"What happened?" Devon demanded, his voice trembling with fury and disbelief as he yanked his adjutant forward. Blood and dust covered the man's armor, but what unsettled Devon more was the sheer confusion on his face.
"My lord, I… I don't know either," the adjutant stammered. "The soldiers just… flew away!"
"Useless!" Devon snapped. His face darkened, but he didn't waste more breath scolding the man. Instead, he jerked the reins, preparing to ride forward personally and see what mysterious force was tearing through his men.
But he froze.
A disturbance was clearly spreading—no, racing—toward them.
He narrowed his eyes. At first, it looked like chaos, like soldiers randomly collapsing. But as the invisible force drew near, Devon finally understood.
It was as though some colossal, unseen beast was charging through the dense ranks of soldiers. Wherever it passed, bodies were flung aside with terrifying power. Bones shattered. Flesh twisted. Muscles and tendons tore apart. From above, one would see a gruesome, blood-soaked path carved straight through the army, growing longer and wider as it barreled toward Devon and the two other lords, Norwood and Zorlf.
Their expressions changed instantly—terror crackling across their faces like lightning.
"STOP IT!" Devon roared, nearly screaming from the pressure and fear.
But how could anyone stop an enemy that could not be seen?
The soldiers tried. They lifted shields, raised spears, and formed hastily arranged defensive lines in desperation. But standing in its path meant instant death. The next moment they were torn limb from limb, or hurled aside like ragdolls, splattering viscera and blood in every direction.
The brutally violent scene shattered whatever courage remained among the soldiers.
Dozens died in the most horrific ways imaginable. Wails, screams, and the sickening crunch of breaking bones filled the air. The survivors—faces pale, eyes wild—finally broke.
The army dissolved into panic.
"Deserters will DIE!" Devon bellowed, swinging his sword and cutting down a fleeing soldier in desperation. But even that threat did nothing. Fear had already consumed them. Men ran blindly, tripping, stumbling, shoving each other aside to escape the unknown monster.
Only a few knights remained—men with small village fiefdoms who knew retreat meant losing their lands, status, and lives afterward. Their fear of punishment barely outweighed their terror of the invisible behemoth.
Norwood's voice cracked as he watched more soldiers vanish into a spray of blood. "What kind of monster is that?!"
"That would be my magical beast."
The voice came from behind.
The three lords spun around. Their knights stiffened in shock.
A man had appeared silently among them—his robes unstained, his expression calm.
Norwood's pupils shrank. His voice caught in his throat.
"Magus?!"
He couldn't comprehend how Magus had reached the heart of their army. Magus should've been miles away, still in Blackstone City. How had he crossed the battlefield unnoticed? How had he slipped past thousands of soldiers? How had he arrived here without a single soul noticing?
Devon and Zorlf exchanged stiff glances. Shock quickly turned into fatal resolve.
"Kill him!" Devon roared.
The knights surged toward the lone figure, relieved to face something visible—something tangible—compared to the terrifying invisible beast behind them.
But they were wrong.
They realized it too late.
A brilliant flash erupted before their eyes—blinding white light laced with blue arcs of energy. The knights instinctively blinked, raising arms to shield themselves.
And in that brief instant, they died.
Thunder cracked.
Lightning burst outward from Magus's raised hand, twisting like serpents and whipping through the air with lethal precision. The bolts struck the charging knights one after another. Armor popped. Flesh charred. Their bodies convulsed violently before collapsing as blackened husks.
In less than a heartbeat, more than a dozen knights—including several high-ranking ones—were reduced to smoldering corpses.
Devon, Norwood, and Zorlf were struck speechless, their faces drained of all color. Their mouths opened and closed silently like fish pulled from water.
What… what kind of power was this?
They had expected Magus to be dangerous. Rumors about him had circulated for weeks—claims that he wielded the mysterious, devastating abilities of a wizard. Claims that he had already become a true spellcaster, capable of leveling armies.
They had dismissed these as exaggerated stories.
Now they knew better.
Every rumor had been true. Perhaps understated.
When Magus turned his calm gaze toward them, Zorlf collapsed first. His knees buckled, and he raised his hands frantically.
"Wait—wait! I surrender!" he shouted, voice trembling. "Just don't kill me! My family can pay a huge ransom!"
The other two almost tripped over themselves in their rush to echo him.
"Me too—I surrender!"
"Yes! Spare us—we will comply with any demands!"
Behind them, the invisible behemoth roared as it continued tearing through the remnants of the army. Even the bravest soldiers shrank back in terror at the sound.
None of them believed anyone—wizard or not—could defeat such a monster. Except the man standing before them.
"Surrender?" Magus repeated calmly, as if testing the word. He nodded once. "Very well. Among those who surrender… half shall be killed."
Devon, Norwood, and Zorlf froze.
What did he mean by—
Before understanding dawned, Magus flicked his wrist.
A barrage of wind blades materialized out of thin air and zipped toward the three lords at blinding speed. They sliced cleanly through armor, flesh, and bone, instantly shredding the entire lower halves of their bodies into clouds of blood mist.
The three upper torsos dropped to the ground, eyes bulging in disbelief, and then the screaming began—horrible, prolonged wails of agony. Though they were mortally wounded, the superhuman vitality of high-level knights kept them alive long enough to experience several minutes of unbearable torment.
Their screams finally faded into silence.
Magus turned away, expression unreadable.
Under the rampage of the invisible beast—Hidden Dragon—the enemy ranks collapsed entirely. Bodies littered the battlefield, and the survivors fled in total chaos.
"Hidden Dragon," Magus commanded softly, "to the besieging army."
The creature roared again—still unseen—and charged toward the forces laying siege to Blackstone City.
Those soldiers never expected an attack from behind. Their formation crumpled instantly. Men screamed, pointing at comrades whose limbs bent grotesquely or whose bodies twisted midair as they were ripped apart by something they could not see.
Up on the city walls, Martel finally sensed something was wrong.
"What are those three fools doing?" he muttered, glaring back. "Why did they allow the enemy through?"
But when he turned fully around, his expression shattered.
The entire standby army—thousands strong—was gone.
Only corpses, mangled remains, and chaos remained.
"What… what happened…?" Martel whispered. His mind blanked.
Above him, defenders cheered.
"It's Lord Magus!"
"Lord Magus has returned!"
Rune, Brede, Jorton, and the other knights on the walls recognized the invisible beast instantly. Relief washed over them, followed by fierce exhilaration. The name alone lifted their morale like a divine blessing.
Martel's heart sank.
"Magus… the wizard… we misjudged everything…"
But it was too late.
Seeing the collapse unfolding around him, Martel made a swift decision. He abandoned the walls, leaping down in an attempt to escape.
The moment he landed, he felt something latch onto his ankle.
He looked down.
Blood-red vines—thin as threads yet impossibly strong—wound tightly around his leg, spreading upward like living chains.
Martel slashed at them with full strength. His sword cut through one strand—but only one. Worse, his strength was being drained rapidly, siphoned away through the vines.
Not far away, Magus raised a hand. The blood vine ring on his finger glowed ominously.
Three magical missiles shot out in rapid succession.
Martel barely had time to raise his aura shield. The projectiles slammed into him, sending shockwaves through his armor and rattling his bones. His face went pale.
Another three missiles followed, giving him no room to recover.
Desperate and terrified, Martel roared and unleashed his full battle aura, ripping the blood vines apart. Then he sprinted away without looking back.
But he only reached ten meters.
His instincts screamed. He swung his sword behind him.
CLANG!
The blade struck something solid—something massive. Sparks flew. For a heartbeat, he glimpsed the outline of Hidden Dragon, a colossal four-legged monster with fangs and claws shimmering into partial visibility.
Before he could react, the beast twisted.
Its tail whipped forward.
BOOM!
Martel was hurled through the air like a broken doll, coughing blood before crashing into the ground.
Three more magical missiles struck his head.
It burst like a watermelon.
Magus lowered his hand.
High-level knights were indeed troublesome. Without rune gems, even he had to rely on Hidden Dragon for a clean kill.
Martel's death shattered whatever remained of the besieging army's morale. Soldiers threw down weapons and ran in all directions.
The defenders seized the moment. Brede, Jorton, and the others flung open the city gates and led their forces out in pursuit.
Rune rushed toward Magus with unrestrained joy, embracing him fiercely.
"Welcome home," he said, voice ringing with relief and admiration.
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