Tormond stood alone, a solitary silhouette against the tide of a hundred Kingspawn. The wind curled around him, not as a mere breeze, but as if it were alive—obedient, hungry, ready to serve his command. His hands gripped the blade with unerring precision, every muscle coiled, every motion measured, the calm before a storm. The enemy sensed it, a predator waiting behind a mask of stillness, and for a heartbeat, hesitation flickered across their ranks—a fragile, fleeting thing that could not last.
Then he moved.
The blade arced forward, and the wind answered like a living entity. Luminous streams tore through the air, twisting and shivering like silver serpents in a dance of death. Each stroke painted the space with sharp, fluid geometry; the air itself seemed to fracture, coiling and snapping with the jagged clarity of shattered glass. The battlefield trembled under the unseen force, armor clanging as soldiers were shoved off balance, some staggering back as if the wind had hands, pushing, slicing, devouring. Every motion Tormond made carved a tangible storm—an elegant, lethal ballet, beautiful yet terrifying, a power that demanded awe and fear in equal measure.
Tormond inhaled, grounding himself. His left foot pressed into the soil with deliberate force. A circle etched itself into the earth around him, roughly a meter in radius. It was more than a symbol; it was a command to the world itself.
"Wind Tier… release," he murmured.
From the circle, wind erupted. Currents tore upward like a storm unbound, jagged and luminous. Concentric waves spiraled outward, cutting across the battlefield. Soldiers tried to advance, but the currents lifted their feet from the ground, throwing them off balance. One officer's shout was swallowed by the roar of the wind before his body was hurled across the field.
Mikayle, standing at a distance, watched wide-eyed. His breath caught as Tormond's aura expanded, every flick of the blade shaping air into living, violent art. Ivan grinned, but the sharp edge of tension cut through his amusement; the sheer impossibility of Tormond's command left him uneasy. Yuhan's green eyes reflected disbelief, pale face tense, while Marco clenched his fists, grounding himself as if he could hold back the storm with sheer will.
Tormond moved, and the wind moved with him, bending to the rhythm of his swings. Then the steel shifted. It no longer carved the wind—it commanded water.
Tormond moved inside the circle, swinging his blade in a rhythm that was both ritual and combat. Suddenly, the steel shifted—not cutting wind anymore—it commanded water.
"Water Tier… release."
Thousands of silver-white threads braided together, forming a metallic, sapphire-hued shell. The air turned frigid as the threads coiled around each advancing soldier, wrapping, tightening, freezing motion before any reaction could occur. Ice shards erupted wherever the water met the soil, slicing through shields, armor, and flesh. A soldier's scream ended mid-word, encased in crystalline agony.
Mikayle's hand rose to his mouth. "How… how is he doing this?" he whispered. Ivan's grin returned, tighter and more calculating; Yuhan shivered despite himself, and Marco's jaw clenched, tension radiating from every fiber of his body.
And then came the fire.
From the circle, a ring erupted, scorching the soil instantly. Its core burned blinding white-gold, edges roiling with molten crimson. The roar of flame echoed, a deep, hungry sound that seemed to devour the air itself. Tormond stood calm, a shadow against a storm of heat. Not a flicker of hesitation touched him as the battlefield became an inferno.
"Flame Tier… release," he growled.
The wind, water, and fire converged. Currents of air, twisting torrents of water, and molten waves of fire danced together, weaving a tapestry of destruction.
And then—impossible, breathtaking—a dragon tore through the battlefield.
It was not a creature of a single element. Its serpentine body shimmered with liquid sapphire scales. Currents of wind traced its form, flames danced along its spine, and every movement radiated lethal intent. Eyes of molten gold seared through the chaos, mane aflame like a crown of living fire, each scale reflecting fire and frost in impossible harmony. The dragon moved with awareness beyond life itself—it was Tormond's will incarnate.
"Vayrith… rise!" Tormond's voice cut through the roar of the elements. The dragon responded instantly, coiling and flexing with serpentine grace, a living extension of Tormond's command. The Kingspawn froze, fear rooting them to the ground as Vayrith's presence warped the air around him.
Vayrith moved with terrifying precision. Wind tore soldiers from their feet before they could react, threads of water braided into ice froze limbs mid-stride, and flames licked across armor and weapons, scorching metal and flesh alike. The battlefield became a controlled storm of elemental destruction, each motion a deliberate, lethal symphony.
A few heartbeats later, Tormond's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening around his blade. His voice was calm, absolute:
"Dragon Ritual."
At his command, the elemental currents surged violently, converging into Vayrith as the dragon expanded to its full terrifying glory. Wind, water, and fire twisted together in a serpentine storm of living destruction. The ground cracked and burned beneath its coils, the air howled as currents spiraled, and every soldier felt the crushing, inescapable weight of Tormond's ultimate technique.
Vayrith was no longer just a dragon—it was the embodiment of the Dragon Ritual, a living, sentient weapon channeling Tormond's mastery into a single, annihilating force. Soldiers could neither advance nor escape. Every strike, every gust of wind, every shard of ice, every flame was executed with precision beyond comprehension. The battlefield obeyed Tormond, bending, fracturing, and burning under the relentless power of the ultimate assault.
At the center of the chaos, Tormond stood unshaken, blade gleaming, Vayrith coiled behind him—the perfect storm made flesh, steel, and fire. The Kingspawn no longer dared to move, mere witnesses to the living nightmare that was both dragon and ritual, predator and annihilation.
It was not of a single element. Its serpentine body shimmered with liquid sapphire scales. Wind traced its form, flames licked along its spine, and every movement radiated lethal intent. Eyes molten gold burned into the battlefield, mane a crown of ember, each scale reflecting both fire and frost simultaneously. The dragon moved as if alive, yet it was more than life; it was Tormond's will made flesh.
The Kingspawn froze. A hundred men, and yet fear had rooted them in place. Some tried to advance, but the dragon's first movement was a coil of wind that tore several from their feet, twisting them violently before they even had a chance to strike. Another charged, only to be ensnared in a spiral of sapphire threads, water braided into chains that froze limbs mid-stride. Flames followed, licking at armor, scorching and molten, consuming the battlefield in a controlled, terrifying ballet.
From afar, Mikayle, Ivan, Yuhan, and Marco watched. Mikayle's pale face reflected awe and terror simultaneously; his lips parted, whispering under his breath, "The impossible… it's alive." Ivan's eyes narrowed, calculating every risk, every escape that might exist in a field that had become a storm of destruction. Yuhan's hands shook as he felt the cold and heat wash over him simultaneously, and Marco's jaw remained clenched, his eyes fixed on the predator and its dragon.
Tormond's blade moved again. The dragon coiled, responding to the tilt of his wrist, the rhythm of his footwork. It was not attacking yet—it was testing, positioning, bending the battlefield to his will. One soldier tried to swing a forged wind blade; the air itself turned against him, slicing the weapon clean in half before the strike even landed. Another leapt forward, only to have a silver thread of water coil around him, ice forming midair, locking him in crystalline agony. Flames roared beneath a small cluster of advancing soldiers, scorching them into silence.
The battlefield became a symphony of horror and awe. Wind shredded armor, water froze and crushed limbs, fire burned with surgical precision. Soldiers tried to regroup, but each step, each swing, each cry was anticipated and rendered meaningless.
Tormond's body moved like a predator at the eye of a hurricane. Every flick of the blade, every subtle motion, bent the three-tiered dragon to his will. Wind arcs swept around enemy lines, icy water ensnared, and flames flared to burn gaps in their formation. The dragon was not separate from him—it was an extension of thought, muscle, and intent.
The last of the forward Kingspawn formed a trembling line, swords raised, faces pale, breaths shallow. The dragon arched high above Tormond, pressing down with elemental force that warped the very air. The first soldier tried to strike, but a swirl of wind lifted him, a spike of ice froze his legs, and a wave of fire roasted his armor. He collapsed silently, the others witnessing the inevitable.
Mikayle whispered again, almost inaudibly, "Elephants against ants… ants cannot win."
And yet, even as the smoke, frost, and embers swirled around him, the dragon hovered, poised, waiting for the command. The battle was only beginning.
The battlefield had changed. The Kingspawn no longer advanced—they simply trembled, waiting for death to strike. And at the center of it all, Tormond stood unshaken, blade gleaming, dragon coiled behind him, the perfect storm made flesh and steel.