The arrows came in waves.
Not sporadic volleys anymore—continuous, relentless streams of death raining from the sky. Five hundred archers firing in rotation meant no pause, no respite, no moment to breathe without the whistling sound of incoming projectiles. The air itself seemed made of iron and wood.
THUNK-THUNK-THUNK-THUNK-THUNK—
An archer on the eastern rooftop took an arrow through the throat. He toppled backward, already dead before hitting the ground.
THUNK-THUNK-THUNK—
Three farmers manning the barricades went down simultaneously, arrows punching through inadequate wooden shields and finding flesh beneath.
"KEEP FIRING!" Deylos screamed, loosing another arrow even as the platform beneath him shuddered from enemy chakra attacks. "DON'T LET UP!"
But they were losing. Badly. M'lod's twenty-one archers couldn't match five hundred. The oil bombs had killed maybe two hundred soldiers total—devastating in isolation, but barely a dent in the enemy force. And the enemy chakra users were systematically destroying every defensive position.
Another fireball struck the western wall. Timber exploded, sending burning shrapnel across the village square. A piece the size of Misaki's arm embedded itself in a nearby building, immediately setting the thatched roof ablaze.
The earth-users collapsed another section of barricade. Riyeak tried to counter with his own chakra but was fighting seven enemy earth-manipulators simultaneously. The ground beneath M'lod's defenders turned to mud, then quicksand, then solid stone again as competing chakra forces warped reality itself.
Misaki stood at the central position, his mind racing through options that didn't exist. They couldn't win this. Couldn't even slow it down. The Central Army was a machine designed for exactly this kind of assault—overwhelming force, coordinated chakra support, infinite resources.
But maybe—maybe—he could buy time.
"EVERYONE CLOSE YOUR EYES!" Misaki screamed at the top of his lungs. "SHUT YOUR EYES AND TURN AWAY! NOW!"
He didn't wait to see if they complied. His Manipura chakra surged to life, but instead of creating flames, he focused on pure light generation. Heat and light were related—increase thermal radiation in specific wavelengths, push it past visible spectrum, create intensity that human eyes couldn't process.
Misaki clapped his hands together and channeled everything.
The explosion of light was like a miniature sun being born in M'lod's center.
Pure white radiance erupted outward in all directions, so bright that even through closed eyelids it painted the world in blazing white. The Central Army's front ranks, all staring directly at the village, caught the full force unshielded.
Screams. Immediate, agonized screams as hundreds of soldiers were flash-blinded. Not permanent—Misaki didn't have that kind of control—but enough to completely disorient the advance. Men stumbled, rubbed at their eyes, collided with each other. The coordinated assault dissolved into chaos as soldiers who couldn't see tried to maintain formation.
"POUR THE OIL! ALL OF IT! SOUTHERN ROAD!" Misaki's voice was hoarse from shouting.
Defenders grabbed the remaining oil pots—fifteen vessels—and simply dumped them across the chokepoint road. No throwing. No precision. Just flooding the narrow passage with every drop of flammable liquid they possessed. The oil spread in a slick black pool, coating stone and dirt, creating a barrier of volatile fuel.
Misaki raised his hand to ignite it—
A water-chakra user in the enemy ranks saw the trap. Comprehended it. Reacted.
The man slammed his palms together and created a water wave that dwarfed anything Misaki had seen before. A literal wall of water fifteen feet high, cascading forward with the force of a tidal surge. It hit the oil slick and simply washed it away, diluting it, dispersing it, rendering it completely harmless.
"Fuck," Misaki whispered.
Another section of wall exploded. Fire spread. The blinded soldiers were recovering, their vision returning, the advance resuming with renewed fury.
"MISAKI!" Shy'yao's voice cut through the chaos. "WE CAN'T HOLD! WE HAVE TO—"
"RETREAT!" Misaki shouted before the old chief could finish. "EVERYONE RETREAT! NORTHERN GATE! MOVE! NOW!"
"But the village—"
"IS ALREADY LOST! MOVE OR DIE!"
The defenders broke. No shame in it—they'd done everything possible against impossible odds. Archers abandoned their positions. Earth-users released their chakra holds on the barricades. Fighters grabbed wounded comrades and ran.
But Misaki had one more trick. One final delay.
He focused his fire chakra not on creating flames but on manipulating ambient heat. The air around the Central Army's front ranks—heat it up. Not enough to burn, but enough to create thermal distortion. Make the air shimmer and waver. Disrupt visual targeting. Create heat mirages that made distance judgment impossible.
The temperature around two hundred soldiers spiked fifteen degrees in five seconds. Not lethal, but deeply disorienting. Men staggered, suddenly dizzy, the rapid temperature shift affecting inner ear balance. Archers trying to draw beads on fleeing defenders found their targets wavering, distance impossible to gauge through the heat shimmer.
It bought ninety seconds.
Ninety seconds for M'lod's survivors to sprint through the northern gate and into the forest beyond. Ninety seconds for the wounded to be carried, for the elderly to hobble, for the desperate to flee.
Misaki ran last, constantly looking back, maintaining the heat manipulation until the final defender cleared the gate. Then he released it, turned, and sprinted after his people.
Behind him, M'lod burned.
The village he'd called home for six months. The workshop where he'd built his prototypes. The temple where he'd learned meditation. The communal hall where he'd shared meals and laughter.
All of it consumed by flames as the Central Army's fire-chakra users systematically set everything ablaze.
Fifteen kilometers into the northern forest, the survivors collapsed in the emergency shelter the lumberjack company had prepared. Not a building—too visible—but a natural depression surrounded by thick Tra'tze'the trees, concealed by undergrowth and difficult to spot unless you knew exactly where to look.
Misaki did a quick headcount as defenders staggered in. Eighty-three had stood to fight. Seventy-one made it to the forest. Twelve dead. Fifteen wounded badly enough to need immediate healing attention.
Considering the odds, it was a miracle.
"Miracle," old Tereth the librarian gasped, his elderly frame shaking with exhaustion. "We're alive. We're actually alive. That's... that's impossible. We should all be dead."
"Not a miracle," Torran corrected grimly, binding a nasty gash across his forearm. "Strategy. Misaki's Earth tactics bought us the time we needed. That light trick, the heat distortion—those were brilliant."
"Brilliant doesn't win wars," Misaki said flatly, checking his weapons. Everything was still functional despite the chaos. "We lost the village. We're refugees now. Homeless."
"But alive," Shy'yao said firmly. The ancient chief looked exhausted but unbroken. "Alive to fight another day. Alive to regroup. The women and children made it out before the assault—that alone makes this a victory."
Speaking of which—
Misaki found Lyria near the shelter's eastern edge, sitting against a tree with the infant Kyn cradled in her arms. The baby was crying softly, probably hungry, definitely terrified by the chaos and flight.
"Hey," Misaki said gently, settling beside her. "You okay?"
"Define okay," Lyria replied, rocking the infant mechanically. "We fled our home. Lost everything. The village is burning. But yes, I'm physically unharmed, so I suppose that's okay."
Nearby, Feya sat with Sera—the malnourished refugee girl who'd arrived just days ago. The girl was barely conscious, her weakened body unable to handle the stress of another forced march. Feya had carried her the entire fifteen kilometers, the shy apprentice mage showing surprising strength born from pure determination.
"She needs food," Feya said quietly. "Real food. Protein. She's wasting away."
"We have emergency supplies," Lyria said. "Not much, but enough to stabilize her. Misaki, can you—"
"Already on it." Misaki moved to where the lumberjack company had stashed their survival caches. Dried meat. Hardtack. Water skins. Not appetizing, but calorie-dense and preserved.
He brought food back to Sera, helped her sit up, held water to her lips. The girl drank weakly, ate a few bites of meat, then slumped against Feya again.
"Thank you," she whispered, barely audible.
"Rest," Misaki replied. "You're safe now. We'll figure out the rest later."
Except they weren't safe. Not really. The Central Army would search the forest. Track them. Hunt them down systematically. This shelter was temporary—days at most before they'd need to move again.
Eight kilometers south, in what remained of M'lod's central square, a young officer surveyed the destruction with calculating eyes.
General Calder Vex was twenty-nine years old—remarkably young for his rank, but then again, he'd earned it through competence rather than political connections. He stood six-foot-seven, lean and athletic, his armor showing the wear of actual combat rather than ceremonial polish. His face was sharp-featured, intelligent, with grey eyes that missed nothing.
He walked through the burning village slowly, methodically, analyzing the defensive positions, the tactical choices, the evidence of how this battle had unfolded.
"Sir," his aide said nervously, "the rebels fled north. Should we pursue?"
"No," Vex said absently, kneeling to examine an oil pot that hadn't been used. He picked it up, studied the construction, sniffed the contents. "Interesting. Aerial incendiary delivery. Coordinated archer fire to detonate at altitude. Primitive but effective." He set the pot down carefully. "Whoever commanded their defense understood force multiplication principles."
"They still lost, sir."
"Did they?" Vex stood, looking toward the northern forest. "They bought time for their civilians to evacuate. Inflicted disproportionate casualties on our advance—I estimate we lost three hundred men to their eighty-three defenders. And they escaped with most of their fighting force intact to continue resistance." He smiled thinly. "From a strategic perspective, they won this engagement. We took territory that has no value. They preserved their population, which has infinite value."
The aide looked uncomfortable. "Should I... report that assessment to command, sir?"
"Gods no. Tell them we achieved total victory, minimal losses, rebels scattered and broken." Vex's smile didn't reach his eyes. "But between you and me? We're fighting someone who thinks like a professional. Someone who understands asymmetric warfare. Someone who's going to be a magnificent challenge to hunt down."
He looked toward the forest again, and his expression carried something almost like respect.
"Run, little rebels. Run as far as you can. Make this interesting. Because when I finally catch you..." He paused, considering. "When I catch you, I want it to be worth the effort."
Behind him, M'lod continued burning, smoke rising into the morning sky like a funeral pyre for the village that had dared to resist.