At the same time, a vast portal ripped open in the air. From it poured men in black and steel — thirty five of them. Their boots thundered as they fanned out, blocking their way forward.

  Isabela and Mercy froze, their breaths quickening as the wave of raiders drew closer. Above, Omfry sat casually on a shattered pillar, chin in his hand, a cruel smile curling on his lips.

  “Well then,” he murmured, “let’s see what the little princess can do.”

  Isabela’s grip on Zelion tightened. She felt his small body squirm against her chest, the faint aura of his awakening pulsing against her skin. Her heart hammered. Then she thrust him into Mercy’s arms, her eyes blazing with resolve.

  “Take him. Run!”

  Mercy’s breath caught. “But—”

  “RUN!” Isabela roared, her voice like steel.

  Mercy’s legs moved before her mind caught up, clutching the infant prince close as she bolted through the narrowest opening in the chaos.

  The Aurellian leading the raiders chuckled darkly. His sharp ears flicked forward, his blade gleaming as he stepped into the light. “Don’t try to play the hero, girl. Hand over the boy, and we’ll be on our merry way. Stand aside, and maybe you keep that pretty head of yours.”

  Isabela’s eyes narrowed. She shifted her stance, every fiber of her training rushing back.

  The Aurellian sneered, drawing his blade fully. “You’re outnumbered. Even if you are called a prodigy, there’s nothing you can do. Every man here was once a D-rank Raider. Now we are masters of augmentation.” He lifted the sword, its edge sparking. “And you… have no weapon. Your odds of survival? Zero.”

  The army laughed, the sound a wall of mockery pressing against her ears.

  Isabela’s jaw clenched. Her pulse thundered. She would not run. She would not bend.

  The Aurellian lunged—

  CRACK!

  Isabela’s fist crashed across his face with raw force. His body launched like a missile, skidding through stone and dirt. The ground cracked beneath him, carving a shallow trench. She had taken his blade.

  The army went still.

  Then the world erupted.

  “Kill her!” someone screamed.

  The horde surged forward.

  Isabela ducked beneath a slash, her hand seizing the wrist of her attacker. With a twist, she hurled him into two more soldiers, bones snapping on impact. Another blade came down—she caught it barehanded, her palm bleeding, but wrenched it from his grasp in one brutal motion.

  Steel gleamed in her hands now.

  She exhaled sharply, gripping the sword with both hands. Then she moved.

  Her swing split the air, carving a glowing arc that ripped the ground open for a full kilometer. Soldiers screamed as the shockwave hurled them aside like dolls, trenches forming where her blade bit the earth. Dust erupted around her, cloaking her in smoke.

  But still—they came.

  A hammer fist slammed into her back. Isabela staggered, coughing blood, barely twisting in time to parry the next strike. Her blade clashed against two at once, sparks spitting, her knees bending under the weight.

  She roared, shoving them back with sheer force. Her sword carved another trench, bodies scattering, cries echoing across the ruined street.

  Her arms trembled. Her breaths came ragged. For every man she dropped, three more pressed in.

  Blood streaked her cheek. A cut burned across her arm. Her gown clung heavy with sweat and grime, her strength ebbing with each furious swing.

  But still—she fought.

  One soldier lunged for her flank. She pivoted, her blade shearing through his chest, the shockwave splitting the stones beneath his corpse. Another caught her by the wrist, twisting—she headbutted him savagely, shattering his nose before driving her knee into his ribs.

  Yet her vision blurred. Their blades nicked her skin, their fists rattled her bones. She carved trenches, yes—but each trench cost her blood, her breath, her will.

  Above, Omfry laughed quietly to himself, his eyes alight with amusement.

  “Not bad, little princess… not bad at all. But let’s see how long you last when the tide doesn’t stop.”

  And below, amidst rubble and smoke, Isabela stood her ground — one girl against an army, blood dripping, sword raised.

  Alone.

  Many of the men she had felled began to stir, groaning as they pushed themselves up from the blood and dust. One of them spat out a laugh and wiped the grime from his lip.

  “You think you can kill us that easily?” he sneered. He glanced over the carnage — bodies, broken timber, scorched stone — and shrugged. “Well, some of these are weak E-ranks.” His tone was contemptuous as he squared his shoulders.

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  Before she could react, he launched. His fist slammed into Isabela’s midriff with brutal precision; the impact detonated through her like a thrown boulder. She sailed backward a kilometre, tearing through roof tiles, splintering wooden beams and sending a spray of bricks and earth into the air. Five men landed around her, boots thudding as they closed in.

  Isabela ripped herself upright and surged forward at Mach 10, blade a streak of steel. She slashed, but they danced away from the arcs of her sword with facile sidesteps — trained, cruel evasion. One of them slipped inside her guard and cut a clean line across her chest. Pain exploded through her; she screamed, staggered, and dropped to her knees.

  They closed in, circling like wolves.

  “You know, for raiders, each rank has levels,” one of them mused casually. “Low, mid, and high.” Another crouched, grabbing her by the hair to hold her still. He leaned close, cocking his head as if studying the prey. “So tell us—where do you stand?”

  Isabela’s vision narrowed. With a savage, single motion she drove the tip of her sword upward. The man’s eyes widened; the steel buried into his skull. He slumped in a heap. For a heartbeat everyone froze.

  A chorus of curses rose, and then steel flashed. One of the raiders lunged; Isabela’s blade sang horizontally, and a great slash of raw mana ripped outward. The shockwave snapped across the street, blasting men off their feet and sending several of them tumbling backwards in a spray of dust and blood.

  She darted toward Mercy and her small bundle — the prince — and landed beside them, breathing hard. A man lunged for Mercy; Isabela cut deep into the ground right in front of him, planting a line of scorched earth as a warning.

  “You won’t cross this line,” she panted. “No matter what — don’t stop running.”

  A hush fell for a moment, then a low, incredulous murmur. One of the raiders barked, “No way… is she changing the flow of her mana? That’s not possible.”

  Isabela felt it — the hum in her bones, the current beneath her skin. She began to circulate her mana the way Eryndor had shown her: a steady, structured flow that threaded through tendon and bone, synchronising breath and motion. The effect was immediate. Her strength steadied, her vision sharpened, and the pressure in the air around her rose.

  They came at her like a tide.

  She slashed down. The earth responded. A trench opened, yawning nine kilometres long, swallowing men. Several unbounds were cleaved in two where they stood. Dust billowed in a rising wall.

  A single memory surfaced in the rush of motion — Eryndor’s quiet voice.

  “I crafted this earring for you. With it, you will not perish when employing my technique. I have named it Endor’s Flow—a current that multiplies your output many times over. But take heed: you are not me. Your body cannot endure it for long. Under no circumstance must you invoke Endor’s Flow without the earring.”

  Isabela’s fingers brushed the cool metal at her ear. “Thank you, Eryndor,” she whispered to herself.

  Adrenaline and fury braided together. She fought like a woman possessed — slicing heads, severing arms, carving fourteen-kilometre furrows through the earth with each savage sweep. Men fell in heaps around her; the ground became a scarred map of her wrath.

  As she moved, a private vow threaded through the roar of battle. All my life I thought I was a prodigy, the best of my age. Then he awakened. In one month, he surpassed me. My strength is nothing compared to his — but I will never stop chasing him. Even if it takes forever, I will stand by his side as his equal.

  The unbound's leader, an Aurellian who had watched the carnage with widening eyes, cursed, “Damn it—why is she still standing? She’s just a girl. Finish her!”

  Omfry, perched on a ridge and watching the maelstrom, shook his head in half-amazed contempt. “I can’t believe my eyes,” he breathed. “Circulating mana like Bravo… how?”

  The Aurellian’s face hardened. “Fine. If you want something done right, do it yourself.” He shoved past his stunned allies, cutting them down as he went, his own aura flaring like a furnace. He was no longer content to direct — he would end this himself.

  Isabela felt the change in the air: raw, focused power. He had erupted into a level she recognised — high C rank — and his assault came with the hunger of a man who would not be denied.

  ---

  To Be Continued...