Hearing Verdia's voice, none of the combatants questioned why. There was no time for doubts. Just fight. Just survive.
Survive for 38 seconds.
The words echoed like a spell. Lerov grit his teeth.
The battlefield was a hell of steel and blood, and each beat of his heart helped him count the seconds—every two beats, one second.
Lerov had been the leader of the Jinkan tribe for a hundred years before relinquishing his position.
He was a warrior of countless battles; he had faced monsters, survived wars between tribes, and had withstood all those fights intact and thriving.
In the Jinkan tribe, repaying debts was something sacred. In fact, for a good part of the demonic races it was the same.
And he had a debt to Taes Dedoldia.
He did not care much for the young leader of the Iron Legion, Rygar Adoldia.
He knew the boy was powerful, the most promising in generations. But that was all; he did not know him, so his loyalty was to Taes.
Actually, that was true for a large part of the new members of the Iron Legion.
Of course, Rygar's strength, fame and potential made many members join because of him.
But there were also many who were loyal only to Kilian or Taes. The Gale Reaper and the Iron King.
The reason the Legion did not elect one of them as the definitive leader was that virtually all the upper echelons of the Legion were loyal to Rygar.
Everyone knew Rygar, and not even the slightest suggestion that someone besides him could be considered the leader was taken into account by them.
Still, for Lerov, it was Taes who had saved his entire tribe from a massacre.
A Demon King, enraged by old provocations from Lerov himself, sent an emissary to the Legion after they fled, demanding the heads of the Jinkan.
Taes responded firmly that the tribe was now part of the Iron Legion. If the King wanted their heads, he should cross the sea and take them with his own hands.
Of course, Taes knew that the Demon King would not dare do such a thing, so he provoked him. But the gesture… was admirable. And Lerov did not forget. Never.
Now, his debt was paid with blood.
The Hill charged with threatening seriousness. Larger than Lerov, even though the latter was a demon of notable stature and strength.
The commander's tower shield slammed into the ground with the weight of a mountain, creating a shockwave that cracked the rocky formation.
Lerov dodged by a hair's breadth, rolling to the side and leaving only dust and fragments of stone behind.
At the same time, his axe spun in the air, aiming at an opening in his opponent's shining blue armor.
But before he could reach the target, two templars appeared, attacking from opposite sides—one aiming for his neck, the other for his legs.
Lerov abandoned the attack in the blink of an eye. He held the axe with one hand, used the other to support his acrobatic leap, evading both attacks simultaneously.
Mid-air, he twisted his body and delivered a devastating kick to the first templar, striking the helm with enough force to send it flying meters away. The second templar received a direct punch to the chest, being launched like a broken arrow.
But then, he was the one who flew.
The Hill had advanced like a living wall. His tower shield collided with Lerov, hurling him against a rock with brutal force. Cracks echoed through his body. Broken ribs.
He spat blood and roared, but got up with the same fierce look. His race was resilient. His strength was enormous. His speed, an anomaly.
But even with all the gifts of the Jinkan tribe, the number of opponents around made everything exponentially more difficult.
Each templar around him was an elite warrior. Alone, they would be little threat. But together? Like a coordinated swarm, they were powerful.
Lerov returned to the fight, swinging his axe furiously. Each blow was an earthquake, each charge a desperate attempt to carve out space, to breathe.
And yet, the siege closed in. He still kept his attention on Verdia, Kilian and Pursena. He needed to keep these guys occupied. He needed to survive.
The terrain around was unrecognizable. The ground, pockmarked. The rocks, shattered and black with blood.
When he managed to take down one enemy, the opening lasted only seconds before another took its place.
But it was The Hill who was causing the real havoc—cutting through the combatants like an unstoppable colossus, leaving trails of destruction.
Lerov grunted and forced himself to maintain focus. He tried to count the seconds.
Twelve? Fifteen?
His body burned. Open wounds, broken bones, muscles torn and rigid. And worst of all: he knew he wasn't even halfway to the time Verdia had shouted.
Twenty-three seconds remained.
The longest twenty-three seconds of his life.
And he needed to survive every single one of them.
Meanwhile, Kilian and Pursena were in an even worse situation.
Kilian resisted as best he could, his body moving with almost mechanical precision.
Like a Water Saint, his mastery over the "flow" was refined to the extreme, allowing his movements to flow uninterrupted, like a river winding among enemies.
But even with this control, protecting himself while safeguarding Pursena was proving an almost impossible challenge.
Pursena was giving everything she had.
She had been trained in magic since childhood, but her physical training had not been neglected—though she had often fled from those sessions—now was the moment when each painful lesson proved useful.
She could not run; there was no place to go. Only to fight.
And she fought. Her body wounded, panting and aching moved with the urgency of one who knew that a single mistake would mean death.
In the midst of this brutal fight, both she and Kilian were pushing their technique beyond its limits.
They were being refined by real combat, where each mistake cost a life. There was no room for failure.
Kilian, perceiving the encirclement closing in, decided to take a risk. He began to steer the fight toward the nearby river.
The flow of combat, his retreats and advances, shaped so that, little by little, the river would become their rear guard.
This way, they could only be surrounded on one side, reducing the pressure.
His falchion danced in the air like an extension of his own arm. The cuts flowed like water, continuous, calculated, with no pause between defense and counterattack.
His mind was focused, his perception elevated to the maximum, almost in a trance. Each avoided blow, each suffered wound, was one more step toward survival.
The one who seemed to fare best, however, was Verdia.
Her injuries, especially the most serious, had been feigned.
Wounds carefully placed to lure Paul Greyrat, the North King.
Now, with him not on the field again, she was in much better shape than her companions, and her true power was beginning to reveal itself.
What allowed her to act so freely under the Confinement Barrier were her magical items.
That Barrier sealed all magic and acted also as an almost indestructible physical barrier, probably of King level or higher.
However, it did not interfere with the use of touki or internally sourced magical effects.
Mixing these two systems—external mana and internal—was extremely complex, and therefore, rare. And her items worked using internal mana.
The elf was using three magical artifacts at the moment: the Petrified Mantle, which to some extent seemed to absorb physical impact and return the force to her opponent.
The Stellar Horizon Bow, whose effect seemed to enhance her arrows in some way.
And the Luminous Partition Blade, an elven thin sword whose enchantment caused a bright light on its blade, briefly blinding anyone around when activated.
All effects of these items were internal and therefore not affected by the barrier. Her sword and mantle, in particular, were what kept her alive, even surrounded.
More than that, there was something different about her.
Each movement she made—each step, spin, block and counterattack—seemed to be accompanied by a memory. As if her body was recalling how she fought.
A dance, etched in muscles and reflexes, returning under pressure. With each avoided blow, each blade dodged, her technique grew clearer.
While the four warriors fought with all they had, The Hill began to lose patience.
His movements remained devastating and calculated, with the same brutal rhythm as always, but a seed of unease had been planted.
It was not fear, nor hesitation, it was just the premonition that something was wrong. What would happen in 38 seconds?
The elf had shouted it—"Resist for 38 more seconds"—and now, 26 had passed.
Though the enemies were wounded, though their bodies wavered, they remained standing, fighting. And, to The Hill's eyes, at this pace, they seemed capable of withstanding the 38 seconds.
But it made no sense. He tried to rationalize: it was a deception tactic, a bluff.
But the premonition persisted, hammering in his chest and leaving him restless.
No beast nearby. No human in sight. They had previously cleared the region precisely to avoid interference.
The force brought was more than enough to crush their opponents, given their magic was sealed.
If they could use magic, perhaps everything would be different.
Kilian Dedoldia had already matched him before in battle, using his Chantless magic.
Verdia Solarion, however, was even more dangerous due to her large-scale spells.
But they could not use magic. They were trapped. Defenseless. Just waiting for death. So why wouldn't that damn unease go away?
31 seconds.
The Hill clenched his teeth and finally lost his patience. His voice sounded like thunder, dominating the battlefield:
"Are you having fun watching my men die?! KILL THEM NOW!"
That was when he appeared.
The North King emerged again, bloodshot eyes and a dense murderous intent aimed at Verdia.
His blade sliced through the air as if already thirsting for the elf's blood. Paul Greyrat advanced in an explosive dash, his destroyed eye having already been healed by the priests.
He aimed directly at the opening in Verdia's mantle, ready to pierce her lethally.
But, against all expectations, Verdia did not retreat. She advanced.
The sword struck her flesh—and did not penetrate. At the instant of impact, a crystalline barrier shone and shattered into a thousand fragments, scattering light through the air.
At the same time, the jewel of the ring in her hand turned into sparkling dust.
Paul's eyes widened in surprise, but this time, he was prepared. Switching hands, he used his other sword to block the elf's planned counterattack and maintained the offensive.
His skill was indisputably superior. He was at his peak.
Kilian tried to intervene; he already had a blade still buried in his flank, and his strength was drained from dealing with the enemies around him. He couldn't interfere in the fight.
35 seconds.
Verdia retreated step by step, distancing herself from her allies.
After all, she had no choice; she knew that if she persisted in that fight, she would die.
But what bothered Paul was her smile. Even with a blade pressing against her throat, even surrounded by death, she smiled—a calm, serene smile.
As if she weren't in danger. As if… she already knew she would win.
36 seconds.
Paul exploded in speed. Verdia leaped among the fragmented mountains, trying to put distance. Paul cut the stone in front of her like paper, unrelenting.
37 seconds.
The elf made an agile leap to dodge a blow but failed to regain her balance properly.
Paul, meanwhile, used the rocks as a springboard and shot forward like a living arrow. His sword advanced with violence, brimming with murderous intent.
One strike. That was all he needed. A single strike and it would be over.
He was so close.
He thought: 'Die.'
His blade approached the elf's neck, closer and closer, until—
A sound interrupted him.
A crash. A sound of shattering, like crystal exploding in the air.
The last thing Paul saw was a silvery-white light coming toward him. No time for last words. No time for regrets.
A second crash. As if the sky had split.
Everyone on the battlefield stopped. Time froze for an eternal second.
The magical barrier surrounding the region shattered with a sharp sound, and a blade of energy sliced through the sky, splitting the world in two and killing the North King.
A shockwave spread, sweeping dust, rocks and blood. The mountain was split. Literally. A clean cut divided it in half.
The air vibrated. A metallic hum followed the strike, reverberating like thunder after lightning.
And then, everyone felt it.
An oppressive presence.
A weight in the air. An absolute, unquestionable dominion. All eyes turned to the sky.
There he was.
Levitating like a divine entity, a dark-skinned man with silver hair hovered in the air. His golden eyes gleaming, watched the battlefield with coldness and a contained fury.
He wore a black cloak with golden details, and in his hand, wielded a deep blue sword.
He descended slowly, like an inevitable judgment. His gaze fell on Verdia.
He landed beside her, and the world seemed to hold its breath. Not even Kilian, Pursena and Lerov dared move, let alone the templars.
But Verdia only smiled. A sweet, joyful smile, full of relief and admiration. Her eyes shone as if seeing something precious and familiar.
She laughed softly, almost whispering:
"Looks like you're not so small anymore… Rygar."
-----
Hello! If you want to support my writing, check out my subscription P@treon
By subscribing, you will get access to up to 20 advanced chapters of the Webnovel and polls to decide various things about the story.
Your support will encourage me to continue writing more chapters! Check it out here: pa treon.com/DaoistJunkYard