Elsewhere in Heful, amidst the roar of distant battle, Eryndor stood alone.

  Dust swept past him like ash, the smell of blood thick in the air.

  Before him, an army stretched into the horizon — men, demi-beasts, and Unbounds who were former raiders, each one armed, each one hungry for his death.

  He raised his head slightly, eyes glowing faintly green in the smoke.

  “My mother once instructed us never to inflict harm upon others,” he said quietly. His tone hardened, calm transmuting into steel. “Yet should others will our suffering…”

  He stepped forward, eyes sharp enough to cut through souls.

  “…show no mercy.”

  Eryndor’s gaze swept across the host arrayed before him. His voice was calm—unraised, yet so precise it cut through the wind like steel through silk.

  “Therefore, I advise you to reconsider your next course of action.”

  He lifted a hand, motion deliberate, poised as though time itself yielded to his composure.

  “Each of you now stands upon the precipice of death… and for what cause? We have never crossed blades. I have offered you neither insult nor injury. I harbour no malice toward you. If you act merely in obedience to command, then ask yourselves—does such obedience merit the forfeit of your lives? Will you cast away all that you are, and bring sorrow upon your mothers, your wives, your children… for the vanity of another man’s will?”

  His hand descended slowly; his gaze sharpened, cold as judgment.

  “If that is the path you choose… then proceed. I will not stay your folly.”

  A deep stillness settled upon the field. Even the wind seemed to listen.

  Eryndor looked downward, his tone softening—almost reflective.

  “Never have I taken a life. Never once have I stood where there was no other alternative.”

  Then he raised his eyes once more; resolve tempered the calm in his voice.

  “But know this—should you compel my hand, I shall not hesitate. I will kill you. Your deaths will be swift, and of your own making.”

  A faint shadow of pity touched his features.

  “Turn away now,” he said quietly, yet with a gravity that seemed to weigh upon the air. “This is my final admonition.”

  The first man lunged — a blur of muscle and blade.

  Eryndor’s fist met him halfway.

  CRACK.

  The man’s skull shattered, his head severed clean from the neck, body crumpling like wet paper.

  Eryndor exhaled, his voice cold and unhurried.

  “Next.”

  The army surged.

  Hundreds roared forward.

  Eryndor moved.

  Fists blurred. Bones shattered. Each punch tore through flesh with the violence of thunder. Men were flung like ragdolls, smashing into walls, breaking against the unyielding ground that Valerius had fortified.

  Not a single scratch marred the streets — only corpses.

  Eryndor grabbed one man by the ankle and swung him like a club, using the limp body to strike down three others. He spun, launched the corpse skyward, then leapt after it — his foot connecting with the man’s spine in midair.

  BOOM.

  The body shot downward like a meteor, impaling itself on a fortified pole that stood untouched.

  Eryndor landed softly, knees bending as his hand closed around a fallen sword.

  He rose, slashing vertically.

  Even without mana, the sheer force of the swing ripped through the ranks — slicing men in half, the air howling from the velocity of the cut.

  He threw the sword.

  SHNK.

  It pierced through a man’s head, and deflected off the stone wall behind him.

  As he fought, comprehension dawned upon Eryndor. So this was what Valerius had endured in Kintol—when circumstance left no avenue but the blade. I understand it now.

  He struck again. You did not wish to kill them, did you? You merely desired that they cease.

  Another blow. Another corpse. His knuckles were slick with blood.

  But they never cease. None ever heed the warning until it is far too late. They cast away their lives in blind obedience to command.

  He moved like a storm now, silent and efficient, yet behind every motion burned a quiet sorrow.

  Every heartbeat I steal from another weighs upon my own. Every cry I silence resounds all the louder within me. Perhaps it lies in the way we were reared—Mother’s paradoxical creed: that all life is precious, never take a life… yet should any endanger your own, show no mercy.

  His expression didn’t change, but the fury in his eyes dulled into grief.

  If mercy only breeds more death… then mercy itself is cruelty.

  A final strike — his fist through a man’s chest. The world slowed.

  Forgive me, he thought, voice breaking within him. I warned you. I truly did.

  A Reliard commander shouted over the chaos, voice trembling.

  “How is this possible?! Didn’t they give him the drug?!”

  He watched, horrified, as Eryndor’s bare hands sliced through his soldiers — cutting cleanly through armor and flesh alike.

  “We need more men! Now!”

  At a distance, Daiel stood beside a massive, glowing rift. His hands twisted.

  Another portal opened — and more troops flooded out, their boots thundering across the blood-soaked battlefield.

  “Keep your distance!” the Reliard barked. “Stagger your attacks!”

  Archers raised their bows, mana and Bravo flaring along the strings.

  “FIRE!”

  Hundreds of arrows whistled through the air.

  Eryndor’s eyes flickered.

  The world slowed.

  He caught three arrows in mid-flight, twisted, and hurled them back. They pierced through foreheads before their owners even blinked. The rest struck his skin—

  —but he didn’t flinch.

  He stepped forward, arrows snapping off his body, his muscles tensing like steel.

  The Reliard’s voice cracked.

  “What is he? A mage without mana should be no stronger than a common man!”

  He stumbled back as Eryndor blurred—

  Mach 30.

  A streak tore through their ranks.

  Bodies split apart.

  Screams drowned under the shockwave.

  The Reliards dragged a massive cannon through Daiel’s portal — a siege weapon glowing with condensed mana, humming like an engine of death.

  “READY THE CORE!”

  “FIRE!”

  The cannon discharged — a beam of pure energy cutting through the battlefield.

  Eryndor couldn’t sense the mana.

  He was hit.

  The blast struck his chest and hurled him backward, crashing against a fortified building.

  The structure stood intact — but Eryndor fell, steam rising from his skin.

  One soldier grinned.

  “Good hit! Now reload—”

  Eryndor gazed at the moons. Mother taught us to cherish life… yet to guard our own above all others. To protect one another, even should the world burn for it. And so I learned that love, in its truest form, is not gentle—it is ruthless. It demands survival, no matter the cost.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  He exhaled slowly, gaze distant.

  Perhaps that is what I inherited from her… not kindness, but the will to live, even when living means taking life.

  A shadow loomed.

  Eryndor stepped out of the smoke, shirt burned away, a raw burn mark across his chest.

  He looked down at it, then at them — expression unreadable.

  He leapt.

  BOOOOOOM.

  He came down from the sky like divine punishment. Both fists slammed into the cannon.

  It disintegrated, the resulting shockwave blasting soldiers away for several kilometers.

  The fortified ground withstood the force.

  When the dust cleared, Eryndor stood amidst the wreckage, surrounded by thousands.

  Each one was at least a C-rank Raider, most B-rank, hardened killers with mana and bravo coursing through their veins.

  He reached out, grabbed one by the skull, and leapt high into the air.

  The man screamed as Eryndor hurled him down.

  His body struck the stone with such force that it exploded into a mist of blood and shattered bone.

  The army hesitated.

  And Eryndor looked down upon them, eyes gleaming with cold emerald fire.

  “I am... no common adversary.”

  ---

  The ground bore no scratches.

  Not a single crack marred the streets of Heful — Valerius’s fortification held firm even under the destruction raging above it.

  Eryndor stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving, his knuckles covered with the blood of his enemies.

  Even without mana, his body burned with unnatural strength.

  He was no longer fighting like a man. He was fighting like something beyond common sense — a being nearing the threshold of an S-rank Raider.

  But for every enemy he felled, more poured through Daiel’s portal.

  And this time, they were different.

  Stronger. Stranger.

  Now only the highest tiers remained—

  one hundred and twenty-three former A-rank Raiders, now Unbound.

  Their auras burned across the battlefield like wildfire.

  Eryndor clenched his fists. Sweat trickled down his temple.

  His punches no longer shattered skulls in a single strike.

  These ones endured.

  The Bravo users and Augmenters surged forward first, their blades flashing.

  Each swing carved through the air, releasing waves of condensed mana and bravo that split the atmosphere into shrieking arcs.

  Eryndor moved—

  Mach 40.

  He ducked under one slash, sidestepped another, but a strike nicked his side.

  Blood spattered across the polished street.

  He grimaced.

  Casters stood at the rear, chanting in unison.

  Flames and water burst toward him in violent torrents.

  Behind them, the Terranacy mages raised their hands, attempting to bend the ground beneath his feet.

  But nothing happened.

  “What—?” one of them stammered. “The ground won’t move!”

  Another shouted, panicked, “What's going on? It won’t answer us!”

  Eryndor darted between their spells, weaving through fire and lightning, his body flickering faster than sight.

  The air screamed around him.

  The Bravo users met him head-on.

  Swords blurred. Fists collided.

  The city shook from their clash.

  Eryndor caught one man by the leg and slammed him into the ground, the shockwave splitting the air. The man’s armor crumpled, his spine snapped. Eryndor swung his body like a club, hurling it toward the casters—

  CRASH!

  They exploded into crimson mist, their fragile defenses useless against the sheer brutality of the impact.

  Another lunged from behind.

  Eryndor twisted, his fist smashing into the man’s jaw.

  Teeth scattered like glass.

  His neck snapped backward with a sickening crack as he was hurled away at Mach 100, disappearing into the haze.

  Blood dripped from Eryndor’s side, staining the white stone beneath him.

  He was breathing hard now, surrounded by corpses.

  But his voice remained steady. Cold.

  “You with your magic… and your bravo…” he said, straightening slowly.

  “…fall by my hand, bereft of both.”

  His gaze swept across the trembling remnants of the A-ranks.

  “This day, you shall comprehend what divides us. You will see—that the blood within my veins is sovereign to yours.”

  Then he vanished.

  The next instant—

  BOOOOOOM.

  Eryndor reappeared within their ranks at Mach 50, his fists striking faster than thought.

  Bodies erupted. Limbs flew. The very air cracked under the pressure of his movements.

  Three blades struck him at once.

  One slashed across his neck—blood sprayed.

  Another cut deep into his ribs.

  A third stabbed through his chest.

  Their wielders shouted in triumph—

  —and froze.

  Eryndor caught the first by the face. His grip crushed bone.

  He impaled the second through the torso, his arm bursting from the man’s back.

  His boot pressed against the third’s skull.

  He roared.

  The first man was slammed into the earth.

  The second was hurled away, spine snapping mid-flight.

  The third was kicked so hard his body folded backward upon itself.

  Eryndor looked down at the man trembling at his feet. Dust drifted between them, faint against the crimson haze of battle.

  He drew his arm back, muscles coiling for the final strike—

  “Please…” the man gasped, eyes wide with terror. “Show mercy.”

  Eryndor’s fist halted a breath from the man’s face. The air itself seemed to freeze.

  For a moment, only the sound of Eryndor’s heartbeat filled his ears.

  He stared at the man in silence—then slowly unclenched his hand, the tension fading from his arm.

  Without a word, he turned away and rose to his full height, the light in his eyes dimming to quiet restraint.

  Eryndor staggered, clutching his bleeding neck. His breath rasped, every muscle trembling.

  Steam rose from his body — the heat of strain, fury, and relentless motion.

  Across the battlefield, Daiel watched through the portal, his eyes wide, disbelief painted across his face.

  “Oh my god…” he whispered. “He… he beat them all.”

  Every one of the 123 lay broken, crushed, or dead.

  None remained standing.

  Eryndor turned his gaze toward Daiel.

  Their eyes met.

  Daiel’s breath caught. “No—”

  Eryndor disappeared.

  In a blink, he was before the portal, his left hand outstretched, reaching for Daiel—

  SHHNK!

  The portal collapsed.

  Its edge sealed shut — severing Eryndor’s arm at the shoulder.

  His scream tore through Heful.

  He hit the ground, blood gushing, and skidded for thirty kilometers, his body skidding through the fortified streets before slamming into a wall.

  The wall didn’t crack.

  But his body did.

  He lay there, chest heaving, half-conscious blood pooling beneath him.

  Even broken, his eyes burned.

  ---

  To Be Continued...