“SIR WAKE UP!” Thorne’s mind was groggy as he heard those words in a jumble. His eyes flickered for a moment but shot close almost instantly upon seeing the blinding light. “SIR, THE BATTLE IS NOT OVER. WAKE UP!”
Once again, Thorne tried with all his effort to open his eyes and resist the horrible light. After several attempts, he succeeded. He felt confused and tired. ‘What battle?’ Thorne tried to stand up but stumbled before he fell down in a pathetic heap. He lay there for a second, simply looking at the sky. It was orange and blue, ‘So it’s sunrise. Beautiful.’
“Argh.” He grunted as a sharp pain bruised his head. “The battle. Moravian, Procka.” He remembered; he remembered it all. A soldier was above him; It was a frail-looking tan young man with a frightened expression. He reached down a hand toward Thorne, who lapsed it firmly and got to his feet. “What happened?” He questioned, glaring at the young man.
“The battle has been raging all night. We have the upper hand but are slowly losing the advantage. Sir Moravian, Sir Zal, and Sir Proka are all out injured. The enemy commander, the yellow practitioner, is currently destroying us.” He listed, without the hint of a stutter.
Thorne nodded, “Thank you, lead me to the commander.”
“Right away, sir!” The boy shouted before jogging off.
Thorne followed, and as he ran, he observed the environment. Wounded and dead were now a staple of this land. Blood and corpses dotted every grain of sand, and wounded on both sides bled out without receiving assistance.
Some battles were still ongoing, but the ones among cultivators were rare and low in participants. Most of the battles that Thorne could see were among low-level non-cultivators and were relatively low stakes compared to the previous meat grinder only hours before.
As the young man led Thorne through the ruined urban landscape, Thorne saw more battles. The wide streets, and surplus of space allowed constant warfare to be had. ‘Oh, they moved away from the corpses,’ Thorne thought with a grimace, ‘Only to create more corpses.’
It was clear that no one was on cleanup duty. Thorne knew that if Lyra was the commander, she would make that a necessary yet unseemly role a priority. ‘She’s probably still out or just awakened.’ Thorne realized; the night had been rough on her, even though she hadn’t participated in the war, ‘Hopefully, she can cobble this shitshow together before it’s too late.’
Thorne knew little about urban warfare, but he did know that no one wanted to rule a destroyed city. After all, who wanted to be the lord of rubble?
Ahead of him, the young man peered over his shoulder. “Soon, we enter the danger areas,” he said while retrieving a standard-issue submachine gun. Keep your weapons ready.”
Thorne nodded but noticed that the man had stopped and was staring at him, a bit flustered. “Also, can you go beside me? Otherwise, I will probably die,” he said, eyes averted.
“Of course,” Thorne grunted, patting the boy’s shoulder as he began to jog shoulder to shoulder with him.
Less ruble translated to more conflict. Thorne himself had to intervene multiple times to protect his guide. However, as soon as he showed he was a cultivator—and a strong one at that—all soldiers, including other cultivators, backed off. Thorne obviously could have killed them and reduced the enemy’s numbers, but there were bigger fish to fry.
Thorne felt the energy density rise and rise. The aftermath of tumultuous battles hung in the air, and distant ones radiated energy from miles away. Thorne only cared about one energy signature, though—one powerful, distant yellow spectrum energy signature. He felt it far away: a raging torrent, a sole lion in a pack of gazelle. No one with any senses could miss it. If Thorne didn’t know better, he would have thought it was the city lord.
A quick check of his energy reserves yielded positive results. He was full of energy, and his muscles were surprisingly rested; sleep and time were indeed the cure to anything.
Abruptly, the boy stopped in his tracks. They had reached an interaction in the street, and past there, Thorne could feel that the battles between cultivators were more common and more deadly.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
“I stop here.” The boy said between gasps; the run had been quite rapid, even among the standards of cultivators. “I hope I did well.”
Thorne displayed a genuine smile; “You did, thank you.” He outstretched his hand to the boy’s surprise. After a moment’s pause, the boy clasped his hand and smiled wide. “Uh, Of course, I better be going now.”
“Yeah, go on,” Thorne said, motioning with his hands. Nodding, the boy began his jog away, and Thorne could only hope that he returned unharmed.
Sighing, Thorne slowed his pace to a walk and looked out with his senses toward the commander. A grave expression took his face as he marched on. This wouldn’t be an easy battle.
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Commander Piqui grinned; it was a harvest! The day had been ripe with blood, hundreds lost on both sides with corpses littering the carved road. It was beautiful. ‘Finally, I can let loose! This is what an executioner should be doing, Not sitting in a meeting room, squabbling with imbeciles.’
Among the mountain of corpses, Piqui saw movement. ‘So, some worm is still trying to wriggle away.’
Licking the blood off his face, Piqui beamed as he stood over the movement. He stepped over legs, arms, and whole corpses. He didn’t care; his nose was long used to the smell of blood. His footsteps echoed in the surroundings. The square was dense with buildings, and it was quite a small space. As Piqui got closer, he spotted his prey. It was a young amber spectrum cultivator—clearly a student. He was relatively short and scrawny for his spectrum and had a handheld short spear clenched in his hand. Blood painted a morrow picture on the boy’s face. On the boy’s shoulder was an apple-sized hole; it sizzled and flashed as the remaining energy remnants continued damaging the boy.
“Good job.” Piqui said with a series of slow claps, “You're the last one; you should be proud of yourself.”
Still crawling, the boy ignored Piqui, which grated his nerves just a bit. “Oh, too mighty to speak.” Bending down, Piqui pressed his face close to the boys—peering into the hardened amber eyes; “Well, I suppose worms do not speak. Though I do hope and pray that you scream.”
With slow movements, Piqui brought his palm upward. It pointed to the sky above and cracked with electricity. As he was about to bring it down and end the worm's pathetic existence, Piqui stopped. “Is someone there?” he shouted, and a small grin began to form.
“Yes, there is.” Someone down the street said. The voice was calm and even seemed a little bit… bored. His brows knitted together, Aral stretched his neck and peered into the distance. The dust still present hid the figure, and only after a moment's notice did the voice emerge onto the plaza. “Oh, so it's you. How fun.”
Piqui’s heart raced as he saw the man grow close; this would be a battle of warriors! He remembered this man; it was one of the enemy's commanders! Piqu had heard from some of his men that the men had been quite the menace and had even killed his dear college Karal Muchazo.
“We will fight in a moment.” Piqui said in a placating manner, “Let me dispose of this one first.”
He lifted his hand, and just before he struck, he noticed two contrasting expressions: There was one of determination and grit on the boy’s face as he looked up to his life-ender. The boy snarled as he watched the prelude to his death. No fear, no panic, no helplessness, no begging. There was none of that; the boy just watched on as if he could easily take the attack. Contrary to the brave boy, the commander was full of trepidation and horror; his lip quivered, and an unnatural paleness sprouted onto his face. With his lightning perception, Piqui even noticed perspiration begin to form and a slight tremble in his leg.
‘Maybe they know each other; well, that’s good; I can use that.’ Piqui shrugged, ‘Ah, whatever, it doesn’t really matter.’
The commander rushed forward with wide eyes as he watched Piquis's hand crash down with the force of a sledgehammer! It was too late, the commander was too far, and Piqui was too fast. A buzzing noise rang around the boxed-in plaza. It echoed around as it buzzed around in the cracked open skull of the now-dead boy.
“Now let us fight,” Piqui shouted in glee as he raised a blood-soaked fist high in the blood-soaked sky.