Chapter 60
Magnus walked forward and greeted the sentient creatures who emerged from hiding. Some were little more than skin and bone, their bodies weakened by hunger and fear. They marched in silence, clutching what few belongings they had, their steps hesitant but determined.
The younglings reacted first. The moment they felt Magnus' aura, they froze, wide-eyed. Instinct told them what words could not, that he was not mortal. Their elders gently urged them onward, but even they kept their heads lowered, sensing a presence far beyond anything born of their world.
The beings who came were countless in form: towering figures with stone-like skin, small winged folk with torn membranes, scaled wanderers whose eyes glowed faintly in the dim light. They differed in shape, size, and origin, yet they shared the same scar of survival.
From the distant black spires, the Dark Elves noticed the movement. Horns were sounded. Ranks were formed. Blades and mana constructs shimmered into being as they prepared for what they believed would be the beginning of slaughter.
Magnus, however, already knew the truth.
He felt their numbers before he ever saw them clearly.Out of nearly a million sentient beings scattered across the seven isolated Rift… fewer than five thousand had come.
The rest were still hiding. Or already dead.
These few had survived only because they lived deep underground, beyond the reach of the Blood Tree's roots, those crimson veins that fed on bodies and sorrow alike. While others were harvested for mana, these remnants endured in darkness, feeding on scraps and hope.
Magnus' jaw tightened.
This was not a city of warriors marching to war. It was a procession of survivors walking toward judgment.
And as they gathered behind him, he understood something with brutal clarity: Whatever choice he made at the Dark Elf city…it would decide the fate of more than just an enemy race.
It would decide whether these last five thousand would have a future…or merely a place to die.
Magnus raised his voice, and the name carried with it the force of command and summons.
"I summon you, Springgan King Angiwen Darksprout, ruler of the land and castle of Thryndelroot. Come before me."
The air shuddered. A low, resonant pulse rippled outward like a heartbeat through soil and stone. From the shadowed earth a figure manifested a few steps from Magnus, drawn forth not by magic alone, but by obligation older than crowns.
Angiwen Darksprout appeared in a swirl of blackened leaves and drifting spores.
He was tall, yet bent, his body formed of bark and root rather than flesh. His frame resembled an ancient tree torn from the forest and forced into the shape of a king. Cracked obsidian bark armored his torso, split in places to reveal faint veins of sickly green sap glowing beneath. Long, tangled roots coiled from his legs instead of feet, dragging across the ground as though the earth itself still clung to him.
One of his arms ended in a massive thorned limb, jagged and splintered like a broken branch after lightning strike. The other hung weakly at his side, riddled with rot and dark fungus, leaking viscous sap that hissed softly where it touched the stone.
His crown was not forged, it had grown. A halo of twisted black vines and pale fungi circled his head, studded with glowing seed-pods like dim stars trapped in decay. From beneath it, his face was carved in layered bark, with deep hollows for eyes that burned with amber light, ancient, weary, and wounded.
Moss and blood-red spores drifted constantly from him, as though his body could no longer decide whether to live or decompose.
When he moved, it was with the groan of shifting wood and the faint crunch of breaking roots. His chest rose slowly, unevenly, each breath pulling in both air and mana from the soil beneath him.
Angiwen knelt with difficulty, roots digging into the ground to keep him upright.
"I… answer," the Springgan King said, his voice sounding like wind through a dying forest. "Though my body rots… my throne still hears its name."
The sentient creatures behind Magnus recoiled in fear and reverence. This was no mere ruler.
This was a monarch of a living land, a king whose kingdom had been poisoned, a sovereign whose blood was sap,and whose wounds bled the suffering of Thryndelroot itself.
" my lord, may i ask are you the one that set us free a few days ago?"
magnus responded "no" i asked you to come so i may see what happened here "
" my lord , i am old and dying , i will do my best to provide you what you need from me,"
"Good," Magnus said quietly. "With that… your remaining kin will be with you now."
The air rippled again, soft this time, like a breath through leaves. From scattered pockets of shadow and soil, the Springgan younglings manifested one by one. Small, bark-skinned forms emerged in clusters, eyes wide with disbelief. They stared at their king kneeling before a man whose presence felt like a storm held in human shape.
A hush fell over them. Then, as one, they bowed, tiny crowns of moss and vine dipping low. None dared speak.
Magnus observed them, and something old stirred in his chest.
"I rarely see this," he said. "Many fear me and do not know how to stand before me. Even gods retreat in panic and discomfort. But you… you understand respect, even while trembling."
He lifted his hand. "Stand. Join your king. I have seen what I needed to see."
Light threaded through the ground like roots made of dawn. It climbed their limbs, sealed splintered bark, closed bleeding seams of sap, and chased rot from their cores. The ache vanished. Cracked limbs knit whole. Hollow eyes brightened. Even Angiwen's withered arm thickened, bark smoothing as new growth surged beneath it.
The Springgan King straightened, no longer forced by roots to remain upright. He inhaled, deep and steady.
"Go," Magnus said, turning his gaze toward the distant walls of the human camp. "Wait there."
Angiwen knelt once more, this time without pain.
"Thryndelroot remembers," he said, voice like rain on fresh leaves. "We thank you."
The younglings bowed with him.
They turned and began their slow march toward the camp, no longer a procession of dying wood, but a living grove in motion, while Magnus faced the road ahead, where the Dark Elf city's black spires waited in the heat and the dust.
Judgment was coming. But so was witness.
Magnus continued his march, the ground beneath his boots whispering with the weight of his presence. The wind seemed to bend subtly around him, carrying the faint echo of authority that even the trees and stones seemed to recognize. Minutes passed, each step measured, deliberate, until he reached the clearing near the residential district, the same place he and Perpetua had walked earlier.
Now, silence reigned. The usual hum of daily life, children laughing, merchants calling, the soft clatter of tools, had vanished. The Dark Elf residents had retreated into their homes, shutters drawn, doors bolted, and shadows gathering in every corner. Even the bravest of them dared not step outside.
Magnus paused at the edge of the clearing, observing. Their fear was tangible, almost a living thing that clung to the air. It was not blind panic; it was a mix of caution, respect, and the uneasy understanding that the man approaching them was unlike any they had ever faced.
He inhaled slowly, letting the tension settle in the space between them. The clearing was his stage, the city around him a silent audience. Every Dark Elf, hidden behind walls and draped in shadow, could feel the suffocating pulse of his mana, even without seeing him fully.
Magnus spoke, his voice calm but resonant, carrying across the empty streets. "I am here," he said. "I do not seek chaos… but I will not tolerate it. Step forward if you wish to live in understanding rather than fear. Remain hidden, and the truth of your choices will find you soon enough."
A faint rustle came from one of the upper windows, a single figure peering down, unsure whether to flee or confront. Magnus' gaze met it, not with hatred, but with the cold precision of one weighing consequences. The message was clear: he could destroy, he could spare, and he knew exactly what either path would cost them.
And in that tense stillness, the Dark Elf city held its breath.
The Dark Elves emerged cautiously from their homes, weapons clutched tightly in their hands. Some bore jagged swords, crude spears, and twisted blades that had tasted far too much blood. Others dragged their slaves behind them, weak, broken, faces etched with fear and pain. Marks of torment, lash scars, and bruises painted the story of years of oppression.
A few of the cruelest owners, realizing their control had faltered, flung the slaves forward with a sneer. "Here," one spat, voice laced with spite, "take them! We are setting them free… now leave our city!" The words hung bitterly in the air, a mixture of defiance and desperation.
The freed captives stumbled forward, some falling to their knees, unsure whether to flee, collapse, or trust the towering figure before them. Magnus' gaze swept across the clearing, taking in the sight: suffering, fear, defiance, and the raw remnants of cruelty that had defined the Dark Elf hierarchy.
He did not raise a hand, did not strike; he merely observed. The pulse of his mana pressed lightly against the air, a silent, suffocating authority that communicated one truth: the era of unchecked power had ended.
The Dark Elves' weapons wavered, their hands trembling as they saw him, not just a man, but a force capable of deciding the fate of all in this city with a single thought. Even the most defiant owner felt the weight of judgment settle over them, a quiet dread that perhaps mercy now demanded accountability.
Magnus stepped forward, voice calm yet resonant. "You were given a choice," he said. "You chose cruelty. Now you witness the consequences, not by my wrath, but by the freedom you denied to others. Those you tormented are no longer yours. Respect their lives, or your next choice will not be so forgiving."
For a moment, the city was silent again, broken, uncertain, and teetering on the edge of a new order.
Magnus walked toward the first wall, his presence a silent command that seemed to ripple through the air itself. The freed slaves tried to push past the pain, forcing their bodies forward as they left the residential area behind. But as their eyes fell on the Dark Elves who had tormented them for so long, a new terror gripped them.
From the shadows, a creeping, unnatural sickness had begun to manifest. The afflicted began to convulse violently, their skin darkening into mottled patches of bruised purple. An invisible, creeping virus clawed at their bodies, tearing at them from within, feeding on flesh and sinew with relentless precision. Their screams were guttural, raw, and primal, but their limbs had betrayed them. paralyzed from neck to feet, unable to move or escape.
Some vomited blood, their bodies trembling under the unyielding assault. Others collapsed to the ground, weeping and writhing, soaked in sweat and their own fear. The virus spread in a crawling, creeping wave, devouring tissue with a soundless ferocity that made even the most hardened Dark Elf shiver.
Magnus' eyes did not waver. He understood what had been unleashed here, a reflection of the consequences when cruelty went unchecked, when suffering was permitted to fester. And as the victims struggled against the paralyzing torment, wracked with pain beyond imagining, he felt the weight of the choice again: intervene directly, or let the natural course of justice reveal itself.
The clearing became a theater of horror, a stark testament to both the fragility of life and the price of cruelty. Every twitch, every shudder, every tortured breath was a reminder that survival was never guaranteed, and that the world was far more merciless than any single being, no matter how powerful, could ever hope to control.
Screams of agony pierced the night, echoing across the walls of the Dark Elf city. Even on the other side of the towering fortifications, terrified residents pressed themselves against their doors and windows, straining to hear the chaos unfolding beyond the first wall. The virus, a creeping and merciless force, consumed flesh and bone with a precision that made no distinction between the guilty and the innocent.
From the city's magical towers, the elder mages were alerted. They had sensed an unnatural affliction, an invisible curse moving faster than any ordinary contagion. Panic swept through them as they realized the scale: nearly ten thousand residents, young and old, male and female, were already paralyzed, their bodies twitching under the relentless assault.
Quickly, the mages erected a towering protective barrier around the first wall gate. Spell craft and glyphs intertwined, forming layers of shimmering energy that would halt the virus at the threshold. The massive wards hummed with power, pulsing like a heartbeat, as the mages used the enchanted mirrors atop their towers to peer into every street, alley, and home. Through these magical scrying devices, they watched the horror unfold, helpless to fully intervene yet determined to contain the outbreak.
Inside the dark elf city nearing the second walled district , Magnus moved with unnerving calm, a shadow of suffocating mana radiating from him. Every step, every glance, seemed to direct the affliction itself, yet he maintained control, no innocent beyond his immediate judgment would die unnecessarily. The virus spread outward, a cruel but measured instrument of his will, showing the city the consequences of centuries of cruelty, while he ensured that only those who posed a threat would suffer its full force.
Meanwhile, King Finduilas Flameleaf had returned, accompanied by a few loyal warriors, only to find the city's council elders taking command in his absence. Fear and shame etched his features as he remembered how he had hidden in his private chambers the night before, unwilling to face the mounting disaster. The council acted decisively, preparing to face the approaching power that Magnus represented, even if it meant sacrificing parts of the city to understand the enemy's limits.
"They will not hesitate to kill everyone if they believe it necessary," murmured one elder to another, their voice tight with dread. The magical wards shone brightly, the barriers resisting the cursed energy that tried to breach them. One elder, a veteran of countless battles, laughed bitterly, his tone edged with defiance.
"Let them come," he said. "They may bring poison and curses, but we have defenses now. The city will not fall so easily. Those who underestimate our magic will learn what it truly means to face the Dark Elves."
The tension in the city was palpable. From the streets below, the afflicted writhed in paralyzed agony, and from above, the mages watched, calculating, ready to strike. Magnus' aura was felt even through the barrier, a presence so immense that even the elders' confidence trembled under its weight. Yet in every act of devastation, he measured, he restrained, proving that true power was not the ability to destroy everything, but to determine where destruction was necessary, and where mercy might yet guide the outcome.
The virus crept closer, its creeping, gnawing energy slithering along the streets like a living shadow, consuming every trace of life it touched. Magnus walked steadily toward the city gates, the pulse of his power radiating outward, a warning as much as a threat. The distant screams of the paralyzed and afflicted echoed like a macabre symphony, blending with the hiss and snap of the virus devouring flesh.
From the towers above, the elder mages unleashed their full arsenal. Fireballs the size of houses streaked through the air, igniting entire streets in roaring infernos. Jagged bolts of lightning tore across the sky, striking the earth with the sound of collapsing mountains, reducing the crumbling walls of the outer residences to smoldering rubble. Torrents of ice rained down in crystalline sheets, shattering stone and bone alike. Whirling gales of wind whipped debris into frenzied storms, tearing roofs from buildings and scattering the already terrified survivors.
The mages combined their powers, chanting in unison in ancient tongues, drawing on elemental forces that had shaped the world itself. Earth split and cracked under their command, forming jagged chasms that swallowed the streets. Fire twisted with shadow, ice fused with lightning, and dark curses layered over all, forming a chaotic storm that slammed into the approaching virus like a tidal wave. The towering outer wall trembled with each impact, groaning as if in pain. Windows shattered, rooftops collapsed, and the ground shook beneath the onslaught.
Yet amidst the chaos, Magnus remained calm, his SS-ranked presence a silent anchor. He allowed the explosion to consume what it would, he did not intervene to stop the mages' attack, but neither did he use his full strength to retaliate. The virus, relentless in its crawl, surged forward even as the magical cataclysm erupted around it.
Screams rose in unison, piercing the shrieking winds and crackling fire. The unfortunate residents, those who had not yet succumbed to the virus, were caught in the maelstrom. Paralyzed, convulsing, they could do nothing to escape. The fire licked at their skin, the ice shattered their bones, and the bolts of lightning tore through them with savage precision. A wave of cursed energy tore through the streets, obliterating their bodies, leaving only scorched, shattered forms in its wake. Magnus watched the carnage with detached precision, knowing the deaths were a consequence of choices already made by the city's leaders and their mages.
From atop the towers, the mages' reflections glimmered in the magical mirrors, watching their spell work unfold. They saw the destruction they had wrought, yet none dared falter in casting, it was an all-or-nothing gamble to eliminate the approaching threat. Every element of their power combined into a cataclysmic symphony of chaos, consuming streets, alleys, and entire districts with terrifying brilliance.
The outer wall shuddered violently under the repeated impacts, cracks spider-webbing across its surface. Magnus' aura pressed outward, not in attack, but as a reminder of his presence. Even through the devastation, even amidst the screams of death, he maintained control, allowing the virus to continue spreading in measured increments, enough to terrify and demonstrate consequence, but not enough to overwhelm the entirety of the city's defenses all at once.
The Dark Elves screamed, their cries of rage and fear blending with the wailing of their dying citizens. And in that terrifying spectacle, Magnus' lesson was made painfully clear: power without restraint invites annihilation, and the price of cruelty is counted not only in the lives of victims but in the relentless consequences that follow.
Even as the dust settled, fire burned, and shattered bodies lay strewn across the streets, the mages prepared for the next wave. Their eyes reflected both awe and dread, for the calm figure advancing before them, Magnus, was not merely a threat; he was a judgment they could not fully comprehend, yet one they would now be forced to face.
Magnus' eyes narrowed as the molten air shimmered around him, the intense heat from the earlier blast still radiating off the shattered ground. The crater beneath his feet hissed with every step, the scorched soil smoking like a living thing. The twenty-foot-tall, two-ton metal gate groaned faintly under the stress of the magical assault, but it remained upright, an ironic testament to the futility of conventional defense against someone like him.
Before he could take another step, a Dark Elf mage raised their hands high, chanting with fervor. From their mouth erupted a torrent of superheated fire, a concentrated, draconic inferno that screamed through the air like a living beast, scales of flame shimmering red and gold, claws of heat ripping toward Magnus' position. The spell's roar echoed through the ruined streets, colliding with the smoke of burning buildings and the scent of scorched flesh.
The fire slammed into the crater where Magnus stood. Lava-like energy splashed against the jagged walls of the scorched pit, melting fragments of rock and hissing violently. Yet, despite the attack's raw intensity, Magnus remained perfectly composed. The air around him warped and pulsed under the pressure, his kinetic aura subtly bending the energy around him, dissipating part of its heat and redirecting the momentum harmlessly into the scorched earth.
The attack exploded against the crater's rim, sending shockwaves that shattered nearby masonry and hurled debris through the still-hot air. Small fires ignited across the ruins of the city, licking at the edges of streets where the virus had already taken hold. Smoke coiled upward, carrying with it the anguished screams of the infected, many of whom had not yet succumbed to the virus but now were caught in the inferno unleashed by their own mages. Some vomited blood from the combined shock and heat; others, paralyzed, could only scream silently as the flames crept across their skin.
Magnus' form emerged from the chaos almost casually, his clothing untouched, his steps unhurried despite the molten ground beneath him. The firestorm rolled around him, devouring what it could, yet he remained unscathed, a walking anomaly of controlled destruction, a living warning. His SS-ranked power pulsed outward like a quiet hum beneath the screaming world, a subtle reminder that he could annihilate the city with a thought, but restraint was the tool he wielded.
The Dark Elf mages' eyes widened as they witnessed the impossibility of the moment: their most devastating spell, a focus-charged draconic breath capable of incinerating entire battalions, had struck the epicenter of the crater and yet left the source untouched. Fear mixed with awe, and Magnus allowed that to hang in the air, a quiet lesson searing into their consciousness.
And then he spoke, his voice cutting through the roar of fire and smoke:
"Power without judgment destroys everything indiscriminately. Yours, mine, theirs, it matters not. Remember this when you choose who lives… and who dies."
Magnus' hand pressed lightly against the two-ton metal gate, the colossal structure that had seemed immovable just moments ago. The air around it warped and shivered under the invisible pressure of his kinetic aura. With a single tap, a quiet, almost casual motion, the gate groaned—but it was nothing compared to what followed.
In an instant, the gate imploded outward, metal twisting and folding in on itself like it were nothing more than paper. Sparks of molten steel shot into the air, accompanied by a deafening screech as the hinges and locking mechanisms shredded themselves under forces beyond comprehension. The shockwave radiated outward, knocking back the Dark Elf mages who had tried to cast their spells, sending them tumbling across the scorched street. Windows shattered, walls cracked, and debris rained down in all directions.
The smell of burning metal and scorched earth filled the air. The echo of the implosion rolled across the city like thunder, a terrifying announcement of Magnus' presence and intent. Even the virus-ravaged residents, still convulsing in pain, felt the tremor and momentarily froze, their agonized cries punctuated by the metallic groaning of the gate tearing itself apart.
Magnus stepped through the newly opened breach, calm and unhurried, as though he were walking through a doorway in his own home rather than the threshold of a Dark Elf city. His kinetic energy radiated outward, bending the air around him and causing the nearby buildings to quiver. The mages scrambled to regroup, their panic evident, for they now realized that their protective walls, their curses, and their fire magic were trivial before the sheer, focused might of a being who could shatter tons of steel with a mere touch.
Magnus' voice carried over the chaos, cold and deliberate:
"Every action has consequence. You have chosen cruelty. You have chosen to enslave, to torture, to spill life for gain. And now you will see what that choice brings, not because I want to destroy, but because you must understand the weight of what you have sown."
The mages, their pride shattered and their spells faltering, could only watch as Magnus advanced, the imploded gate behind him serving as both a warning and a symbol: even the strongest defenses crumble when the reckoning comes.
The residential district fell into an unnatural silence, the screams of the afflicted abruptly cut off. Magnus' eyes scanned the streets, his presence alone halting the advance of the virus as if it were an extension of his will. The twisted, convulsing bodies that had moments ago writhed in pain now lay still, frozen mid-struggle, not dead, but suspended in the liminal space of his control. Every breath, every heartbeat of the district seemed to echo his quiet command: restraint.
"I guess their pain and suffering is enough," Magnus said, voice carrying over the empty streets. "Let them all die now."
The words were not an order but an acknowledgment, a mental calculation made manifest. At once, the virus ceased its relentless spread, hovering in suspended animation, as if the city itself were holding its breath. Dust hung in the air; the faint scent of ozone and scorched metal lingered from the gate's destruction. Silence had claimed the district, oppressive and thick, a tangible weight pressing down on every Dark Elf who dared look out from the remaining rooftops.
From the shadow of the now fully open gate, a new force emerged. One hundred paladin knights, each mounted on massive warhorses armored in shining steel etched with runes that glimmered faintly in the twilight, lined up in perfect formation. Their eyes, beneath polished helms, were trained on the still streets, unflinching. Behind them, one hundred archers drew taut their enchanted bows, glowing with the latent power of high-tier spells. Twenty mages floated just above the ground, their robes billowing unnaturally, hands alight with arcs of elemental magic ready to be unleashed. Two hundred infantry soldiers formed the rear guard, their armor shimmering with protective wards, weapons humming with imbued energies capable of suppressing the mightiest of wyverns.
The combination of martial discipline and magic created an aura of overwhelming threat. Even Magnus' trained eyes took a moment to measure the sheer tactical potential of this force, they were not a mere army, but a suppressive apparatus capable of annihilating any horde that dared confront them.
Yet, Magnus did not falter. His calm presence, the suffocating radiance of kinetic energy around him, seemed to push against the aura of their formation, bending the battlefield itself into his consideration. The virus, frozen by his thought, shimmered in the air like a purple mist, hovering just above the ground, a grim reminder of what could have been unleashed.
The paladins' warhorses stamped and snorted, sensing the tension, while the mages whispered incantations that flared in brief sparks, testing the boundaries of their wards against the being before them. Magnus did not speak again; he merely stepped forward, each motion deliberate, allowing the Dark Elves to fully absorb the consequences of the choices that had led them here, their cruelty, their hubris, and the fragile illusion of control they clung to.
For the first time, the citizens behind the walls saw the reality of their rulers' actions: all the weapons, all the magic, all the training would not matter if faced with a will like Magnus'. The horror of the virus they had unleashed, now held in abeyance, contrasted with the disciplined force arrayed outside, the consequences of their civilization's cruelty and their hubris, hung over them like a dark shadow, undeniable, unavoidable.
The silence was broken only by the faint clatter of hooves and the low hum of enchantments, a prelude to a reckoning that none of them could escape.
Magnus' eyes swept across the assembled Dark Elf force, cold and unyielding, yet his presence carried a weight that seemed to bend the air itself. The virus hovered in the streets, suspended in a glittering purple haze, the paralyzed bodies of the residents littering the avenue like grotesque statues, silent, frozen testimony to what had already transpired. Every Dark Elf in the open could see it; every one of them could feel it.
Without a word, Magnus raised a single hand, fingers curled lightly, as if plucking at an invisible thread. The twenty mages hovering at the forefront of the formation stiffened mid-incantation, their magical energy flickering like dying flames. Then, as if his gesture had physically reached into their chests, each mage convulsed violently, muscles twisting unnaturally. Their screams cut through the silence in a sharp, high-pitched chorus, only to be abruptly silenced as an unseen force crushed them in place. Limbs bent against their will, torsos crushed inward, and one by one their bodies collapsed like crumpled parchment under the weight of something far beyond mortal comprehension.
The remaining Dark Elves, paladins, archers, infantry, staggered backward instinctively, eyes wide with disbelief. Even the heaviest armored warhorses reared, sensing the malevolent will that had just obliterated the mages without a single spell being cast.
Magnus' voice cut through the stunned gasps, calm and deliberate:"You have seen the cost of arrogance, the consequences of cruelty. These mages, trained for years, capable of destroying entire battalions, they fell not because of my strength alone, but because their intent, their hubris, could not match awareness. They acted without foresight. They ignored consequence."
The virus in the streets seemed to shimmer, almost alive in response to his will. The frozen residents twitched ever so slightly, a reminder that Magnus' control was absolute. He let his gaze linger on the knights in front of him, the archers, the infantry, the paladins atop their massive steeds. Each of them felt it, a weight in the chest, a subtle tightening of the limbs, as if the very fabric of the battlefield was pressing them into reflection.
"You still cling to your weapons, your enchantments, your illusions of defense," Magnus continued, voice echoing across the open streets. "And yet your own people lie in agony before you. Their suffering is yours as well, born of your choices, your inaction, your cruelty. Do you understand now the depth of what your race has done?"
Some of the paladins' hands shook as they gripped their lances. The archers' eyes darted nervously toward the streets. The infantry's shields clattered as they stepped backward, unsteady. Magnus did not strike them further. The horror of the virus, the knowledge of their mages' fate, and the looming power of Magnus himself was enough to break their composure.
"Look around you," he said softly, almost conversationally, "and tell me, the lives you sacrificed, the blood spilled for personal gain… was it worth it? Can you justify it now?"
The silence that followed was suffocating. The virus hung motionless like a purple fog of judgment. The Dark Elves, despite their disciplined formations and magical might, were trapped between the frozen remnants of their city and the palpable presence of Magnus, a being who could unmake them in an instant, yet chose to let them live, if only to witness the consequences of their own decisions.
Magnus' eyes narrowed slightly, surveying their reactions. "I will not act further… not yet. But understand this: every step you take from this point onward is measured. Every choice you make is weighed against the suffering you have caused. Should you falter, should you act without thought, the cost will not be limited to your mages alone."
one knight on her war horse step forward ," then fight us like a real warrior."
Magnus' gaze shifted to the knight, the tip of his spear catching the harsh light of the rift. The rider's armor gleamed, and his horse pawed at the scorched ground, hooves sending sparks across the blackened stones. Yet despite the display of bravado, Magnus felt the tremor in the man's stance, the doubt, the fear, buried beneath the veneer of courage.
He tilted his head slightly, voice calm but carrying a weight that made the air itself seem to thrum. "A real warrior?" he echoed, his tone almost contemplative. "Do you even know what that means?"
The knight's grip tightened on his lance, and he spoke again, voice firm despite the quiver Magnus could detect: "We do not cower before monsters. Fight us, and we shall see whose will is stronger!"
Magnus let out a slow, almost amused sigh. "Monsters," he said softly, looking at the ruined streets, the frozen virus-husked civilians, the scorched earth, and the trembling army. "You call me that… yet I have not touched you. You have had your chance to act wisely, and instead you cling to pride, as if it shields you from consequence."
The virus pulsed slightly in the streets, a subtle ripple of purple fog that moved with Magnus' intent. The air itself seemed to tighten, pressing against the paladin's chest as he felt a wave of dread he could neither name nor resist. His horse shivered violently, ears pinned back, snorting in alarm.
"I could crush your army, every spellcaster, every soldier, every beast you ride, without so much as raising my hand," Magnus continued, stepping forward, the heat of his presence radiating outward. "Yet I do not. I am giving you a choice, a chance to see the truth of your own actions before you learn it through pain you cannot survive. That… is the measure of a real warrior."
The knight swallowed hard, but did not retreat. His lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyes flicked toward the rows of virus-stricken civilians behind him. The realization hit him with a cold clarity: this was no ordinary foe, no mere duel of strength. Magnus' control was absolute, his restraint a weapon far deadlier than any lance or spell.
Magnus took another step forward, the ground beneath him still hot from previous blasts, yet he moved with ease as though nothing could harm him. The virus shivered in place, as if acknowledging his thought, and the silent screams of the dead echoed faintly in the knight's mind, a reminder of what awaited rashness.
"Now," Magnus said, voice lowering, "decide. Will you lead your people with honor, or will your pride blind you to the consequences of every life you command? That… is the battle you face, paladin. Not with weapons, not with magic, but with conscience."
The knight's hand trembled over her lance. His warhorse pawed the ground nervously, shying from the purple haze of the virus. but her honor and ego didn't allow her to back done she shouted again " fight us on equal footing"
Magnus' lips curved into a faint, almost serene smile, as if amused by the paladin's defiance. The tension in the air thickened; the acrid scent of scorched soil and lingering virus clung to everything. "You shall have your battle," he said softly, his voice carrying a calm, inescapable authority that made even the assembled army freeze in place.
With a subtle motion of his hand, the environment around the city seemed to obey his thoughts. The air thickened, shimmering faintly with heat and energy. The virus, once spreading uncontrollably, recoiled into a quivering haze at the edges of the streets, like an obedient hound waiting for a command. Magnus did not push it forward, yet its presence alone suffused the battlefield with a suffocating dread.
The paladin's eyes blazed with pride. She spurred her warhorse forward, the heavy armor clanking with each movement. Her soldiers followed, lifting their weapons, enchanted arrows gleaming in the half-light, swords and axes shimmering with high-tier magic. The mages in the rear whispered incantations, drawing on elemental forces to prepare spells that could level walls, or forests, yet Magnus did not flinch as a sword manifested in his hands,
The ground trembled under the thunderous hooves of a hundred warhorses, each armored rider leaning forward with lances poised, blades gleaming in the dim, smoke-tainted light. Dust and debris rose in swirling clouds, mixing with the lingering haze of the virus that Magnus had restrained, creating a surreal, suffocating battlefield.
Magnus stood perfectly still at the center, his eyes cold and calculating. As the Dark Elf cavalry charged, the air seemed to pulse with the weight of his presence. Each horse hit the ground with a force that would have shattered bones and stone under normal circumstances, yet Magnus' aura radiated an invisible field that slowed the attackers, as if the world itself was bending around him.
The Dark Elf paladins thundered forward, hooves pounding the dirt like war drums, their lances leveled at Magnus with lethal precision. Dust and the faint, lingering purple haze of the virus swirled around them, but Magnus' focus was absolute. He drew his sword in a single fluid motion, the blade humming as if it itself anticipated the violence to come.
The first lance thrust came in a blur. Magnus sidestepped with a dancer's grace, pivoting on the balls of his feet. The weapon passed mere inches from his side, and with a whip of his wrist, he struck the rider's neck in a single, clean motion. The blade sliced through armor and sinew, and the Dark Elf's head rolled, landing with a muted thud as his warhorse skidded to a halt, neighing in panic.
Another lance came crashing down, and Magnus ducked low, sweeping his leg like a martial artist to unseat the rider. The horse toppled, crashing into the next line and sending chaos rippling through the charge. He spun midair from the momentum, slashing his blade in a horizontal arc that cleaved through two incoming knights, armor shattering, limbs twisting in unnatural angles before they collapsed.
He was a blur. A vertical strike disemboweled one paladin before he could even draw a breath, a flick of the wrist severing the second's hand mid-lance thrust. Another swing shattered the head of a knight leaning too far over his mount. The warhorses reared, but Magnus' attacks were precise: he avoided killing the animals unnecessarily, instead twisting lances into their riders or striking the reins with a flick of his blade, throwing both riders and mounts into confusion.
A pair of knights attempted a double flank, their lances coming in from opposite sides. Magnus pivoted, executing a series of backflips and spins, bringing his sword down in lightning arcs. One knight's chest was split open in a spray of dark blood; the other's armor crumpled under the edge of Magnus' strike, collapsing with a scream of shock.
Even as the first line fell, the archers on the second ridge raised their bows. Magnus didn't even need to reach for a spell, he focused briefly, and the very air seemed to ignite. A thousand fiery arrows erupted from the archers' own quivers, raining downward in a sudden, unstoppable torrent. They screamed in alarm as the fire consumed them midair, bolts bursting into flames before they could reach their target. Elven archers burned alive where they stood, their screams twisting into blackened smoke.
Magnus moved forward through the chaos like a storm incarnate. A paladin lunged from behind a toppled horse; Magnus twisted under the strike, grabbed the knight by the neck, and hurled him into another charging line. The impact sent bodies flying like ragdolls. He spun, blade flashing, cleaving through incoming lances, severing arms and legs in rapid, precise strikes. The sound was deafening: metal clashing, armor shattering, bones snapping.
A warhorse reared, trying to stomp him, but Magnus leapt over it with inhuman agility, landing atop its back, and drove his sword through both the rider and the animal's spine in one fluid motion. He vaulted down, landing on the ground without a sound, and swept the remaining knights in a series of spinning slashes, each strike killing with surgical precision.
Within moments, the hundred paladins lay in ruin. Magnus did not pause; the archers tried to regroup, raising enchanted bows and unleashing a volley of flaming arrows. Magnus pointed his sword, and with a thought, the air above them ignited. One thousand arrows, flaming and sharpened, descended like a fiery waterfall, impaling every archer in sight. Their screams were immediate, horrific, and then cut short by the overwhelming inferno.
The infantry tried to form a wall, shields raised, but Magnus' aura pushed against them like a living force. He twirled through the front line, each strike of his blade crushing armor, splitting shields, and sending bodies sprawling. Knees were shattered, ribs broken, faces cleaved in precise arcs. He moved like a predator, never slowing, every motion designed to end the fight swiftly, mercilessly.
By the time the smoke cleared, the battlefield was littered with broken bodies, shattered weapons, and toppled warhorses. The ground was scorched from the fiery arrows, blood pooling in deep, dark patches, mixing with the charred dirt. Magnus stood in the center, sword dripping, eyes cold but calculated, scanning the battlefield. only a few knights remained alive but were badly wounded,
He took a deep breath, feeling the hum of power radiating from the destruction, and yet his restraint was absolute: he had not razed the city itself, nor not needlessly inflict torment on those who were actively part of the assault.