Chapter 70: The Tyrant Enters the Battlefield

  The battlefield, once filled with the roaring chaos of war, stilled.

  It wasn’t silence. Not exactly. The clang of steel, the cries of dying men, and the crackling of burning debris still rang across the broken landscape.

  But something had changed.

  The shift was immediate, a cold wave of realization washing over both armies.

  Xenorian soldiers, who had moments ago been faltering against the devastating might of Vealeth, Arixa, and Thalron, now found their footing.

  Hope returned to their faces. Confidence bloomed in their ranks.

  And the orcs?

  Their momentum died.

  It wasn’t fear—not entirely. The orcs were warriors, bred for battle, born for war. They had stood against overwhelming odds and held.

  But this?

  This was different.

  Because he had arrived.

  Thane Vulgaris stepped onto the battlefield.

  His massive greatsword rested across his broad shoulders, its blackened runes pulsing with an unnatural glow. His armor—dark steel and red cloth—shimmered slightly, infused with battle-hardened mana. His stance was casual, almost disinterested.

  Yet, every warrior on the battlefield felt his presence.

  Beside him, Commander Dresk strode forward, his own blade humming with power. Unlike his liege, he made no show of casual confidence. His eyes were sharp, his stance coiled, his intent clear—kill.

  The battlefield shifted around them.

  Xenorian soldiers roared. Their lines reformed, their broken formations tightening, their battered morale restored in an instant.

  The orc warriors, who had chanted Marcus’ name, felt the weight of reality settle over them.

  This was no longer just a battle.

  This was judgment.

  Vealeth wiped a hand across his brow, his breath ragged. His Psycha control had kept the battlefield in check for as long as he could, redirecting attacks, controlling movement, shifting probability itself.

  But he was drained.

  His knees wobbled slightly before he steadied himself, planting his shield into the ground. His Psycha waves still pulsed outward, but they were weaker now.

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  Arixa cracked her neck, rolling her shoulders as her Ki still burned hot in her core. But even she could feel it—her body was reaching its limit.

  Unyielding Rage kept her standing. Kept her fighting. Kept her moving.

  But her stamina wasn’t endless.

  Thalron, his rapier slick with blood, exhaled sharply.

  The half-elf, half-dwarf warrior had been cutting through enemy mages with precise, brutal efficiency. But his mana reserves were dangerously low.

  Every spell, every counter, every perfectly timed elemental-infused strike had cost him.

  And now—he was running out of time.

  Then, they felt it.

  Vulgaris lifted his greatsword from his shoulders.

  He took one step forward.

  And the air shook.

  Psycha pressure, thick and suffocating, crashed down upon the battlefield.

  Vealeth staggered. It was like being thrown into an ocean storm, the very air resisting his ability to move.

  Arixa growled, the Ki around her flaring violently in response. “Tch. You’re heavier than you look.”

  Thalron frowned, flipping his dagger in his grip. “This might be a problem.”

  Vulgaris smirked. “Come on, then. Impress me.”

  Vealeth moved first.

  With a burst of remaining Psycha, he sent out a shockwave, attempting to redirect Vulgaris' stance—to tilt him off-balance for even a fraction of a second.

  It didn’t work.

  Vulgaris didn’t shift. Didn’t bend. Didn’t even flinch.

  Instead, he swung.

  His greatsword carved through the air like a reaper’s scythe.

  Vealeth barely raised his shield in time.

  BOOM.

  Vealeth was sent flying. The impact folded him into the dirt like a hammer striking an anvil.

  Arixa lunged, her Ki-infused hammer crashing down toward Vulgaris’ exposed side.

  Vulgaris lifted his free hand—and caught it.

  Caught. It.

  The ground beneath them split from the force.

  Arixa’s eyes widened.

  “What—”

  He twisted.

  Arixa felt herself lifted, her own momentum used against her as Vulgaris threw her across the battlefield.

  She landed hard, rolling through broken stone, her Ki flaring violently to stabilize her.

  But it hurt.

  It had been a long time since anything had hurt.

  Thalron dashed in, his rapier glowing with condensed wind mana. His dagger in his other hand crackled with lightning.

  Vulgaris swung his greatsword—a massive, telegraphed attack.

  Too slow.

  Thalron stepped past it, his rapier slicing toward Vulgaris' throat.

  And then—the greatsword changed direction.

  Mid-swing.

  Thalron barely had time to register the sudden shift in momentum before he was forced to retreat, dodging a blow that should have been impossible to recover from.

  What the hell kind of brute had that much control?

  Dresk moved next.

  The commander was faster. Smarter. More refined.

  While Vulgaris played with them—Dresk aimed to kill.

  His sword clashed against Thalron’s, the impact sending shockwaves through their bodies.

  Vealeth rose from the dirt.

  Arixa forced herself up.

  Thalron exhaled.

  This wasn’t working.

  They weren’t winning.

  They were surviving.

  And barely.

  Inside the Stronghold, Marcus felt the shift.

  Even without looking, he could feel it.

  The battlefield, which had once been tilted in their favor, had snapped back against them.

  Vealeth. Arixa. Thalron.

  They were losing.

  And Vulgaris was playing with them.

  "Marcus." Stem’s voice entered his mind, steady, but strained. "I’ve done everything I can. The Psycha poison is gone—but your body is still recovering."

  Marcus exhaled. His fingers clenched.

  "I don’t have time to recover."

  Vira, flipping through her grimoire, suddenly stopped. Her eyes flashed with realization.

  "I have something."

  She looked at him.

  "It won’t heal you fully—but it’ll get you back on your feet."

  Boruk and Ragn burst into the war room, dragging a battered Miran inside.

  The orc chieftain, barely conscious, saw Marcus standing.

  Miran grinned. "’Bout damn time."

  Boruk crossed his arms. "If you’re getting up, make it count."

  Marcus rolled his shoulders. His body still ached. The poison had done its damage.

  But he was still standing.

  He grabbed his spiked gauntlets, tightening them over his hands.

  His next words came out like a growl.

  "I think it’s time I reminded Vulgaris why I’m a problem."

  And then—he stepped forward.