Chapter 66: The Arrival of the Spell Fist

  "Marcus the poison seems to be derived from psycha, I can't neutralize it efficiently", Stems' voice hummed in Marcus mind the concern and desperation evident. Marcus! Are you there?!

  Marcus just sat there unfocused, eyes almost...empty...

  The rhythmic pounding of hooves against the earth was the only sound Marcus could focus on, his vision blurring at the edges. His entire body ached, his limbs heavy as if they were no longer his own. Sweat slicked his skin, soaking through his clothes despite the cool night air.

  "Marcus," Vira's voice was sharp, cutting through the haze in Marcus’ mind. She rode close beside him, her crimson eyes flicking to his deteriorating state. "How bad is it?"

  A static hum filled Marcus’ head before Stem responded, his tone even but edged with strain. "The poison is spreading. I can slow it, but it’s not just physical—it’s Psycha-infused. It’s disrupting your body's ability to regulate its energy flow. Ki, Mana, and Psycha are out of sync."

  —its bad...Marcus barely registered the words, but he could feel it. His power felt foreign, his movements sluggish despite the usual surge of energy in battle. Every muscle in his body screamed, yet there was a deeper, more insidious force at play—like his own mind was working against him.

  Boruk, riding just ahead, grunted. “We better get there fast.” He didn't look back, but his knuckles were white around his axe handle.

  Marcus gritted his teeth. He couldn’t afford to be like this. Not now. Not when they were so close.

  He forced himself upright, gripping the reins tighter. “I don’t care what it takes,” he growled under his breath. “I’m...making it.”

  Stem was silent for a moment before replying.

  "Then endure, Marcus."

  The glow of fire ahead burned in the sky like an omen.

  The Orc Stronghold was under siege.

  Chieftain Miran stood atop the crumbling battlements, his dual axes slick with blood, his broad chest heaving from exertion. The orc warlord had fought for hours, leading the charge on the walls against the relentless waves of Xenorian soldiers.

  Below, the battlefield was a storm—siege engines bombarded the stronghold, massive fireballs reducing portions of the outer defenses to rubble. Xenorian fire mages positioned on high ridges unleashed destruction, forcing the Orc defenders to huddle behind crumbling barricades.

  Nearby, Ragn and his ambush squads moved like ghosts, cutting down invaders before slipping back into the ruins. But even they were losing ground. Their numbers were thinning.

  A young orc warrior, barely more than a whelp, staggered to Miran’s side. His face was covered in soot and blood. “Chieftain… we can’t hold much longer.”

  Miran’s golden eyes remained fixed on the battlefield, his mind racing through the possibilities. He had prepared for war, but not against a force this massive.

  And still, Marcus had not arrived.

  The orc chieftain exhaled sharply, gripping his axes tighter. "Where in the hells is he?"

  The Xenorian army pressed forward, siege engines inching toward the final gates. The defenders on the walls braced, expecting the final assault—

  And then, a new sound rang out through the chaos.

  A single, distant war horn.

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  For a moment, the battlefield hesitated.

  From the far ridge, three riders appeared, silhouetted by the burning sky.

  The first—Boruk, his massive war axe catching the firelight. The second—Vira, blade drawn, her crimson eyes fierce.

  And the last—

  Marcus.

  His mount was barely holding together, and he himself was swaying in the saddle, the poison visibly wearing him down. Yet his eyes were clear, his posture steady, and his presence undeniable.

  The Spell Fist had arrived.

  The Xenorian soldiers turned at the sound of pounding hooves, their disciplined formations shifting as they spotted the incoming riders.

  For the briefest moment, hesitation flickered across their ranks. Three figures against an army? The numbers were laughable.

  Then, their commanding officer barked an order. "Cut them down!"

  Soldiers rushed forward, spears and shields raised, archers nocking arrows, preparing to wipe out the reckless charge before it could reach the battlefield.

  Marcus didn’t wait.

  He launched himself from his mount, mid-gallop, his body twisting in the air with practiced ease.

  His fist—wrapped in Ki and crackling with lightning Mana—plummeted downward like a meteor.

  The impact was cataclysmic.

  A thunderous detonation erupted as Marcus' fist met the earth, unleashing a shockwave that split the ground apart beneath him. The first wave of soldiers never even had the chance to react—their bodies were thrown like ragdolls, crashing into each other, weapons ripped from their grasp.

  A fissure of crackling blue lightning arced outward, snapping through the enemy ranks. Armor plates scorched, weapons melted, and bodies convulsed from the sheer force of the energy surging through them.

  The battlefield erupted into chaos.

  Marcus rolled through the explosion, momentum carrying him forward.

  A Xenorian knight, barely regaining his footing, lifted his shield—too late.

  Marcus twisted, driving his fist upward into the knight’s jaw. The impact caved in the steel helm like paper, sending the man soaring backward, his body limp before he even hit the ground.

  Another enemy lunged, sword flashing under the moonlight—Marcus weaved past the blade effortlessly, pivoting on his heel.

  A devastating Cross counter struck the soldier square in the ribs, the sound of bones snapping barely audible over the cacophony of war. The man’s feet left the ground as he was launched backward, crashing into a group of his own allies.

  By the time the third soldier reacted, Marcus was already moving.

  His Spacial Footwork blurred his form, the illusion of teleportation making him appear ahead of his own afterimage.

  The Xenorian barely saw the elbow before it shattered his nose.

  Another came from the side, thrusting a spear toward Marcus’ flank. Marcus didn’t bother dodging. He caught the spear mid-thrust, twisted, and yanked the soldier forward—straight into a savage knee strike.

  Boruk and Vira crashed into the fray behind him, their weapons carving a bloody path, but their efforts were secondary to what was happening at the center of the carnage.

  Because Marcus wasn’t just fighting—he was dominating.

  A Xenorian captain, witnessing the carnage, sneered as he saw Marcus briefly stagger from his wound.

  "He’s already broken," he muttered, lifting his sword.

  Marcus wiped blood from his lip and grinned.

  —Activate second wind—

  a torrent of energy swirled around Marcus. With an inhale...the energy rushed into him! Reality, stretched and snapped back with the action.

  "Try me!"

  The captain lunged, his sword flashing with a gleaming arc of reinforced Mana.

  Marcus didn’t just dodge.

  He broke through.

  With Spacial Footwork and his newfound power fully unleashed, Marcus moved with such brutal efficiency that it bordered on cruelty.

  His body became a blur, his strikes landing before his enemies even processed the movement.

  A soldier swung an axe—Marcus wasn’t there.

  Another raised his shield—Marcus was already behind him, driving a fist into his exposed spine.

  The battlefield finally understood.

  They weren’t fighting a man.

  They were fighting a monster.

  From the Stronghold walls, Miran’s gaze snapped toward the chaos below.

  At first, he couldn’t believe it—

  Then he saw the shockwaves, the sheer devastation one man was causing.

  His warriors, who had been moments from breaking, saw Marcus fighting below—and they ROARED.

  "MARCUS ELDER!"

  The chant spread like wildfire, the exhausted Orcs finding new strength in their leader's arrival.

  Miran exhaled, gripping his axes. "So, he made it."

  He turned to his warriors. "OPEN THE GATES!"

  The fortress doors groaned as they were forced apart.

  From his elevated command post, Thane Vulgaris watched the battlefield in silence.

  Commander Dresk, standing beside him, gaped. “He should be dead. We were told he was poisoned.”

  Vulgaris said nothing at first. He simply watched as Marcus shattered an entire frontline while barely standing.

  Then, he smirked.

  "It seems we underestimated him again."

  He stepped forward, eyes scanning the battlefield.

  "No matter. We adjust. He is not invincible."

  His voice was cold when he turned to his officers.

  "Bring out the real weapons."

  The gates slammed shut behind him as Marcus staggered inside, breath heavy.

  Miran was waiting. The Chieftain gripped Marcus’ shoulder, his expression unreadable.

  "You took your time."

  Marcus, despite the pain and poison still burning in his veins, grinned.

  "Wouldn’t be fun if I made it easy."

  Vira and Boruk arrived, both panting, both bloodied—but both alive.

  The battlefield outside still raged.

  The Thane was preparing his next move.

  Marcus straightened.

  He was injured. He was weakened.

  But he was here.

  And he was not done...