Lyriana pushed forward—dodging, weaving, stepping over the fallen. Her aura shimmered. The rain-slick stones reflected every flash of blood and holy mana. Her breath remained steady, controlled—an echo of Aldric's calm fury.
Aldric didn't slow. He only glanced back. His eyes burned with calculated intensity. Every knight he dismantled was deliberate—no wasted movement, no unnecessary swings. He became a whirlwind of red and black energy, a storm holding the line for life itself.
Finally, Lyriana reached the first of the trees. The thick trunks promised cover, darkness, and a path away from the slaughter. She didn't pause. With a push of her mana, she leapt between trunks, weaving left and right, carrying the children through the night, through the undergrowth, and into the forest beyond.
Aldric's gaze followed her until the last glimmer of her aura vanished among the leaves.
Good.
She was almost—
A flicker.
A shift.
A ripple in the air behind the knights' ranks.
Two figures broke formation.
Not knights—faster.
Hunters.
Cloaks thrumming with mana. Boots crackling with consecrated energy along their limbs.
They didn't shout.
They didn't hesitate.
They didn't even glance at Aldric.
They sprinted straight for the tree line—straight for Lyriana.
Aldric's expression didn't change.
But something inside him went silent.
Cold.
Focused.
The two hunters surged past the last ranks of knights, blades raised high, mana trailing behind them like comet tails. They were already halfway across the courtyard, already nearing the trees, already—
Too late.
Aldric vanished.
One moment he stood amid the corpses.
The next—
He was there.
Between the hunters and the forest, blood-mana detonating around him in a shockwave that sent stone and rain spraying in every direction. His poleaxe glowed like a dying star, edges jagged with fury.
Aldric's voice dropped, low and lethal:
> "Where the hell do you think you're going?"
The hunters froze mid-stride, boots skidding across fractured stone as they tried to brake. Their blades flared—one white-gold, the other a cold, radiant blue—mana igniting in reflexive terror.
Aldric stepped forward.
Slow.
Heavy.
Immovable.
Wings unfurled behind him—towering, monstrous silhouettes writhing against the storm.
Crimson mana bled off his skin in thick waves, each humming with barely-contained rage.
> "I suggest you stay exactly where you are If any of you moves even an inch, I promise you'll regret it with your final breath."
The hunters steadied themselves, boots grinding against broken stone, mana blazing along their limbs as they braced for impact.
Aldric advanced another step.
Rain hissed into steam where it struck his shoulders.
Crimson ripples churned beneath his feet.
His wings loomed like executioner's blades.
"Go on—step forward. I'm dying to decide who's head fly's first."
The hunters' cloaks whipped in the wind—long, dark, marked with the insignias of high nobility.
The first hunter—the taller one—finally steadied enough to lift his blade. Mana surged up his arm, flaring white-gold along the edge. He ripped back his hood—
Rain slid over his face.
Strong jawline. Sharp amber eyes lit with a furious, righteous gleam. The insignia on his cloak flashed: a golden raven clutching a sword.
Count Alaric Carvon.
A noble.
A veteran commander.
A man spoken of in hushed tones by the Radiant Order.
Aldric didn't recognize a single inch of him.
But the Count's voice shook with familiarity—shook with personal fury.
> "Demon… you dare threaten the Carvon bloodline?!"
Aldric blinked once.
Carvon? Who the hell—
But the second figure tore off his hood before he could finish the thought.
Viscount Renar Elliren.
Wiry, movements sharp as snapping wire. His blade burned pale blue—colder than ordinary holy flame—focused, refined, terrifyingly precise. His cloak bore the crest of a crossed halberd and scale.
The rain fell harder, hissing as it struck the crimson-stained stones.
Count Alaric Carvon advanced first, golden mana spiraling along his blade. Each step struck the ground like a hammer on stone; the air shivered with mana. His eyes burned.
Viscount Renar Elliren followed, lean and precise, pale blue mana curling along his sword in thin, deadly arcs. Every movement calculated, a predator's focus sharper than any ordinary knight.
The rain turned to steam where Aldric's blood mana touched the courtyard stone. He didn't flinch as Count Alaric Carvon stepped forward, boots pounding with purpose, Mana spiraling along his blade. Beside him, Viscount Renar Elliren moved like a ghost, pale-blue mana tracing a razor's edge along his slender sword.
Aldric's wings twitched. He didn't need to speak. The courtyard's pulse slowed to a rhythm only killers understood.
Then—Carvon lunged.
Golden mana flared in a devastating arc, swinging wide, fast, brutal. His style was overwhelming, almost heavy-handed, meant to crush, to dominate. Aldric shifted the poleaxe on his hand, sidestepping, letting the arc of holy fire hiss past him. The swing carried momentum, and Aldric used it. With a single backhand of his poleaxe, he sent the strike rebounding into the wet stone. Sparks leapt. The ground quaked.
Elliren moved differently—fluid, precise, surgical. While Carvon struck like a hammer, Elliren's pale-blue blade sliced through the rain, targeting vital point, exploiting the smallest openings. His movements were a dance: step, feint, lunge, retract. Aldric blocked the first strike with the haft, but the second strike, aimed at his exposed shoulder, cut a deep line across crimson mana, leaving a hiss of burnt energy.
Wings flared instinctively, shielding Aldric as he pivoted the cut already slowly closing. He moved like a living storm, spinning the poleaxe in rising, falling, lateral arcs, each strike calculated to intercept, deflect, and punish. Carvon's hammering force met his blade—clash after clash, sparks flying like molten stars. The two were almost in sync, but Aldric was chaos incarnate.