinning like a wolf. "See? Every time that fat fuck boils a man alive, he's cooking up fresh soldiers for us. He's doing half the recruiting work."
Damian's voice was cold steel. "Then let him keep boiling. We'll sharpen the anger into a blade."
The rebels roared their approval.
Greymoor was no longer just a city under a lord. It was a city tearing itself apart.
And in the shadows, three outsiders tightened their grip on the chaos.
For Bread and Blood
The rebels gathered at the edge of the forest, crouched low in the tall grass. Torches glimmered in the distance along the dirt road — Halbrecht's supply caravan, six wagons laden with food and grain, escorted by two dozen armored guards.
Damian crouched with them, his eyes sharp as razors. "This is not about glory. This is survival. We need the food. We need the morale. And we need the city to see that Halbrecht cannot even feed his own table without losing to us."
Kael adjusted his crude map by lamplight, whispering furiously. "Okay, so — wagon formation, guards split between front and rear. They'll expect bandits to strike head-on, so we hit the middle. Cut them in half. Riven leads the first charge, peasants with pitchforks follow to lock them down. I'll handle fire support."
"Fire support?" a villager echoed nervously.
Kael grinned faintly, holding up two clay pots filled with oil. "Yeah. Medieval Molotov cocktails. Welcome to modern warfare, assholes."
The rebels chuckled nervously.
Riven cracked his neck, chain wrapped around his fist. "Good enough for me. Just point me at the juicy parts."
Damian's cold voice cut in. "Remember: no survivors. Every guard must die. And the city must hear of it."
The rebels nodded grimly.
The caravan creaked into the kill zone. The first wagon rolled over a log blocking the road — and the second never got the chance. Rebels surged from the grass, screaming, pitchforks and spears stabbing through horse and rider alike.
"FOR THE GODS!"
Oil pots smashed against the wagons, flames exploding across dry hay. Horses shrieked, rearing in terror.
Riven barreled through the chaos like a storm, his chain smashing helmets, his knife sliding between ribs. Every kill drew another howl of laughter. "That's right, run, you armored cunts!"
Kael crouched behind cover, hurling flaming torches into the wagons, turning the food carts into roaring bonfires. Then, at the last second, he shouted: "Pull the sacks!"
Rebels scrambled, dragging bags of grain and salted meat out of the flames. For once, their hunger drove them faster than their fear.
Damian moved like a shadow, axe cleaving clean, never wasting a swing. He barked orders between blows, directing the rebels with precision. "Hold the line. Cut the stragglers. Drive them into the fire!"
Within minutes, it was over. The guards were slaughtered, the wagons burned, and the rebels stood panting in the glow of the flames, sacks of food clutched in their hands.
Their victory cries echoed into the night.
Halbrecht's city starved. The rebellion feasted.