The Devouring Knight

The Legate's gaze sharpened toward the approaching entities, but before he could move.

A weak voice echoed through the smoke.

"Where do you think you're going…?"

The Legate turned. Lucian stood there, barely recognizable beneath the blood and dirt. His armor was shattered, his face bruised, and his left arm hung limp, but his golden eyes still burned with defiance.

"Still standing?" the Legate said coldly. "You are truly annoying."

Lucian gripped his sword tightly, using it to keep himself upright. His whole body trembled, yet his voice came firm, carrying through the chaos.

"If I fall here…" he said slowly, "then who will protect them? Who will protect the empire?"

He raised his sword. "I swore to be its shield. Even if I die, I'll stand until the end!"

The Legate frowned. "Big words from a dying man."

But something changed.

The wind shifted, and a radiant light began to pulse from Lucian's body. His hair shimmered like molten gold, his sword blazing with divine light. The air itself seemed to burn, turning the battlefield into a furnace.

The Legate's eyes widened, his composure slipping for the first time. "What… what is this power?"

Lucian's voice echoed again, filled with unwavering will.

"For the empire… for everyone who still believes in me!"

The light around him erupted.

The ground split open, and waves of flame and radiance burst outward, swallowing the battlefield in brilliance. The sky turned white as if a second sun had descended upon the land.

BOOOOM!

The explosion ripped through the field. Dust and smoke engulfed everything.

And when it cleared.

Lucian still stood. His armor glowed faintly, half-melted. His sword burned in his grip, its edge dripping with light.

Across from him, the Legate stumbled back, his chest torn open by a deep, burning wound. His armor had shattered, molten at the edges.

He stared at the wound in disbelief. "You… you bastard!"

The Legate roared, his fury shaking the air as he swung his spear downward with all his might.

Lucian didn't move. He clenched his teeth and raised his sword, meeting the strike head-on.

Clang!

The force shook the ground, but Lucian stood his ground, refusing to yield.

Then, two figures appeared beside him.

Silas, his face pale but eyes burning with resolve, crossed his twin daggers against the Legate's spear.

Daigo followed, his twin katanas locking in beside Lucian's blade.

All three of them, bleeding and barely breathing stood together, pushing back the mighty Legate.

They were on the brink of death.

But they refused to kneel.

…..

Away from the raging battlefield, Lumberling and the elves were still in their own little world, entangled in warmth and comfort, completely unaware of the chaos that still raged on.

Meanwhile, back at the center of the war-torn field, Lucian, Silas, and Daigo lay broken on the blood-soaked ground. Their armor was shattered, their weapons cracked, and their breathing shallow. The once mighty trio now looked more like corpses clinging to life by sheer will alone.

The Legate stood over them, panting heavily. His armor was split open across the chest, blood seeping from a deep, still-fresh wound. He looked at the fallen knights with pure disgust.

"I've had enough of this nonsense," he spat, his voice trembling with fury. "You pests just don't know when to die."

He lifted his spear, its tip glowing faintly with mana, ready to end it once and for all.

But before he could strike…

Something stirred.

The pools of blood beneath Lucian, Silas, and Daigo began to ripple. Even the crimson trail that ran from the Legate's own wound trembled, rising into the air.

The Legate froze. "What..?"

The blood twisted and churned, shaping itself into countless sharp blades. Dozens, no, hundreds of crimson blades formed a deadly storm, all aimed straight at him.

With a sound like a rushing tide, they flew.

Shing! Shing! Shing!

The Legate's eyes widened, but his instincts moved faster than thought. His spear spun, and he slammed its butt to the ground.

'Spear Domain, Circle of Eternity!'

A golden ring flared beneath his feet, expanding outward in a perfect circle. Within it, everything slowed, the air, the blood, even the blades themselves.

His eyes gleamed with focus as he moved. Each flick, twist, and parry of his spear shattered a blood blade before it could reach him. Dozens broke apart, hundreds scattered, the crimson storm falling like rain.

In seconds, the world went quiet again. The only sound left was the faint hum of the glowing ring fading beneath his boots.

"Blood magic…" he muttered, his gaze narrowing toward the shadows ahead. "A very rare element."

His eyes gleamed dangerously.

"Who goes there?"

"Heir Arden, Silas, Daigo, you still alive?"

The voice echoed through the smoke-filled air, calm yet distinct.

The Legate's head turned. From across the blood-soaked field, Lumberling walked forward. Behind him, the air shimmered faintly as several figures appeared, Aurelya, Thessalia, and Vaenyra, their presence warping the atmosphere with mana so thick it made even seasoned knights tremble.

"I brought some help," Lumberling added, his tone light, almost teasing.

The Legate's fury burned hotter, but this time, he didn't lash out. His gaze lingered instead on the elven woman at Lumberling's side, the one whose calm steps carried both grace and danger.

"Why have you come to this place, Lady Vaenyra?" he asked at last, his tone measured, surprisingly polite.

Vaenyra raised an eyebrow. "You know me?"

The Legate gave a faint, humorless smile. "Who wouldn't? Your race may be a reclusive one within the Aetherborn Empire, but your name carries weight beyond its borders. Vaenyra Syltharien, the Wandering Sorceress, known for commanding dozens of Magic Circle Four mages."

Lumberling's eyes widened slightly. Now that he thought about it, Vaenyra did have more than thirty Magic Circle Four mages under her. Each one equivalent to a True Knight.

He found himself glancing again at the calm woman beside him. Vaenyra only smiled faintly, as if such praise meant nothing.

Aurelya folded her arms. "So, even arrogant men like him know how to show manners," she remarked dryly.

The Legate's gaze flicked toward her, his expression darkening. "Gold hair and golden eyes… You must be Aurelya, the Golden Dancer. Another troublesome elf."

"Troublesome?" Aurelya smirked. "You haven't seen trouble yet."

Thessalia giggled softly, her bow already drawn. "You sure you want to pick this fight, big guy?"

The Legate's expression hardened, his grip on the spear tightening. Whatever faint politeness he had was gone, replaced by cold hostility.

"It was you who came here and attacked us," he said, his voice low but edged with restrained fury. His eyes swept across the battlefield, where elves clashed with his soldiers in chaos. "Why are you helping the enemy?"

Vaenyra drew her sword without a flicker of surprise. Her tone was flat, like ice. "A dead man doesn't need to know."

The Legate let out a short, bitter laugh, half madness, half rage. First, the trusted general he had trained for decades was killed. Then young knights wounded him. His soldiers were dying one after another, and now strangers had appeared, daring to mock him to his face. His fury boiled over, on the verge of exploding.

"It won't matter who you bring," he spat, forcing a laugh that had no humor. "All of you will die here."

Thessalia and Aurelya shared a look and let out light, almost careless laughs. Aurelya flicked her rapier free in a playful spin.

"Is that so?" she taunted.

Vaenyra stepped forward, shoulders straight, the air tightening around her.

"I want to fight him alone."

Thessalia's smile slowly faded. "Lady Vaenyra, he's a Legate," she warned softly. "Don't be reckless. This could get dangerous."

Vaenyra's eyes didn't flinch. "All the more reason," she replied calmly. "I want to see how strong I've become."

Thessalia opened her mouth, then closed it again, unsure what to say. Aurelya let out a short, annoyed snort. "Hmph, you just want to show off."

Vaenyra turned her head slightly, a cool, confident smile forming on her lips. "Then become as strong as me," she said simply.

Aurelya's smirk faltered, she looked away, muttering something under her breath. Thessalia exhaled a small, resigned sigh. There was no stopping Vaenyra once her mind was made up.

Then, Vaenyra took a single step forward, and the air shifted.

A deep hum rolled across the battlefield, mana rippling outward like waves on a stormy sea. The wind began to gather around her, swirling faster and faster until dust and debris lifted from the ground in spirals.

And then came the lightning.

Bright arcs crackled across her body, dancing along her blue hair and down the blade of her sword. A moment later, blue flames erupted from the weapon's edge, burning cold and fierce. The mixed aura of wind, fire, and lightning pulsed violently, shaking the ground beneath her feet.

Lumberling's eyes narrowed, a flicker of awe flashing across his face.

'Three elements… no,' he realized, his thoughts quickening. 'If I count that blood magic, it's four, wind, lightning, flame… and blood. So this is her true strength. And she's already reached Magic Circle Seven? What in the world happened to her these past months?'

Across the field, the Legate's confident grin slowly disappeared. His spear lowered slightly as the ground beneath him cracked under the sheer pressure of his aura. His energy surged outward, dense, heavy, and suffocating, like the weight of a mountain pressing down on the world.

Two forces, one blazing with divine fury, the other dark and crushing, collided invisibly at the heart of the battlefield, their clash felt more than seen.

Vaenyra's eyes began to glow, a faint blue light flickering within them as she raised her sword. The Legate straightened, his stance tightening, his expression now calm and razor-sharp.

For a long, tense moment, neither moved.

They stood face to face, power meeting power, the air trembling in silence before the inevitable storm broke.