A Background Character’s Path to Power Chapter 179: The Third Wave

The world hissed as the crimson spark swelled—a pinprick beca an ember, an ember beca a cot, and then—

"BOOM!"

A spiraling sun of flas crashed down exactly where the twin voids had been, the impact so violent it vaporized the snow in an instant.

Light flared, searing away the storm’s gloom, revealing a molten crater where the eyes had watched.

For one breathless mont, the battlefield was clear.

Elria’s vision sharpened—three figures sprinted toward them through the lted pathway.

It’s really him!

The lord led a three-man group, his black coat whipping behind him like a banner, his expression grim. Behind him, the bespectacled man and the silver-haired youth moved in perfect sync, their boots kicking up steam from the scorched snowy floor.

Then—

A portal tore open directly in their path. Another split the air above the crater, its edges fraying as the blizzard rushed to swallow it.

"-!" Elria’s eyes widened in fright.

But the next second, all three figures erged from this side of the portal, untouched. Elria’s strained expression beca free.

Swoosh-!

The lord’s hand snapped out, and the spear embedded in the crater wrenched free, flying back to his grip in a trail of dying embers.

"Hurry inside!" the bespectacled professor—Harken—shouted, already moving.

His glasses glead as he swept a hand outward, wind aura technique blasting the snowdrifts away from the shelter’s entrance. The path cleared, revealing Elria, the golden-eyed Aeron, the young healer Lumin, and a handful of others half-buried in the snow.

The lord shouted, waking up the stunned and half-frozen people. "Move!"

Aeron and Lumin shook off their daze instantly.

"Follow ," Lumin told Aeron as he sprinted toward the baron.

Without a word, he hauled one of the unconscious figures from Baron Nusayel’s shoulders and bolted for the shelter, flanking Harken and Zephyr as they ushered the stragglers in. Aeron took the bigger figure’s body and followed after them.

Nusayel nodded in appreciation and turned back to the reforming storm, his spear reignited in his grip, flas licking hungrily along the blade.

Elria staggered forward, her voice raw. "T-the eyes—"

The baron glanced at her with the corner of his eye.

"...You did a good job."

The firelight cast sharp shadows across his face.

"But it’s not dead."

Her throat tightened. "T-then, I—"

"No." His tone brooked no argunt. "Head inside. You need to take control of the situation and protect from the inside."

For a heartbeat, she hesitated—then nodded sharply and turned, sprinting for the shelter just as the first tendrils of mist began to coil anew from the crater’s edges.

Behind her, the baron’s flas burned brighter, a lone beacon against the gathering light.

The storm howled in answer.

The crater pulsed.

Then—

Pop.

One void eye reappeared, swollen to twice its forr size, its spiraling depths now flecked with white like stains.

Pop.

Then another.

Pop.

And another.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop....

Across the periter of the battlefield, they blood like malignant flowers, their gazes locking onto the baron.

"..aaaa..."

"...aaaad..."

"Daaaad..."

The next mont, whispers started to slither from every direction, a chorus of childish voices warped by sothing hollow and hungry. The storm itself seed to hush, the wind dying as the words took hold.

"Daaaad..."

"Daaaad..."

The baron’s fingers tightened around his spear. His knuckles ached—from cold or tension, he couldn’t tell. The earlier attack had drained most of his aura; he couldn’t afford to be reckless or emotional now.

Fake. He forced the thought through the creeping fog in his mind. Aman is... He is gone. This isn’t real. Don’t be fooled...

"Daaaad..."

"Daat..."

But the voices sharpened, their pitch perfecting—the exact lilt his son had used when scared. The exact stumble on the "d" at the end.

The world warped.

Snow lted into polished marble. The crater beca a sunlit courtyard. The baron’s breath caught as a shadowy figure sprinted toward him, arms outstretched.

"Dad!"

The baron’s pulse slamd against his ribs. His muscles locked—not by force, but by sheer disbelief.

"...Aman?"

Although the height didn’t match his son’s, the voice was exactly his, the little version of his.

"Daddy!"

Little Aman?

Nusayel now started to believe it was his son. No one could replicate that!

So, he tried to run toward him. But his legs refused. His body didn’t obey him. He could barely flinch, let alone move.

Urgh, why is-!

Nusayel’s eyes widened as he noticed sothing behind the figure, a tiny red spark.

The baron’s throat closed.

He felt like he had seen it before, but couldn’t describe it.

Swoosh-!

The spark swelled—a cot now, roaring toward the child’s unprotected back. Light spilled over the figure, revealing that sa wavy black hair, slate-gray eyes filled with joy and happiness, that sa innocent smile—

"Aman!"

The baron writhed against invisible chains.

His aura sputtered, useless.

His muscles burned.

"Move damn it!"

He yelled in rage.

"BOOOM!"

The cot struck.

"Daaad-!"

"Aman-!"

Blinding light devoured the boy’s silhouette.

"NOOO!"

The baron’s scream tore from sowhere deeper than his lungs.

His vision blurred—from smoke or tears, he didn’t know.

He thrashed like a beast in a trap, nails scraping marble now slick with phantom blood.

"No. No. No."

"No..."

His knees struck marble. His spear clattered beside him, flas dead.

His son was gone.

Again.

The courtyard blurred at the edges, colors bleeding like wet ink. The baron’s breath ca in ragged, useless gasps.

His fingers—still outstretched toward where Aman had stood—trembled, then curled into fists so tight his palms split. Blood dripped between his knuckles, steaming faintly against the cold stone.

I-I...

I couldn’t...

His vision darkened at the periphery, shadows creeping inward like a closing fist. The voices whispered still, but they were distant now, muffled as if underwater. His own heartbeat was louder—a sluggish, dying drum.

Then—

"Dad?"

The baron froze.

Through the smoke, a familiar shape stumbled forward. Small. Swaying. One hand clutched at a scorched sleeve.

"A-Aman?"

The boy lifted his head.

Slate-gray eyes t the baron’s—alive, confused, and...

A large burn streaked his left cheek, raw and blistering.

"Dad... It... It hurts," Aman whispered.

The baron’s world shattered.

He launched himself at the boy—

—only to be held back.

Again.