The wind carried iron and thunder.
Cyril crouched low, the ash-filled air stung his lungs as the earth shuddered beneath his boots. Above, the sky was stained by smoke, backlit by wildfire.
They reached the ridge just in time to see the war unfold.
Below them, a crater stretched far and wide—ringed in charred dirt and the shattered bones of old constructs. At its center raged a battle that wasn't a skirmish but a maelstrom wearing human skin. Two forces clashed fiercely in waves: Emberhold in red-etched plate and volcanic helms, locked against a group of cultivators cloaked in pale cloth.
"Gray Veil Sect," Miren whispered.
"Didn't think they'd stand their ground like this."
"They're not standing," Kaen muttered.
"They're making a point."
Cyril's gaze fixed on the figure that tore through Emberhold's front line, not in retreat, but in pursuit. No banner. Just fury. The man rode a powerful war-bred horse, and like the horse, its owner looked just as strong. The man was built like a forge given legs, his crimson cloak trailing sparks, his face bare to the storm. In his right hand: a long obsidian spear streaked with molten veins—Breachfang, a weapon with too many tales behind it.
"Veyr Cindrall," Kaen said, breath caught.
"He's here."
Miren stiffened.
"Emberhold's Spear King of Ash."
Kaen spat.
"Not just a king. He's their executioner."
Veyr moved like a falling star—unstoppable, burning through all that touched him. Gray Veil's lines bent around his advance like grass in a wildfire. Each thrust of Breachfang shattered ground, ripped the sky, or sent men crumpling backward as if punched by the weight of the earth itself.
From the crater's far edge, another figure rose to meet him—hovering above the battlefield. She wore robes of moss-thread and sun-dappled silk, her hair braided with silver bone charms. Gray Veil's Sect Leader—The Blade Empress. Even from here, Cyril felt the pressure change when she lifted her hand.
Dozens of blades snapped into place behind her like wings.
The battle froze for a breath. Then they moved.
Flame and blade collided midair. Veyr launched forward with Breachfang glowing, its edge screaming against the air. She countered with a wave of fractal shields that bent light and force alike, scattering the impact into a storm of silver shards.
"This isn't a duel," Kaen said grimly.
"It's a reckoning, the outcome of this battle depends on the winner of this fight."
Veyr plunged through the wreckage of her first defense. His spear cracked the earth below, sending lava-filled shockwaves through enemy lines. The Empress looked like she was dancing mid-air, deflecting with invisible arcs of condensed Flow. Each parry echoed with harmonic screeches.
They moved faster than Cyril could track, each exchange melting stone or slicing open wind.
Miren grabbed Cyril's arm.
"This is our chance. They're all blind to us."
They slipped down into the ravine skirting the northern crater edge, moving fast but careful, hugging the shadows. Emberhold artillery roared overhead—thunderballs exploding into blue-white bursts, carving craters among Gray Veil's fleeing defenders.
A piece of metal—blackened and smoking—landed beside Cyril. He dove, barely missing the blast, and Kaen hauled him up with a grunt.
"Keep your head down unless you want to lose it."
They pressed on, dodging flame-wrecked trenches and crawling fast.
In the air, the duel climbed in intensity.
The Empress conjured blades of pure reflected force, sending them flying like starlight missiles. Veyr twisted past them, Breachfang flashing as it tore open a shimmering rift midair, sucking in the attack. He reemerged from the other side like a meteor, crashing into her position with a crack that silenced the field.
The shockwave hurled bodies in all directions—Emberhold and Gray Veil alike.
When the Spear King of Ash fought, the words ally and enemy meant nothing to him.
Miren hurriedly yanked Cyril.
"We're not going to outrun this," she hissed.
"We don't need to," Kaen said.
"We need to vanish. Now."
They dropped down through a chasm of melted stone and re-emerged on the other side of the ridge.
But between them and safety, a warband of Emberhold scouts moved fast—blades drawn, helmets glowing with rune-cored flame.
Miren held up a fist.
"Down. No movement."
They flattened behind a shattered cart, breath held as the patrol passed. The Emberhold soldiers moved like wolves—silent, fast, too focused on their quarry to notice three ghosts in the rubble.
Once they were gone, Kaen whispered,
"Move. Now."
They skirted the crater's edge as the battle roared behind them, now a cacophony of shattering power. The Empress and Veyr remained locked in the sky—her robes now scorched, his cloak torn a bit, Breachfang trailing a spiral of burning steam with every strike. Neither gave an inch.
Then it happened.
The Empress called down hundreds of blades from above. They managed to pierce Veyr in the chest—The question now is: didtheypierce deep enough?
For a moment, he didn't move.
The battlefield froze.
Then Veyr lifted his head.
The swords in his chest melting in seconds and the world around him quickly followed suit.
He let out a sound like a volcano cracking open. Flame burst from his body—not conjured, but born—washing over the battlefield. Gray Veil members screamed and turned to ash. Even the stone beneath his feet began to melt.
The Empress vanished in the wave, flung backward into the storm.
Miren didn't wait.
"Now. That's our window."
They sprinted, breath tearing from their lungs, ducking through ruin and charred earth, finally collapsing in the shell of a hollowed dome.
The sound of battle faded behind them. Only the moaning wind remained.
Cyril leaned against the wall, chest heaving. His cloak was scorched, one glove torn open. Blood dripped from his knuckles.
Kaen slumped nearby, wheezing.
"Remind me to never walk into a war zone with you two again."
Miren said nothing. She stood at the edge of the ruin, watching the fireline glow against the horizon like a second sun.
"Veyr doesn't stop," she murmured.
"He burns until nothing stands."
"But she held him," Cyril said.
"For a time."
Miren glanced back.
"She did. And if she lives, she'll make him bleed next time. But if she dies…"
"She won't die quietly," Kaen finished.
"That's for sure."
Cyril didn't add any of his sense into the two's conversation, he just stared at the scorched skyline, a feeling of pity in his chest rising; pity for himself.
He hated this feeling, the feeling of barely coming out alive, the feeling of squirming around like a goddamn worm.
The feeling of Weakness.
Ever since he reincarnated he'd been dancing on the palms of others, whether it was Dren pressuring him down to his knees or relying on Miren to survive because he didn't know jack shit.
He was tired of it.
This battle showed him that the little 'power' he thought he had gained since coming to this world was nothing in front of monsters like Veyr Cindrall in this world.
'I need to get stronger…fast.'
These six words echoed endlessly inside Cyril's head.
It was like a vow to himself, a promise.
From this day forward Cyril would crawl, bleed, and break the sky if he had to—anything to never feel this small again.
This was a path he would traverse alone.
An infinite pursuit of power.