No longer did he see Elysian as an unstoppable force reaping helpless victims. Instead, the noble now appeared as a lone island besieged by a relentless tide. The enemies swarmed like ants, their individual weakness offset by their sheer, overwhelming numbers. Each foe Elysian struck down was replaced by another, an endless mass of flesh and steel.
‘Gods, if this continues he’ll slow down. Elysian’s still a whirlwind of death, but… is that a tremor in his arm? How long can he keep this up?’
Sybil’s throat tightened as the realization hit him.
‘There’s just too many of them. Too damn many. Even a force of nature like the young master has his limits. And these b*stards… they just keep coming. It’s like watching a cliff face being eroded by waves. He’s extraordinary, yes, but he’s still just one person. One person against an army. How long before exhaustion takes its toll? Before a lucky blow slips past his guard?’
Sybil’s heart raced.
‘This isn’t sustainable. Something’s got to give, and soon. And when it does…’’
His mind recoiled from the thought, but the grim reality was inescapable.
Elysian pivoted gracefully, the whistling blade at his back missing by a hair’s breadth. His movement was fluid, almost dance-like, as he twirled left and extinguished another life with practice ease. Without pause, he flowed into his next strike, his blade finding its mark with unerring precision.
The deadly ballet continued, Elysian at its center, surrounded by a maelstrom of steel and flesh. Each move was calculated, each step deliberate, as he carved out a small pocket of space in the churning sea of foes. His face remained a mask of concentration, betraying no fear despite the dire circumstances.
Yet beneath the veneer of calm competence, a grim reality lurked. The relentless tide of attackers pressed in from all sides, an inexorable force seeking to overwhelm him. Elysian knew, with cold certainty, that a single misstep could spell his doom. One grasp, one moment of imbalance, and the horde would drag him down into their midst—a fate as inescapable as it was final. The Abyss yawned beneath his feet, patient and hungry, waiting for the moment when the tide of battle would finally pull him under.
“Sh*t!” Sybil cursed, his eyes widening at the pile of bodies lining up all around Elysian. Despite the noble’s masterful use of the ruins as obstacles, weaving a deadly dance of advance and retreat, the mounting corpses were becoming a hindrance. Elysian’s movements, once fluid, now carried a hint of desperation as the relentless tide of foes impeded his progress.
Across the battlefield, Damon’s face split into a feral grin. “Good, good, continue!” he shouted, his voice cracking with relief and manic glee. His eyes, gleaming with anticipated victory, flicked to Warren. A curt nod passed between them before Damon’s gaze slid meaningfully towards Amara and her defenders.
Thomas’ jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the dire situation. “We need to act now,” he hissed urgently. “The four of us should attack. They’ve turned their backs—this might give the boy some breathing room.”
“No,” Osric’s objection cut through the air, his tone unyielding. His eyes remained fixed on Elysian’s whirling figure, unwavering belief etched on his face. “Master’s orders were clear. We must protect Lady Amara. Nothing else.”
Thomas rounded on him, face contorted in disbelief. “Are you blind? Your master is at death’s door! If we don’t intervene, he’ll—”
“Ossy’s right,” Bran interjected, his voice firm despite the worry clouding his eyes. “We must trust in the young master. Our duty is to Lady Amara.”
Thomas’ retort died on his lips as movement caught his eye. A group of enemies, sensing opportunity, had broken away from the main force and were advancing on their position. “Sh*t!” he spat, hand flying to his weapon. “No, it’s too late. They’re coming for us!”
Just as they feared, Elysian’s foot caught on a corpse, his balance slipped away. Time seemed to stop as all their eyes widened, a flash of shock breaking through their attention on the approaching enemy.
In that crucial moment, Warren’s eyes glinted with predatory intent. He had been waiting for this single misstep. As Elysian began to fall, Warren’s aura exploded outward, crackling with malevolent energy. He surged forward, racing across the blood-soaked ground towards Elysian’s exposed back.
The air itself seemed to warp and twist as Warren’s attack closed in. Those nearby could feel the hairs on their arms stand on end, the sheer malice of the aura palpable even at a distance. Elysian, still in the process of falling, had yet to realize the danger hurtling towards him from behind.
Sybil’s breath caught in his throat, a cry of warning dying before it could leave his lips. The scene unfolded before him in agonizing detail—Elysian’s stumble, Warren’s ruthless opportunism, and the deadly attack racing to close the gap. In that split second, the tide of battle seemed poised to turn irrevocably.
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The aura-enhanced attack surged towards Elysian’s back. Just as it was about to make contact, Elysian vanished, leaving nothing but empty space where he had been. The deadly sword continued its path, unimpeded, striking a few of Warren’s men. Their bodies convulsed, eyes bulging in shock and betrayal as they crumpled to the ground, lifeless.
Warren’s triumphant grin froze, twisting into confusion. His head whipped around, eyes darting frantically across the battlefield. The unabating tide stopped its relentless surge, bewildered, searching for the dark foe their rage aimed with desperation.
A blood-curdling scream shattered the eerie silence. It came from behind their lines, where they thought safety lay. Warren’ts face drained of color, his pupils constricted. His mouth worked soundlessly, wording sound incomprehensible even to the unseen while his mind reeling at the implication.
Cold sweat beaded on his brow as the realization sank in. The battlefield, once carefully laid trap, now felt like a cage—and they were the ones ensnared. His hands trembled, the weapon nearly slipping from his grasp. Each shadow seemed to hold a threat, every flicker of movement a potential attack.
Warren’s breath came short, sharp grasps. He licked his dry lips, tasting the acrid flavor of fear. His eyes met those of his allies, seeing his own terror reflected back at him. The once-formidable force now huddled together, backs to each other, watching everywhere with growing dread.
In the distance, another scream rang out, closer this time. Warren flinched violently, his heart hammering against his ribs. The noble was toying with them, he realized. And there was nothing—absolutely nothing—they could do about it.
Sybil’s eyes bulged, his mouth agape as he stared at the spot where Elysian had vanished. His head whipped back and forth between the empty space and the chaos erupting behind enemy lines. His hands trembled as he gestured wildly, words tumbling out in a bewildered rush. “What the hell is happening? If he could do that, why did he—”
Bran’s shoulders shook, a low chuckle escaping his lips. His eyes crinkled at the corners, a mixture of pride and exasperation dancing in their depths. The grin spreading across his face faltered briefly as he exhaled dramatically, remembering that he fell victim to that sense of humor recently.
Osric’s face remained a stoic mask, but a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his amusement. His eyes, usually sharp and alert, softened almost imperceptibly as he spoke. “Stop trying to read his actions and motives. You’ll just hurt your head.” He paused, his voice taking a hint of reverence. “The only thing you can do is trust him. We might not know it, but his every action has meaning and reason behind it. That’s who he is.” As he finished, his expression hardened once more, eyes narrowing as they locked onto the approaching danger.
Thomas stood rigid, his chest barely moving as if he’d forgotten to breathe. He blinked rapidly, shaking his head as if to clear it. His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck visibly tightening as he forced himself back to the present moment. His knuckles whitened around the hilt of his weapon as he barked, “Boy, stop gawking at the fight!” He nodded sharply towards the incoming enemies, his voice gruff with tension. “Focus on the approaching threat. We’ve got our own problems to deal with.”
Amara, silent throughout the exchange, remained perfectly still. Only the slight widening of her eyes and the quick, calculating flicker of her gaze between her companions and the battlefield betrayed her interest. Her attention shifted, catching the subtle movements beside her.
Helene’s fingers dug into her palms, knuckles white with tension. Nina’s breath came in short, barely audible gasps, her eyes wide and glassy. Timmy stood rigid, chin raised in a facade of bravery, but his trembling arms told a different story.
“Don’t worry.” Amara’s voice was low and steady, an anchor in the storm. Her words carried an undercurrent of calm certainty. “Nothing will happen to us. The young master and the others will ensure our safety. We need only to believe in them.”
The trio gave a grateful silent nod. Helene’s shoulders lowered a fraction, some of the tension bleeding away. Nina’s breathing slowed, becoming more measured. Timmy’s stance relaxed slightly, though his eyes remained fixed on the approaching danger.
Yet beneath it all, fear still lurked. The acrid smell of blood hung heavy in the air, a constant reminder of the carnage surrounding them. The cacophony of battle—clashing steel, agonized cries, and the dull thud of falling bodies—assaulted their senses. Even as they clung to Amara’s words, the reality of their situation etched itself into their minds, a visceral experience that no reassurance could fully dispel.
Gritting his teeth, Thomas’ eyes blazed with fierce determination. “Hold!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos. The air crackled with tension as they waited, weapons poised.
The enemy advanced, outnumbering them. Thomas’ gaze narrowed, calculating. “Attack!” he roared the instant the foes entered striking range. Thomas and his men exploded into action. Their blades sang through the air, meeting the enemy’s charge with a thunderous clash. The three boys, faces set with grim resolve, moved in perfect sync with the veterans.
Thomas whirled like a storm, his sword a blur of lethal precision. Each strike found its mark, each parry deflected death. Beside him, Bran and Osric fought. Though lacking experience, they held their own.
The defenders formed a living wall, a barrier of flashing steel and unwavering determination. They fought with the desperation of those they vowed to protect, every slash and thrust a defiance against the encroaching multitude.
Yet, as they braced for the full weight of the enemy’s assault, an unexpected shift rippled through the battlefield. Confused shouts erupted from the enemy ranks, heads turning, their resolve faltering.
From the corner of his eye, Thomas caught glimpses of a familiar figure materializing at different points around the perimeter. Elysian appeared and vanished like a phantom, striking with devastating effect before melting away again.
The pressure on Thomas and his group eased noticeably. The enemies, initially focused on overwhelming their position, now came in a trickle, refocusing instead on the devil that was devastating their ranks.
Elysian’s hit-and-run tactics sowed chaos in the enemy ranks. Each appearance drew more attention, more soldiers breaking off to chase the elusive noble. What had been a coordinated assault devolved into a fragmented, panicked response. Thomas allowed himself a grim smile, feeling the battle shift. They were no longer cornered prey, to be overwhelmed by the building tide.
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Damon’s face contorted, veins bulging at his temples as he screamed, “Why the f*ck are you all goddamn slow?” Spittle flew from his lips, his eyes wild and bloodshot. He grabbed the nearest soldier by the collar, shaking him violently. “Attack faster, you useless sacks of sh*t! Don’t let that b*stard slip away!”
His voice cracked on the last word, betraying the panic beneath his rage. Damon’s gaze darted frantically across the battlefield, searching for a glimpse of Elysian amidst the chaos.
‘This is f*cking nightmare. We had him! We f*cking had him cornered like a rat, and now…
F*ck!’