CHAPTER 78: Immovable Wall (Part 8)

True Power Scale

“I, the eldest heir of the South, the son of the Lion, the one who will change this chaos, Lucien Adrian Valenhart!”

His voice tore through the forest like a pledge sworn before death.

Golden white power erupted from Adrian’s body. It did not bloom like an ordinary aura, nor did it arrange itself like stable essence. It moved as both and neither, circling his heart with violent rhythm while pulsing through his mind in cold, precise flashes. The third circle around his heart burned into existence under pressure, and the third circle in his mind answered it as a bell struck inside the skull. His body should not have endured it. His wounds should have dragged him down. His chest should have collapsed beneath the blow Arslov had delivered. Yet he stood with blood running from his mouth, blood beneath one eye, and a sword gripped in his hand as if the entire forest had become a battlefield carved for his name.

For one breath, even Arslov stopped smiling.

The bandit king’s sixth-circle aura pressed against the field like a storm made of blood and black lightning, but Adrian’s release pushed back—not equally, not truly, but enough to distort the pressure between them. Snow spiraled around him. Broken branches trembled. The wounded knights beside Darius felt the suffocation lessen, not because Arslov weakened, but because Adrian had forced space into the air with sheer cothe nviction.

Darius stared at the young master’s back.

He knew it was not real equality.

He knew Adrian was forcing his body beyond the line of safety. The power felt like someone briefly touching the edge of a higher realm by burning the foundation beneath his feet. It was a bluff made of blood, will, and impossible calculation. But it was not meaningless. Against a monster like Arslov, even false parity could buy time. Even a single breath could become survival.

On the other side of the forest, Rolan’s group reached the rendezvous point.

It had been five minutes since they had separated from Adrian and Darius.

Five minutes that felt like a betrayal.

Rolan burst from the tree line with the survivors behind him, nearly slipping on the frozen ground as he raised one arm to signal identity before the waiting soldiers mistook them for incoming enemies. His face was pale, his cloak torn, and blood—not all of it his—had hardened along one sleeve. The injured mage with the missing arm had already gone half-conscious from pain and potion shock. Two knights carried him between them. Another supported the wounded shield knight, whose broken fingers had been bound with cloth and splinting strips. The others moved like men who had survived only because someone behind them had agreed to become the wall.

Then Rolan saw the evacuation area.

He stopped for half a breath.

The South had moved.

Not a small rescue party. Not a scattered reaction. Not a handful of guards running after a flare.

Two-thirds of the southern soldiers were aligned and armored as if preparing for war.

Three thousand cavalry waited in layered formation, horses armored at the neck and chest, riders holding their lances steady beneath the gray sky. Seven thousand knight-swordsmen stood behind and around them in controlled blocks, their shields, blades, and winter cloaks forming disciplined lines across the snow-cleared ground. One thousand mages had gathered in proper support formation, divided by barrier, attack, and utility function. At their center stood thirty elite mages whose identities were still unknown to most of the South, their robes plain, their presence quiet, and their mana unnervingly refined.

At the front stood Alistair.

Beside him stood Enel.

Alistair wore field armor beneath his marquis cloak, the lion insignia of the South fixed over his chest. He did not look like a noble dragged into an emergency response. He looked like the commander of a territory that had prepared for the moment when the threat became visible. His face remained stern, but his eyes moved immediately over the returning group, counting the living, the injured, and the missing before anyone reported.

Enel stood slightly behind and to the side, staff in hand, robe moving faintly in the wind. He was calm, but his calmness was not softness. Since his breakthrough, his presence had changed. The mana around him felt deeper, cleaner, and more distant from ordinary mages. There was no arrogance in it. Only control.

Merek and Seraphine were not present at the front.

They had been assigned to manage and protect the South when Alistair left the wall. That alone showed the seriousness of the operation. The Marquis would move to rescue his heir and soldiers, but the territory would not be left blind. Seraphine controlled internal intelligence and civil stability. Merek oversaw defensive readiness. Garret and Norman had already performed an evacuation drill across the vicinity, not to empty the South in panic, but to alert every sector at maximum response level. Gates were sealed. Inner routes were cleared. Hospitals opened capacity. The wall devices were manned. Sector leaders had been given temporary authority chains. No one in the South could claim ignorance if danger expanded.

Rolan had expected help.

He had not expected a warfront.

But there was no time to be stunned.

He stumbled forward and dropped to one knee before Alistair. “My lord! Mission objective fulfilled. Brutos and his unit were eliminated. Enemy base destroyed by delayed scroll detonation. Arslov pursued us personally. The young master and General Darius remained behind with half the team to buy time.”

Alistair’s eyes hardened.

“How long?”

“Five minutes since separation.”

“Casualties?”

“One confirmed dead before separation, my lord. Cut in half by Arslov’s surprise slash. Multiple injuries. One mage lost an arm. The young master and Darius were still fighting when we left.”

The medics were already moving before the report ended.

They took the injured from the returning soldiers with practiced urgency. The one-armed mage was lowered onto a stretcher while two healers worked at once to stabilize him. The shield knight’s broken hand was reset enough for transport. Potions were administered, wounds sealed, and curse residue checked. Several knights moved toward the body brought with the group. The fallen man’s remains had been wrapped as best as possible during flight, but the division of the body left no room for illusion.

One of the newly appointed captains stepped forward.

He had trained with the dead knight. Everyone had. The fallen man had been one of the jolly ones—the kind who laughed during harsh drills, encouraged recruits with bleeding lips, and complained loudly enough to make exhaustion feel less lonely. The captain knelt beside the wrapped body and lifted the cloth just enough to see his face.

His expression changed.

Not into tears.

Into rage so controlled it became frightening.

He closed the dead knight’s eyes with two fingers. “Rest. We will bring you home.”

Alistair did not allow grief to delay command.

“Knight-swordsmen and mages remain in ambush formation,” he ordered. “Prepare for interception, but do not advance without signal. Cavalry, with me. Enel, forward support. We move for rescue.”

The response was immediate.

No shouting beyond necessary calls. No disorder. The cavalry line shifted like a living mechanism. Horses stepped forward, hooves striking frozen ground. Enel raised his staff, and several support mages formed a corridor of wind resistance to ease the cavalry’s first acceleration. Rolan, still on one knee, tried to stand.

Alistair looked down at him. “You have done enough.”

Rolan shook his head, breath ragged. “I know the path.”

Alistair studied him for less than a second. “Then ride behind the second line. If you fall, someone carries you.”

“Yes, my lord.”

They moved.

The forest ahead was already rumbling.

Not from an ordinary battle.

From chaotic power clashing inside the trees.

The sound came in waves: steel against steel, aura impact, breaking trunks, bursts of mana, the deep, violent thud of bodies colliding with the ground. Snow lifted in distant bursts. Birds fled in every direction. Somewhere ahead, dark red lightning flashed between the trees, briefly turning the white landscape into a blood-colored storm.

Alistair’s jaw tightened.

“Faster.”

The cavalry accelerated.

Four minutes.

That was all it took for the rescue force to reach the battlefield.

As they rode, a red-black lightning beam erupted above the forest line, piercing upward like a wound in the sky. The aura behind it was chaotic, heavy, and familiar enough in nature for Alistair’s expression to darken.

“Sixth-circle aura release,” he said.

Enel’s gaze sharpened. “Arslov.”

“No mistake.”

The horses felt it too. Several snorted and tossed their heads, but the cavalry knights held formation. These were not ordinary riders. Many were at the peak of the fourth circle, disciplined enough to ride toward pressure that would have broken lesser men’s spines before the first clash. Alistair’s presence at the front steadied them. The South did not ride as scattered reinforcements. It rode as an answer.

Then they arrived.

The battlefield was a ruin of snow, soil, blood, and broken wood.

Trees had been shattered in half. Others were cut cleanly at angles no axe could have made. The ground was carved with trenches from sword waves, impact craters, and dragged lines where bodies had been thrown backward. Smoke still clung low in certain pockets. Frost patches had formed unnaturally in places where spells had burst and failed. Blood marked the field in several directions, some bright and fresh, some already darkening beneath snowfall.

Before anyone could react, they heard Adrian.

“I, the eldest heir of the South, the son of the Lion, the one who will change this chaos—Lucien Adrian Valenhart!”

Golden white power surged in the clearing.

For a moment, even the cavalry slowed.

It was astonishing.

Adrian stood before Arslov with his body bloodied, armor cracked, cloak torn, and sword lifted. Behind him, Darius and the surviving knights struggled upright around the wounded mage. In front of him stood Arslov, one eye bleeding, massive sword raised, dark red aura and black lightning coiling around him like a beast preparing to devour the field.

The pressure Adrian released felt almost like sixth-circle strength.

Almost.

That almost mattered.

Alistair understood instantly.

So did Enel.

It was a bluff.

A terrifying one.

Adrian was pushing himself beyond the safe limit to simulate enough pressure to stop Arslov from immediately finishing the survivors. It was not a stable sixth-circle power. It was forced dual release, layered essence and aura, compressed through will and calculation until the field mistook quality for scale. It was brilliant. It was dangerous. It was the kind of act that could save lives and ruin the body at the same time.

Alistair’s voice thundered across the clearing.

“Protect the heir and the soldiers!”

The cavalry moved.

The pressure on the field changed at once.

The knights at the front of the cavalry formation spread into a crescent, not charging blindly into Arslov’s range, but positioning themselves to create a protective line between Adrian’s group and the enemy. Their armor shone beneath frost. Their lances lowered. Their aura rose together, peak fourth-circle pressure reinforcing into a collective wall. One knight alone could not stand against Arslov. Hundreds moving under Alistair’s command became a different problem.

The suffocating killing intent did not vanish.

But the South did not weaken beneath it.

Arslov’s smile twitched.

Then he saw Alistair.

The Marquis of the South dismounted before the horse fully stopped, landing with controlled force. His sixth-circle aura emerged in a steady surge, not filthy like Arslov’s, not chaotic, not drunk on slaughter. It was lion-like—heavy, dignified, and fierce beneath restraint. Golden-brown pressure spread from him, pushing back the edges of Arslov’s dark red aura. The two forces did not collide violently yet, but the air between them thickened enough that snowflakes stopped falling normally and began drifting sideways.

“Arslov,” Alistair said.

The bandit king bared his teeth. “Lion.”

Then Arslov’s gaze moved past him.

To Enel.

For the first time, the beast’s expression changed in a way that did not look like amusement.

Enel stepped forward.

He did not raise his voice. He did not posture. He lifted his staff, and the atmosphere around the clearing deepened. His seventh-circle essence unfolded—not explosively, but with such controlled pressure that the world itself seemed to notice. The mana around him became dense and refined, layered like a tower built from invisible geometry. The thirty elite mages behind the main line instinctively bowed their heads for a breath, not from command, but from recognition of a higher realm.

Arslov stared.

It was not fear.

But recognition.

The way one predator recognizes a larger shadow beyond the trees.

For a brief moment, Adrian’s group saw something strange in Arslov’s face. The bandit king looked at Enel as if another figure had appeared in memory. Someone crueler. Greater. More dangerous.

The Duke.

The comparison passed silently through his expression.

Alistair saw it.

Enel saw it too.

Arslov’s right eye bled heavily now. His body was wounded from Adrian’s strikes. His aura remained monstrous, but his breathing was heavier than before. He was not defeated. Far from it. Yet he was no longer facing exhausted prey. The South had arrived with cavalry, mages, a sixth-circle Marquis, and a seventh-circle mage.

The field could become his grave if he misstepped.

Arslov released more killing intent.

It burst outward, darker than before, making horses stamp and several younger knights sweat beneath their helmets. But just as the pressure expanded, darker smoke emerged from the ground behind him.

Not from Arslov.

Something else.

The snow around the smoke blackened as if stained by rot. The air distorted. A low, unpleasant hum passed through the clearing, like insects trapped under skin. Enel immediately moved.

He waved his hand.

A holy barrier rose around the South’s forward line.

It spread from his staff in a pale-gold arc, covering Alistair, the cavalry front, Adrian’s wounded group, the medics moving in from behind, and the mages forming secondary defense. The barrier did not attack. It purified the air enough to stop the dark smoke from creeping into their lungs and wounds. Several knights who had been sweating under Arslov’s killing intent inhaled sharply as the pressure eased.

Then a figure appeared from the black smoke.

A bone mask.

A dark cloak.

A broad body nearly as large as Arslov’s, but held with entirely different stillness.

The man stepped out as though the ground had opened for him by choice. His cloak carried no snow despite the storm. The bone mask covered his face completely, carved with hollow lines that made the expression impossible to read. Beneath the cloak, his shoulders were broad, his arms heavy, but his presence was not that of a knight. It was essence. Deep. Dark. Corrupted. Refined.

A seventh-circle essence user.

The air became dangerous in a new way.

Alistair raised one hand immediately. “Do not engage foolishly. We are here to rescue, not to fight.”

The order saved lives before anyone moved.

The cavalry remained composed, but sweat rolled beneath helmets despite the cold. The soldiers could feel it. Arslov alone had been a monster. This masked dark mage was another entirely. A seventh-circle essence user at his peak—or near enough that no sane commander would risk wounded soldiers, the heir, and a cavalry line against him without preparation.

Enel’s eyes narrowed.

He stepped half a pace forward, barrier steady around them. The dark mage’s mask turned toward him.

No words passed.

But the recognition was clear.

Future enemy.

Present danger.

Arslov’s killing intent changed.

It did not vanish.

It was pulled back.

Like a dog feeling the leash tighten.

The beast clicked his tongue, clearly displeased, but he did not resist. Behind him, the dark smoke thickened and folded into a peculiar warp gate made of disgusting dark mana. It did not open cleanly like formal teleportation. It twisted, wet, and uneven, like a wound forced into space. The edges crawled with black vapor. The snow around it melted into dirty slush.

Alistair stepped forward slightly, not crossing the safety line Enel had established. His gaze remained on the masked figure, but his words addressed both enemies.

“I know who you are,” he said. “But why are you doing this?”

He needed information.

A question asked at the right time could be worth more than a charge.

The masked figure did not answer.

Arslov laughed low, though irritation still stained the sound. Blood ran from his ruined right eye down to his jaw.

“It is not time for you to know, old man,” Arslov said.

His left eye shifted toward Adrian, who still stood only because his sword was planted into the ground, and Darius’s hand hovered close enough to catch him if he fell. For a moment, the bandit king’s smile returned—not mocking now, but hungry with future anticipation.

“Let’s see each other again. Consider yourselves lucky.”

The warp gate pulled.

Dark mana swallowed Arslov and the masked mage together.

Then it vanished.

The filthy pressure snapped out of the clearing so quickly that several horses recoiled at the sudden absence. The snow resumed falling normally. The holy barrier remained for several breaths longer before Enel lowered his staff, his gaze still fixed on the spot where the dark mage had disappeared.

Adrian’s golden white aura flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Then collapsed.

His sword slipped from his hand, and his body fell.

Darius caught him before he struck the ground.

This time, the general did not speak. His face tightened with rage, relief, and fear all at once. The cavalry moved without waiting for another order. Medics rushed forward. Two knights helped lift the wounded mage. Others gathered the injured soldiers. One squad secured the dead knight’s remains. Another checked the surrounding area for residual traps or curse smoke. The elite mages formed a protective perimeter while Enel continued watching the darkened ground where the warp gate had been.

Alistair reached Adrian and knelt.

For a brief moment, the Marquis of the South was not a commander.

He was a father looking at his bloodied son.

Then the command returned to his face.

“Evacuate immediately,” Alistair ordered. “No pursuit. No delay. All wounded to the rear line. Mages maintain a cleansing barrier until we clear the area.”

The soldiers obeyed.

Darius lifted Adrian carefully, refusing to hand him over until the stretcher arrived. Adrian’s face was pale, blood dried at his mouth, the cut beneath his eye still red beneath rushed bandaging. His breathing remained shallow, but present.

Alive.

That single fact held the entire field together.

As the rescue formation began withdrawing, Enel gave one last look at the place where the masked dark mage had stood.

No emotion crossed his face.

Only memory.

And the beginning of a future hatred.