Draven's crimson eyes swept across the arena.
Not the participants.
Not the timer.
Beyond them.
Past the tiers of spectators.
Past the gilded boxes.
Past the shimmering wards layered into the walls.
Searching.
His gaze moved slowly—deliberately—like a blade tracing the seams in armor.
Then—
it stopped.
Far above, hidden behind layered enchantments and mirrored glass—
a private chamber.
Invisible to everyone else.
Not to him.
There was a shift in mana. Subtle. Controlled. A pulse buried beneath layers of concealment.
A presence.
Draven's lips moved, barely forming the word.
"…There."
The moment it left him—
the arena erupted.
Hesitation died.
Fear burned away.
Survival made the decision for them.
Someone screamed first—not in terror, but in desperation.
"Kill him!"
And then everything came at once.
Ice spears tore through the air, sharp and dense, moving fast enough to shred steel.
Draven moved.
Not rushed.
A shift. A step. A slight lean.
The frozen barrage tore past him, detonating against the stone behind.
The explosion thundered through the arena, shards of ice and dust blasting outward.
Before the debris settled—
fire followed.
A wave of flame roared in from the left, wide enough to swallow a dozen men whole.
From the right, earth surged upward—stone wrapping around one fighter like armor while jagged spikes erupted from the ground beneath Draven's feet.
A mage raised both arms, chanting as glowing circles spun around him.
The ground split—
and an earth golem rose.
Massive. Crude. Brutal.
Others joined in.
Lightning cracked through the air.
Wind spiraled into cutting currents.
Water lashed forward in hardened, blade-like whips.
Forty-seven survivors had made their choice.
Not because they believed they could win.
Because they refused to die waiting.
Lucien's eyes widened. "…They're all attacking—"
Seryna's expression darkened. "…Of course they are."
Kaelira clicked her tongue. "…Cowards."
But even she understood.
This was their only chance.
Draven stood still.
Ice melted around his boots.
Dust drifted past him.
Firelight flickered across his face.
And he simply watched them.
Forty-seven desperate fools clinging to the idea that numbers could save them.
A faint chain rattled at his side.
Then he spoke.
Quiet.
Almost disappointed.
"…Fucking bastards."
---
Far beyond the arena—
beyond the city—
the mountains stood silent.
Ancient. Cold. Unmoving.
Until the air split.
Four figures hovered above a jagged ridge overlooking a hidden harbor carved into the mountainside.
Vaelith stood still as moonlight, her gaze sharp and unreadable.
Lyriana hovered beside her, silent and alert, a faint current of wind circling her form.
The cultist watched below with narrowed eyes, calculating.
And Aldric—
stood with arms folded, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
Below them, a shimmering barrier cloaked the entire port.
Three massive airships rested within, docked in silence.
The structure itself was carved directly into the mountain—hidden from the world.
The cultist's eyes narrowed. "…So this is it."
Her gaze swept the barrier, the ships, the fortress embedded into the stone.
"…That must be the private port the lord mentioned."
She glanced at the others. "…How exactly are we getting in?"
Aldric blinked once.
Then snorted.
"…What are you talking about?"
He tilted his head slightly, almost offended.
"…You want to knock?"
Lyriana said nothing, though the corner of her mouth twitched faintly.
Vaelith remained still, watching.
Waiting.
Then—
from below—
a beam of condensed mana shot upward.
Fast. Violent.
A defense cannon.
The blast swallowed them in smoke and force.
The mountain trembled. Dust rolled outward.
Then—
the smoke cleared.
They were still there.
Unmoved. Untouched.
Lyriana floated calmly, one arm raised. A thin barrier of compressed wind dissolved around her fingers.
Perched on her shoulder, a small cat blinked lazily, tail flicking once in mild annoyance.
A slime rested in her palm, jiggling faintly—entirely unconcerned.
Vaelith hovered beside her, composed as ever.
In her arms, both children slept peacefully, undisturbed.
Aldric glanced down at the harbor.
His grin widened.
"…They even have a cannon."
A pause.
"…Cute."
He raised one hand.
One finger.
Blood welled instantly from the tip—not falling, but hovering.
The air thickened.
Darkened.
Mana surged—violent and ancient.
The cultist's eyes widened slightly. Even now, that power was unsettling.
Aldric flicked his finger downward.
The blood split.
Multiplied.
One spear.
Ten.
Fifty.
Each one long as a lance, sharp as judgment.
They hung above the mountainside like a storm of crimson stars.
Aldric's smile never faded.
"…I'll take that as a greeting."
His hand dropped.
The spears fell.
The impact was catastrophic.
The barrier shattered first, exploding outward in fractured waves of light.
Then the defenses—cannons, towers, reinforced walls—
collapsed.
Stone cracked. Fire erupted. Smoke poured skyward.
The hidden port was laid bare.
Three massive airships. A mountain fortress. And chaos spreading below.
Aldric looked down at the destruction.
Satisfied.
"…Much better."
---
Below—
the port didn't fall into chaos.
It snapped into panic.
Because the moment the barrier fell—
everyone knew.
They had been found.
And whatever had broken through—
was not something ordinary.
Cannons lining the cliffs rotated desperately, runes igniting along their frames.
Then they fired.
Mana shells tore upward—streaks of blue-white force capable of vaporizing entire squads.
Above—
Aldric didn't even blink.
His clothes stirred once in the wind.
That was all.
With a lazy flick of his wrist, a blood-red barrier unfolded before him—layered, dense, impenetrable.
The barrage struck—
and shattered.
Like waves against a cliff.
Explosions lit the sky, fire and smoke rolling harmlessly around the four figures.
Lyriana didn't move.
Vaelith didn't move.
The children slept on.
Even the cat only blinked once.
The slime quivered, then settled.
Below, more cannons adjusted.
Faster now.
Desperate.
Another barrage launched—from concealed emplacements hidden within the cliffs.
A kill box.
Designed for this exact moment.
The blasts came from multiple angles, converging at once.
Aldric's eyes narrowed slightly.
Then—
a different shell screamed upward.
Heavier.
Sharper.
Its mana signature hidden until the last moment.
A concealed weapon.
It detonated in front of them—
a massive burst of condensed force.
The sky cracked.
Smoke swallowed everything.
For a single heartbeat—
the port below held its breath.
Then—
the smoke tore apart.
Not by wind.
By pressure.
Aldric stood there.
Unharmed.
A translucent blood-red barrier shimmered faintly around them before fading.
His expression had gone colder.
His gaze shifted—
locking onto the hidden ridge where the shot had come from.
"…You annoying bastard."
His voice was quiet.
But the mountain seemed to hear it.
He raised one hand.
Blood welled from shallow cuts across his fingers, rising into the air as perfect crimson spheres.
Then they stretched.
Sharpened.
Multiplied.
One spear.
Ten.
Fifty.
Hundreds.
The sky darkened beneath them.
Every cannon. Every tower. Every hidden emplacement—
marked.
The cultist stared upward, eyes widening despite herself. "…That's overkill…"
Aldric didn't look at her.
"…No."
A pause.
"…This is courtesy."
His fingers curled.
And the storm fell.
The descent was silent at first—then catastrophic.
The first hidden cannon vanished instantly.
Rock exploded outward.
The second was punched straight through, its shielding collapsing like glass.
Then the third.
The fourth.
The fifth.
Each detonation chained into the next.
The mountainside lit up in a cascade of destruction.
Fire surged through tunnels. Stone collapsed. Sirens wailed.
Men screamed.
And above it all—
the storm continued to fall.