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Chapter 6
The forest held its breath.
Rain fell in tight curtains, washing the ground and making the moonlight flicker in uncertain patterns. Around Kael, the twisted trees seemed to form corridors of black stone; the bodies of cadets and cultists, scattered like broken puppets, swallowed the sound of the falling drops. Only the faint clink of a shattered gauntlet and the low rasp of a dying man broke the wet symphony.
Kael stood still, in the center of the carnage he had orchestrated. His breathing was steady; his heart was quick, but not from exhaustion—only from anticipation.
The experiment he had prepared through sleepless nights would now be tested: weaving around his flesh an armor of pure energy—a second skin, transparent yet harder than steel—bound to his nerves, tendons, and bones. This would be the key to turning his cunning into raw, undeniable strength.
He gauged his inner flow, feeling it thicken like molten lead. Slowly, without showmanship, he let a strand of energy spill out, sculpting it with the edge of his will. The mana obeyed, condensing into a thin, cold-blue layer that clung to his skin like a second membrane. It hugged each muscle, each joint, reinforcing vital points with invisible plates while keeping his mobility intact. The armor did not numb sensation—it focused it: impacts were absorbed and converted into strength, pain dulled, speed refined.
Kael took a step. His weight hadn't changed, but the way his feet struck the ground had; each impact became momentum, each momentum an attack waiting to happen. A brief, joyless smile tugged at his lips. The experiment held. He rested a hand on a broken branch and snapped it effortlessly—the wood giving way without resistance.
Not far ahead, Ser Aelric and Eldrin still stood, sketching the last efforts of an order on the brink of collapse.
Aelric, chest dented from the battle's fury yet upright like a pillar, blinked as he saw Kael approaching. Eldrin, her fingers sticky with half-formed spells, swayed on her knees, desperately trying to summon protective magic.
Kael offered no words of parley. He advanced in silence, his steps swallowed by the soaked earth. The mana armor made his movements surgically precise—slipping between debris, gliding like a solid shadow. When he came into reach, there was no cry—only the brief exchange of gazes between warriors who understood, too late, that they were about to die.
The first execution was methodical, almost academic. Kael descended on Aelric like an unyielding instrument. His left hand locked the knight's throat without squeezing; his right hand, amplified by dense energy, struck. It wasn't an ordinary punch: the force didn't tear the skin, but transmitted an internal shockwave, compressing and snapping the ribs like brittle twigs. Aelric was hurled back, slamming into a tree that splintered on impact.
Kael didn't rush to finish him. He let the pain enter, gauging human endurance. Then, without anger but with a judge's precision, he pressed his heel against the knight's jaw and delivered a short, final movement—a controlled dislocation. Aelric cried out, a sound cut short as the air left his lungs. Kael pressed once more to ensure the man would never rise again. The invisible gauntlet of mana withdrew, and Aelric's body collapsed like a broken statue.
There was no time for despair to settle. Eldrin, who had stumbled toward her comrade, formed a barrier of light with a convulsive gesture. Her lips traced a sealing incantation, her palms drawing runes in the damp air. Kael watched the spell, then smiled.
The second execution was slower, crueler in its precision. Eldrin was a protector—her craft was not merely defense but a dialogue with the laws of magic. Kael knew it and treated her like a master adjusting delicate instruments. He sidestepped the first wave of light with a fractional shift of his hip, the second colliding with his mana armor and dispersing into sparks. Each spell she cast was caught, analyzed, and countered by a fine blade of energy he shaped mid-motion.
On contact, the blade didn't slice so much as it disrupted the weave of her magic; it forced her power to turn on itself, fragmenting. Eldrin felt her reserves drain, her spells shattering like old glass. Her focus—the thing keeping her upright—fractured in turn.
When she tried to flee, Kael caught her by the ankle, lifted her, and pinned her against a moss-covered rock. He placed his open palm against her temple; the contact wasn't mocking but absolute—a pressure of mana on the brain's energetic vortices, disrupting neural patterns and plunging her into physiological darkness. Her eyes searched the moon, blinked, then dimmed. Kael whispered—not mocking, not angry:
— Forgive me, Eldrin. You served the light with sincerity. But light is a luxury I cannot afford.
He withdrew his hand. The mage's body relaxed; no further breath crossed her lips. Kael touched her neck, confirming the cold truth: cardiac arrest. End.
He remained there, unmoving, rain streaming over his second skin of energy. The armor pulsed faintly, reacting to the exertion. It wasn't just a shield—it had absorbed and converted part of Eldrin's attack, feeding it back into his muscles. He had measured, tested, and calibrated. Each movement had been a refinement; each execution, proof.
He scanned the field. None of the survivors could fight effectively. Rumors would find their words; the world would invent its versions, its prayers, its condolences. Kael didn't care. His desire was colder, simpler: power and control.
He crouched, placed a hand on the soaked earth, and inhaled. The world seemed reduced to this instant—breath, rain, and the quiet heat of power flowing through him. His body, once despised, was no longer just a vessel: it had become an instrument. The mana armor hadn't just protected; it had retained, incorporated, and reinforced. He felt it in his tendons, in the way his fingers held the energy blade, in the precise calm of his gaze.
He rose at last, slowly, the shadow of a smile curling his lips. Then he spoke—not to convince anyone, but to seal the certainty within himself:
"You saw me as weak. You took me for a fragile asset. You believed flesh decided battles. You were wrong. I have forged what I lacked—an armor that stands against pain, that turns blows into strength, wounds into knowledge. This fight showed me where my body would give way—and the armor has filled those gaps. I am faster; my strikes cleaner; my will no longer constrained by weakness. You have fallen, and through your fall I have grown. Soon, those who remain in the city will dance to the rhythm I dictate. And if anyone still stands against me, let them know this: I am no longer the shadow you imagined. I am the blade that cuts away your illusions."
Raindrops fell like small hands, washing the blue light beading on his armor. Kael turned away and, without looking back, vanished into the forest shadows, leaving behind the dead who would speak of him for a long time—though not long enough.
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