Chapter 21: The Hunt That Does Not End (2)
The riders broke first.
Not in panic—but in calculation.
Aren saw it before the others did.
Aura perception stretched across the Plains like a thin film of frost, and the riders' presence shifted all at once. Their fear spiked—not outward, not scattered—but inward, tightening toward a single direction.
Toward home.
"They're turning," Aren said.
Rovan frowned. "Running?"
"No," Aren replied. "Redirecting."
The riders spurred their mounts hard, abandoning harassment routes and slipping past the elite pressure zones with reckless speed. They weren't fleeing randomly anymore. They were burning stamina without concern, horses foaming at the mouth, bodies pushed past safe limits.
"They're going toward their main force," Corin said, realization dawning.
"Yes," Aren replied. "And they're bringing us with them."
That was the final piece.
The enemy commander had adapted.
The riders had served their purpose. Now they were liabilities—wounded, exhausted, carrying panic and disorganization back toward disciplined lines.
Aren raised his hand.
"Do not pursue directly," he ordered. "Shadow them. Wide."
The elite squads obeyed, splitting further, keeping pressure without committing. The Plains stretched endlessly around them, white swallowing distance, but the aura told the truth.
The riders were terrified.
Not of death.
Of failure.
They reached the enemy camp by late afternoon.
What awaited them was not relief.
It was judgment.
Aren crested a low ridge and stopped.
Below, the enemy army was already moving.
Infantry lines snapped into place with brutal efficiency. Shields locked. Spears angled. Heavy units stepped forward without hesitation.
No confusion.
No mercy.
The riders burst toward them in disarray, shouting warnings, dragging wounded comrades, mounts limping and bleeding.
The first volley cut them down.
Not scattered fire.
Disciplined execution.
Arrows fell in controlled arcs. Riders tumbled from saddles. Horses screamed and collapsed, trampling others in the chaos.
Aren's stomach tightened.
"They're wiping them out," Lethan whispered.
"Yes," Aren said quietly.
This wasn't punishment.
It was containment.
The enemy commander was erasing his own weakness.
The riders tried to push through the infantry line.
They didn't make it.
Heavy spears took them at close range. Shields crushed bodies into the snow. Those who fell were not finished off immediately—left to bleed and freeze as a warning.
Within minutes, the rider force ceased to exist.
Aura flickered and went dark one by one.
Heavy casualties.
But clean.
Aren felt the shift immediately.
The calm, dense presence behind the enemy lines surged.
Anger.
Not explosive.
Focused.
"He knows," Rovan said.
"Yes," Aren replied. "And now he's done being patient."
The enemy army did not advance.
One figure stepped forward instead.
A single man, walking calmly through the churned snow where riders had died. He wore heavier armor than the others, reinforced joints, layered plating. His sword was sheathed, but his presence bent the air around him.
Aura perception recoiled.
Mid-core.
Not raw.
Not unstable.
Refined.
Aren's breath slowed.
That man was death walking.
"He's coming for us," Corin said, voice tight.
"Yes," Aren replied.
The enemy commander stopped, gaze lifting unerringly toward Aren's position—despite the distance, despite the concealment.
He smiled.
The next moment, he moved.
The distance collapsed.
Not sprinted.
Erased.
Snow exploded behind him as he crossed ground that should have taken minutes in heartbeats. Aura flared around his body, controlled and overwhelming, reinforcing muscle, stabilizing joints, turning him into something that ignored terrain entirely.
Aren felt it hit like pressure on his chest.
Mid-core aura users were not meant to fight squads.
They were meant to end them.
"Fall back!" Aren shouted instantly. "All squads—withdraw! Now!"
No hesitation.
The elite fifty broke formation cleanly, turning and running in disciplined arcs toward the return route. No one questioned the order.
Except Aren.
He didn't move.
Rovan spun. "Aren—!"
Aren raised his hand sharply. "Go!"
"He'll kill you!"
"Yes," Aren said calmly. "If I let him."
He turned to face the oncoming presence.
Aura perception screamed.
Every instinct told him this was suicide.
That was precisely why he did it.
If the commander reached the retreating squads, he would slaughter them. Fifty men would become corpses in moments.
Aren took one step forward.
Then another.
The enemy commander slowed slightly, amused.
"So," the man said, voice carrying easily across the snow, "you're the one."
Aren said nothing.
"You turned my riders into bait," the commander continued. "You forced my hand."
Aren raised his sword.
"That cost me men," the commander said, irritation slipping through control. "Do you know how long it takes to train cavalry in this land?"
Aren met his gaze.
"Yes," he said. "That's why I did it."
The commander laughed once—short, sharp.
"Good," he said. "Then die knowing it mattered."
He drew his sword.
The air broke.
Aura surged outward, heavy and crushing, forcing Aren's knees to flex as if gravity itself had doubled. Snow around the commander sublimated into mist from pressure alone.
Aren stepped in anyway.
He did not activate aura.
He couldn't.
He fought with everything else.
Steel met steel.
The impact nearly tore the sword from Aren's hands.
He slid backward through the snow, boots carving trenches as he barely kept his balance. The commander pressed instantly, strikes precise, powerful, merciless.
Aren parried once.
Twice.
Each impact numbed his arms.
This wasn't a duel.
It was a delay.
Aren shifted, using terrain, forcing angles, never committing fully. Every second mattered.
The commander adapted instantly.
"Smart," he said, striking harder. "But pointless."
Aren felt ribs crack as a blow slipped through his guard. Pain exploded through his side, breath tearing from his lungs. He staggered, barely recovering in time to avoid a killing thrust.
Blood hit the snow.
The commander smiled wider.
Aren's vision narrowed.
He was losing.
He knew it.
And he stayed.
He blocked another strike—too slow.
The blow sent him flying, body slamming into the ground hard enough to drive the air from his lungs. He tried to rise.
Failed.
The commander loomed over him, sword raised.
Behind Aren, the elite squads had reached the ridge.
They stopped.
They turned.
"Aren's still there!" someone shouted.
"He's buying time!"
Rovan spun, face twisted with fury. "Loose arrows!"
"But—he's mid-core!"
"LOOSE EVERYTHING!"
They fired.
All of it.
Arrows darkened the sky, dozens upon dozens screaming through the air toward the enemy commander. Aura perception flared wildly as the commander raised his arm, aura surging outward in a translucent barrier.
Arrows shattered.
Deflected.
Crushed.
None pierced.
But—
They blocked sight.
They forced reaction.
The commander shifted his stance, momentarily distracted.
That was enough.
Rovan and Corin charged back in, dragging Aren bodily from the snow as arrows continued to rain.
The commander roared in rage, swinging blindly, but the distance had opened.
The elite squads withdrew at full speed, carrying Aren between them as blood soaked into the snow behind.
The commander did not pursue.
He stood amid shattered arrows, aura seething.
He watched them go.
"Run," he said softly. "I'll find you again."
The Plains swallowed the sound.
Hours later, the elite force staggered back toward base under cover of darkness.
Aren drifted in and out of consciousness, pain distant, body cold.
He was alive.
Barely.
The soldiers carried him like something fragile.
Like something worth bleeding for.
And for the first time since this campaign began—
They no longer followed him because he was right.
They followed him because he had stayed.
The hunt had not ended.
It had simply found its predator.