Julius didn't wait for a reply. In war, the entire situation could change in the blink of an eye. He couldn't waste any time and give the giant the chance to turn things around.

Hoisting the sword above his head, he brought it down on the giant's neck. There was a swift breeze as the sword sliced through the air, then a sickening crunch as it worked through the giant's skin, muscle, tendon and bone.

The enemy finally fell, his head rolling onto the ground without much fanfare. Julius stared at the sightless eyes. The adrenaline was wearing off quickly, and he had never expected for the fight to be so easy.

Plucking his spear out of the corpse's hand, he surveyed the battlefield. After the fight, he was the only one still standing. He stuck

the spear into the giant's head. This would have to do.

As the sun began to set, he began his journey across the frozen tundra to his home. The giant's head dragged on the ground, painting a red trail on the previously unmarred whiteness.

As the sole survivor, it was a victory for King Abhor's men. And yet, Julius could find no pride. He was alone now, without his comrades and brothers.

Thumping sounded behind him. A sense of dread washed over him. Slowly, he came to a stop and turned around.

Facing him was an army. And at the front, leering, was none other than Thurl.

"Human, you slayed the wrong giant."