Every Legate and every Centurion circled him, launching relentless coordinated strikes. He parried, dodged, recoiled—his movements growing increasingly jagged. Mikael’s earlier assault had crippled parts of his core; his Qi flow was unstable, his regeneration stuttering.
And Brigadier Saulo… Saulo was the worst of all.
Every time Sylas attempted a decisive blow, Saulo’s Unbeatable Monocle shimmered and nullified it. The transparent lens appeared and vanished like a ghostly shield, fracturing Sylas’s killing intent and redirecting it harmlessly skyward.
It was infuriating.
Even as a Monarch, Saulo’s defensive Will was infamous — “the wall that never fell.”
But now Sylas’s patience snapped.
His four spider-legs unfolded fully from his back, each tip glowing with lethal Qi. Energy lines arced between them, weaving a pattern in the air. The world dimmed as threads multiplied, bending space into a silken cage.
Sylas clasped his hands.
“My Will ensnares the living.”
The spiderweb expanded, its threads humming with spatial corrosion, ready to swallow the entire Ansaran detachment.
Saulo didn’t flinch.
“FORMATION!”
His voice cracked like a whip.
The Legates and Centurions bit their tongues simultaneously, spitting blood forward. The droplets floated—then ignited with their Qi as the soldiers pressed their hands together, merging their Wills into a single ring of force around Saulo.
A brilliant circle snapped into existence beneath his feet.
“Elite Army Technique —
Their Qi flooded toward him—dozens of streams merging into one. Saulo’s aura erupted violently, his Monarch presence swelling to the edge of an Emperor.
The monocle materialized over his right eye—no longer a simple lens but a circular mirror framed in rippling silver, runes spiraling along its edge like a rotating crown.
Saulo turned his arm toward Sylas.
“My Will reflects reality”
The mirror flared.
An identical spiderweb bloomed from Saulo’s Will—perfectly symmetrical, perfectly lethal.
The two webs met at the center of the battlefield.
No explosion. No shockwave.
Just silence.
And then…
Everything the threads touched simply ceased to exist. The floor dissolved. Stone turned to dust. The air itself peeled apart like rotting cloth.
A rift carved itself between both forces, filled with drifting strands of toxic miasma — the residual poison of two absolute techniques annihilating each other.
The clash ended as abruptly as it began.
Sylas staggered back, panting, sweat streaking his half-burned carapace. The Web of Infinity was gone… but so was any path across the rift.
Exactly as he intended.
No one here could cross that toxic abyss before he escaped.
He shot Saulo and Mikael a venomous glare.
Then he vanished into the trees, sprinting toward his rendezvous point with Rolando.
Saulo exhaled for the first time since arriving.
Ten minutes had passed since he entered the battlefield.
The blood-soaked morning was—finally—reaching its end.
Rolando had left the storm drenching the Radon Woods behind, and tore across the Rhodar Prairie, his breath steady, his confidence unshaken. Behind him, the Ansaran pursuit had long since scattered; his speed and familiarity with the terrain made escaping trivial.
Ahead lay the Lorca Valley — one hundred and fifty kilometers of open land — and at its far end, his vanguard detachment awaited him. Once he regrouped with them, he and Sylas would sprint toward Galia. With the Fruit of the Mountain God in hand, the Great Sakar Tribe would shower him with rewards. Influence. Resources. The restoration of his lost status. Perhaps even the breakthrough to Qi Emperor, should he secure a portion of the Fruit for himself.
He allowed himself to dream.
He reached the valley in nine minutes.
His guard dropped immediately. This stretch of land bordered the Frontier; he was one of its commanders. No one would be foolish enough to obstruct him here, not with tribal laws, military patrols, and the distance from other armies. Only his uncle and his own men knew about this operation. Murder was rare between Great Tribes.
He walked toward the camp’s perimeter, spotting one lone soldier standing with his back turned.
Rolando exhaled, shoulders loosening. Then, he froze.
The camp was silent. Not calm-silent. Wrong-silent.
The kind of silence that devoured insects, wind, and breath.
“Report—” Rolando began.
The soldier toppled forward.
His insides spilled onto the dirt.
The face was twisted in terror, mouth still open in a soundless scream. Blood smell hit Rolando a second later — thick, metallic — yet somehow contained, as if the camp itself was forcing the stink to remain inside its borders.
Rolando’s skin prickled. He stepped forward. His eyes widened.
A mountain of corpses filled the camp. Dozens of Praetorians. Three Centurions. Two Legates. His elites, butchered like livestock.
No survivors. No last stands. No scattered bodies.
All arranged. Intentional.
Rolando’s heart slammed against his ribs, and he turned to flee back toward his uncle.
A voice floated above the corpses.
A woman’s voice. Sweet, velvety and dangerous.
“Well, well… Took you long enough. I almost died of boredom — and trust me, that’s very hard to do.”
Rolando froze mid-step.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Perched atop the mound of dead was a woman clad in a deep-blue uniform that clung to her curves like a second skin. Red hair spilled down her shoulders like burning silk. Her eyes… violet, cold, delighted, wanting to watch the world burn.
Beside her rested a spear two and a half meters long. Its flattened head, etched with hundreds of solemn runes, radiated crushing authority. The shaft’s natural grooves seemed grown, not carved, and channeled Qi effortlessly.
Einlanzer.
The way she sat atop the carnage was almost regal. The corpses did not make her image grotesque—they completed
“E– Elisabetta Mariana De Varona…” Rolando’s knees weakened. “How?”
Her smile sharpened.
“You silenced your movements, separated from the Four Armies, hid from the other tribes. Clever. But your kind of clever is fragile. Once exposed, your plan became a child’s toy. Just like eight years ago… when your greed outran your brain. Big Brother Lirian put you in the dirt then. Seems you didn’t learn.”
Rolando trembled. He gave it his last shot…
“Do you truly intend to start a war between Rhodar and Ansara?”
She arched a brow, a mocking smile on her face.
“A war? Tell me, little scorpion— when, exactly, did it ever stop? Now if you have no more nonsense, you can go on your way to meet AEON.”
In desperation, he roared and summoned his Will.
The silver scorpion erupted behind him — menacing, expanding, rising thirty meters high. Qi surged violently around it as Rolando force-fed his life force into the manifestation. Bones creaked. Veins bulged. He was burning himself alive for one last chance.
The scorpion raised its black tail, its eyes locking onto Elisabetta, ready to strike.
Elisabetta did not rise.
She didn’t even stand.
She glanced at the scorpion, bored.
“Noisy. Who told you you’re allowed to rise?”
Dozens of spears of silver Qi materialized above her — then crashed down in the same heartbeat.
The scorpion was pinned to the earth like an insect specimen, its body nailed through from head to tail.
Roland bit his own tongue and sumonning every shred of Qi said:
“
It exploded. BOOOOOM!
A hurricane of icy stakes burst outward, a maelstrom of razors shredding sightlines and tearing apart anything nearby. It was a catastrofic last ditch attempt from a mighty Monarch.
The corpse mountain was frozen instantly and got obliterated. Icy mist quickly enveloped the camp.
The rebound hit Rolando instantly.
Blood poured from his mouth in a violent stream. His chest convulsed, his ribs cracked. The backlash should have killed him — but desperation kept him upright long enough to turn and sprint away. This was his last chance.
He had to reach his uncle. He had to survive. He had to–
He stopped.
Because Elisabetta was standing in front of him. Smiling. Playful. Less than three meters away.
He hadn’t even seen her move.
Rolando looked down slowly.
Einlanzer’s blade had pierced his chest cleanly.
“Don’t take it personally. Actually, do. I like it better that way. Goodbye Rolando.”
Qi surged through the wound like molten metal, eating through organs, veins, and bone. His lungs collapsed. His heart spasmed. His vision dimmed.
Rolando’s last thought was a broken whisper of the future that would never come.
He fell.
Elisabetta watched him die with mild interest. She crouched, plucked the spatial ring from his limp fingers, and sifted through its contents. When she found what she sought, her expression softened—not with warmth, but with satisfaction.
“One less stain on Ansara,” she murmured. “Big Brother Lirian… that massacre is finally paid back, at least a little.”
Einlanzer vanished into her own space ring. Even for her, using the Rank 9 Spear was difficult. After all, right now, she was only an Emperor.
A heartbeat later, Elisabetta vanished as well, slipping across the border into Ansaran territory. She could have waited to ambush Sylas, but she wasn’t foolish. A prolonged battle could attract nearby Rhodarian units — Commanders, Generals, even a Warlord if fate turned cruel.
And she already had what she wanted.
The Lorca Valley lay silent again.
Minutes passed.
Then a cry of fury tore through the fields — a scream of grief and hatred that echoed across the entire frontier.
Later, rumors would spread:
Sylas, the Spider, Sixth Elder of the Great Sakar Tribe, found his nephew’s corpse… and wept tears of blood.
Kerchak crushed the skull of the Iron-Beaked Vulture beneath his claws, its torn wings twitching once before falling still. A hundred meters away, the Archaic Water Crocodile lay broken in half, its spine exposed like a shattered mountain ridge. Two Rank 7 Magical Beasts — dead in soul and body — as the storm howled over the western Radon Woods.
Thunder rippled through the trees, not from the sky, but from Kerchak’s lungs. Behind him, half the waterfall was missing, blasted apart during the battle.
The massive bear, half-shifted into human form and towering over four meters tall, staggered but did not fall. His fur was scorched, clumped with blood, muscles torn in dozens of places. Primal lightning flickered weakly across his chest with every inhale.
Two Rank 7s…
Had they been patient, had they let him stabilise, they would have never dared.
But wounded as he was, and on the cusp of Rank 9 ascension, his primal blood was irresistible.
Kerchak stood triumphantly over their corpses, swaying.
“Fools…” he growled, voice a deep, broken rumble. “To think you could feast on my thunder…”
He tore open the beasts’ chests, harvesting their Primal Blood, slurping the radiant essence with savage hunger. The energy coursed through him, too chaotic to fully absorb — burning him from within — but even pain brought him joy.
He lifted his head to the sky.
“Arbak… Arbak, you little snake,” he chuckled darkly. “You thought you alone would reach the peak? No… this continent belongs to beasts like us.”
He reached into his pouch and checked the Fruit shards— gleaming pieces of divine stone, humming with the same power that had once shattered Mount Karol.
His path to Rank 9 was real. Inevitable.
As long as no more—
A deep vibration ran through the ground.
Kerchak froze.
A shadow fell over him. He turned. But it was too late.
SCHLUCK!
A horn the size of a lance erupted through his back, piercing straight through muscle, bone, and heart. The sound was wet and final.
Kerchak’s maw opened in a raw, stunned silence. “…impossible…”
The horn was withdrawn with a brutal twist. Kerchak collapsed to his knees, coughing blood that crackled faintly with leftover thunder.
Heavy footsteps approached as a monstrous silhouette stepped into view. Two hundred and forty centimetres of granite-skinned muscle. Every vein bulged with roaring Qi, even through the injuries he had not completely healed yet.
A thirty-centimetre rhinoceros horn gleaming like polished obsidian, still dripping with Kerchak’s blood.
Natural Energy bent away from him, trees recoiling like they were afraid.
Rhys. The Rhino Beastman, a Legate of Rhodar. And worse — a member of the Liberation Brotherhood.
Kerchak’s voice tore out of him in disbelief and betrayal. “R… Rhys…? You dare…? Venteria’s ancestor swore a blood pact with my line… Your tribe owes me honour!”
Rhys’s expression barely shifted. Only the tightening of his jaw showed anything like emotion. “This isn’t about tribes anymore, Kerchak.”
His voice was low. Unshaken. A Legate’s certainty.
“There are movements greater than you. Greater than me. Greater than old beast pacts.”
Kerchak spat lightning-laced blood. “You betrayed Rhodar… even your own nature… beastmen don’t stab backs… cowards do…!”
Rhys flinched — a small tremor of shame — then crushed it. “The world is changing. The Brotherhood will be the hammer that shapes it.”
Kerchak tried to rise. His legs collapsed beneath him.
With a thunder-choked rasp, he said: “I should have never trusted you… You told me where the Fruit was… you lured me… like prey…”
Rhys stepped forward and placed a heavy hand on Kerchak’s skull. “Now rest. Your era ends.”
One decisive twist of the hand.
The Thunder-Breathing Bear slumped forward, lifeless. A beast who might have become a Legend—killed not by battle, but by treachery.
Rhys collected the Primal Blood and the Fruit shards with practised efficiency. He hesitated only once — looking at Kerchak’s corpse.
“…Forgive me,” he murmured. “But change demands sacrifice.”
A burning wind swept across the clearing.
Rhys stiffened.
A tall figure stood atop a boulder, silhouetted against the storm clouds.
Her skin was bronze, sun-forged. Her hair was a mane of black wildness. Her armour was stitched from the hides of Rank 7 and 8 beasts — trophies and warnings all at once.
Her presence was a blade: cold, disciplined, curved with hidden cruelty.
High Commander of the Red Phoenix Army, Felitia Du Venteria. TAO Emperor. Scion of Tribe Venteria.
Rhys dropped to one knee immediately.
“Commander. It is done.”
Felitia descended with measured steps, the earth cracking slightly wherever she landed. She examined the corpses, then Kerchak’s massive body. Her expression didn’t flicker.
“You performed the task well,” she said quietly. “Efficient. Clean. Thorough.”
She took the Fruit shards from his hands, holding them up to the light. The glow reflected coldly in her eyes.
“As promised, the Brotherhood will receive what it desires.”
Rhys stiffened.
“Commander… I serve Tribe Venteria wholeheartedly—”
Felitia cut him off with a sharp, humourless smile.
“Rhys. Do not underestimate the intelligence of Legends.” Her tone was icy. “Your Brotherhood’s existence is a secret only to yourselves.”
Rhys swallowed hard.
Felitia stepped closer, her presence suffocating, her Will spreading a heat that felt like the breath of a phoenix.
“Kerchak, the Thunder-Breathing Bear, the sworn brother to the Ancestor of Tribe Venteria, was slain today,” she declared.
Her smile widened — not cruel, but inevitable. “And he will be mourned as a beloved ally of our Great Tribe.”
Rhys felt something cold crawl down his spine.
Felitia continued:
“And the blame…” She turned her head towards the east — toward Ansara. “…lies on the Ansaran forces who ambushed him on our land.”
Rhys froze. “Commander…”
Felitia’s eyes sharpened, cutting off his protest. “War is coming, Rhys. With or without your Brotherhood’s games. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
She stepped past him.
“You simply provided a convenient truth.”
She paused beside Kerchak’s corpse, placing one hand on the fallen bear’s fur — a gesture of respect Rhys was not permitted.
“His death will shake the Frontier,” she whispered. “And shake Ansara to its core.”
Her voice rose, carrying the cold certainty of a military verdict.
“Let the continent know: Rhodar does not forgive slain allies. And Rhodar does not retreat.”
She walked away, her Will igniting the air behind her in a plume of red flame.
The storm cleared. Sunlight broke through — bright, cold, merciless.
Rhys remained kneeling. The warmth did not reach him.
He had helped ignite a war no one would be able to stop.