I watched from the sleigh, still circling high above the frosty ground below, as my Horrors parachuted down into the slaughter-field of the Christmas Kiosk. The Snowmaw Hag was the last to go, though the battle was already well underway.

  With several Necromarshals capable of commanding field-level troops, my budding army didn’t even need me for the slaughter. Drumbo and Synthia each oversaw four reborn Yetis under their direct supervision, barking out gruff orders as they drove the misshapen Jultomten to the edges of the winter wonderland. Meanwhile Uncle Sam, several revitalized Wardogs, and my newly resurrected Grippledip fought with berserker fury to secure a landing zone in the center of the battlefield.

  The Horrors were fearless even in the face of overwhelming opposition and they fought with unyielding discipline, unleashing a symphony of grotesque violence that would’ve made even the most bloodthirsty warlords nod in open approval.

  Urine-soaked snowballs arced high into the air and exploded on contact with wet, yellow splatts, searing like acid wherever they struck. White hot lances of fire, carved through fortified snowbanks and set Jultomten ablaze like Yuletide logs. Everywhere, fists fell like hailstones, claws ripped, and horns gored.

  Synthia, graceful as ever in her undead elegance, slid through the chaos like a ballerina made of knives—carving off limbs with her chainsaw and vomiting feral hairballs at anything unlucky enough to get in her way. I watched with a grimace as she strangled a shrieking Jultomten with tentacles of hair, before dragging the creature into the snow and popping its skull like an overripe grape. As she finished her grisly work, she turned and commanded her squad of Yetis onward with a slash of her hand.

  Meanwhile, Rudolpho the resurrected Grippledip, tore through a pack of screeching elves with slashing antlers and gnashing teeth, his hooves stomping them into chunky red slush. As two more Jultomten attempted to flank the monstrous reindeer, Rudolpho wheeled around on his hind legs and took to the sky, dashing across the air as his nose burned crimson with irradiated fire, melting faces and leaving blisters on exposed flesh.

  The Jultomten fought back like chaos incarnate.

  There was no rhyme or reason to the things they did—no thought or broader strategy. They were a tidal wave of howling, gibbering, thrashing death, wielding clubs made from femurs and axes that looked like they’d been forged in garbage fires. They swung chains tipped with barbed hooks, catching Horrors and yanking away chunks of flesh with glee. They hurled arcane Christmas ornaments like home-made grenades, which detonated in thunderous bursts that shattered bone and blackened earth, painting the snow with gore.

  One of the grenades caught a Yeti who’d been just a little too slow to get out of the blast radius. It erupted in a flash of dazzling light, blowing off one of Yeti’s legs, just above the knee, and coating the poor beast in a coating of festive holiday-appropriate glitter. The Yeti collapsed, unable to stand and flutily attempting to claw the glitter from his eyes, while a trio of feral Jultomten pounced, ripping open his stomach with sharpened obsidian claws.

  Uncle Sam wasn’t about to let one of his troops died, unopposed.

  The patriotic madman let loose a guttural roar, the tails of his tattered jacket whipping behind him as he charged—his lanky legs eating up the distance in four strides.

  One of the yule elves hurled a fireball from an outstretched hand, but Uncle Sam dashed through the flames, undeterred.

  He slid to a stop, kicking up a spray of bloody pink slush, then raised both hands and hurled columns of blistering fire, melting snow and flesh alike. Timmy, the Kannibal Kid, stuck to Uncle Sam like his shadow, ripping apart anything that got near the Necromasrhal, while Uncle Sam’s Wardogs worked in a pack, hamstringing Krampus’s Christmas helpers, before pulling them into the snow and eviscerating them with reinforced jaws.

  Even Nikoli seemed impressed by the sheer level of carnage my Horrors were capable of.

  But for every Yule Elf my Horrors brought down, two more seemed to claw their way out of the wriggling sack that sat by Krampus’s red velvet throne. The moment a corpse hit the snow it dissolved into viscous slop, then the bulging sack twitched and another one of nightmare elves crawled free, eyes glowing, teeth snarling, ready to die all over again.

  They were endless.

  Worse, they didn’t even have the good grace to leave corpses behind, which meant they probably weren’t even true Dwellers at all. Just conjured minions, bound to this plane by Krampus and his holiday magic. That meant no loot and no bodies to repurpose—though killing them did earn Experience. And holy shit was it rolling in like high tide. Each Elf only netted me around 1,500 Experience points a piece—which, honestly seemed low given how strong they were and how many points I needed to advance—but there were a lot of them.

  And since my Horrors were the only things fighting below, every ounce of that experience flowed into me.

  [Level Up! x 1]

  My biggest regret in the moment was that I hadn’t already crafted the Tome of the Swarm Herald Emblem. The passive benefits from having Will of Iron and Swarm Tactics running would’ve made my army virtually unstoppable.

  Even without them, though, my forces were doing an impressive job of holding the line.

  Right until Krampus stepped into the fray.

  Then the battlefield shifted.

  The horned monster peeled himself from his throne with a languid, untroubled ease then burst into motion like a freight train, crashing through the front line with all the subtlety of an avalanche. He wielded a flaming cat-o-nine tails in one hand, which cracked through the air, trailing ribbons of embers as it tore into my troops. One of the Wardogs took a direct hit and the whip ripped him in two, tongues of flame crawling across the canine’s lower half and turning it to ash.

  Then came the frost breath—noxious and cloying, like liquid nitrogen and rotten milk. The cloud rolled out from Krampus’s maw, freezing my Horrors mid-motion, transforming them from creatures of flesh and blood and machine, into crystalline statues. One of my Yetis caught a direct blast straight in the face and a nearby Yule Elf shattered the creature with a wicked swing of a bone-axe.

  The Snowmaw Hag had finally touched down and was doing her best to patch up the wounded, but it wouldn’t be enough to stop Krampus. She raised one arm high and launched a glowing orb of light into the air. The miniature moon hung above the gore-covered battlefield, bathing everything in weak silvery light. Immediately, Drumbo and two of my Yetis began to morph and change.

  Drumbo swelled in size, adding nearly three feet in height and packing on dense muscle at an impossible rate as twisted horns emerging from his elephantine head. Driven by insane fury, Drumbo rushed forward, breaking through a line of Elves then throwing himself at Krampus. The two traded furious blows, and for a long second I thought Drumbo might be a match for the Christmas nightmare.

  The chains, wrapped around Krampus like obscene jewelry, snaked to life, shooting from his arms, wrapping around Drumbo and pulling him close as hooks tore off bits of skin and muscle.

  That’s when I realized the Horror wouldn’t last long against Krampus’s rage.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Alright,” I barked, “that’s our cue. Let’s get down there and mop ’em up. Jakob, Temp, and Croc—you’re on Elf patrol. Harper, stay back and do what you do best. Nikoli, you and I will take out Krampus.”

  “I hate this,” Temp said, before launching herself from the side of the sleigh and activating the paratrooper Artifact clutched tight in her fist. An ethereal parachute billowed out above her as she floated through the air, looking both terrified and excited. Jakob, Croc, and Nikoli followed, drifting down on their own parachutes, while Harper flew on buzzing, outstretched wings.

  I was the last to leap from the sleigh, though I didn’t bother with the Artifact—not with Psychic Sovereignty equipped. I shot through the air like a cruise missile, held aloft by invisible strands of telekinetic power, and came to a stop about ten feet from the churned snow.

  The others landed on a clear patch of ground, held by a ring of berserker Yetis and my Snowmaw Hag. It wasn’t much and it wasn’t pretty, but it did buy them enough time to get their bearings and launch a counter assault. Jakob and Temperence worked in tandem, the Cendral drawing the anger of the nearby Elves with his Broken Car alarming, then tanking them with his shield, while Temperance hurled Dire Mosquitoes and hacked through limbs with her cleaver.

  Croc worked alone—well, not totally alone, since the mimic had his fleshmaw slug for company and several Horrors—and Harper acted as support, planting her boundary flags, casting heals, and hurling the occasional Shadow Eagle at any Elves who foolishly attempted to punch through the battle lines.

  As soon as Nikoli touched down, he drew the enormous sword riding his hip, then took off like an arrow aimed straight at Krampus. His sword was a blur of movement as he brought it around in a vicious arc, aimed at the demon’s thick neck. Krampus raised an arm and batted the blow away without even suffering any damage. It seemed he was a match for Nikoli even without additional armor or gear.

  Nikoli wasn’t phased in the least and quickly launched into a flurry of slashes followed up by a lightning fast thrust, aimed low at the monster’s groin. Despite his size and bulk, Nikoli moved with the nimble grace as he danced forward and back, side to side. Looking for any opening that he could exploit. Alone, he still would’ve been badly outmatched, but Drumbo continued to rage beside him, hurling haymakers with his fist and launching air blades from his torso.

  Even together, they seemed incapable of phasing the demonic Dweller. His yule tide chains were a whirlwind, slapping away incoming attacks with preternatural ease, while his whip lashed like a cobra—claiming chunks of flesh or turning away Nikoli’s attacks.

  For the first time ever, I cast my new Frostfang Spire ability.

  I pushed my will into the frost-slick earth and jagged spears of ice erupted from the snow like a wall of glacial teeth, reinforcing our flanks and holding the Yule Elves at bay. Several of the Elves were skewered outright, while others screamed in rage as the ice stabbed through over-extended limbs and made forward progress impossible. My Horrors surged forward, hacking and slashing as the tide turned in our favor.

  With the line stabilized—at least temporarily—I switched focus.

  I activated Psychic Sovereignty, summoning a small arsenal of tools from my inventory. They hovered before me like a vanguard, but I didn’t stop there. Not now that I had access to a virtually unlimited supply of weapons in the form of Hydrokensis. The snow covering the ground provided me with all the ammunition I needed.

  Snow rose and I shaped the water according to my will, hardening the powder into crystalline spears and swords.

  I sent all of them hurtling forward in rapid succession.

  My hammer caught Krampus in the shoulder, drawing a shallow wound while the screwdriver nailed him in the thigh, barely sinking through his thick hide, but doing just enough damage to stagger him for half a heartbeat. The speed square flew like a boomerang, repeatedly battering the demon’s face while icy swords and spears left dozens of shallow gashes in their wake.

  Then the Bowling Ball of Rolling Momentum rocketed through the air like a cannon shot, slamming into his side and knocking Krampus off balance before curving back around in a wide arc and smashing into his grotesque, snarling face—snapping one of his black, curling horns clean off.

  Krampus bellowed in anger, his health bar dropping a little more with each successive hit.

  I followed it up by casting Stainslayer Maelstrom.

  A swirling storm of chemical fire churned to life as a blue cloud of super-bleach rained down in a torrent. The toxic liquid pelted the demon, eating through hair and flesh.

  Before Krampus could retaliate, I cast Hydro Fracking Blast and immediately spilt the beam into three separate forks, twisting each with Hydrokinetic precision. The jets of water, thin as needles and sharp as razors, sliced through the demon’s defenses—tearing deep into his chest and shoulder. Steam hissed from the open wounds, and chunks of flesh sloughed from his body. Blood sprayed, black and viscous, painting the snow like ink.

  With these new abilities at my command, I felt like a god and I was just getting warmed up.

  With a shit eating grin plastered across my face, I raised my hand and fashioned a pair of frozen manacles. Snow melted and crawled up Krampus’s legs, all the way to the knees before hardening into unyielding ice meant to cement the monster in place. Krampus struggled against the icy bindings, and though he was plenty strong, they held fast.

  Nikoli didn’t waste that opportunity.

  He bounded back, kicking up a puff of powder, and pulled a pair tiny metallic spheres from his coat. He flung them with a flick of his wrist, and they bounced harmlessly across the ground before unfurling in a blaze of light. Where the orbs had been before, now stood a pair of steampunk-looking gatling guns, affixed to metallic tripods. The arcane guns roared to life, firing a swarm of bullets that peppered Krampus, tearing through even more of the monster’s formidable health pool.

  Nikoli’s sword erupted with radiant runes as he lunged, executing a rapid chain of perfectly timed strikes. One cut followed another in rapid succession—wrist, inner thigh, armpit, neck. Arcs of blood sprayed into the air, sizzling where they touched the ice.

  Krampus roared and thrashed, finally breaking free from the icy restraints.

  At the same time, several new Jultomten had crawled from the oversized sack near the velvet throne and were already rushing into the battle, eager to assist their overseer and warlord.

  A pair launched themselves at Drumbo, pushing the Horror back a few paces with hacking bone axes, while another lobbed a pair of cursed ornaments at me. I redirected the first with a thread of telekinetic power, knocking it into another of the nearby Elves before detonating with a flash, blowing apart one of its brothers. Mishappen limbs cartwheeled through the air, before dissolving into a puddle of goo.

  Several more exploding ornaments were in bound, however.

  At my command, mana rushed out of my core and snow surged upward, forming into thick frost shields that hung in the air on threads of physic power. The bombs detonated against the icy constructs, which absorbed most of the blast—though fire still billowed out around edges of the shields, singing my skin and leaving me momentarily blinded.

  A soft voice in the back of my head shouted a word of warning.

  Something was wrong. Something was coming for me.

  That had to be the new Persistent Cognitive Overlay Syndrome, I’d unlocked by crossing over the first Grit threshold. Problem was, I still couldn’t see jack shit.

  When I finally managed to blink away the afterimage staining my vision, I saw with mute horror that a swarm of black chains were flying straight toward me. Two or three dozen, at least, wriggling through the air like flying snakes, all connected to Krampus’s outstretched arms.

  I dropped the shields and darted back, letting my newly unlocked Danger Sense guide me as I bobbed and weaved, frantically trying to avoid the cruel chains. I pushed my Dog Fighter Title to the edge of its limits as I barrel rolled left, then right, shooting up and dropping low.

  But as fast as I was, there were just too many of them.

  One of the chains wrapped around my ankle, binding me in place. Another coiled around my waist, squeezing tight, while a third bit into my shoulder with a razor-sharp meat hook. I screamed in pain as the chains jerked tight and reeled me in like a prized fish.

  I fought through the pain with everything I had—straining my Telekinesis, launching beams of high-pressure water to cut the chains, but it was no use. I felt the breath leave my lungs as the coils constricted, squeezing the air from my lungs.

  As the chains dragged me toward the ground, they began to burn with a cancerous green light, and a terrible pressure settled around me like an immense weight—though this time it was mental, not physical. It felt like the sickly light from the chains was somehow burrowing through my skin and seeping into my bones. The sharp edges of panic clawed at the mind, threatening to overwhelm me.

  Then the solution hit me like a punch to the face, Neural Slipstream. No matter how powerful the chains were, they couldn’t hold something that wasn’t there. Something that didn’t exist in the material world at all.

  I activated the Relic and cold power surged into my limbs as the material world fell away and I became a being of pure thought…

  At least, that’s what should’ve happened.

  It didn’t.

  Instead, I felt bits and pieces of my body phase out of sync with reality, while other parts remained material and solid. The pressure in my mind, however, intensified tenfold and I felt something snap within, which is exactly when I realized that I’d made a crucial mistake. Although Neural Slipstream made me 90% resistant to all forms of melee and magical damage, it increased telepathic and psychic damage by 50%.

  I’d assumed the chains were magical, but it was only as the battlefield dissolved around me into motes of shimmering light that it dawned on me that the attack had been psychic in nature.