Alicarde collapsed onto his back, breathing heavily as the toll of his last attack set in. His mind buzzed, struggling to process the strain he had just endured. He'd cast not one, but three separate spells simultaneously—an achievent most mages or witches spent years, if not decades, trying to master.
Yet, he'd done it instinctively, and the only witness to this monuntal feat was the shattered remnants of the treant he'd felled.
In his heart, there was a faint thrill at having conquered such a powerful foe, but the ntal exhaustion weighed heavily on him.
Though his undying nature kept him from true injury, fatigue was still an inescapable reality.
His eyelids felt like lead, but he chuckled to himself, each breath ragged.
"Hehehe… that… was a good fight…"
He tried rolling over, pressing his arms to the ground in an attempt to rise, only to collapse again, limbs too heavy to respond.
"Ahh… guess I still can't move, huh?"
Resigned, he decided to simply rest, letting his mind find so clarity.
His gaze wandered across the battlefield. What had once been a dense stretch of forest was now a scene of devastation. Trees lay broken, their trunks splintered like matchsticks.
The ground bore the marks of their clash—deep craters and torn earth where spells had collided, and fires still smoldered in patches of charred wood. Shards of ice glinted among the debris, remnants of the treant now scattered across the wasteland. Alicarde took it all in, a small, satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He looked around, scanning for his sword.
"Where'd it go…?" he murmured. His sword had fallen from the sky when he'd been obliterated to ash, yet now it was nowhere to be seen.
With a sigh, he muttered,
"It will be back… it always cos back."
His gaze traveled down his body.
"I'm only still here because I'm immortal… otherwise, I'd have been dead a long ti ago."
It was the undeniable truth. If not for his undying nature, he doubted he would have survived his first encounter with the skinwalker, let alone Zagarath or Warth.
His fighting style had evolved around this fact, allowing him to take hits without restraint, a reckless tactic that he knew needed refining.
"I really need to modify my technique… avoid taking damage altogether."
He rested his head back on the ground, eyes closing as he absorbed the lessons from the battle. But as his mind settled, a low cracking sound reached his ears, followed by the deliberate, heavy footsteps of sothing large approaching. The ground trembled faintly under the weight of each step.
"Huh… this can't be good," he muttered.
He didn't even need to look to know that whoever—or whatever—was coming was no ally. The footsteps were too heavy, accompanied by a low, guttural growl.
A sly smile curled under his hood as he lifted his head slightly, casting his gaze toward the looming figure.
"You look… really ugly, just for the record."
Towering over him was a minion of the slain treant, its bark-like skin creaking with every movent. In its gnarled hands, it clutched a massive wooden axe.
Without hesitation, it raised the weapon high, the muscles in its barky arms tensing as it prepared to deliver a blow. Alicarde's grin widened, amused even as he lay helpless.
With a swift motion, the treant's minion brought the axe down with brutal force. The blade struck Alicarde's skull, splitting it cleanly in two with a sickening crunch.
But instead of blood or brain matter, the darkness beneath his hood swallowed the blade, revealing only an endless void where his face should have been. From within the shadows, Alicarde's voice echoed, smooth and sinister, yet oddly unbothered.
"That hurts… you know."
His tone was eerily calm, almost playful, sending a shiver of unease through the creature's wooden form.
The treant's minion roared in anger, stamping one heavy foot beside him before raising it again to stomp on his prone figure. Again and again, it brought its massive legs down, the ground shaking with every brutal impact.
Alicarde's face, what was left of it, was repeatedly crushed under the onslaught, but each ti his voice would rise again, undaunted.
Finally, when his vocal cords reford enough to speak, he managed a laugh.
"Ahh… this takes back…" he taunted, his words dripping with mocking amusent.
"You might want to put your back into it."
The minion paused, montarily stunned by his resilience. But Alicarde's expression only grew more smug, reveling in the creature's frustration as he braced himself for whatever might co next.
Alicarde kept his violet eyes fixed on the enraged minion, watching it raise its massive wooden axe for another attack. But before the blow could land, a dark figure materialized from the shadows—a bicorn with a nacing aura. Its three obsidian horns glead like deadly daggers against the dim forest light. The creature's deep violet eyes flickered dangerously as it lowered its head, charging forward.
With a thunderous impact, the bicorn crashed into the treant's minion, its horns slicing through the wood like it was paper. The force splintered the treant into countless tiny fragnts, each piece scattering through the air. As it struck, violet flas danced around the bicorn's hooves, leaving trails of eerie light that illuminated the battlefield briefly before fading.
Alicarde sighed, looking at the bicorn with a mixture of annoyance and relief. "Wrath… you sure took your ti. I had to solo that giant treant…"
Wrath turned its gaze towards him, its violet eyes glimring with an unreadable intensity. Slowly, it approached its fallen master, each step exuding a quiet nace that reminded Alicarde of their first confrontation. A faint chill crept over him, an echo of the fear and pain he'd felt back then, stirring like a mory he had buried deep.
"I am Aeternus," Alicarde muttered, invoking his true na to steady himself, suppressing any lingering hesitation. He had conquered Wrath; it was obedient now. That past fear no longer had power over him.
"Did you deliver the witches to safety?" he asked, watching Wrath closely.
In response, Wrath stomped its hooves, scattering a few violet sparks across the ground. Alicarde nodded, understanding the silent ssage. "I see… so they reached Malefica, and now she's… facing off against Cassandra?"
A wry grin crept onto his face. "Well, I can't miss that now, can I?"
He raised a hand, signaling Wrath to take him there. Wrath, with no arms to carry him, opened its maw instead, revealing long, razor-sharp fangs as it moved to lift him by his cloak.
"Wait, wait—on second thought, I think I've got just enough juice to get up myself." Alicarde raised a hand defensively, his voice rushed.
Wrath paused, giving him an unreadable look with its dark, glinting eyes but respected his decision. Alicarde tried to rise, gritting his teeth as he pushed himself up. But the dizziness overwheld him, and he stumbled forward, faceplanting onto the ground. He tried again, only to find himself eting the hard surface of a rock with a resounding thud.
"Ahh… this is harder than I thought," he muttered, each attempt only making his head spin more. His body felt like lead, exhaustion pulling him down like an anchor.
Finally, he gave up on trying to stand, looking up at Wrath with a faint, sheepish smile that was hidden beneath his hood.
"Let's… erm… just wait for my sword to co back, yeah?"
The mont the words left his mouth, he felt a familiar weight in his hand. His sword had returned, appearing as if summoned by his will. Alicarde exhaled deeply, half in relief, half in exasperation.
"You really couldn't wait a few more minutes for to recover a little?" he muttered to the weapon, rolling his eyes. With a resigned look, he turned back to Wrath.
"Alright… fine," he said with a sigh. "You can carry ."
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