Mikael had not waited for the final word as he roared “PLAN D”, his desperation overriding the calculated restraint that had governed his actions for years. His will shook the crystalline Qi gathered in his hands. Luminous streaks, fierce and gold, blazed from seven vital acupoints across both arms. With a guttural surge of power, he extended his arms towards the wounded Sagat and Rolando, his voice a hammer blow of conviction.

  

  ZAAAAP!

  Two blinding, powerful bolts of lightning, pure condensations of QI, shot forth with terrifying speed towards both Warriors.

  Sheer Terror engulfed Sagat and Rolando. If they were hit by this attack, probably not even ashes would remain of them, and they soon greatly regretted having provoked the dignity of a TAO Emperor.

  But before the bolts could finish their grim work, they slammed into an invisible, yet profoundly solid, Qi wall.

  KRA-THOOM!

  The air between the Emperor and the wall erupted in a violent commotion, a silent, powerful concussive force that vibrated out of existence. Both Sagat and Rolando were sent flying backwards, their bodies pinwheeling wildly. They crashed hard, vomiting gouts of blood, their internal organs rocked by grievous, unseen wounds. But they were alive.

  Mikael cursed inwardly, a wordless, scorching self-reproach that tasted of regret. He vanished from where he was and reappeared in front of Rolando, ready to attack him a second time, when a bronzed-colored hand appeared deceptively placid in front of the Rhodarian and forced Mikael to retreat.

  Mikael’s forehead was a little pale, and cold sweat ran down it. The confrontation was now unavoidable. His greatest reluctance had been in fully committing his unstable Qi, which flickered like a dying candle due to ancient injuries, but now it was too late to conserve it. A wave of regret washed over him. He should have acted without reservation, finished both of them immediately, and fled with the children.

  Thinking of his previous self, Mikael confronted his premature aging, not so much his outward appearance or his convalescing Qi, but his attitude towards problems. In the past, he, who was considered one of the worst nightmares for Rhodar as a Dragon General, would never have taken such a passive position.

  Standing before Mikael was a man clad in elegant furs, a veneer of civilisation draped over a core of lethal power. He had the middle-aged appearance of preserved youth, with few wrinkles to betray his years, but his silver hair and gaze were cold, sharp, and profoundly condescending. This was Sylas Du Sacar.

  “Well… look what happens when you don't wait, Rolando,” Sylas drawled, his voice a silk thread of mockery. “Had I not arrived in time, you would be a charred corpse. All because of your eagerness to gain merits all by yourself. What am I to do with you? You truly don’t learn from your mistakes; your earlier defeat against Lirian was due to a similar, pathetic hunger.”

  Rolando pushed himself up on one elbow, his face alight with desperate relief. “Uncle Sylas. It's good that you've arrived.”

  “Now, what do we have here? Mmm... An Emperor, perhaps?” Sylas's eyes narrowed, sweeping over Mikael's tattered form. “But your Qi is quite unstable, as if it disappears at times. Past injuries, surely… Well, it doesn't matter. I’m afraid you must die.” He spoke the death sentence with the indifferent tone of a man commenting on the weather.

  Sylas raised his hand toward Mikael, and an enormous leg, as if ripped from a monstrous insect, materialised, several meters high, with spear-like hairs attached to its bulk. It lunged, intent on piercing Mikael with a brutal, single strike.

  Mikael met the attack not with fear, but with a resurgence of ancient defiance. He raised his own hand, twisting his fingers into a fearsome claw shape. A golden paw, solid and gleaming, appeared at the end of his arm, deflecting the insect leg’s attack with a ringing clang.

  BAM!

  “Oh… Interesting,” Sylas said.

  He immediately vanished from where he was and began to attack Mikael with great ferocity. Mikael met him with an iron defence: a hurricane of strong, violent punches and kicks. His movements were concise, brutally direct, and utterly devoid of flourish or excessive leaps. This was Mikael’s very own Martial Art, a fluid, spontaneous, all-encompassing martial philosophy he had perfected in his youth, driven by a deep, unwavering intent to save time and energy.

  Sylas, initially the aggressor, was momentarily overwhelmed. He had to execute a quick, frantic defence, separating himself several meters from Mikael.

  “Hmpf!” He brought his fingers together like a spear and began to launch a relentless barrage, his hands becoming conduits for the insect’s power. Multiple black, spear-like legs emerged in succession, striking Mikael nonstop, creating a chaotic storm of death.

  Mikael, however, continued his advance, attacking quickly with his fists. Golden claws and sparse streaks of lightning accompanied his rapid-fire blows, following the rhythm of his hands.

  BAM, ZAP, TAT, BAM…

  In a few breathless seconds, they exchanged hundreds of attacks, and the cavern room around them groaned under the destructive power. Mikael’s concise style was gaining a subtle advantage, exploiting the small, natural gaps in his opponent’s defence.

  Finally, one of his attacks found its opening, driving directly toward Sylas’s body. Sylas’s face twisted in alarm as he hastily crossed his arms for a desperate defence. Eight chitinous, spider-like legs erupted from his back, folding over his body like a shield. The blow connected, and even with the hasty defence, Sylas was forced to retreat several steps.

  Sylas’s eyes widened in profound surprise. “Impossible... The But how? You… You should be dead.”

  “Nothing is impossible, little spider. If you’re alive, why can’t I be too, you garbage?” Mikael retorted, his voice laced with the old, brutal sarcasm. “Don't forget that when I was busy destroying the Sakar Tribe’s tents, you were nothing more than a poor insect barely learning to drink milk.”

  “You…. hahahahahaha.” Sylas threw back his head as he covered his face with one hand, his laugh brittle and mocking, yet underlined with a tangible rage and envy. “How the mighty have fallen. To imagine that the magnificent and powerful Dragon General, Michel De Rosas, the Mad Dog, is nothing more than a beggar tramp, without any trace of the dignity he once had. Time seems to have been merciless with you.”

  “Michel De Rosas. It’s been many years since I heard that name. It doesn't matter. Even if I have fallen, it's not impossible for me to get rid of a small bug like you, Sylas,” Mikael replied, unmoved.

  “Perhaps in the past that would have been true,” Sylas countered, his eyes shining with ambition and malice. “But now you are not even a shadow of what you once were: persecuted by your past, trash on the side of the road. I, on the other hand, am one of the Elders of the Great Sakar Tribe, one of the true leaders of Rhodar.”

  He spoke the words with the express purpose of weakening Mikael's resolve, knowing that his own current power could not touch the raw magnificence of the Dragon General’s past. For Sylas, the looming fight was a complex calculation where any small advantage would mark the difference between life and death.

  “We shall see, little spider. Even if I were on my deathbed, before me, you are nothing more than the coward I let live on a whim in the past,” Mikael finished. His Qi surged, rising to its peak.

  Behind Mikael, a massive, resting beast surfaced, its eyes lazy, yet its protruding fangs promised instant, apocalyptic violence. This was the complete materialisation of Mikael’s Will: a Gigantic Mastiff, its magnificent, bushy, golden fur crackling with dancing streaks of lightning.

  Sylas’s face darkened as his own Qi rose to meet the challenge. A monstrous, five-meter spider appeared next to him, its eight legs bristling with spear-like hairs. Its malevolent face possessed eight pairs of reddish eyes and powerful, venomous mandibles: the horrifying materialisation of Sylas's Will.

  Rolando, watching from his broken vantage point at the edge of the cavern, was overwhelmed. The vagabond before him, the drunkard of Radom, was the black legend of Rhodar’s history: Michel De Rosas, one of the men who had inflicted the most crushing defeats on their Territory in the past century. Rolando had only ever heard whispers about the general’s downfall, an event orchestrated by some of the most powerful men in Rhodar, supported by certain Great Families of Ansara. Mikael’s fall had allowed Rhodar to recover much of its lost territory; had it not been for the subsequent, dizzying rise of General Falma and then Lirian, a third of Ansara's current territory would likely belong to Rhodar today.

  The titanic battle was about to begin. Neither Emperor had noticed that one of the participants had disappeared. At some point, Sagat had managed to slip away under the cover of Sylas's arrival, escaping with his grave internal injuries.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Five minutes had gone by… Time was ticking.

  The second Mikael had shouted “Plan D,” Elisha burst out of the cave exit at full speed and began traversing the forest in the direction of the city of Coronas. He had to contact the Ansaran army as soon as possible, but he didn’t know where to look, so his first decision was to reach the city and turn to the city’s army while asking about the Regiment’s situation. If it were nearby, he could go and deliver the report; otherwise, he could only report the discovery and then rush back to find his siblings.

  Elisha was using repeatedly without rest, overtaxing his already spent Qi in order to waste no time. The deluge washing the Radon Woods only added to his anxiety.

  AEON seemed to notice his plea, for in the near area of the Rainbow Roses Lake, he found two people he never thought he’d find nearby.

  It was Major Serena and Raye, the mercenary brother, who were navigating the waterlogged woods. They were following a cryptic trail: the likely location of Sagat’s lair, based on a recent, suspicious tip from Raye’s own mercenary leader.

  Elisha appeared in front of both of them in a jarring flash. They tensed up a little at the sudden appearance, raising their weapons, but soon relaxed and were at the same time surprised when they realised it was the young Praetorian.

  “Elisha, my boy. How have you been?” Raye greeted him with his usual good-natured smile, wiping the rain from his face. “I was just looking for you to propose that you join us on an expedition Major Serena has entrusted to my team, but I heard you had already left for the Woods.”

  Major Serena, however, looked at Elisha with a slight frown. The boy’s eyes, fixed and wide, were a testament to genuine, unhinged distress, and the fact that he appeared here, of all places, could not be a coincidence.

  “Brother Raye, thank you for your concern, but I'm in a hurry right now,” Elisha replied, his tone clipped, his courtesy strained to the breaking point. “I apologise for my bad manners. Major Serena, I need to know where Commander Sebastian of the Army Regiment is; there is something I urgently need to communicate to him.”

  Major Serena was a little taken aback by his abrupt attitude. She scrutinised him with a professional, subtly cold gaze. “Exactly what has happened, young Elisha? If you need to communicate something, you can tell me, and I will make sure to pass on the information if it is relevant. Speak plainly.”

  “Major Serena, I know you are more than capable of helping me, but this is a life-or-death emergency,” Elisha insisted, the distress in his voice now clear. “Sagat, the head of the Ferocious Tigers mercenary group, has teamed up with people from Rhodar and is selling them a powerful material he obtained from the craters. My family, my father, and siblings are trapped in the cave where they are conducting this treasonous trade. Please, I have no time to lose.”

  Serena’s and Raye’s faces changed simultaneously at his astounding words. Serena was about to demand proof, to ask for a clearer explanation as well as the Lair’s location, but seeing the pure, blinding anxiety in Elisha’s young features, she silenced herself. For a reason she could not explain, she believed him.

  Finally, she spoke, her voice measured but urgent. “About ten kilometres from the entrance of the forest in the Southeast direction, the Frontier Army Regiment has set up a provisional camp. The Commander is there. I’ll join you”

  Elisha did not wait for her to finish. He shouted a thanks, turned on his heel, and ran off toward the Regiment at maximum speed, his mind already calculating the immense distance.

  “Wait. You won’t be able to pass if you don’t have permission from a Captain or another superior rank… WAIT!” Serena shouted, but Elisha didn’t give her time to finish what she wanted to say and didn’t hear Serena’s warning. She wanted to follow, but Elisha’s speed was even greater than hers, a Centurion. Not only that, she had her own mission to follow; she couldn’t just leave.

  His mind at that moment was focused on notifying the Army Commander as soon as possible; this was the only way to ensure that his father and siblings would be alright. Besides, if the Rhodarians took the Fruit of the Mountain God, a new Legend-level Warrior could appear in enemy territory in the future, and that was something he, as a citizen of Ansara, also did not want to see.

  He ran, and ran, the raindrops exploding against his body. His Qi was overexerted, his body screaming in agony. Yet he could only think of how slow he was.

  A regular Praetorian top sprinting speed was between 160 and 180 km/h. Elisha was using after ... This was a movement technique designed for short bursts of speed during battle, not for running for a long time with no end. The camp was sixty kilometres away from Sagat’s lair.

  Elisha’s legs’ Acupoints were flaring non-stop. Blood started painting his legs, his muscles about to explode. The rain confused itself with Elisha’s own tears.

  Despair was clear in his eyes. Never had he felt so… slow. So useless.

  He moved on. His legs could go to hell for all he cared. He had abandoned his little brothers for the sake of this mission.

  And soon, his Will, the true measure of a TAO Warrior, answered the desperate call. His Qi, responding to the unyielding purpose of his soul, developed a new, previously unknown circuit toward the acupoints in the soles of his feet.

  He flew. became as natural as breathing. Less Qi, less burden, the same insane speed. Three times top Praetorian Speed. 540 km/h.

  

  He shot past several groups of bewildered adventurers and mercenaries. To them, Elisha was a momentary apparition, a streak of desperate energy. Finally, he burst out of the rain-drenched Woods.

  Elisha ran in the direction Serena had indicated. Soon, he saw them: the waving flags bearing the proud coat of arms of the Royal House of Ansara. The camp was a picture of military order, soldiers patrolling, tents perfectly arranged. Two large tents stood in the centre, marking the presence of the two most important people.

  Elisha had already been spotted by the sentries and was halted by several soldiers at the entrance of the camp, many of whom looked at him with unfriendly faces. Among the soldiers who stopped him was Captain Apollos, who harboured a festering resentment. He hated Sagat and his men, but his hatred was equally directed at Elisha, remembering the sting of the rod and the public humiliation he had suffered a day before in the city of Coronas.

  “Where do you think you're going?” Apollos said, directly confronting Elisha, his voice sharp with authority. “Do you think the Royal Ansara Army Camp is a place where any rabble can come and go as they please?” As a Captain, his jurisdiction over the entrance was absolute, and the surrounding soldiers obeyed him implicitly.

  Elisha responded, “Captain Apollos, I have an urgent message to deliver to Commander Sebastian; please let me pass to speak with him, or take me to a superior I can address.” Elisha’s tone of voice still held that same hurried and concerned tone.

  Apollos, matter-of-factly, had no intention of helping Elisha, and with a sneer, he replied, “The Ansaran Army is not a place where any ragamuffin can approach whenever he wants. Do you really think that just because you want to talk to the commander, you’ll be able to talk to him? Get out of my sight before I order your arrest. Don’t obstruct the passage; our soldiers have work to do.”

  Elisha tried to refute and convince Apollos, but he rudely interrupted him, “I don’t care who the hell you are, you won’t enter the camp. Your stubbornness seems too suspicious to me.”

  Elisha was flabbergasted by Apollos’ sheer pettiness. However, he had no time to lose fighting this obtuse man.

  Apollos, seemingly reading his mind, leaned in, lowering his voice until it was a venomous whisper. “Look here, Elisha de Casas… Or should I say Radom. You, shitty orphan, think you’re oh so great. Perhaps when this is all over, you won’t have a house to return to. Consider it a gift… from me to you.”

  Apollos' smile was not only slimy but venomous.

  Elisha was paralysed. Not because Apollos had caught him on his fake identity, but the casual, terrifying way he spoke, as well as its implications.

  Elisha had made it to the camp in mere seven minutes.

  Thunder and lightning cracked in the darkened morning sky, the promise of a far away violence. How could Apollos know that his plan had different results from what he expected? Still, the consequences needed to be paid.

  When the deep boom of “PLAN D!” cracked through the lair, the children’s eyes widened. They understood: a TAO Emperor had arrived. The plan, hammered into them before entering the cave, was absolute: Flee. Now. No hesitation.

  Silvestre, the first to move, instantly began running with frantic vigour toward the exit tunnel. He pulled Lucca and Ailan along. But he stopped, his feet gouging the wet stone, when he realised Nerion had frozen, his gaze locked on the central cage.

  “Nerion! What’s wrong with you?” Lucca said, almost yelling, to make Nerion react. “You know Father’s orders, Plan D means flee!” Lucca shouted, his voice cracking with terror.

  Nerion ignored him, his face a mask of conviction, and rushed to Arbak's side. “She saved us. I won’t leave her to die.”

  “NERION, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Silvestre spat, his loyalty forcing him back to the cell. “We can’t waste time!”

  “Beautiful Big Sister Arbak, we must help you… An Emperor has reached the premises. If we leave you alone, you’ll die… or worse.” Nerion pleaded, using all his strength to try and twist the Star Metal chains, only managing to scrape his fingers.

  “You should listen to your brothers, child,” Arbak warned, her exhaustion profound, even when her pupils shrank.

  Nerion refused to hear her. He ignored the paralysing fear gripping Roxy, Ailan, and Eliana, who were now trapped by their brothers' immobility.

  Silvestre arrived next to him, ready to unleash another angry protest, but seeing the stubborn, headstrong look etched on Nerion’s face, he knew no argument would prevail.

  “Nerion, this could be our end,” Silvestre still needed to try, his voice thick with dread. He was no coward, but he knew the crushing finality of his own limits.

  “I know the danger,” Nerion insisted, his voice heavy with resignation. “But I won’t leave. You guys go. Take Ailan and Eliana out now!”

  “We won’t leave you, Nerion. We’re family,” Lucca retorted, his frustration melting into grim, defiant loyalty. “Shit. Let’s see what we can do.”

  Nerion’s loyalty had become a blind spot—he had only his family and those who helped them in the past, and placed immense value on relationships.

  His moral code was simple and fierce: he was geared towards returning a lake for a drop of water received and repaying anyone who had harmed him manifold.

  They lunged at the Star Metal.

  Nerion convinced Silvestre to drive his into the chain joint, the sound similar to a funeral bell.

  Lucca kicked the shackle with a full-force strike. The high-grade chains didn't even shimmer. It was an insult to their effort.

  The chains were stuck to the mountain itself, impossibly heavy for children who were Rank 1 at most.

  Minutes passed like sand falling through fingertips, inexorable and unstoppable.

  Nerion, frantic, searched his clothes. He dismissed the overwhelming danger, substituting hope for logic. He was confidently, tragically wrong.

  He was still rummaging through his clothes, searching for some final tool, when the sound of heavy, staggering footsteps echoed from the main corridor.

  Roxy, Ailan, and Eliana spun. Ten meters away stood a giant, bald, blood-drenched man, his torso scarred and ripped open by fresh wounds. Sagat. The air around him was unstable, but his Legate Qi was still a mountain of exuberant, concentrated rage. The hungry beast had found its prey.

  True, paralysing despair bloomed in their hearts. In front of a Legate, there was no way out. Ten minutes had gone by since Mikael’s warning.

  AEON was claiming his toll. For mistakes have consequences. Balance must be restored.