Olimpia

As Justinian stormed out of the tent where he awoke under the care of his valet, still wearing his armor, he was furious. At himself, at the beastkin, at the world. Everything and nothing all at the same time. His people were attempting to flee for their lives. The bastards had won, kicked them out of their city, and yet they were unwilling to let the Olimpians go.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the high noble understood that you should never let your boot off a foe's neck when they were knocked down, but he did not care about logic. This camp was all that was left of his people after he had failed them, and he would protect it till his last breath if that was required.

Crouching and leaping straight up with a burst of enhanced strength, Justinian formed a tendril and hooked it through his harness, stopping his descent dozens of feet into the air. Flexing his will and pushing out his psy, the noble flooded an area encompassing hundreds of yards with his power and will, claiming it for his own to form a domain.

At his action, a needling pain appeared behind his eyes as he continued to expand his domain to cover the entire camp and a few yards into the ranks of the beastkin, but he didn't pull the energy back. Instead, he released more power to reinforce the edges of his casting.

Those last couple of feet almost cost him as much psy as all the rest of the domain combined. With the beastkins in close ranks and their native resistance to psy, he had to exert extra effort to suppress their auras to obtain any helpful information. Information he needed.

The knowledge of every creature and object within the area flooded his mind, and it was like the nearby world was laid out before his feet. It hurt, oh, by the Great Elementals did it hurt. It felt like he had to force every thought to coalesce, constantly fighting to prevent it from being ground out of existence. However, if he was going to quickly turn the tide of this battle, it was necessary, and victory was worth any discomfort he might momentarily feel.

The only problem was that Justinian knew with absolute certainty that the camp couldn't supply the amount of water he needed. True, he could claim the reserves within the camp and kill the beastkins with it, but then all the barrels would be dry, and he would simply be placing another burden onto his people's shoulders. Even if the lack of water didn't break their spirits, as northerners were hardy people, their bodies would give out from dehydration in short order. But that didn't mean he was out of options, though they were more energy-intensive and demanding for him.

Rolling his left shoulder as he made his decision, Justinian began spinning his psy like a massive windmill through the air. As the gigantic sheets of psy spun, he gathered and collected the small droplets of water they encountered over the hundreds of square yards.

Within seconds, he had enough water to start forming small shards of ice, and the moment they were condensed, he began firing them off. It was only a few at first, but as he gathered more water, their numbers continued to expand, which further allowed him to make more as his supply of liquid grew exponentially, because he wasn't just collecting from the air.

Moments after his attacks landed, the high noble would reach out with a tendril and pull the ice spike back to him. Along with that ice came the frozen blood that came into contact with the projectile. It cost a bit more energy than simply retrieving the weapons, and ice blood took more psy still to control, as it wasn't just water, but beggars couldn't be choosers. With beastkin kill, he had slightly more to work with than before, and that was enough for now.

Within minutes of Justinian wholeheartedly focusing on offense, hundreds of beastkins died all across the battlefield. And it wasn't those in the middle or back, no, those dead had a chance of going unnoticed. The high nobles struck down those in the front.

The ones leading the charge, and who were typically the bravest, or at least the strongest. The ones to whom everyone looked for courage and reassurance that they weren't charging to their deaths. When those individuals were felled with casual ease from his ice spikes, those around took notice. Maybe it wasn't the first time, or the second, but by the third time that one of the beastkins was cut down with one of his shards of ice, the beasts could no longer take the fear of death and started to break.

A thrill of pleasure ran through Justinian as he felt beastkins numbering in the thousands turn and run. A momentary urge to chase after the beasts surged within him, but then he took a moment to process the state of the camp. The moment he actually looked around, Justinian knew that if he left, the battle would start again, as such an opening would not be allowed to pass.

Already, the center of the camp was packed with hundreds of wounded being treated as best as the conditions allowed, but it was far from ideal. The nurses and the handful of trained medicos were performing admirably, but they lacked supplies. Clean cloth was nearly non-existent, the well was bone dry after having to supply water for far too many people, and any actual disinfectants to clean wounds had long been depleted. The best that could be done was to wipe down the wound with a questionable cloth and sew the gashes together afterward, as the healers were all but exhausted.

While the militia and mercenaries were still standing, it was more out of will than anything else. These people needed a wall to rest behind, and only he could perform that task. Slowly lowering himself to the ground, Justinian took those moments to construct a mental shield as he kept his domain spread wide. It was a constant spike pressing into the side of his head, but something he could block out given a few moments, so long as he wasn't attempting to actually sense everything occurring within the casting.

Speaking and flexing his domain with his willpower to vibrate in accordance with his voice so that the entire camp heard him as if he was standing next to them, Justinian said, "You are relieved, Olimpians. Eat and regain your strength. Rest while there is still time, for we must start marching soon. This fight is not over, but for now, be at ease."

A tension that filled the whole camp, an undefinable pressure that weighed at the back of people's necks and between their eyes, was released at that moment. Whether it was his words or the way his domain surrounded them like the gaze of a protective parent, his people felt safe for the first time in days. They weren't, not really, but it was a delusion they could rest in for a few precious seconds until they had to get back up again to march and fight.

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Having spoken what was needed, the high noble turned and marched through the camp, heading toward the command tent. Those he met, campworkers and legionaries alike, as there was little point in pretending they weren't a legion at this point, got out of his way and either saluted or bowed to him as he passed.

It was a brief moment that interrupted their essential work, but Justinian thought it was well spent. The actions reminded everyone that they were still governed by laws and regulations. That they had not fallen so low as to exist in a state of chaos and despair, no matter how the situation appeared.

Entering one of the few tents in the camp and suffering under the attention of his attendants' scurrying about after his sudden departure from his bed, Justinian waited while seated on a stool. He didn't have to wait long, as soon enough, Terrance and the mercenary captain… Mathew, yes, that is his name, strode through the open flaps of the tent.

"Milord," Terrance said, bobbing his head. A bob that looked like he had to struggle to come up from as he lacked the energy. Understandably, his body was a mess of dirt and smeared blood.

"High Noble Fridgia," Mathew said, slamming his fist to his chest, though it appeared lazy. While he was also covered in grime and sweat, he almost made it look dashing rather than worn down.

Nodding to each of them in turn, Justinian briskly asked, "What's our situation?"

"My boys are still capable of fighting. We suffered around five hundred casualties during the night, but we should be able to reduce that to less than a hundred in a couple of hours." The mercenary captain briskly said, his demeanor projecting indifference, but his voice was too hard for that to actually be the case. "The rest will either be dead or too wounded to help for the rest of the battle."

Nodding to the man, the noble turned to Terrance, who shook his head. "Rough estimates of the militia and campworkers casualties… are somewhere north of two thousand. Five hundred or more are dead, but we are still sorting through the bodies."

"When will they be able to move? We have to make it to the first set of switchbacks during our next march, no matter the cost." At his words, neither of the men argued, and their faces turned hard.

After a moment to speak, Terrance spoke up, "Six hours should be enough to get moving… if the milita—

"Legionaries." Corrected Justinian. "At this point, they deserve at least that title again."

Nodding in acceptance, Terrance continued, "If the legionaries are allowed to rest and given food and water, they should be able to move in good order. Not great, but it's the best that can be expected."

"The campworkers?"

"They will march." Confirmed the knight, though Justinian suspected he left out the following sentence, "or be left behind," but he didn't say anything. The situation was desperate, and they had to save what they could, not die attempting to be heroes.

Turning to the mercenary, the man nodded in response, saying, "Six hours will be plenty of time."

"Good, then get to work, gentlemen," Justinian ordered, motioning to the flaps, "if you need me, I'll be here." With the matter settled, he got comfortable on his stool and focused on conserving his willpower and psy. Even for him, using fifty orbs to construct the domain wasn't something to be casually done, especially in a battle.

"You come to stand as my guard?" Justinian asked as the sound of footsteps grew louder, then moved to the side of the large tent.

"Somebody has to." Gilbert quipped back, his voice sounding tired but firm. "If we lose you, nobody will be able to have a decent nap."

"Well, we wouldn't want that, now would we?"

"It's only fair after you slept for over a whole day. Some people might get jealous if you didn't return the favor."

A smile twitched at Justinian's mouth, and the mental weight became slightly easier to resist. "And resting for hours has nothing to do with it?"

"What? Huh… I guess you're right about that." Knight Gilbert said, sounding amazed as if he had just realized that fact. "Well, nothing that can be done about it now."

***********

Sunsray, Chieftain of the Golden Feather Tribe and Chosen of the Sun, hovered in the air. A portion of his mind, about the same as the land trapped used to remain standing, was occupied with maintaining the spell that kept an updraft under his wings.

The eaglekin looked down at the column of Olimpians, and he was infuriated. It was a disgrace that he had had to get personally involved, as Derg's actions had more than proven; the High Chieftain of the Chosen was above such matters, and so were the rest of his people by extension. Let those who are struck squabbling in the dirt deal with each other.

He and those like him were the skyborn, granted by right of birth to look down on all those who were trapped upon the ground. And finally, the damn wolf had acknowledged Sunsray's right to rule and bequeathed a portion of his authority.

As was only logical, Sunsray had sent out his people and gathered every wolf band on the southern plateau, forcing them under the authority of his new subordinates. That act had taken most of the first night and into the new dawn to accomplish, leaving only a few disorganized groups of newly enlightened to deal with the fleeing Olimpians. Of course, they had failed. However, the pitiable creatures did their part and slowed down the vermin, and the warband was able to catch up during the day as they rested.

The evening of the first day and the following night consisted of the warlords' bloodying their new warriors. At this point, Sunsray was mildly annoyed that they did not just end the matter by sending their strongest warriors into the fight right from the start, but he also understood and even approved of the practice of culling the weak.

Then the abomination of an Olimpians made himself known again. It was completely unexpected, catching everyone off guard. Sunsray considered killing the incompetent warlords, but then he remembered, how can those trapped on the ground see farther to the horizon than those in the air? Everyone thought that the man had burned himself out with his stunt on the walls of the city. At the very least, he should have been suffering severe mana burn and not been able to cast for a couple more days.

Through some twisted power, not only was the Olimpian back at full strength, but he was also able to enter the air and remain within the sky's embrace without even the semblance of wings. Furthermore, in all defiance of logic, the man could also exert his will upon the winds, all but stilling their whimsical nature, making them stagnant and dead.

It was unacceptable. This human should have been killed in his sleep and buried during the night, never again to be allowed to be graced by the light of the sun. It was clear that it was a mistake. His mistake. Actually, it was a dual mistake if what his scouts reported was true, and they always were.

Two errors that had the potential to become a single one that he did not know if he could handle alone, and that truth only infuriated him further. Because reminders of his blunders could not be allowed to persist within the world. Raising his spear and pulling on the entire mana pool of his flock, he gathered his golden fire at the tip of his spear for a couple of seconds before releasing a bar of fire, signaling the start of what would be the massacre of the Olimpians below.