Beric was running.

  Gunnar saw him emerge through the smoke and screams, his face twisted in panic. Three enemies chased close behind.

  Gunnar moved before thinking. His body acted on its own — wounded or not, it didn’t matter. He slammed into the first enemy with his shoulder, knocking him down like a sack of grain. His blade barely completed its first arc before redirecting toward the second.

  Beric stopped beside him, gasping. He smiled — a gentle, genuine smile, so out of place there that, for a moment, it reminded Gunnar of Johan.

  “If it weren’t for you, I’d be dead,” the boy said, still catching his breath. “When we get back to the village, drinks are on me.”

  Gunnar nodded, exhausted.

  “Sure…”

  Beric opened his mouth to say something else.

  But he never got the chance.

  A white light streaked through the air — fast, precise, lethal.

  The arrow pierced the boy’s chest with brutal force, cutting his sentence in half. He barely had time to widen his eyes.

  It was only the beginning.

  More arrows followed.

  They emerged from the shadows like a rain of white needles. The adept archer, hidden somewhere distant, fired with demonic precision.

  Gunnar saw Ortrus soldiers being impaled around him. Screams. Blood. Bodies dropping one after another.

  He reflexively raised his sword and blocked one of the arrows — the impact shattered the blade and knocked him to the ground. Another grazed his leg, tearing a deep gash into his thigh.

  And then... everything stopped.

  The silence that followed felt bigger than the city itself.

  The moans of the wounded echoed through the streets. Some rolled on the ground. Others simply trembled, frozen in shock.

  Gunnar crawled to Beric.

  But it was too late.

  The body lay still. Eyes open. Gunnar gently closed them. He was just a boy. A real boy. Like Johan. Like so many others who wouldn’t return.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Gunnar remained there for a time, surrounded by dust, pain... and corpses.

  And then he thought: Tolvad.

  He stood with effort. His leg bled heavily, but the will was stronger than the pain. He staggered through the streets, past rubble and blood, until he spotted one of the fallen officers — the one who had been fighting beside Tolvad.

  And not far off...

  Tolvad was still standing.

  But barely.

  An Ortrus soldier was pressing him hard. Gunnar saw the strike — a blade tearing through the old man’s side, blood pouring in waves. Tolvad staggered. But he held.

  It was too much.

  Gunnar roared.

  And charged.

  Each step thundered in his chest.

  The enemy turned at the last second, but too late. Gunnar slammed into him with everything he had left. The soldier fell, pulled a dagger, and tried to stab — Gunnar blocked with his arm and felt metal tear into flesh.

  He roared.

  And struck.

  Tore the dagger away.

  And struck again.

  And again.

  The enemy’s face was just blood now. Nose broken. Eyes shut. But Gunnar wanted more. He wanted to crush everything.

  But he couldn’t.

  His hands… stopped.

  His body shook. He dropped the unconscious man to the ground and stumbled to Tolvad.

  The old man was still breathing. Faint. But alive.

  Gunnar lifted him with effort. Carried him on his back. Each step felt like the last. His body faltered. His vision blurred.

  He fell once. The world spun.

  But he rose again.

  And kept going.

  In the southern quarter of Bryngal, the sky was on fire.

  Celina Kelanor, wrapped in a scarlet mantle of mana, moved through the ruined structures like a living omen. Her movements were sharp, nearly weightless, and the magic around her roared like a furious steed. Every gesture ignited the mist, purging the invaders with flames that devoured even the air. No veil held. No enemy stood longer than a breath. She was the boundary that halted the enemy’s advance.

  Spinning midair, her feet suspended above the scorched ground, Celina scanned the square with sharp eyes. That’s when she saw him. Among those resisting the blaze, stood a man — thin, cloaked in robes embroidered with glowing symbols. His eyes, so pale they were nearly colorless, held the calm of someone in no hurry. His very presence made the air feel heavy and the earth hum beneath the feet. He was an Arconte.

  Three bloodlines ruled Ortrus — families as ancient as the mountains, rivals of Kelthos’ grand duchies. This man belonged to one. A veteran. A real obstacle.

  “What is Ortrus after here?” Celina asked, hovering above the burning square.

  The man did not answer. Instead, a dense cloud of spores formed around him. The substance drifted like organic smoke, pulsing and alive. A foreign magic, shifting, almost theatrical.

  Celina frowned. With a swift flick of her wrist, she unleashed a burst of fire directly into the mist. The flames consumed everything on contact — not even ash remained. A flicker of scorn sparked in her eyes. Empty theatrics.

  She raised her hand again, mana spiraling around her in a golden vortex. She prepared to strike with finality.

  Then the world changed.

  It wasn’t a direct attack, not at first. It was something the body sensed before the mind caught up — a sudden chill down the spine. A heart that stumbled in rhythm. Damp sweat across her back. No barrier responded. No ward ignited. And that’s when she knew.

  Her body... sensed death.

  Celina tried to force her mana, but something was suppressing it. The ground beneath her cracked with a sharp snap, and a colossal root — thick as a temple pillar, covered in thorns and living leaves — surged from the earth like a divine whip. A defensive artifact shimmered beneath her boot, activated by raw instinct.

  But she knew: it wouldn’t be enough.

  Then the root trembled. Withered. Dried from the inside out, as if burned by an invisible flame.

  The master had arrived.

  Atop a shattered tower, Kral watched the scene with an almost resigned sigh. The mist curled at his ankles like an eager serpent as he scratched his beard with a thumb.

  “Hah… the princess lived. What a pain,” he muttered, spitting to the side. “Hope she’s at least entertaining. Needs to be worth the scolding I’m gonna get.”

  In front of him, the vines on the ground began to stir. A tangle of branches and blade-like petals rose slowly, shaping itself into a woman. A living armor sculpted with both elegance and savagery. She was beautiful and threatening in equal measure.

  Her voice came gently, but with a note of inquiry.

  “Tell me… which master are you?”

  Kral shrugged, a crooked smile playing at the corner of his lips.

  “Not much for formalities.”

  “I know most of Ortrus’ masters,” the woman continued, rotating her wrist with grace. Tiny flowers bloomed between her fingers, seemingly drawn to her curiosity. “But you… I don’t recognize.”

  “Then maybe you don’t know as much as you think.”

  He raised his sword.

  A bolt of blue energy burst from the blade — but not toward the woman before him. It shot to the right, where nothing appeared to be.

  And then the air shattered.

  Like breaking glass, invisible fragments scattered, reflecting rainbow hues. It was as though an unseen mirror had splintered.

  There, where nothing had stood before, was a woman.

  Elderly, with impeccable posture, her hair pinned in a low bun. A simple wooden cane rested in front of her like it bore the weight of generations. She smiled.

  “Master Ivríniel Hawthorne.”