On the Sengolio side, amid the confusion and the dying, sothing moved against the current of the battle.
Not with desperation.
But with control.
Aren spotted it first.
A lone man in tattered red robes, gliding through the smoke like it didn’t touch him. No shield. No armor. His hands were bare, fingers curled slightly like talons at rest.
He didn’t parry. Didn’t brace.
He flowed.
And then he struck.
A single palm collapsed a soldier’s chest, sending him flying like a rag doll. A sweep of his leg snapped another’s ankle before driving his skull into stone. A third tried to block with a shield, too late. The red-robed man slipped behind him and crushed his throat with a casual elbow.
Five dead in less than ten seconds.
Aren’s blood ran cold. What the hell is he?
Their eyes t across the battlefield.
The stranger smirked.
And vanished into the smoke.
"Bastard!" Aren growled, breaking into a sprint.
He caught up just as the man flicked his fingers casually in his direction.
Instinct scread.
Aren dove.
A sphere of warped pressure tore through the air where his head had been, then punched through two Sengolio soldiers behind him, sending their mangled bodies flying like leaves in a storm.
’Shit! A mage?!’
But sothing felt... off. There was no incantation. No channeling.
Aren narrowed his eyes. ’Not a proper mage. Then maybe he’s vulnerable up close.’
He lunged.
Their clash was brief, and horrifying.
The stranger moved with the grace of a dancer and the force of a siege ram. His palm strikes were impossibly fast, and his counters were rooted in an art Aren didn’t recognize. It wasn’t Knight-style, but sothing more fluid... coiled.
Aren barely blocked a rising elbow, then took a knee to the ribs that lifted him off the ground.
’He fights like a Peak Knight Apprentice... but not with mana. What kind of martial art is this?’
The red-robed stranger stepped in, calm and deliberate. His hand flicked again, and a strange pulse hit Aren’s chest, not sharp, not blunt, but disruptive.
Aren’s body seized.
He flew backwards like a puppet with its strings cut, crashing through a barricade in a spray of splinters and dust.
"Aren!" Rogar roared, eyes widening. He surged forward, Gorrak and Trask at his side, weapons drawn.
The three surrounded the red-robed man, fanning out in practiced formation.
But the stranger just clicked his tongue in annoyance. "You worms still don’t understand."
His accent was heavy Sengolio, but laced with arrogance, the kind that ca from noble birth, or delusion.
"You trash dare to stand before ?" he spat. "You low-born insects... do you even comprehend who I am?!"
He didn’t wait for an answer.
He moved.
A sidestep dodged Rogar’s spear.
A twist slipped past Gorrak’s hamr.
A flip over Trask’s blades, followed by a concussive palm to the chest, sent Trask stumbling back, breathless.
None of their attacks landed.
"Just stay down where you belong, insolent fools," the red-robed man sneered, turning on his heel.
And then, without another word, the man vanished into the fog once more, like a wraith unbound.
Across the battlefield, Lumberling turned, sensing the disruption.
He saw Aren pushing himself upright, coughing, blood on his lip.
The fog parted briefly, and in the distance, that sa red robe flashed once, disappearing again into the smoke.
"Aren?" Lumberling called.
"Still breathing," Aren wheezed.
But his eyes burned with fury.
Lumberling turned. His own opponent still stood, bleeding but stubbornly alive. No ti.
"Skitz!" he shouted. "Don’t let him escape!"
Without hesitation, Lumberling lunged forward, driving his spear clean through his opponent’s gut, twisting as he ripped it free. The man gasped once, then crumpled to the ground.
(You have devoured the Quasi-Knight’s essence. 600 Essence absorbed. Absorbing a portion of the Quasi-Knight’s mories and experience.)
Without even watching him fall, Lumberling pivoted and stepped in front of Skitz’s forr opponent, parrying a blade ant for his second.
"Go," he said.
Skitz didn’t argue.
He vanished into the fog with silent purpose.
...
The red-robed man moved like a phantom, feet barely touching the slates of the rooftops as he skipped effortlessly from beam to beam, posture unnervingly relaxed, hands folded behind his back like he was strolling through a royal garden.
Beneath the moonlight, his silhouette flickered with every leap.
And behind him, silent as shadow, Skitz pursued.
Low, fast, focused.
The wind shifted. The red-robed man glanced over his shoulder, sneering. His voice echoed in the foreign Sengolio tongue, laced with mocking indignation.
"Why are you chasing ?! I haven’t even offended you!"
Skitz said nothing. He didn’t speak the language.
But his intent was clear.
The stranger scoffed and kept moving. "Tch. Those trash commanders couldn’t even do their job properly. Now everything’s collapsing like wet parchnt... Why am I always grouped with the incompetent?"
His voice vanished into the wind.
.....
Battlefield - Near the Center
Lumberling stepped over broken bodies and fire-stained soil, his breath steady but his blood still thrumming from the clash.
The last of the Quasi-Knight commanders lunged at him in desperation, his spear trembling in his hands. Lumberling sidestepped smoothly, shifted his weight, and drove his own spear through the man’s gut with a single decisive thrust.
The light left the man’s eyes before he hit the ground.
(You have devoured the Quasi-Knight’s essence. 600 Essence absorbed. Absorbing a portion of the Quasi-Knight’s mories and experience.)
A surge of clarity rushed into his body, muscle mory, spear drills, battlefield instincts. Another piece added to his ever-growing arsenal.
But there was no ti to relish the growth.
He turned sharply, eyes locking onto Aren, Gorrak, Rogar, and Trask regrouping among the fallen.
They were battered, armor dented, cloaks torn, blood running in streaks, but they stood.
"Aren," Lumberling called out. "Can you still fight?"
Aren rolled his shoulder with a wince. "Hurts like hell, but yeah. I’m up."
"We’re tough," Gorrak grunted, wiping a sar of blood from his face.
"Then hold the line," Lumberling said, already stepping away. "I need to assist Skitz."
Gorrak raised his hamr and gave a sharp nod. "Go. That bastard killed our n. Get revenge."
"And be careful, my Lord," Aren added. "That guy... he’s not like the mages you described. He doesn’t cast. He doesn’t chant. He just, moves. It’s strange."
Lumberling paused for only a heartbeat, processing the words.
Then he nodded once. "Hold this ground."
He took off at a sprint, cloak snapping behind him.
As he vaulted over a crumbled barricade and pushed into the alley shadows, his thoughts churned.
’He doesn’t look like a mage...’ Aren’s words repeated.
’No spells. No signs of mana casting. No aura flare.’
Lumberling frowned. ’Could the knowledge I carried from Earth... be wrong?’
’Or is it just him? Sothing different entirely?’
His grip tightened on the haft of his spear.
The essence of monsters, knights, and n all burned in his veins, but even now, he could feel that red-robed man’s presence like a thread of static in the air.
’Whatever he is... I’ll find out.’
’And then I’ll end him.’
......
A Distant Courtyard - Just Outside Ferndell Ridge
The flas of war still flickered in the distance, painting the town’s crumbling stone walls in violent orange hues. In the shadow of a broken bell tower, two figures clashed under the moonlight.
Steel hissed. Shadows danced.
Skitz moved like a phantom, a blur between rooftops and stone. His dagger caught the red-robed man’s wrist mid-strike, but the man twisted unnaturally, flipping backward into a low crouch, avoiding the blade by inches.
He grinned. "You’re quick."
Chains snapped out of the air behind him, Blackbind.
They coiled with a chilling hiss, seeking his limbs.
But the red-robed man spun, palm glowing faintly, and slapped the incoming links away with bursts of invisible force. One chain locked onto his ankle. He snarled and stomped, breaking the hold.
"You use tricks," he said, dusting off his sleeve.
Skitz gave no reply. He flicked a hand, Whispering Veil.
And vanished.
The red-robed man tensed, body still. His eyes flicked around. "Hiding? Co on now. Show you’re worth chasing."
A mont passed.
Then, Detonation Seals.
Small black orbs rolled around his feet.
The stranger’s eyes widened. "What the..."
Boom.
They exploded upward, not in fla, but in a concussive force laced with shrapnel. He flew backward, coat torn, blood streaking his cheek.
But still, he landed on his feet.
He cracked his neck, laughing breathlessly. "You want to take this seriously, don’t you?"
His stance dropped into sothing strange, low, wide, palm forward in an open kata. His movents began to shimr, the air around him pulsing in slow waves.
Then he thrust his palm forward...
The sa technique he used on Aren.
A blast of force ripped through the air.
But Skitz was already behind him.
The dagger grazed the red-robed man’s ribs before he twisted away, barely dodging fatal impact. Blood spotted the ground. His breath quickened.
He stepped back, shaking his head.
"Don’t force ," he warned, voice laced with panic. "Fight any longer, and I swear, I’ll drag you into death with !"
Skitz narrowed his eyes and stepped forward...
But the red-robed man struck unexpectedly, a low sweep that nearly caught him off balance.
Almost.
Until a blur dropped from the rooftop behind him.
A boot slamd into his chest, sending him crashing through a stone wall.
Lumberling.
He landed silently beside Skitz, spear in hand, eyes unreadable.
The red-robed man tumbled into a firelit courtyard, coughing, rising to his feet. His red robes were torn. His mouth bled.
He looked up at the two figures above him, silhouetted by smoke and moonlight.
He sighed and dusted himself off.
"Two against one?" he said with a weary smile. "Is this how the heavens sha ? I showed rcy. I spared your dogs. And this is how you repay ?"
"You’re too dangerous to leave breathing, And you took lives that mattered to ." Lumberling said, voice like a blade.
The red-robed man blinked, then his eyes lit up in amusent. "You... you understand ?"
He smiled wide. "Ah, finally, soone with manners. Good! Then let’s speak like n."
He raised both hands, still smiling.
"Those n? They were just fodder, weren’t they? I’ll compensate you! Do you want gold? Jewels? A technique? Na your price."
Lumberling’s spear twitched in his grip.
"I want your life."
The smile cracked.
"Bastard!"
With a furious roar, the red-robed man lashed forward. A pulse of internal force surged from his palms, the air rippling with pressure. His body began to shimr again, that strange layered aura spreading across his limbs.
A martial body reinforced by sothing alien. Not mana. Not Knight energy.
He spun into motion, limbs flowing like water, power exploding with each strike.
"I am Nie Fenghun!" he howled. "A prince! A genius! A dragon the heavens could not cage! My legend would not end here!"
In his thoughts. He saw again that woman in white, smirking from the arms of his rival. Her voice echoed in his skull:
’Because you were always just a coward, Fenghun.’
The mory burned.
He flared with violent energy and scread skyward.
Lumberling and Skitz moved as one.
Skitz reappeared behind him, daggers flashing.
Lumberling drove forward from the front, spear angled low.
’No Knight moved like that. No aura. What are you, Nie Fenghun?’
Blades clashed with palm.
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