CHAPTER 75: Immovable Wall (Part 5)

Desperate Escapade

“I will not show any mercy!”

Arslov’s shout made the forest tremble.

The snow hanging from bare branches broke loose in white sheets. Birds hidden somewhere deeper in the woods scattered into the gray sky, their wings beating wildly against the storm. The dark red aura surging from Arslov’s body rolled outward like a beast dragging chains through the air, tearing apart what remained of the smoke curtain and scattering Darius’s snow diversion into ragged streams. The mountain path shook under the pressure of his pursuit, and each breath the South’s soldiers took felt heavier than the last.

Adrian’s team did not waste time.

They ran.

Not in panic, but in desperate formation. The injured and those carrying the fallen were placed at the front under double haste support. The two mages, pale from barrier recoil and scroll usage, forced their mana into movement spells rather than defense, pushing the group toward the rendezvous point with every ounce of discipline they still possessed. Boots struck frozen ground. Armor scraped against branches. Smoke clung to their cloaks. Blood darkened the snow where wounded men stumbled and were immediately caught by those beside them.

“No matter what,” Adrian shouted, voice cutting through the storm and broken smoke, “do not stop until we arrive at the rendezvous point. Someone must reach reinforcement as soon as possible.”

Darius ran beside him, but his expression had hardened into frustration so deep it almost became pain.

Time felt slower to him.

Every step stretched. Every breath became a calculation he hated. The young master was here, in the field, hunted by the King of Bandits after what should have been a controlled operation. This was Adrian’s first true combat mission outside the wall after recovery. His body, despite all improvement, was still not meant to be thrown before a monster like Arslov. Darius had accepted him as head commander. He had obeyed. He had trusted the plan. Yet the soldier in him, the general in him, and the man who owed the Valenhart family his loyalty all burned beneath the same truth.

The heir should not have had to face this.

“Young master!” Darius called. “Arslov will catch up with our pace—”

“I know.”

Adrian cut him off without looking back.

His voice was calm, but there was steel buried beneath it.

“That is why someone must prioritize survival.”

Darius’s jaw tightened. “Then you should be in the first group.”

“No.”

The answer was immediate.

Adrian looked ahead, counting distance, trees, slope angle, movement speed, injury drag, Arslov’s likely approach line, and the time needed for reinforcement to respond to the black flare. He had no illusion. If the whole group kept running together, Arslov would catch them before the rendezvous point. If they spread without command, he would break them one by one. If Darius stayed alone to delay him, the general would die too quickly, not from weakness, but from a mismatch of intention. One man delaying a monster who enjoyed breaking strong prey was not a plan. It was a sacrifice with poor probability.

“Rolan,” Adrian shouted, “take half the team and move faster. No looking back. Injured and support mages go with you.”

Rolan turned sharply, eyes wide. “My lord—”

“Darius stays with me. The remaining half who can still fight stay as well.”

Darius stopped so abruptly that snow sprayed around his boots. “Absolutely not.”

The others halted by instinct, forming around them in ragged tension.

The sound of Arslov’s pursuit grew behind them.

Trees cracked.

Something massive smashed through the undergrowth.

Adrian turned.

For the first time since the mission began, his glare carried open frustration.

“This is an absolute order.”

Darius froze.

Adrian stepped closer, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through every objection. “There is no better calculation left. You alone are not enough to buy time. I alone cannot delay him. All of us running together means all of us die tired. Splitting is the only remaining path that gives both groups a chance to survive.”

Darius’s hands clenched around his sword.

“This is the last resort,” Adrian said. “Not heroism. Not stubbornness. Survival.”

The trees behind them shattered again.

Arslov was coming.

Adrian lifted his voice so every soldier could hear. “Heed my command. Trust the other group to reach reinforcement. Trust your effort and discipline. If we need to struggle, we will do it properly, with me as the head commander.”

For one breath, hesitation remained.

It was not cowardice.

It was loyalty resisting separation.

Then Rolan moved first.

He understood terrain, pursuit, and distance better than most of them. He understood that ten minutes could decide whether men lived or became red shapes in snow.

He bowed once, fast and hard. “Please stay alive, my lord. I still need a proper contract to serve you.”

Adrian gave no smile. “Then earn the right to negotiate it.”

Rolan’s mouth tightened with something like resolve. “Ten minutes, my lord. Give us ten minutes, and we will do our best to return with reinforcement.”

He turned to the first group. “Move!”

They obeyed.

Rolan led them down the safer slope, half-carrying one injured knight while another supported a mage whose steps had grown unstable. The group moved with double haste, still clinging to their bodies, disappearing between the trees in a broken but disciplined line. None of them looked back. The order had been absolute, and the cost of disobedience would be more lives than loyalty could justify.

Adrian watched until they gained enough distance.

Only then did he turn back.

The remaining group consisted of Adrian, Darius, four knights still capable of full combat, one injured but functional shield knight, and a mage whose mana was low but not empty. Seven against one.

The number meant little.

Adrian reached beneath his cloak and opened the small magi-tech watch strapped to his wrist. It was one of his private prototypes, inspired by the old watches of his past life and built with southern craft, tiny gearwork, and a mana-stone timing core. The surface glowed faintly under the snow-shadow.

Ten minutes.

He set the marker.

In front of them, the forest broke.

Trees snapped one after another, not from clean cutting now, but from brute force. Something was moving through them like a siege engine wearing a human body. Branches exploded. Snow burst upward. The ground shook with each closing step.

Adrian uncorked a recovery potion and drank half. He handed the rest to the nearest injured knight without looking. “Drink.”

The knight obeyed.

Darius took one as well, not because he was wounded, but because his body needed every reserve it could seize. The others followed. No one wasted a drop.

Adrian drew his sword.

His breathing changed.

Inhale through the nose. Hold. Release. Not calm for peace. Calm for violence. The rhythm sharpened his mana sensing, narrowing the world into angles, pulses, distance, and intent. He could feel the trembling in his hand, but he did not hate it. A body that trembled before overwhelming danger was not weak. It was honest. Control was not the absence of fear. It was deciding where fear would stand.

“Sync all attack and defense,” Adrian said. “No one fights alone. No one overextends. Darius fills the power loss. I fill the pattern gaps. Shield line denies entry. Side blades punish exposure. Mage disrupts vision and footing only. Do not attempt a killing blow unless I order it.”

The knights tightened their formation.

“Watch his shoulders,” Adrian continued. “His blade is large, but his hips reveal direction sooner. Do not meet shoulder-driven strikes directly unless Darius intercepts. If he shortens his grip, expect close-range violence. Pommel, elbow, knee, headbutt, base control. He is not a tournament knight. Treat every part of his body as a weapon.”

The mage swallowed. “Understood.”

Adrian looked at them one by one.

“My soldiers do not fear and hold our ground.”

The words were not loud.

They did not need to be.

The group settled.

Darius stepped forward, greatsword angled downward, earth mana spreading beneath his boots. Two shield knights positioned on his left and right, shields unfolded and braced, but not locked into a full wall this time. A fixed wall would only be broken. They needed a rotating defense. The remaining knights formed a half-ring behind and beside them, each assigned to pressure Arslov’s blind angles after every intercept. Adrian stood just behind Darius’s right side, close enough to enter a gap, far enough not to be immediately crushed by the first clash.

The beast arrived.

Arslov emerged from the broken trees with snow and splinters falling from his shoulders. His massive sword dragged behind him for three steps, cutting a dark line through the ground before he lifted it again. His grin widened when he saw them standing instead of running.

“I thought you were struggling to run,” he said. “So even a smart rat can make a foolish plan when death approaches.”

No one answered.

That seemed to please him.

Arslov’s eyes moved across the formation. Darius at the front. Shields angled. Blades waiting at the side pressure. Adrian, behind the line, sword drawn, gaze cold and precise.

Then Arslov noticed Adrian’s eyes.

Killing intent met killing intent.

Adrian’s was not larger. It was not filthier. It did not have Arslov’s mountain of corpses behind it. But it was focused, controlled, and insultingly clear. He did not look at Arslov as a nightmare. He looked at him as a problem that had entered measurable distance.

From Arslov’s perspective, that was an insult.

His grin became almost delighted.

“Now we’re talking like a real man,” Arslov said, lifting his sword. “Do not die easily, young man.”

He moved first.

The opening strike came from above, shoulder-driven, meant to crush Darius and the two shield knights behind the same line. Darius stepped diagonally instead of backward, shifting the attack away from the center. His sword rose in a slanted guard, not to stop the full blow, but to bind and redirect. Earth mana reinforced his arms, spine, and stance. The impact still drove him down one knee for half a breath, but the blade’s path changed enough for the left shield knight to slam his mithril shield into Arslov’s sword flat.

“Side pressure!” Adrian called.

Two knights entered from opposite angles.

One cut low toward Arslov’s forward leg. The other struck high toward the elbow of his weapon arm. It was a classic high-low sequence, not designed to wound deeply, but to force adjustment. Arslov twisted his hips, lifted his leg just enough to avoid the low cut, then smashed his elbow into the high attacker’s guard with such force that the knight staggered backward, blood spraying from his mouth.

Adrian moved into the gap.

His sword did not aim at flesh.

It aimed at movement.

A short horizontal cut passed before Arslov’s knee, forcing the bandit king to halt the forward step he had intended to use for a follow-up crush. At the same time, Adrian’s left hand flicked a small powder capsule beneath the snow near Arslov’s boot. The capsule burst into pale dust, not enough to blind him, but enough to distort footing.

Arslov laughed and stomped through it.

The ground cracked.

“Clever.”

He reversed his grip suddenly and brought the sword across in a brutal short-range sweep.

“Low guard!” Darius shouted.

The two shield knights dropped their shields together, angled downward. The sweep hit the slanted surfaces and slid upward instead of cutting through legs. Sparks flew from mithril. One shield knight screamed as the force broke something in his wrist, but he held long enough for Darius to drive forward with a shoulder check reinforced by earth aura.

The blow struck Arslov’s chest.

For the first time, the bandit king shifted back half a step.

Not wounded.

Moved.

The knights felt it.

Hope threatened to rise.

Adrian killed it immediately. “Do not celebrate.”

Good.

Because Arslov’s next attack came faster.

He did not swing wide. He shortened the grip on his massive sword and stepped inside Darius’s range. His pommel smashed toward the general’s face. Darius tilted aside, but the pommel clipped his cheek and split skin. Arslov followed with a knee toward the stomach. Darius blocked with the lower guard of his sword, but the impact drove air from his lungs.

A side knight thrust toward Arslov’s ribs.

Arslov caught the shaft of the attack with his free forearm, let the blade bite shallowly against armor, then headbutted the knight with savage force. The man’s helmet cracked. He fell backward, stunned.

“Rotate!” Adrian ordered.

The rear knight pulled the stunned one back by the collar. The injured shield knight moved into replacement despite his damaged wrist, gritting his teeth as his bracelet shield expanded again. The mage cast a thin slick of frost beneath Arslov’s rear foot.

Arslov sensed it and jumped.

Not backward.

Upward.

He came down with both hands on the sword, aiming at the center of their rotation.

Darius intercepted.

This time, he did not try to redirect. He planted both feet, blade horizontal, earth mana surging from the ground into his shoulders. The clash rang through the forest. Darius’s knees bent. His aura cracked at the edges. The snow around him compressed into hard ice from pressure alone.

Adrian stepped behind him and placed one hand against the flat of Darius’s sword near the base.

Not to add raw power.

To adjust angle.

“Three degrees left,” Adrian said.

Darius obeyed instantly.

That tiny correction changed everything. Arslov’s sword slid just enough for the crushing force to miss the centerline. The right shield knight slammed upward into the exposed side of the heavy blade. The left knight cut toward Arslov’s wrist. Adrian used the opening to strike at the armor slit he had created earlier.

The blade touched.

Not deep.

But enough.

A thin red line appeared beneath Arslov’s rib plating.

The bandit king’s eyes widened.

Then he grinned so hard it looked almost painful.

“Yes.”

He kicked Darius in the chest.

The general flew backward three steps, caught himself with his sword, and carved a trench in the snow to remain standing. The shield knights tried to close the gap, but Arslov spun with terrifying speed. His blade came around in a shoulder-driven arc, wide enough to break coordination through sheer pressure.

“Duck and bind!” Adrian shouted.

The closest knight ducked. The second raised his shield high. Adrian stepped under the swing’s outer range and struck upward at the blade’s path, not trying to stop it, only altering its height. Darius recovered just in time to meet the weakened end of the swing with a bind, catching Arslov’s blade near the final third where the pressure was less impossible.

The bind lasted one breath.

In that breath, the mage cast wind at Arslov’s face.

Not a grand spell.

A dirty one.

Snow, ash from the earlier explosion, and cold air snapped into his eyes.

Arslov snarled and shoved forward.

The bind broke.

His sword smashed into the ground where Adrian had been standing.

Adrian had already shifted.

His movement was not knightly in the traditional sense. It was too economical, too pattern-focused. He did not rely on superior strength. He stepped where the attack had already been decided not to be. His sword flicked toward Arslov’s hand, forcing another adjustment. Then he retreated behind Darius before the counter could split him.

Darius understood the rhythm now.

Adrian was not trying to overpower Arslov.

He was deforming the fight.

Every time Arslov built a direct line of destruction, Adrian placed a question in that line. A cut that forced the knee to pause. A powder burst that changed footing. A short slash that threatened a joint. A hand correction to Darius’s blade. A command that rotated an injured knight before collapse. Darius filled the loss of power. Adrian filled the gaps in the pattern. The knights became moving wedges around them, absorbing, pressing, retreating, replacing. The mage disrupted sight and ground only at the moment it mattered.

It was still not enough to win.

But it was enough to survive.

For three minutes, they held.

Three minutes against Arslov felt like an hour.

He broke coordination through sheer pressure again and again. One knight’s shield shattered at the hinge, forcing him to abandon it and draw a short sword. Another took a shallow cut across the thigh and nearly dropped, only to be dragged back by the injured shield knight. Darius blocked a descending strike and suffered a fracture along the edge of his sword guard. Adrian’s left sleeve tore from a near miss that would have taken his arm if he had been half a step slower.

Arslov did not fight mindlessly.

That became clearer with every exchange.

He watched patterns. He tested who reacted late. He struck at injured men to force emotional mistakes. He feinted wide, then closed short with pommel and elbow. He used his massive blade not only as a cutting weapon but as a barrier, lever, hook, and hammer. When the knights tried to pressure his left side, he rotated through them and nearly broke the flank. When Darius anchored too long, Arslov attacked the ground beside him instead, making the earth shift under his stance. When Adrian tried to distort his movement twice the same way, Arslov caught the rhythm and almost trapped his sword.

“You learn fast,” Adrian said under his breath.

Arslov heard him.

The grin returned. “And you think faster than you swing.”

He lunged.

This time, he ignored Darius and aimed directly for Adrian.

“Entry denial!” Darius roared.

Two knights crossed in front. One shield high, one blade low. Adrian stepped backward, not away from fear, but to draw Arslov into the worst angle. Darius moved from the side and struck Arslov’s blade with a descending bind. The mage fired a flash of pale light at Arslov’s lower vision. Adrian used the half-blink to thrust toward the bandit king’s throat.

Arslov tilted away.

The thrust cut his cheek.

Blood appeared.

A single line.

The forest went still around it.

Arslov touched the blood with his tongue.

Then laughed.

Not loudly at first.

Then louder.

The sound rolled through the trees, wild and delighted.

“This,” he said, eyes bright with madness, “this is how knights should fight.”

His aura rose.

Darius’s face changed.

“Brace.”

Arslov’s attacks accelerated.

The massive blade blurred in ways its size should not allow. Dark red aura wrapped each swing, but now the black lightning inside it snapped more violently, crawling over the blade edge and bursting on impact. He struck high, then reversed low before the shield could recover. He bound Darius’s sword, shoved him sideways, then used his shoulder to slam into a knight trying to flank. He kicked snow into Adrian’s line of sight, then attacked through the white burst. He spun his grip short and brought the pommel toward Adrian’s temple, only for Darius to intercept with his forearm guard at the cost of a sickening crack.

“Darius!” one knight shouted.

“Formation!” Darius barked back.

The pain did not move him out of position.

Adrian’s timer pulsed beneath his sleeve.

Four minutes passed.

Six remaining.

Maybe less, if Rolan succeeded quickly.

Maybe more, if reinforcement was delayed.

Adrian adjusted the formation again. “Tighter rotation. Do not chase wounds. Deny entry. Make him spend force.”

The knights obeyed.

Their attacks became shorter. No wide swings. No glory cuts. They used low thrusts, shield bumps, blade binds, ankle denial, and shoulder checks. One knight slammed his shield edge into Arslov’s thigh after Darius redirected a strike. Another struck the back of Arslov’s gauntlet and withdrew before the counter came. Adrian cut twice at the same armor slit, then shifted to the opposite side the moment Arslov anticipated the third.

The mage cast another frost slick, this time not under Arslov, but behind him, limiting retreat angle. It did not trap him. It guided him.

Darius used that guide.

He drove forward with a structure-driven attack, not shoulder-driven. His blade rose from the ground, powered through legs, hips, back, and arms in one aligned movement. Earth mana reinforced the line. Arslov blocked, but the force pushed him half a step toward the frost line.

Adrian entered.

His sword flashed toward Arslov’s exposed wrist.

Arslov twisted, avoided losing tendons, and countered with a brutal elbow.

Adrian ducked under it by a hair.

The elbow struck the knight behind him instead, cracking the man’s helmet and dropping him to one knee.

Arslov followed with a knee toward Adrian’s chest.

Adrian blocked with the flat of his sword and forearm together. Pain shot through his arm. He let the impact throw him backward instead of resisting it, rolled once through the snow, and came up breathing hard.

Arslov’s eyes fixed on him.

“More,” the bandit king said.

His aura swelled again.

The forest seemed to shrink under it.

The knights were bleeding now. Darius’s face was marked with blood, one forearm damaged, his breathing heavier. The mage’s lips had gone pale from repeated casting. Adrian’s sleeve hung torn, his fingers numb around the hilt, and the timer beneath his cloak continued its quiet, merciless count.

But the line had not broken.

That mattered.

Arslov saw it too.

His murderous smile widened into something almost joyous.

“This is how knights should fight!” he roared, making his attacks even faster and more powerful. “More! I need more!”