One of the outlaws charged at Amukelo again. But before the attacker could close the gap, a spike of earth erupted from the ground beneath him. The man didn't even have time to scream as the sharpened stone impaled him through the side, lifting him off the ground for a breath before tossing him backward like a broken puppet.
Amukelo didn't hesitate.
He lunged forward and drove his blade through the man's chest as he fell. It was clean. Quick. Efficient.
Another came right after him, sword already in motion, eyes wide with panic.
Amukelo didn't backpedal.
Instead, he grabbed the dying man and threw him.
The body collided with the charging outlaw, knocking him off balance and sending them both to the ground in a heap of tangled limbs.
Amukelo exhaled sharply. He was still moving.
But the axeman wasn't finished. The brute came crashing toward him again, swinging wildly, a two-handed arc of raw muscle and steel aiming to carve Amukelo in half.
Amukelo dropped low, sliding under the swing. The axe passed over him, missing by inches.
Then Amukelo twisted his hips and kicked, sweeping both of the man's legs from under him.
The outlaw collapsed mid-swing, grunting in surprise.
As he tried to rise, Amukelo stepped in and drove an elbow directly into his temple. There was a dull crack, and the man went limp, his head bouncing once against the ground before staying still.
But the moment of advantage didn't last.
Amukelo's instincts screamed that something was behind him. He turned too late.
The assassin with the twin daggers was already on him, closing in like a shadow. Amukelo's muscles coiled to leap away—but the ground betrayed him.
A trail of ice slithered toward him, brushing past his boots. The moment it made contact, it surged upward, binding his legs together in a sheath of frozen mana.
"Damn it…!" Amukelo hissed, trying to move.
but he was too late.
The assassin dragged one of his daggers across Amukelo's back in a clean, vicious cut. The pain was white-hot, his vision flaring at the edges.
Amukelo staggered forward, arms instinctively rising for balance.
But before the assassin could follow up, light exploded behind Amukelo.
A fireball, compact and volatile, struck between them. It detonated with a thunderous blast that threw up dirt and shattered the ice binding Amukelo's legs.
Amukelo moved the instant he was free.
He remembered exactly where the assassin had been, and with a sharp twist, he elbowed him hard in the chest. The man gasped, the wind knocked out of him. Amukelo followed with a brutal hook to the side of his head.
The assassin crumpled to the ground.
Before he could move again, ice crept up his body—this time from the outside.
A controlled burst of frost surged across his limbs, freezing him in place mid-fall.
Tireuz's staff still raised, chest heaving with the effort of fast-cast magic.
Amukelo gave him a nod.
Tireuz returned it.
But the battle wasn't over.
Not far from them, Bral was facing his own hell.
He sprinted toward Padrin, determined to break the ice at last. But standing in his way were two enemies—Celeste, agile and deadly, and the hammer-wielding brute who towered like a wall of solid steel.
Bral charged with purpose.
The hammerman met him head-on.
"You won't pass," the man growled, his weapon already raised.
Bral narrowed his eyes, gripping his sword tight. "Then I'll burn my way through."
His blade ignited—one last time.
Flames danced along the edge, licking up the steel like a beast being fed. The heat was intense, almost painful even for Bral.
He didn't wait.
With a loud shout, he swung his blade through the air in a wide arc, unleashing a wave of fire that tore through the clearing toward the hammerman.
But the man just smiled.
"I don't need to rely on cheap scrolls," he spat.
His hammer began to glow with a whipping aura of wind, swirling around the head of the weapon. As the firewave approached, he slammed the hammer into the ground.
The wind met the fire in a violent collision—sparks and ash flying in all directions—and disintegrated it.
Bral didn't stop. He pushed forward and thrust his sword directly at the hammerman's chest.
But when he was about to deliver the strike.
Thwip—thwip—thwip!
Three arrows struck him in an instant. Two embedded in his side and shoulder, and the third—the worst—hit his sword arm.
His grip faltered. His fingers weakened.
The hammerman saw an opening, and with one powerful motion, he lifted his hammer in a tight spiral and brought it upward, catching Bral's sword mid-thrust.
CLANG!
The spin ripped the sword from Bral's grasp, sending it flying into the air above them, spinning end over end, flames flickering out as it left his hand.
Bral's eyes followed it, wide with disbelief. His weapon was gone.
He was about to jump back, when an icy pain tore through the side of his torso.
He hadn't seen her coming.
Celeste had moved behind him without any sound. Her daggers plunged into his side with expert precision, bypassing his armor at the weakest point. The pain exploded through him, sharp and immediate, but Bral didn't cry out. He gritted his teeth, eyes wide, and spun his arm up, aiming an elbow at her skull in sheer instinct.
But he never got the chance to land the blow.
The hammerman had caught Bral's falling sword mid-air.
In one fluid motion, he reversed his grip and swung it at Bral.
The blade came down in a clean arc. Bral's arm was severed just above the elbow.
He screamed, collapsing to his knees. His vision blurred instantly, red flooding the edges of his eyes. Blood poured from the wound in a steady stream, soaking the scorched dirt beneath him.
Celeste backed away, her eyes flicking between Bral and the blood now staining her boots.
She took her daggers out from his side with two quick jerks, and Bral collapsed forward, barely conscious.
Across the field, Amukelo turned at the sound.
He saw Bral on the ground, blood gushing from the stump of his arm.
"Bral!!" Amukelo roared, panic cutting through his voice like lightning. He sprinted, instincts taking over.
But before he could reach him, the last remaining melee fighter—one of the remaining swordsmen—stepped into his path.
The man raised his sword, cocky despite Amukelo defeating his friends.
Amukelo didn't stop. "Get out of my way!!"
His roar came from the core of his chest, guttural and raw. He swung his sword in a savage arc.
The impact jerked the outlaw's arm back violently. The man staggered, stunned by the force.
Amukelo didn't hesitate. His heart was pounding. His mind wasn't even thinking of right or wrong—just that he had to get to Bral. Nothing else mattered.
He brought his sword back and swung again—this time aiming high.
The outlaw didn't even have time to lift his weapon in defense.
Amukelo's blade cleaved through his neck, and the man's head flew clean off, blood trailing like red mist as the body collapsed.
He barely acknowledged the kill.
His eyes were fixed ahead—on the hammerman, who now stood over Bral's crumpled form.
The brute raised his hammer high, ready to finish what he started.
But then—Pop-pop-pop.
Water bullets collided with the hammerman's raised arm. They didn't stop the swing entirely, but they shattered his rhythm, turning what was meant to be a lethal blow into a clumsy, sideways slam.
At the same time, an earth wall erupted between Bral and the hammerman.
The hammer still came down.
The wall shattered, fragments flying in all directions, but it had absorbed most of the impact.
The hammer grazed Bral's head—not hard enough to kill, but enough to knock him flat. He collapsed onto his side, unconscious, his breathing shallow but still there.
Tireuz stood in the distance, sweat pouring down his face, his staff glowing faintly in both hands. He looked like he was about to collapse, but he stood firm. He had bought Bral seconds. That was enough.
The hammerman grunted, raising his weapon again.
That's when pain bloomed in his back.
A blade—rusted and jagged—pierced through the gap between his armor plates, burying itself just below his shoulder blade.
He gasped, stumbled, and dropped to his knees.
He twisted, looking behind him—
And there was Amukelo.
Still charging, his eyes wide with fury, focus sharp like a blade.
Amukelo had thrown the rusted sword from the enemy he just killed. It wasn't elegant—but it had worked.
The hammerman's breath shuddered.
He grabbed at the sword, trying to pull it free, but it was lodged deep. Blood poured from the wound, staining the back of his tunic.
Amukelo was halfway to him now, feet pounding across the battlefield.
But the ground rumbled beneath him.
A sudden pulse of energy.
He sensed it—earth magic.
Spikes erupted from the ground just ahead of him.
Without breaking stride, Amukelo pivoted, shifting his weight left. One of the spikes grazed his hip but didn't slow him down.
Arrows followed.
Three of them.
He barely saw them before they struck—but he didn't need to.
A translucent magic barrier shimmered to life in front of him, intercepting the arrows mid-flight. The bolts bounced off harmlessly, clattering to the ground.
In the distance, one of the archers cursed under his breath.
"Tsk… that damned healer again."
Another replied, "Yeah, but forget him. That white-haired kid's the real threat now."
Their hands trembled on their bows.
And Amukelo kept coming.