After days of the incident
The battlefield had fallen into a strange, suffocating silence. Smoke curled from shattered shields and splintered spears, drifting over the scorched earth. The cries of the fallen had long since faded, leaving only the uneasy whisper of wind and ash.
General Vael Dran stood at the center of his command, his brows furrowed as he surveyed the aftermath. The few soldiers still standing shifted nervously, glancing toward the horizon.
"Sir… our n…" one of his aides stamred, voice barely audible.
Vael Dran's eyes snapped toward him. "What? What happened?"
Varos, a seasoned Veinwalker by his own right, stepped forward, his expression tightening. He clenched his fists, feeling the tremor in the spiritual currents around them.
"Tsk… I sense an overwhelming Shinrei…" he muttered.
Before anyone could react, a wave of pressure slamd into them not like an ordinary battle aura, but a force that rattled bones and froze hearts. Soldiers scread, so staggering backward as the unnatural Shinrei swept through their ranks. Many fell, their veins burning, their cries cut short. Even the Veinwalkers they had hired — elite operatives were not spared.
"Arugh!! Argh!!"
The chaos was imdiate, indiscriminate. General Vael Dran's face went pale, confusion and terror warring in his eyes.
"What… what is this power…?" he whispered, his voice trembling.
The source was unmistakable now, two figures standing at the edge of the smoke and fla. The first was broad-shouldered, imposing, radiating the calm authority of a veteran commander. Beside him, a younger figure exuded a presence so fierce, so impossibly vast, that it seed to bend the air itself.
Vael Dran's gut twisted. He had faced many warriors, countless Veinwalkers, yet this… this was sothing else entirely.
Varos narrowed his eyes, his instincts screaming. He had never sensed a Shinrei like this — a current so vast, so alive, it seed to think and breathe. He staggered back, his voice rising in a panicked shout.
"Who are you!!!"
The younger figure stepped forward, his gaze steady, sharp as a blade. His voice rang out clearly over the chaos, calm yet commanding.
"I am Khael Corzedar."
For a heartbeat, the world seed to still. Varos froze, recognition dawning slowly, disbelief flashing across his features.
"No… no way…" he muttered.
Khael's na had been legendary for years. The newspapers, the broadcasts, the whispered stories from the east all spoke of him: the Dragon Knight who had, at the age of thirteen, struck down Sloth, the strongest of the Sins, and turned the tide of a war thought unwinnable. Three years had passed, and now the boy who had been a prodigy was no longer just a mory. He stood before them sixteen, grown, and more terrifying than any report could have conveyed.
Vael Dran's voice cracked, disbelief mingling with fear. "It… it cannot be… the Dragon Knight? Here… now?"
Khael's eyes glinted, a shimr of dragon blood awakening beneath his skin. The wind twisted around him, carrying a faint echo of scales and fire.
Even Lito Corzedar, standing beside him, radiated authority and calm a retired general whose presence alone could shape the battlefield. Together, father and son, their Shinrei intertwined like twin storms, created a force that no army could ignore.
Varos took an instinctive step back, trembling. "I… I know your face… I've seen the reports… The boy… no, the Dragon Knight… Khael Corzedar… he's real… he's here…"
Khael's lips curved slightly. "And now you know."
The earth seed to hum beneath them, as if acknowledging the return of a force long written about in history, a boy who had beco legend, and a family whose strength had been tempered in both love and war.
(Let this be a lesson… no one threatens the Corzedars while I draw breath.)
The battlefield trembled under the weight of expectation. Soldiers frozen by fear and uncertainty watched as father and son stepped forward, their Shinrei blazing like twin storms.
Lito Corzedar moved first. The retired general, once the legendary Wind General, let the currents of wind and earth spiral around him, shifting the dust and debris as though the very battlefield were an extension of his will. Each step he took left ripples in the soil, each motion of his hands directing torn banners, discarded spears, and jagged stones into deadly arcs toward the enemy.
"Focus, n! Watch the currents, feel their flow!" Lito's voice carried over the chaos, commanding not just soldiers, but the elents themselves.
The enemy faltered, staggered by the invisible but unmistakable force sweeping across the ridge. Veinwalkers attempted to counter with their own Shinrei, but the combined authority of father and son shattered their formations before they could even strike.
Khael, however, was the storm hidden within the storm. His presence radiated a deceptive calm, the faint glow of draconic scales along his skin reflecting sunlight. To the enemy, he was the front line, the embodint of destruction, moving with a speed and precision that left afterimages in the air. Yet every attack he launched, every surge of raw power, was carefully asured, a decoy, a signal, a lure.
(Let them focus on … I need their attention, their aggression. The real strike cos elsewhere.)
Veinwalker after Veinwalker fell, not from lack of skill, but from the impossibility of matching a Dragon Knight whose Shinrei could bend both wind and elental chaos at once. Soldiers who had survived battles that shook continents now cowered, staring wide-eyed as Khael shifted, leapt, and struck, his movents a blur of lethal elegance.
(Keep them on … father knows the plan. I can't act too soon.) Khael's internal voice humd, syncing with the currents of battle.
Even the veterans among the enemy ranks sensed it — a Shinrei unlike any they had encountered. Varos's voice broke from the wreckage of his own disbelief: "Impossible… no one should wield that much power…!"
But it was Lito who sealed the lesson. With a sweep of his arm, wind and soil coiled into colossal spears, launching toward the enemy like guided missiles. Khael's decoy strikes pushed their formation apart, funneled their forces into deadly channels that his father's attacks would then annihilate. Every motion was choreography, every burst of Shinrei a precise calculation.
And then it happened, the final formation shattered. Enemy lines collapsed like paper under pressure, soldiers fleeing in panic, the remaining Veinwalkers incapacitated by their own destabilized energy.
The battlefield fell silent again, save for the faint hiss of residual Shinrei, and the low, satisfied hum of Khael's dragon-blooded aura.
(Perfect. Now the real plan begins.)
….
Days Before — The Plan
In the quiet of the barracks, Arden had recovered enough to sit upright, his blackened veins now fading under careful care. Khael crouched beside him, speaking in hushed tones, the map of the northern battlefield spread before them.
"Brother… the Vein Rot isn't a curse. It's Lunaris Dust — synthetic. If we strike blindly, we lose more n than the disease will." Khael's finger traced the lines of the enemy encampnts. "Father will draw their attention. I'll be the decoy. Let them think we're confronting them head-on. But the real strike… we hit their supply of Lunaris Dust. Once that's neutralized, the Shinrei destabilization stops imdiately."
Arden's hands shook slightly, awe and fear mixed. "You… you knew this all along?"
Khael nodded. "I studied the records, their previous battles, the formula for the synthetic Gate. I know the location and the trap. We don't fight them here… we fight them where they are weakest. Timing, brother — timing is everything."
Back to Present
Hidden in the northern supply tents, Arden Corzedar watched Khael and Lito draw the enemy's attention. His mind raced, calculating every variable — the flow of Shinrei, the density of tents, the position of the Lunaris Dust stockpiles.
(This is it… the mont I was waiting for.)
With a sharp gesture, Arden's own Veinwalker aura ignited a storm of controlled Wind and fla affinities, his body a conduit for precise, surgical strikes. Explosions of controlled Shinrei tore through the tents, smoke and sparks illuminating the night. Soldiers guarding the stockpiles were thrown off balance, their veins pulsing erratically under the feedback of artificial Gate resonance.
"Move! Secure the supplies!" Arden commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos. His movents were a ballet of violence and precision each step calculated, each strike surgical.
Back on the ridge, Khael observed the sequence, a faint smirk curling his lips. (Arden… my brother… finally, your ti to shine.)
To be continue
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