The rune stone finally answered.
Light flared across its surface, uneven and strained, but stable enough to hold a projection.
The King of Valen appeared—no throne this time, no ceremony. He stood in a war chamber, armor half-fastened, expression already severe.
"Teren," he said. "Report."
Marshal Teren Vos didn't salute.
He didn't soften his tone.
"We were intercepted at the Mana Heart site," he said. "Airship destroyed. Council intact. We are surrounded."
The king's jaw tightened. "How many?"
"Approximately one thousand," Teren replied.
A pause.
"Lazarus," the king said quietly.
"Yes."
Another pause—longer this time.
Then Teren continued, voice lowering just slightly. "There's more."
The king looked up sharply.
"The academy barrier has fallen," Teren said. "Students are engaged without senior instructors."
The king's hand clenched against the table. "Casualties?"
"Severe injuries," Teren answered. "And—"
He exhaled once. "—they are not attacking randomly."
The king's eyes narrowed. "Explain."
"They are moving with intent," Teren said. "Targeted paths. Controlled pressure."
He hesitated for half a heartbeat.
Then spoke.
"Aren is in danger."
Silence slammed into the room.
The king didn't speak.
Didn't move.
Only the faint hum of the rune stone filled the space between them.
"…Say that again," the king said at last.
Teren met his gaze.
"They're not here for territory," he said. "They're here for blood. And Aren is exposed."
The projection flickered.
The connection strained.
But the truth had already landed.
And nothing the king said next
would be fast enough to stop what was coming.
They didn't hesitate.
All one thousand raised their weapons at the same time.
Mana ARs powered up in perfect unison—long, angular rifles etched with regulated runic channels. The cores glowed a muted blue, stable and refined.
Marshal Teren Vos's eyes narrowed.
Those weren't academy builds.
They weren't battlefield scavenges.
Varkesh saw them too.
"…Military design," he said quietly.
Before anyone could respond, the rifles fired.
A thousand streams of condensed mana tore through the forest at once, disciplined and synchronized. Trees exploded under stray fire. The ground burned white where rounds struck. Every shot converged on the crash site.
Aether's barrier took the full barrage.
The field rippled violently as mana rounds flattened and dispersed against its surface, detonating into flashes of light. Pressure screamed through the clearing—but nothing passed through.
The firing didn't slow.
"They're testing volume," Teren said calmly.
Varkesh watched the rifles continue their measured assault. "And confidence."
His gaze hardened. "Those weapons are only sold in the western continent."
Teren glanced at him.
"And even there," Varkesh continued, "only in the Solis Kingdom."
That settled it.
For a brief moment, the gunfire was the only sound.
Then Teren looked at Varkesh.
Just a glance.
No words.
A faint smile touched the corner of Varkesh's mouth.
Teren thought it without saying it:
You're thinking exactly what I'm thinking.
They stepped forward together.
No signal.
No warning.
Their fists met in a deliberate dap.
The impact detonated.
Mana compressed violently, air hardening into a concussive wall as a shockwave tore outward from the point of contact. The ground cracked in a widening ring, trees bending away as force ripped through the clearing.
The first hundred attackers were hit instantly.
Lifted off their feet.
Thrown backward through trunks and brush.
Weapons torn from their hands as formations collapsed in seconds.
Bodies vanished into the forest.
The firing stopped.
Smoke drifted across the clearing.
The remaining force stood frozen—rifles still raised, but certainty gone, lines broken, confidence shattered.
Aurelina observed the devastation, a faint smile playing across her lips.
"You two," she said lightly, "never did understand restraint."
The Potion Master stared at the empty ground where soldiers had stood moments ago, eyes wide, mind racing.
"…Military weapons," he muttered. "…And that still wasn't enough."
He exhaled slowly.
"…That was incredibly effective."
Teren flexed his hand once.
Varkesh rolled his shoulders.
Around them, the forest was silent again.
And every surviving soldier now understood the same thing:
They hadn't walked into an ambush.
They had walked into the wrong clearing.
At the academy here,
Zen stepped out of his training room at the same moment the door beside him opened.
Aren.
Their rooms were adjacent. They always had been.
For a second, neither of them spoke.
The corridor between them was scarred—fine cracks running along the stone walls, dust still drifting from the ceiling where the barrier's failure had rippled through the academy. Distant alarms echoed, muted now, uneven.
They looked at each other.
No questions.
No explanations.
Aren broke the silence at the exact same time Zen did.
"Don't die."
The words overlapped.
They paused, then both exhaled softly.
Aren's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "Guess that's mutual."
Zen nodded once, eyes steady. "Yeah."
Another tremor rolled through the floor beneath their feet—far off, but close enough to remind them that time was already being spent.
Both went their respective ways as Niel said.
Aren turned, Iron Fist settling naturally as he moved. "Then don't get there late."
Zen was already stepping back. "Same to you."
They split without another word.
Behind them, the training rooms stood empty.
Ahead of them—
whatever was unfolding inside the academy
was no longer something they could avoid.
Zen turned toward Evan's hall, already breaking into a sprint.
Aren went the opposite way, footsteps measured, controlled.
No words.
No hesitation.
The academy shook again.
This time, it came from above.
A sharp rupture echoed through the open sky as figures dropped through the broken barrier, mana thrusters flaring briefly before cutting out. Controlled descent. Trained.
Aren looked up just as one of them landed directly in his path.
The man barely had time to straighten.
Iron Fist surged.
Aren's punch landed cleanly, the force swallowing armor, stance, and breath in a single instant. The body slammed into the stone and didn't move again.
And started moving again like he never stopped.
At the Healer Hall.
Evan stood alone.
The practice circle was quiet—stone scorched faintly from earlier drills, sigils half-faded beneath his boots. He was in the center, breathing steady, hands relaxed at his sides.
Too relaxed.
The building around him was empty.
No patients.
No students.
No instructors.
Just him.
Then footsteps echoed.
Not rushed.
Measured.
Evan turned slowly.
Figures were entering from every access point—doors, broken windows, the collapsed upper walkway. Dark armor. Mana ARs raised but not firing yet. They moved with discipline, spacing themselves evenly as they spread out.
A circle formed.
Closing.
Evan's gaze tracked them calmly, counting without meaning to.
One of them stepped forward slightly, weapon lifting.
Evan didn't retreat.
He shifted his stance instead, centering himself exactly where he'd been practicing moments earlier. Fingers flexed once as he reached inward—checking supplies, mana flow, distance.
He exhaled.
The circle tightened.
And Evan waited.
They fired together.
Every rifle in the circle flared at once.
Mana ARs screamed as condensed rounds tore inward from all directions, converging on Evan. Stone behind him vaporized. The air burned.
The first shot punched through his chest.
The second shattered his shoulder.
The third tore through his leg.
Evan stayed where he was.
His body broke—
and then healed.
Flesh pulled back together on its own. Bones slid into place. Blood reversed, vanishing beneath skin that sealed as if it had never been torn.
No rune.
No stone.
No spell.
They kept firing.
Shot after shot ripped him apart.
And every time, his body healed again and again.
Slower now. Heavier. Evan's breathing deepened, sweat pouring down his face as pain stacked again and again.
Still, he didn't fall.
Still, he didn't step back.
From the outside, it didn't look like endurance anymore.
It looked wrong.
The firing slowed.
Not because of orders.
Because fear had crept in.
Evan lifted his head.
His eyes were steady.
He clenched his hand—not to heal, not to defend.
To act.
The air shifted.
Evan looked around the circle, meeting their eyes one by one.
He lowered his hand.
Then pressed it down.
The stone beneath his palm responded instantly—the training circle flaring to life as old grooves lit up. At the center, the practice stand he'd been using earlier shuddered.
A faint smile crossed his face.
"It's my turn, now"