Chapter 55: Demand of the Young Master
Suddenly, the Warchief from the other side of the dinsional crack continued, his voice no longer restrained, no longer holding anything back as it thundered across the sky again and again, each word filled with a burning fury that seed capable of tearing the very fabric of space apart, his rage pouring through that fracture like a storm that refused to calm down, his grief for his fallen son twisting into sothing violent and uncontrollable.
"You think this ends here?" the Warchief roared, his voice shaking the air itself as it descended upon the battlefield. "You think killing my son is sothing you can simply walk away from?"
His tone grew heavier, deeper, filled with a terrifying promise that made even the bravest among the knights feel their spines go cold, their hearts tightening as they listened to the wrath of soone far beyond their understanding.
"I will find you," he continued, his voice carrying a certainty that made it feel like fate itself was being declared. "No matter where you hide, no matter how far you run, no matter how many lives stand between us, I will tear through them all until I reach you."
The air trembled.
The soldiers could not speak.
Even the Captain clenched his jaw, his hands tightening around his weapon as he stared up at the crack, knowing full well that whatever stood beyond it was not sothing they could ever hope to face.
"You have no escape," the Warchief went on, his voice now lower, colder, more dangerous than before. "No escape from . No escape from what you have done."
His words dragged on, one after another, his fury refusing to fade, his grief fueling his threats as he spoke of destruction, of annihilation, of wiping out not just Clay, but everything connected to him, his race, his people, his entire existence.
"I will burn your kingdom to the ground," he declared, his voice echoing like a judgnt from above. "I will crush every city, every village, every life that dares to stand under your na. I will make sure that nothing remains."
Clay listened.
Then—
He tilted his head slightly.
"So... he’s your son?" he asked, his tone light, almost curious, as if he had just learned sothing trivial rather than sothing that should have shaken him.
A pause followed.
Then Clay smiled faintly.
"Why didn’t you say so earlier?" he added, his voice carrying a hint of mockery that was impossible to hide. "If I knew, I wouldn’t have killed him. After all, you sound powerful."
The words landed like a slap.
The Warchief froze for a split second.
Then his rage exploded even further.
"You dare mock ?" he roared, his voice cracking with fury. "You dare stand there after what you have done and speak like that?"
The crack in the sky trembled as if it could no longer contain his anger.
"You think your strength will save you?" he continued, his voice filled with scorn. "You think you are untouchable because you defeated my son?"
His laughter ca out, cold and filled with contempt.
"You are nothing," he said. "Nothing but an insect that has yet to understand the depth of the world you have provoked."
His voice lowered again.
Heavy.
Final.
"You will die," he promised. "I swear it on everything I am. You will die for what you have done to my son."
Clay laughed.
Not loudly.
Not wildly.
But calmly.
As if the threats ant nothing.
As if the words carried no weight at all.
The Warchief’s fury only grew.
Then—
Clay spoke again.
"What if your son was alive?"
The words cut through everything.
The Warchief went silent.
For a brief mont, there was nothing.
Then—
"Lies," the Warchief spat, his voice filled with disbelief and anger. "Do you think I cannot tell? Do you think I did not see it? You crushed him. You destroyed him. You turned him into dust right before my eyes!"
His voice rose again, filled with denial, with unwillingness to accept even the possibility that what he had witnessed might not have been the truth.
"You think you can play tricks with ?" he continued, his tone harsh and filled with disdain. "You think you can deceive
after what I saw?"
Clay smirked.
"Maid."
Before anyone could react, Cerys appeared.
She did not arrive with noise.
She did not announce herself.
One mont she was not there.
The next—
She stood beside Clay.
Silent. Calm. Awaiting his command.
"Where’s that weakling?" Clay asked casually.
Cerys bowed her head slightly.
Then she disappeared again.
For a brief mont, there was nothing.
Then—
She returned.
And in her hands—
Bufolk.
The whole body was still intact and seed to be unhard.
Though, still unconscious, but clearly alive, his chest rising and falling, his body complete as if the devastating attack from before had never happened.
The battlefield froze.
The Captain’s eyes widened.
The knights stared.
The archers could not even blink.
Even the air seed to stop.
Clay reached out and grabbed Bufolk by the neck, lifting him once more as if presenting him to the crack above, his gaze calm as he looked up.
"I want you to do sothing for ," he said.
The Warchief’s voice ca imdiately.
"What is it, boy!?" he roared, his tone filled with anger and urgency. "How dare you use my son as a bargaining chip!"
Clay’s smile did not fade.
"Well," he said lightly, "the reason I faked killing him was because I wanted to know how important he is to you."
The silence that followed was heavy.
The Warchief’s breathing could almost be heard from the other side.
Then—
"Bastard!" he shouted.
Clay lifted Bufolk slightly higher, his grip firm around his neck.
"What do you want?" the Warchief demanded, his voice now controlled, but still burning with suppressed rage.
Clay answered without hesitation.
"I want you to leave," he said. "Leave this Holy Kingdom. Take your tribe and go. Don’t take a single soul from this land."
His eyes remained fixed on the crack.
"Or your son dies."
The words were simple.
Clear.
Final.
The Warchief did not respond imdiately.
A long silence followed.
The soldiers held their breath.
Cerys stood still.
Clay waited.
Then—
"We can do that," the Warchief said.
The words ca out slowly, as if forced, as if each syllable cost him sothing.
Clay nodded slightly.
"Make an oath," he said.
The Warchief’s voice turned heavy again.
"You would force
to swear an oath?" he asked.
Clay did not answer.
He did not need to.
The pressure in his grip around Bufolk’s neck tightened slightly.
The ssage was clear.
Another silence followed.
Then—
"I swear," the Warchief began, his voice resonating with power as if the world itself was listening, as if the oath he was about to make carried weight beyond simple words. "I, Warchief of the Bersuka Tribe, swear upon the blood of my ancestors and the totems that bind my people, that we will leave this land."
His voice grew stronger.
"Not a single mber of my tribe will take a life from this kingdom."
The air trembled.
The oath settled.
"And we will not return," he finished, his tone final, as if sealing the promise into existence.
The battlefield remained silent.
Then—
The Warchief spoke again.
"It is done," he said. "Release my son."
Clay nodded.
"Alright."
The Warchief waited.
Satisfied.
For a brief mont, it seed as if everything would end there.
As if the tension would finally disappear.
As if the danger had passed.
Clay smiled.
Then—
His expression changed.
"Are you kidding !?"
Before anyone could react—
His arm moved.
Bufolk’s body was slamd into the ground with overwhelming force.
Kabaaam!
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