Thorne’s heart froze, ‘I didn’t tell them! Damnit, I forgot!’

In the aftermath of Moravian’s death, he had neglected his initial goal of warning the others of the enemy’s suicide attack. ‘I knew that they all could do it! Bastards!’

He tried to rush forward and look for Zal. He squinted and peered with great focus. The overwhelming smoke made it impossible to see, and the wafting energy rendered his senses useless. As Thorne tried to enter the swirling mushroom of smoke and fire, he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. It was Lyra. She gave him a stony look. Her jaw was clenched, and her eyes stern, “We cannot, Thorne. If we rush in, they will have an excuse to attack us. We cannot interfere no matter what.”

Thorne scowled and batted her hand off of him. He did stay, though, and watched with gritted teeth as the dust disappeared. ‘It’s all my fault, all my damn fault that my only friend might die.’ Thorne’s scowl morphed into a look of confusion, ‘Friend, when have I begun thinking of Zal as a friend.’

He shook his head, clearing away the useless thoughts. The smoke was clearing, and Thorne could see a silhouette highlighted against the tan road in the shadows. Thorne felt his red energy urging him to act and rush forward and do something–anything. He couldn’t, however. Lyra’s argument was valid, and logic prevailed over passion.

‘Once they see that the woman is dead, we can help, just a few more moments.’ Thorne thought with boiling blood. Once they saw that one of the duelists was definitely dead, the other could be checked on.

Unfortunately, the smoke was slow to clear. The orange energy didn’t only detonate the cultivator but also the bombs in her pouch. Thorne could feel, just based on the energy density, that this self-destruction was far more deadly than the one he had weathered.

After nearly fifteen minutes had passed, the sun broke through the smoke storm, and the already-known results were confirmed. Zal was lying on the ground with his face grounded against the warm sandstone road. He held his knees in his arms like a baby and was unmoving.

Thorne and Lyra immediately sprinted toward him with no objection. Kneeling down, Thore felt a lump in his throat upon seeing Zal’s condition.

The man’s face was burned and cut from the stone; it looked like a slice of cheese with different holes speckled throughout it. Unfortunately for Zal, his face was not in the best condition.

His white robe was wholly burned, leaving the man bare.

His exposed back was crusted, and normal skin was nowhere to be seen. The burn was comprised of many colors: red, purple, and, most horribly, black.

He didn’t bleed much, but Thorne knew that internally, the man was dying. “HEALER! HEALER!” He screamed, his voice shaking. “Come on, Zal, use your energy, damnit!” He muttered while lightly tapping the man’s skull, which was surprisingly unharmed.

‘He probably focused his protection on his head. Smart man.’

Hearing a stomping noise, Thorne turned his head. It was the healer running toward him; he had been brought with the army to prevent this very thing from happening. He was a stout, plump man and didn’t possess the typical tan of the other citizens. His shoulder-length black hair sang as he ran. Puffing, he reached Zal with his hands on his knees.

Thorne gritted his teeth, but he knew better than to press him. After catching his breath, the man knelt down, his turquoise spectrum crystal brightening. He rested his fat hand on the small of Zal’s back and closed his eyes. Thorne sensed the turquoise energy—ever-tranquil—flow into Zal. There were no noticeable changes to the man’s wounds, and the healer—Rohan—grimaced.

He took his hand off and opened his eyes—looking up at Lyra. “We can save him.” He said in a grim tone, “But we’ll have to take him away to the camp. We do not have the supplies here.”

Lyra licked her lips in concentration as she looked down at Rohan. “Do it; we will not be injured like Zal. We are prepared.”

Rohan nodded and motioned for the non-cultivator healers to come. Two heavily muscled men came running over with a stretcher held between them. Carefully, they proffered Zal to the stretcher and hurriedly carried him away.

Thorne looked back mover at the sprinting healers, wiping sweat off his brow.

“Good people.” A voice rumbled next to him.

Thore turned his head to look at Procka, who had spoken. She wasn’t too expressive as per usual, but Thorne could see that she looked… contemplative of all things.

“Them better us.” She said before lumbering away back to the front of the army.

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Thorne rubbed his eye, wiping away the fatigue and strain that had snuck up on him. ‘Far better indeed.’

He looked over at the enemy army. There were hordes of killers, but only a dozen or so people meant to heal. ‘It’s never balanced.’ Thinking back to his days on Earth, Thorne sighed, ‘never balanced.’

Walking back to the front, where Procka and Lyra already were, Thorne noticed that the city lord—previously expressionless—sported a tiny smirk.

“He planned this.” Lyra said quietly, “He desires us to be shaken. I hope that you two will manage on fine.”

Thorne and Procka both nodded.

“Good,” Lyra said, her eyes still on the opposing army. “Procka, I believe it best if you proceed next. Your strength should be able to intimidate the others.”

Procka—still wordless—nodded and stepped forward in silence.

“Who do you challenge.” City Lord Kroll bellowed in his deep voice.

Procka pointed to a middle-aged man of the brown spectrum. He was of average height and had a military-like demeanor. His black hair was buzzed, and he was fully uniformed in general’s garb. His only exposed skin was his neck, which was covered in scars. He was a true warrior.

Like Procka, this man didn’t speak. He looked up to the city lord, nodded, and stepped toward Procka. The ring of soldiers once again formed, though there was noticeably more jostling on the borders of the rung—between the two opposing soldiers. The death of the woman and the critical injury of Zal had wound both forces up.

Procka and the brown spectrum man sized each other up. They stood one body length apart, and despite the height difference, the man was not outwardly rattled.

“Begin!” The city lord shouted.

Procka held her hand out with a focusing orb in it. The orange orb glowed as it absorbed Procka’s energy. Then, it lit up radiantly and expulsed a barrage of cataclysmic fire. There was no prelude to the fight, no circling or probing. Procka’s attack is with the intent to kill!

The man was prepared. He erected an earthen shield in front of him. It was curved upward and rounded so the fire would bounce off harmlessly. His face was stoic as he stood firm against the torrent, and even after weathering it, he seemed unphased.

With slow movements, the man jumped backward and grabbed a heavy-looking mallet off his shoulder. It stretched as long as an arm and was simple in its construction. A simple steel beam with two flat hammerheads at the end. The man held the mallet in his right hand while his left hand directed a spike to protrude from the ground toward Procka!

She sidestepped the large spike with ease and surveyed the man. She stood still for a second and just watched the man silently.

Thorne empathized with her. Her situation was not easy. Her normal flame attacks, which were intended to be used against large amounts of enemies—not just one—would be blocked by the man’s other defenses. Furthermore, her durable and dangerous physical advantages from her Granadorian race were somewhat taken from her due to the mallet. Her skin was tough, but even Procka knew that if she was struck by the full force of a cultivator’s mallet, she would not be in good shape.

‘She needs to remove the mallet and then engage him closely.’ Thorne concluded.

Procka thought the same and charged forward toward the man. She wasn’t particularly swift, but her long strides allowed her to make up ground with ease, and the backpedaling of the man couldn’t save him. He tried to swing with his mallet, but Procka batted it away and caused it to fly away. Unfortunately, hitting the mallet of her own volition didn’t leave her unscathed. Prcka shook her hand as chunks of rocks tumbled away from her. Thorne didn’t even want to imagine what would happen if a Grandorian lost all of their stone.

Unpretuurbed by the slight loss, Proka reached out with her free hand. The man stumbled backward and just barely dodged the groping hand.

Her attempt at grabbing the man put Procka off balance, and she stepped a little too far forward. Open to attack, the man swung his fist toward Procka’s chest! His callused hand was covered in a construct of eating. It was layered with spikes and appeared similar to brass knuckles from the earth.

An explosion of noise erupted from the two of them! Prokca slipped backward, only barely remaining upright as the earthen fist connected with her chest. Pounds of rocks fell off her, and her eyes glowed bright orange.

For the first time since meeting her, Thorne recognized a surge of emotion cross onto Procka’s face. It was rage, unadulterated, pure, and heavy fury. Her eyes bore into the man, who only smirked in return.

Then, surprisingly, instead of leaping forward or losing herself in some manic attack, Procka closed her eyes.

Thorne frowned as he watched, ‘What is she doing.’

The brown cultivator looked around in confusion. He raised his eyebrow when meeting the city lord’s eyes, who only urged him to advance. Shrugging, the man walked forward leisurely. ‘Even military men like him still have their arrogance, huh.’

Before going to Procka, the man found his mallet, which had been slapped away from him. He reached down and retrieved the weapon, minor crinkles forming around his eyes as he held it up.

‘Though I suppose a warrior always loves his weapons.’ Thorne thought with a sigh, ‘I really try to hate these people, but they’re just like me.’

His face now expressionless, the man walked over to Procka and prepared his mallet. Procka’s eyes were still closed, and Thorne could not even sense energy from her. She seemed as if she was hibernating.

The man circulated his energy into the mallet. It glowed with a brown light, and the flat edges of the hammer expanded and grew.

Thorne felt his legs go numb as he watched. He could help her; he could make sure that she survived, but no. If he did so, then they would all die. All Thorne could do was grit his teeth and watch.

The man began his attack. He held out the mallet and started its powerful arc! It flew through the air with precision and was aimed at Procka the defenseless, Procka the mute, Prokca the stoic. Procka’s eyes shot open!

Energy exploded from her in resplendent waves of bright orange! Curling walls of fire shot from her into the man. Initially, he was pushed back by the inferno. He managed to erect a sloped wall just like before and survive the attack. However, this time, the fire was different. It was concentrated and vast at the same time; A terrifying juxtaposition.

The flames were rebuffed at first by the earthen wall. Then the second wave came, then the third. Once the embers subsided, there was no wall, and there was no man. No suicide technique came since all the energy inside the cultivator was incinerated.

Procka stood tall, facing the city lord. Light shone in her eyes, and an air of defiance radiated from her. Then she collapsed to her knees—her eyes closing.