The Kingdom of Ashevilliah had become a living hell.
Thick, sulfurous smoke choked the skyline, blotting out the sun until it was nothing more than a sickly, blood-orange smudge against a bruised sky. Every few seconds, the earth shuddered beneath the thunderous shockwaves of high-tier offensive magic, while endless rainfalls of stray arrows whistled through the ruined trenches like deadly iron hail.
Zaryter pressed his back against the damp earth of the embankment, his chest heaving with ragged, desperate gasps. His clothes were shredded, caked in mud, and the heavy crimson stains running down his left sleeve were far from entirely his own.
Keeping his body as low as possible, he crawled toward the edge of the trench and peered through a narrow fracture in the splintered wooden barricade.
The view was sheer chaos. Hundreds of imperial soldiers and bloodthirsty mercenary bandits were locked in a frantic, muddy melee across the plains.
*WHOOSH!*
Instinct took over before his brain could even register the sound. Zaryter snapped his head back.
*STAB!*
A black-fletched arrow whistled past his cheek—close enough that the wind pressure sliced a hairline red mark across his skin—and buried itself halfway into the heavy oak timber behind him.
He stared at the vibrating shaft, cold sweat instantly breaking out across his forehead.
"...That was close."
**BOOOOOOM!**
A stray explosive shell detonated barely ten meters away, showering the trench in dirt, pulverized stone, and scorched wooden splinters. Zaryter ducked, shielding his face with his forearm while choking on the acrid smell of burnt ozone and copper.
He clicked his tongue in frustration. "This is bad."
He pulled back his arm and stared down at his trembling palms. His breath hitched. The brilliant blue light that usually wrapped around his hands like second nature was reduced to a flickering, dying spark.
"I'm almost out of mana..."
He balled his hands into tight, frustrated fists.
*Shit.*
Glancing over his shoulder, his gaze fell upon the deeper sections of the trench line. Hundreds of freed slaves were huddled together in the mud. Chains still clanked around their wrists and bruised ankles, their eyes wide with sheer terror. Yet, despite their shaking limbs, the able-bodied among them were frantically hauling crates of arrows and bandages between defensive posts, clinging to the desperate hope of survival.
Zaryter looked over them, his expression hardening into a grim scowl as he looked back out toward the distant battlefield. He couldn't retreat. He couldn't afford to lose an inch of ground while these people were depending on the line holding.
"Stacian..." he muttered under his breath, teeth grinding together. "Where are you?"
**BOOM!**
Another violent shockwave rocked the trench structure. Zaryter's feet slipped on the wet mud as a stray fireball roared overhead, detonating directly behind the primary barricade.
The explosive atmospheric displacement caught him square in the back, sending his body flying forward.
"GAH—!"
He slammed hard against the far wall of the dirt trench, the wind knocked completely out of his lungs. White stars burst across his vision, and for a few agonizing seconds, the deafening roar of the battlefield muted into a high-pitched, ringing silence.
*Tap. Tap.* Heavy footfalls shattered the ringing in his ears.
Zaryter forced his head up, his vision slowly coming back into focus through the drifting ash.
A mountain of a man stepped through the haze. He was a bandit—broad-shouldered, towering, and clad in mismatched plates of stolen, blood-stained imperial armor. Resting casually across his massive shoulder was a double-headed executioner's axe, its blade dripping with fresh gore.
He caught Zaryter's eye and bared a terrifying, yellow-toothed grin.
"Found you."
Zaryter's eyes narrowed. Without waiting for the brute to settle into a stance, he drew both of his short, curved knives and lunged forward, converting his remaining physical strength into explosive speed.
*CLANG!*
He led with a lightning-fast strike from his right blade. The bandit casually brought up the flat of his heavy axe, stopping the strike cold. Steel bit into steel, sending a shower of sparks into the dark space between them.
Without missing a beat, Zaryter flowed into a follow-up thrust with his left knife.
*CLANG!*
Blocked again.
Relying on his lower center of gravity, Zaryter twisted his torso, driving his right knife down toward the man's exposed ribs beneath the side plate. The bandit smoothly took a quarter-step back, letting the blade glide harmlessly through empty air.
Zaryter unleashed a frantic barrage of high-speed blade work. Once. Twice. Three times.
Nothing connected. Every strike was met with a calculated parry or an effortless dodge. The bandit wasn't just relying on brute strength—he was effortlessly predicting Zaryter's attack vectors.
"Hold still!" Zaryter growled, launching a high-risk forward thrust.
Before his blade could extend, the bandit's massive, calloused hand shot out and clamped around his right wrist like an iron vise. Zaryter's eyes widened in realization.
The man yanked him forward, destroying his balance.
*THUD!*
An armored knee slammed directly into Zaryter's solar plexus. The sheer force folded his body in half, knocking every last drop of air from his lungs.
"UGH!"
Before he could recover or fall to the ground—
**BOOM!**
A massive fist enveloped in leather and iron smashed straight into the side of Zaryter's face.
The impact launched him backward. He skidded through the mud, rolling violently across the floor of the trench until he slammed against a wooden support pillar.
Zaryter pushed himself up on hands and knees, his legs trembling violently. Blood dripped steadily from his mouth, splattering onto the dirt.
The bandit ambled over, twirling the heavy axe in one hand as if it weighed nothing at all.
"You're fast," he scoffed, slowly raising the executioner's axe above his head with both hands. "But you're wasting yourself."
Zaryter wiped the stream of red from his chin with the back of his hand, glaring up at him through a mess of hair. "...What?"
"Die!"
The heavy blade came crashing down with execution-like weight.
*CLANG!*
Zaryter crossed both of his short knives above his head, barely catching the center of the heavy axe blade. The sheer downward kinetic force reverberated through his arms, popping his joints and driving his left knee hard into the muddy ground. Cracks spiderwebbed through the packed earth beneath his feet.
"You're using too much magic just to keep up," the bandit sneered, leaning his massive weight down into the clash, trying to crush Zaryter's skull.
Zaryter diverted the axe blade to the side and threw his body into a desperate side-roll. The blade buried itself deep into the earth where his neck had been a fraction of a second prior.
Capitalizing on the recovery window, Zaryter scrambled up and lunged, aiming his blade straight for the man's exposed neck. The bandit pivoted his upper torso at the last second.
*SLASH!*
The blade cut his cheek instead, leaving a thin line of red across his jawline.
The bandit's smile completely vanished. His eyes turned deadly cold. "Oh."
Zaryter immediately leaped back to create distance, but the man ripped his axe out of the dirt with a single, furious tug.
"Now I'm annoyed."
He swung. Zaryter ducked—the whistling blade clearing his hair by inches.
Zaryter tried to counter—the bandit swatted his knife away.
Another swing—Zaryter dodged. Another—he dodged again.
The bandit didn't give him a single second to breathe. The raw momentum of the assault forced Zaryter entirely on the defensive until the bandit slammed his boot into the ground and swept his axe upward into the dirt.
**BOOM!**
A wall of mud and sharp stone debris exploded into the air. Zaryter instinctively covered his face.
Through the flying dust, a massive iron-clad fist burst forward.
*THUD!*
It caught Zaryter square in the chest, sending him flying backward until he crashed violently against the trench wall.
His vision blurred. His internal mana pool was completely dry, completely depleted. His fingers tightened around his battered knives out of pure habit as the bandit approached.
"You're done."
Zaryter tried to stand, but his knee buckled instantly. He fell back onto hands and knees in the mud.
Behind him, the terrified murmurs of the freed slaves echoed clearly.
"He's losing..."
Zaryter heard it, and for some reason, those words irritated him. Not because they were wrong—because they were true.
He had been attacking recklessly, dodging by a hair's breadth, burning mana, and accomplishing almost nothing while exhausting himself.
The bandit lifted his axe. "This is where you die."
Zaryter stared at the weapon. Then his eyes slowly narrowed as a distant memory surfaced in his mind.
Leornars had once looked at him after a grueling training session, watching Zaryter complain about running out of mana halfway through a fight.
Leornars had simply stared at him with his usual flat gaze before speaking:
*"Use your mana sparingly in a fight."*
At the time, Zaryter had thought the advice was self-evident and obvious.
Now... he finally understood.
His eyes moved toward the descending blade. Zaryter didn't panic, nor did he force non-existent magic into his muscles. At the last possible moment—using the absolute minimum amount of physical effort—he rolled.
**BOOM!**
The axe struck the ground.
Zaryter didn't counterattack immediately. Instead, he watched.
The bandit pulled the weapon free. His right foot shifted backward. His shoulder rotated. His grip tightened. Zaryter's eyes followed every subtle shift in the man's weight.
Again, the bandit swung.
Zaryter stepped aside. No magic. No physical enhancement. Just simple, precise movement.
The axe passed him harmlessly. The bandit frowned, swinging again.
Zaryter ducked.
Another swing—Zaryter stepped back.
Another—Zaryter leaned away.
The bandit's breathing became heavier, his heavy swings growing subtly wilder. Zaryter noticed it instantly.
*He always overextends after the fourth attack.*
Zaryter's eyes sharpened into lethal focus.
One. Two. Three. Four.
The fourth attack came down with the man's full weight. Zaryter moved just as the blade struck the earth.
The bandit's arms were fully extended, his balance completely broken forward. Zaryter stepped right inside his range.
*SLASH!*
His knife cut cleanly across the man's forearm.
The bandit roared. "YOU—!"
He tried to drive a massive fist into Zaryter's face, but Zaryter ducked beneath the swing. The fist passed over his head, and Zaryter struck the man's lead knee with a heavy kick.
The bandit staggered as his joint buckled. Zaryter didn't waste the opportunity, driving his boot into the haft of the axe and kicking the weapon several meters away into the dirt.
The bandit stared at his empty hands, then back at Zaryter in shock. "You bastard!"
He charged bare-handed.
Zaryter didn't attack. He waited.
The man's first punch came toward him—Zaryter shifted his head. Miss.
The second punch—Miss.
On the third punch, Zaryter caught the extending wrist. He dropped his center of mass and twisted.
*SNAP!*
The bandit's shoulder rotated unnaturally. "AGH!"
Zaryter kicked his stomach, sending the brute stumbling backward, and followed up in a flash. A knife pressed firmly against the man's throat.
The battlefield seemed to go silent around them. The bandit froze, sweating profusely beneath the cold steel.
Zaryter's breathing was still heavy, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"You talk too much."
The bandit stared at him in utter disbelief.
Zaryter slowly lowered the knife, stepping back as another memory surfaced. This time, it was Stacian, her voice calm and steady as she spoke to him back at the camp:
*"You need to be adaptable in a fight. Rather than attack, you need to understand your opponent."*
Zaryter looked at the defeated bandit, then down at his own hands. He finally understood what she meant. A fight wasn't always about who could attack harder or who possessed the most power.
Sometimes, it was simply about who could learn faster.
Zaryter looked toward the smoke-covered battlefield, his eyes turning cold and sharp.
"Leornars taught me how not to waste my strength," he murmured softly. He looked back at the terrified bandit. "Stacian taught me how to understand the enemy."
He tightened his grip on his knives, reversing his hold.
"So..." A faint grin appeared. "I guess it's time I actually listened."
The bandit suddenly reached for a hidden dagger at his waist. Without looking, Zaryter immediately kicked his wrist, breaking the bone and sending the dagger flying away into the mud.
He sighed. "...You really don't know when to quit."
Heavy footfalls echoed through the haze as another group of enemies emerged from the smoke. Five. Then ten. A whole squad of heavily armed reinforcements.
Zaryter stared at them. His mana reserves were nearly empty, his weapons were damaged, and there was still no sign of Stacian.
He slowly raised both knives into a low stance.
"...Fine."
The enemies charged.
Zaryter didn't rush toward them. He waited. He watched. He learned.
And for the first time that day, he stopped fighting the battlefield... and started fighting the people inside it.
Meanwhile...
Deep beneath one of the grand manors in Ashevilliah Kingdom, Salene was having a completely different kind of crisis.
She stood inside an underground basement workshop filled with whirring clockwork tools, strange machines, glowing glass containers, ancient books, and various pieces of discarded equipment.
She rummaged through a dusty cabinet. "Where is it?"
She pushed aside several heavy iron spanners. "Eeeh..." She frowned, her pale cheeks puffing out. "I swear I had it."
She searched again. Nothing.
Standing on top of a small wooden box to reach the upper shelf, her short frame barely managed to peek over the top.
"Hm." She tilted her head, tapping her chin. "Where did I put that screwdriver?"
She looked down at herself, then at her oversized white lab coat. "Hm. I should probably remove this."
She yoinked the coat off her shoulders.
*CRUNCH.*
Salene froze instantly. "...Hm?"
She slowly looked down, stepped off the wooden box, and lifted her coat from the workbench. Her brass screwdriver was lying flattened underneath a heavy book the coat had dragged along.
She stared at the ruined tool for three seconds, then let out a bright, cheerful laugh.
"If Ayesha saw this, she'd never let me hear the end of it! She'd probably give me one of her long lectures about organization."
Salene walked toward the lower storage cabinets, humming a little tune. She opened one, pulled out a small black bag lined with anti-magic runes, and placed it on the table.
Reaching inside, she pulled out a strange container. It looked organic—almost alive. Thin, translucent nerves pulsed visibly beneath its fleshy surface.
The moment Salene placed it on the table, the thing twitched violently.
When she pulled out a small glass syringe filled with a glowing liquid, the organic cup immediately began shaking in terror.
Salene raised an eyebrow, looking amused. "Hey."
She poked it with the end of the syringe. The cup wiggled violently across the metal surface.
"Don't blame me," she said, leaning closer. "I didn't ask you to become a slave trader."
She poked it again. "And I certainly didn't ask you to get caught."
The cup trembled so hard it nearly tipped over.
Salene smiled innocently, giving a cute little shrug. "So basically... it's no one's fault but yours."
She picked up the syringe, checking the fluid. The cup began shaking even harder.
Salene laughed softly. "Stop being dramatic."
Above them, the distant sound of heavy explosions echoed through the manor's stone foundation. Salene paused, her smile disappearing for a brief moment as she looked toward the ceiling.
"...Zaryter."
Another explosion shook the dust from the rafters. She let out a soft sigh.
"Please don't die before I finish this... You'd make me very annoyed."
The cup wiggled frantically. Salene's cheerful smile instantly returned.
"Good." She raised the syringe overhead. "Now hold still."