Invincible

He stormed into the village like a whirlwind, sucking in bodies and spewing out corpses, a nightmare of death and blood. The sentries fell as they screamed their warnings, heads flying, limbs torn. The militia formed in the central square, simply making the butcher's tally larger.
23
He tore through buildings like a wrecking ball, killing everything he found. Women, children, the infirm, it mattered not. All were blood for his God. All would fall to his axe, to his fists. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Screams lit the night as a fire kindled on a shack, spreading throughout the village.
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The killing continued through the night, the villages inhabitants falling one by one as they cowered in their hiding places, the butcher implacable, inescapable, and unflagging. Blood flowed like rain through the streets, turning the ground muddy.
92
And then the killing stopped... there was nothing left to kill. The butcher stood in the town square, a human leg gripped in one hand, his gigantic, bloody axe in the other. He gnawed on the axe and considered the night. And then he heard something. A heartbeat. It's source stepped out into the square, from behind a structure that might have been a place of worship. It was an old man, clad in some kind of robes, a serene smile on his face. "Hello, Butcher" spoke the old man, his voice hoarse from a throat ravaged with age "I have forseen this bloody night in too many dreams. I'm glad it's finally here, just so I can get it over with."
"THEN PREPARE TO DIE, HOLY MAN!" screamed the butcher, and charged.
The axe fell, and the holy man ducked the first blow, moving with a supernatural speed that belied his appearance. "Hehe... Catch me if you can, Butcher!" The deadly dance continued, the Butcher's axe rising and falling, and the priests body heaving itself with unnatural speed and flexibility, avoiding every strike. But the Butcher noted with satisfaction that the priest was tiring. He would grow slow, and he would grow sloppy. And then he would die. He saw his moment, a slight slide of a foot in the blood-slicked mud, and lunged forward. Then another smile lit the priest's face. And he simply melted. His body folded into itself, all life-force gone.

Krasht roared. It was impossible. He was invincible... he could not fall... he who never tired, never slowed for any wound... implacable, unbreakable, the Perfect Warrior. Krasht knew something he had not felt in a long, long time. He knew defeat.
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