The boy now four years of age, was sleeping wrapped in his mother's arms, oblivious to the cold night. The camp within the borderland was quiet—or so it seemed. Lanterns flickered along the dirt paths, guards patrolling in careful arcs. Soldiers of Ibot's command moved among civilians, checking barricades, whispering instructions.
Then the first scream tore through the night.
Civilians ran from the edges of the small settlement, alarm spreading like fire. From the treeline and as well over the walls, dark shapes emerged, moving fast, they wore clothes that looked like turbans tied around their face to cover it and some among them were Manaborne (those who can use mana).
Ibot on horseback was walking along with his lieutenant and some escorts as well of which he noticed from afar towards the streets of the fiefdom, it was the glint of steel and the sudden flare of hostile magic in the kingdom and not before long Smoke rose in the distance—one of the outer posts had fallen. The ambush had begun.
"Grand Commander!" one of his lieutenants shouted, blocking an arrow that would have struck a panicked villager. "They've broken through!"
'So it begins,'
Ibot thought, looking cold and measured. He glanced back towards his castle and then commanded his lieutenant to take some soldiers and defend while some evacuate the civilians from the fiefdom and then ran back on toward his wife and the maid.
"Take the boy through the back path," he ordered. "Go now!. Do not stop for anyone." Ibot said calmly to his wife and others with her..
The mother's eyes widened, but she obeyed, clutching the child to her chest. The maid and the other servants followed, helping guide other children and elders toward the narrow forest path behind the camp.
Ibot turned fully toward the fighting. Soldiers were already engaging the first wave. Fire magic leapt from the attackers, arrows flew, and a gust of wind knocked some men off balance.
One soldier, a young Manaborne, spun the earth beneath his feet, throwing attackers into the air, while another summoned walls of flame to block a charge. Every soldier acted on instinct, defending civilians, holding lines, and countering enemies with whatever magic they could summon.
Ibot raised his hand. Water flowed from the nearby river, rushing to him like a living ally. He shaped it into sharp jets that pierced armored attackers, a spinning torrent that lifted men from the ground and slammed them aside. The flow of pure mana thrummed in his veins, amplifying his power, refining every strike, every parry.
The ambushers split, some heading for civilians, others pressing the front line against the soldiers.
Ibot's men moved quickly, forming protective barriers around fleeing villagers. He caught sight of a fire mage attempting to set a building ablaze and swung his arm. Water surged, extinguishing flames in a heartbeat. The mage tried to retaliate, hurling molten rock, but Ibot twisted the water into a whip, sending the mage sprawling into a tree.
Nearby, a soldier controlling wind clashed with an attacker manipulating earth. The wind soldier lifted the earthborn strike midair, redirecting it into a pile of rubble, and countered with a spinning gust that knocked the enemy back. Another soldier, quick and lithe, dashed between attackers, using bursts of speed to disarm foes before they could reach civilians.
Chaos spread. Screams of civilians mingled with the clash of steel and the roar of magic. Arrows struck the ground, some deflected by water shields, some finding unfortunate targets. The small settlement became a storm of carnage, every street a potential trap.
Ibot advanced alongside his soldiers, guiding them with brief, precise commands. "Hold the east gate! Protect the families near the granary!" His voice carried authority. A group of soldiers intercepted a squad of fire-wielding attackers trying to break through the barricade. Water met fire, earth met wind, and the street exploded in a shower of debris. One of the attackers, a mage specializing in shadow, moved unseen among civilians until a soldier lifted a globe of water, slamming him into the dirt.
Ibot moved to the center of the chaos, his eyes with a bluish hue focused, mana sharpening his perception. He twisted a column of water, forming a barrier to block a group of soldiers carrying poisoned blades. The water froze midair, then shot forward in jagged spears, throwing enemies back with force. He could feel the exhaustion creeping in, but he ignored it. Every second counted. Every soldier alive was a chance for his family to escape.
From the treeline, a fire mage leaped toward Ibot, igniting the ground beneath him. Water surged instinctively, forming a spinning shield that absorbed the heat. Ibot struck back, twisting the water into a whip that cracked against the mage's armor. Sparks flew. The mage fell, rolling into the mud, but another charged from behind. Ibot pivoted, a wave of water spinning around him, striking multiple enemies at once. His mana infused each motion with precision, speed, and lethal efficiency.
.....
Meanwhile, his wife stumbled along the forest path, holding the child tight. The maid and others helped guide a group of villagers through the underbrush. From the clearing behind them, she heard shouts, the clashing of magic and steel, the screams of the wounded.
...
One villager, trying to run too close to the road, was struck by a mage's fireball, but a soldier intervened, shoving him out of harm's way.
Ibot's gaze flicked to the smoke rising from the outer posts. Some attackers had cut through the defenses, moving fast to flank the center. He pushed water forward, forming spinning blades to deflect their strikes. Arrows whizzed past, some blocked, some finding gaps. He struck a foe, his water spear slicing clean through the man's defenses. Another approached, manipulating earth to hurl boulders, but Ibot's water walls absorbed the impact, scattering debris over the street.
The battle spread, each street a web of magic and steel. Soldiers died defending civilians. Civilians screamed, ran, fell, and were pulled to safety by those who survived. Some attackers were stopped mid-strike by the magic of the soldiers; others succeeded, leaving carnage in their wake.
The mother, now near the edge of the forest, stumbled. An arrow grazed her arm, tearing a red line across her skin. She gasped but pressed on, urging the maid to run faster.
From the front, a fire mage and a wind mage combined their magic to strike Ibot directly. He twisted a torrent of water into a spiral shield, deflecting both attacks. Then he surged forward, summoning the river's current, sending attackers flying into fences, walls, and piles of rubble. His soldiers rallied behind him, using their own magic to cover his back.
A flash of light—a mage specializing in speed—blurred across the battlefield, attempting to reach the fleeing civilians. One of Ibot's soldiers intercepted him, using a burst of earth to trip and knock him aside. Another soldier, a fire controller, incinerated an incoming projectile midair. The clash of abilities and counterabilities created a chaotic symphony, alive, dangerous, and breathtaking.
But the ambush had numbers. Despite their skill, the attackers pressed forward relentlessly. Ibot's strikes became sharper, faster, each infused with his mana's precision. Water spun, sliced, shielded, and crushed. He met every enemy head-on, his soldiers fighting alongside, falling and rising again, refusing to give ground.
He glanced toward the rear one last time. The mother and maid were close to the forest path.
'You will reach safety,'
he thought, his mind clear, resolute. Another wave of attackers surged, forcing him to hold the line. The soldiers around him were dying or falling back, and yet he stood, a pillar of force and water.
Then came the final strike. A combination of fire, earth, and shadow magic slammed against his defenses. Water spun violently, absorbing, redirecting, blocking. A surge of energy erupted, knocking him off his feet, twisting the air with raw force. Soldiers were thrown aside, some into the trees, others into shallow streams. The explosion of magic consumed the center of the battlefield.
When the dust and water settled, Ibot was gone. Where he had stood, only a scattering of debris and water ripples remained. His soldiers continued to fight, some rallying, others retreating, holding back attackers to protect the remaining civilians.
....
The mother stumbled, the child pressed to her chest. An arrow struck her side. She fell to one knee, screaming once, holding the boy tightly. "Run!" she cried, voice raw. The maid took her hand, lifting her slightly, guiding her forward. Blood soaked her tunic, warmth seeping into the boy's blanket.
The maid ran, twisting through the underbrush, avoiding arrows and collapsing trees. Civilians followed where they could. Behind them, the sounds of pursuit—shouts, the clash of magic, the screams of men—echoed through the forest. Branches tore at her clothes, thorns cut her arms, yet she did not falter. Every step mattered because it was their survival.
The boy woke up in the midst of the exchange of hands between his mother and the maid, his small hands curled against his maids chest. He did not see the fire that consumed part of the village, nor hear the cries of those who had fallen. He only saw and felt the warmth of his mother and the maid, carrying him through the chaos right before his mother was then shot by an arrow.
The forest thickened. Shadows shifted and twisted as attackers tried to flank them, but the maid ducked and twisted, pressing onward. Her lungs burned, her arms ached, but the boy was alive. The maid was not only a normal maid, she was also a Mana-Knight, one of the best of their ranks. She running with the boy in her hands saw his eyes looking back at his now dead mother.
'Sigh'
'at least your still alive, I'll save you even if it costs me my life'
That was all that mattered to her, his safety for that was now her duty.
.....
Behind them, the borderland settlement lay in ruins. Smoke rose in black pillars, screams faded into the night, and water shimmered in the streets where Ibot had fought. Soldiers were scattered, some dead, some defending fleeing civilians, some retreating into the trees. The ambush had succeeded in part, but a small thread of life escaped: the boy, carried by the maid, some other villagers who managed to escape as well and through the darkness, the chase continued. The boy neither cried nor screamed but only watched back to his village, to the spot his father and mother died as he was held close to the maids chest, the forest closing around him, alive with danger. The night was long, and the borderland was merciless, but for now, he was safe.