Barbarian Hunter
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The clash of steel and thunderous war cries echoed across the plains as the barbarian horde descended like a storm. Their painted faces snarled beneath rusted helms, axes gleaming under a blood-red sun, while the defenders braced behind splintered shields, breath ragged but resolve unbroken. This was no battle for glory—it was survival. Villages lay smoldering in their wake, the earth churned to mud by hooves and boots alike. Tribes driven by hunger and ancient grudges crashed against walls held by those who refused to let their world burn. Arrows blackened the sky; siege engines groaned as fire rained. Neither side sought parley—words had died with the first raid. Warriors fell, their last breaths cursing or praying, as the fields drowned in a tide of iron and fury. Kings called it a righteous purge, chieftains spat it was destiny, but for those trapped in the carnage, it was hell wearing a crown. Legends would spin tales of valor, yet none would capture the stench of ash and blood, the screams swallowed by night, or the truth: in war, even victors become ghosts.
