Chapter 61: Struggle While Being Surrounded
The trees rushed past in a blur. Wind tore at cloaks and hair as eight figures flew through the forest like spirits. Their feet barely kissed the ground, speed enchantments from the Oak twins thrumming in their limbs. Breathing was a battle—less from fatigue, more from the pressure bearing down behind them.
A voice boomed over the land, thick with malice and weight.
"HALT! STAY WHERE YOU ARE!"
The earth seemed to hum. The Fanged Elves went pale.
Ramiro swore, eyes wide. "Why is another big shot coming after us?!"
Joe-Pine didn't hesitate. He caught Luno-Oak and Dino-Oak by the shoulders. "Now. Cast again."
Shirleaf grabbed Shayleaf's wrist, but the younger elf pulled free.
"Let me grab Elton. I sync better with him—faster that way."
Shirleaf glanced at Elton. He gave a tight nod. In one motion Shayleaf jumped up behind him, arms around his neck, body to his back. Threads of green essence stitched them together. Her aura flared, a sheath of nature magic blooming over the squad.
"Good," Joe-Pine muttered. "Move."
Their bodies blurred. Speed doubled. The oppressive aura behind them didn't fade—it grew, and the signatures multiplied.
"They're increasing!" Shirleaf shouted over the wind.
"Great," Ramiro spat. "We're that important to these bastards?"
The path turned ugly—glyph mines, sprung roots, sudden pits. Spellfire lashed from the brush. Armed figures lunged out from concealment. The group didn't stop.
Ramiro's spear howled with storming aura and he tore through an earthen barricade.
—León Dragon Spear Arts: Tormenta de Impacto Mundial—
A crushing shockfront hurled ambushers backward like straw.
Shirleaf raised both hands.
—Whipping Vines—
Dozens were bound and ripped aside. Zoro slipped like a shadow through the churn, dark ki along his katanas singing through bone and sinew.
Still, the circle tightened.
Desperation scraped the nerves—then the forest behind them detonated.
BOOM.
Shockwaves hammered the trunks. The earlier voice roared, furious and close.
"You bastards! Why are you getting in our way?!"
Another voice answered, deeper and colder, hungry for blood. "Oh? You dare attack our allies of the Fanged Elf Tribe… DIE."
Titanic auras collided. Trees uprooted. The air shook.
Unknown reinforcements—likely friendly—had smashed into their pursuers. It bought a breath.
"Keep going!" Elton yelled. "We're not safe yet!"
They ran harder. Legs screamed, lungs burned, and still they ran.
Miles away, a convoy of magical vehicles thundered across broken stone and root. Armored soldiers flanked the formation; spellcasters rode high turrets. Brymia City banners whipped in the aether wind, but the command sigil was the Forest Tribes' Longbi Clan.
Inside the lead car, a Longbi captain sat at a polished table. Gold-Tier 1—pressing at Gold-Tier 2. Hatred simmered in his eyes.
A young officer bowed at the door. "Captain, we've confirmed the targets' course."
"Transmit coordinates." His aura pressed the walls flat. "We move now."
"Yes, sir!"
Alone, the captain rose and flexed his hands until knuckles cracked. "You'll pay. Those human brats—killing my brother, our warriors—you'll suffer tenfold."
The convoy surged faster.
The hunt wasn't over.
Elsewhere, another column cut a clean line through the scrub—sleek carriages woven of living vine and deep-green energy. At the front rode a woman in vine-threaded armor, hair of glossy leaves drifting despite the still air. Jade eyes focused, thoughtful. She flew Rudecka's banner, a lesser-known leader beneath the Golden Lord's shadow.
Her platoon kept silent discipline. Once, her people had thrived along the old borderlands between the Fae Region and the Rudell Region. Now they lived by careful alliances. The memory of an old Fanged Elf lord's disdain still burned. Only Aeloria's quiet hand, years ago, had kept her tribe steady—first at Gold-Tier 3, then again when Aeloria rose to Golden Lord.
Decision set, she leaned forward. "Divert to the southern edge of the conflict. Full speed."
Engines answered, green light flaring along the undercarriage.
Elton's group finally slowed behind a jagged rock outcrop. Breath rasped. Dust clung to skin and blood to sleeves. Reserves were thin.
"We're close," Joe-Pine said, forcing a grin. "Entrance to the Fae Upper Lands—it's near."
Relief flickered—muted by exhaustion. Ramiro slumped onto a boulder. "Can't get there fast enough."
They choked down recovery elixirs, bitter and pungent. Strength crept back by inches.
The sky cracked open.
Explosions rained across the canopy, scarlet bursts, emerald lances, concussive shock rings that pulped trees and powdered stone. The eight scattered, rolling, shielding, shouting.
When the haze thinned, they saw them.
An army.
Three companies strong.
Banners of Brymia and the Longbi Clan. The Forest Tribes' sigil marked the center.
Ramiro and Zoro swore under their breath. Elton exhaled through his nose. Joe-Pine's face darkened; the Fanged Elves behind him raised weapons.
A voice thundered across the basin. "Elves! We know you harbor three human criminals! Surrender them, and walk away!"
A tall warrior stepped forward—steel-reinforced armor, serpent tail, a staff-lance of deep forest metal. Longbi, Gold-Tier 1. The captain.
Joe-Pine snorted. "Criminals? You cowards have been chasing us with no proof. Get lost—or face the wrath of the Fanged Elves."
The captain's face twisted. "You'll regret this."
His hand cut down.
The line surged. Lightning arcs, wind razors, roaring flame fell like a god's decree. Elton's group snapped into position, guarding, bracing, countering.
"Guard me for ten seconds!" Elton bellowed.
They knew the rhythm.
The Oak twins roared together. Their circuit merged, flooding power into Shirleaf. Her eyes flashed deep emerald and she drove both palms forward.
—Verdant Bulwark—
A forest-wall erupted, thorns and roots knotting into a living shield. Vines speared advancing vehicles, flipping them. Weaker warriors scattered.
Gold-Tier pressure slammed in like a collapsing cliff. The Longbi captain led the charge, cloaked in killing intent.
Joe-Pine met one head-on. Steel screamed. The impact shoved the elf three steps back inside the barrier. Two more Gold-Tier experts pivoted to break through.
Starlight whistled.
Shooting streaks—dozens—arced in from far off. Energy arrows fell among the enemy like a sudden meteor shower. Detonations tore ragged holes in the formation.
A commander spun, howling, "Who dares interfere?!"
Part of their force peeled off, racing toward the distant ridge.
The Longbi captain steadied to push again—then the air hissed.
—One Sword Style: Instant Death Draw—
SHLIIINK.
A dark slash of condensed sword ki split the field. The captain barely got his guard up. The force flung him end over end; his armor sheared, a deep diagonal cut across his chest—and his forearm spun away into the dirt.
A veil of black mist thinned.
Zoro stood with his blade drawn, eyes flat and cold.
Gasps rippled through friend and foe. Even the Fanged Elves stared.
Ramiro whooped. "Good job, Zoro! Hah!"
The captain stared at his severed hand—fingers half-curled in reflex. Rage lit his face. "You… it was you! You killed my brother! DESTROY THEM ALL!"
Author's Note:
"Tormenta de Impacto Mundial" translates roughly to "World-Impact Storm," a León spear art that fuses a stormfront's weight with a concussive strike.