For several long moments the young Outcast Mage says nothing.
He stands in the middle of the clearing where the soldiers left him, shoulders slightly hunched, his bound hands hanging stiffly behind his back. The rope has rubbed his wrists raw, and damp strands of hair cling to his forehead where the cool morning air meets sweat. Around him the raid continues with quiet, mechanical precision. Prisoners are led past him one by one, their eyes wide above the cloth gags tied across their mouths.
The village itself feels wrong now.
The mist drifting through the crooked huts has thickened as the morning light slowly strengthens, turning the air pale and heavy. Without magic, the enclave feels hollow—like a body suddenly missing its heartbeat. No birds call from the branches overhead. No insects hum above the swamp water. Even the wind moves cautiously between the trees.
The mage lifts his head slowly.
His eyes drift toward one of the nearby huts.
For a moment he whispers something under his breath.
Then suddenly—
He shouts.
"Now!"
The word tears from his throat like a blade ripping through cloth, sharp and desperate.
Three nearby guards react instantly.
"Hold him!"
They seize him from both sides before he can take another breath. One soldier drives his shoulder into the mage's chest, forcing him down into the wet earth. Mud splashes as they pin him to the ground. The rope around his wrists is pulled tighter, twisting his arms painfully behind his back.
The mage struggles violently.
His body thrashes beneath them with sudden strength, boots kicking against the soil as he tries to wrench himself free.
But the soldiers are faster.
One presses a knee hard into the mage's back while another grabs his jaw and forces his mouth open. A thick cloth is shoved between his teeth and tied quickly behind his head.
His shout dies into a muffled cry.
But it is already too late.
Inside one of the huts near the center of the village—
Light flashes.
A sudden burst of energy erupts from within the wooden walls, bright and violent, illuminating the mist like lightning striking in the fog. The fragile structure shudders as the glow spills through cracks in the bark and woven reeds.
Aldo sees it instantly.
His voice cuts across the clearing like a blade.
"Everyone inside—RUN!"
The command echoes through the village.
More than thirty soldiers scattered through the huts hear it at once. For a fraction of a second the quiet rhythm of the raid breaks. Boots pound against wooden floors as men abandon their searches.
Doors slam open.
Figures burst from the huts into the pale morning mist, some still clutching ropes or confiscated staffs. Others stumble as they leap down from raised floorboards, their armor clattering as they hit the ground.
The village that had been silent moments before suddenly fills with motion.
Men sprint across muddy paths.
Others dive behind tree trunks or root-covered embankments.
And inside the hut where the light first flashed—
The glow intensifies.
—
The explosion comes before Aldo can finish the warning.
A thunderous blast rips through the hut with brutal force, the sound striking the clearing like a hammer blow. The fragile structure cannot withstand it. Wooden beams shatter instantly, bark walls splitting apart as splinters and shards of woven reed burst outward in every direction. A violent cloud of dust, smoke, and shattered debris erupts from the collapsing frame.
The shockwave tears across the village.
Air slams into the surrounding huts like a sudden storm wind. Loose branches snap. Lanterns swing wildly on their hooks. The ground itself seems to shudder beneath the impact.
Several soldiers are thrown off their feet.
One man spins sideways through the mud before crashing against a low root. Another is knocked backward into the wall of a neighboring hut, his armor striking the wood with a heavy thud. Two more soldiers tumble across the clearing, rolling through wet earth and scattered debris before coming to a halt.
Aldo reacts instantly.
He drops his center of gravity and braces against the ground, boots digging deep into the mud as the blast wave rushes past him. The force rattles through his bones, and for a brief moment the world becomes a blur of smoke, flying splinters, and vibrating earth.
Then, just as suddenly as it began—
Silence.
The explosion fades into a ringing quiet that settles over the clearing like a heavy curtain. Bits of broken bark and straw drift slowly downward through the gray morning air. Smoke rises from the shattered remains of the hut, twisting upward into the mist that still clings to the village.
The smell of burned wood and scorched earth spreads across the swamp.
A few soldiers groan somewhere within the settling haze.
One man lies on his side clutching his arm, teeth gritted as he tries to steady his breathing. Another struggles to push himself upright, mud coating his armor as he fights to regain his balance. Nearby, two soldiers sit dazed in the dirt, blinking through dust as they attempt to understand what has just happened.
A few figures remain completely still.
Aldo does not pause to watch.
He is already moving.
Mud splashes outward beneath his boots as he runs toward the ruined hut, weaving through scattered debris and stunned soldiers. The broken structure smolders in front of him, its roof partially collapsed and its wooden supports twisted into jagged angles.
"Carry the wounded!" he shouts sharply.
The command cuts cleanly through the confusion.
Aldo reaches the nearest injured soldier and drops to one knee beside him. The man is half-buried beneath a section of shattered wall, his breathing ragged as blood trickles down the side of his face.
Without hesitation, Aldo grips the soldier beneath the shoulders and pulls him free from the debris.
"Help me!"
Another soldier rushes forward at once. He grabs the injured man's legs while Aldo lifts his upper body.
Together they drag him across the mud, pulling him away from the unstable wreckage of the destroyed hut.
Behind them, more soldiers are already responding to the order.
Men rush into the drifting smoke to search through the wreckage. Broken beams are shoved aside. Splintered boards are lifted and thrown clear as they check beneath the rubble.
One soldier helps a stunned comrade stagger to his feet. Another tears a strip of cloth from his sleeve to press against a bleeding wound.
Gradually the clearing fills with urgent movement.
Men are pulled from the debris.
Some emerge shaken but unharmed, coughing through the dust.
Others are less fortunate.
Blood stains the mud as wounded soldiers are carried or dragged away from the blast site while the smoke continues to rise slowly into the pale morning sky.
—
At the swamp channel, Lei Delun reacts instantly.
He jumps into a small boat.
"Move!"
Two soldiers push the boat into the water.
Lei rows hard.
The boat cuts across the swamp toward Onaga's command position.
They need reinforcements.
Or evacuation support.
—
Back at the center of the village, the Outcast Mage lies bound on the damp ground where the soldiers forced him earlier. The rope around his wrists has been pulled so tight that the fibers have begun to cut into his skin, and mud stains the sleeves of his robe where he struggled against the guards. His body has gone still now, but his eyes burn fiercely above the cloth gag tied across his mouth.
They are filled with rage.
Across the clearing, the echoes of the explosion slowly fade. The smoke that had burst outward from the shattered hut begins to thin, drifting upward in pale gray ribbons that twist through the branches overhead. Bits of dust and ash continue to settle across the ground, coating the village paths and the soldiers standing watch.
For a moment, nothing moves.
Then the broken hut door creaks.
The sound is small but unmistakable. Several nearby soldiers turn immediately, raising their weapons toward the entrance as the warped wooden panel slowly swings inward.
Four figures step out.
Witches.
Outcasts.
Alive.
They emerge cautiously from the dim interior of the hut, their robes dusted with ash, their faces pale and wide-eyed as they stare out at the ruined clearing. For a heartbeat they simply stand there, frozen by what they see.
Soldiers.
Bound prisoners.
Smoke rising from shattered wood.
Several muskets are already aimed directly at them.
But the witches do not attack.
Instead they look around the clearing in stunned silence, their eyes darting from one scene to another as the full reality of the raid becomes clear. Fear spreads across their faces.
Then one of them turns sharply toward the hut wall.
Four wooden broomsticks lean there, propped carefully against the bark surface where they had been left earlier.
The witches move instantly.
They rush forward and seize the brooms, gripping the worn wooden handles with desperate urgency. In one smooth motion each of them swings a leg across the shaft and settles into position.
A nearby soldier realizes what is happening.
"Stop them!" he shouts.
But the command comes too late.
The broomsticks shudder briefly—then lift.
The witches rise into the air as if pulled upward by invisible hands, their robes fluttering wildly as the brooms accelerate above the clearing. Within seconds they are already climbing past the height of the surrounding huts.
Higher.
Faster.
They streak upward through the pale morning mist, shooting above the treetops where the gray sky begins to open.
Several soldiers react instinctively. Muskets snap upward, barrels tracking the fleeing figures as fingers tighten around triggers.
But before anyone can fire—
Aldo's voice cuts across the clearing.
"Do NOT chase!"
The command is sharp enough to freeze movement instantly.
The soldiers hesitate.
Then, slowly, the muskets lower.
Aldo stands in the mud near the center of the clearing. His uniform is smeared with dirt from dragging wounded soldiers away from the blast site, and streaks of dust cling to his sleeves and collar. His breathing is still heavy from the sudden chaos of the explosion.
Yet his voice remains steady.
Controlled.
"The mission is complete."
His eyes sweep slowly across the village.
All around the clearing, captured members of the enclave sit bound against tree roots or hut walls, their hands tied tightly behind their backs. Wands, staffs, and strange magical tools lie piled together beneath guard. Soldiers continue moving among the huts, performing final checks for hidden compartments or concealed escape routes.
Most of the Witch Enclave is already secured.
Bound.
Disarmed.
Helpless.
Four witches have escaped into the sky.
But the enclave itself—
Is finished.
Aldo turns slowly toward the swamp channel where the dugout boats wait between the reeds.
"Gather everyone."
He raises one arm and gestures toward the water.
"Prepare to return."
The soldiers begin moving at once.
Some lift wounded comrades carefully onto their shoulders. Others drag bound prisoners across the muddy ground toward the waiting boats. Teams move methodically through the clearing, collecting confiscated weapons and magical instruments.
Nearby, Ryong Min Ki closes the thin notebook in his hands.
For a moment he pauses beside the growing stack of captured wands and carved staffs laid carefully near the boats. His eyes linger on the collection, studying the craftsmanship of the strange magical tools one last time.
Then he nods quietly to himself.
Behind them, smoke continues to drift slowly upward above the silent, defeated Witch Enclave.