"Shhhhhh! They might hear us."
Viessa's whisper trembled through the oppressive blackness, barely more than breath against the stale air.
Around her, the other soldiers shifted restlessly. Armor creaked, boots scraped, and low murmurs echoed down the narrow rocky tunnel like careless ghosts. It was as if none of them realized they were poised beneath enemy territory, ready to launch a surprise assault on gods.
Far ahead, a rhythmic scrape-thud pulsed through the silence. The sound was sharp, like claws dragging through tightly packed earth, methodical and relentless.
'Why are they acting like we're not about to launch a sneak attack behind enemy lines?'
Viessa seethed internally. She could hear them joking about who owed whom money from the fight between the human and General Vorn. It was maddening.
She couldn't see a single face—just a void.
Now that they were directly under the enemy encampment perched high on the cliff, the command was to extinguish all light. Even the faintest glimmer might alert Seraphine's forces above—forces mere feet from the brink of death, standing oblivious atop the rocky precipice.
Then, a voice emerged softly beside her. Calm, familiar, and comforting.
"Don't worry, Viessa."
She stiffened. She knew that voice without needing to see the face—her elven brother, Folen.
"While Molgar digs, we've taken precautions. I've got my ability up; sound doesn't escape my barrier. And Lord Ithriel, he's cloaking us from Seraphine's eyes. Trust me. We're safe."
She couldn't see his expression but was certain he wore that annoying, reassuring smile.
Viessa said nothing. Instead, a strange thought slipped into her mind—too perfect to be her own:
'He's right. Everything we're doing is for Lord Ithriel. There's no need to worry. Our Lord has us.'
It wasn't the first time. Messages like these snuck into her thoughts often—quiet, convincing whispers. She'd learned not to question them.
After all, that was Ithriel's genius: implanting commands as if they were her own beliefs. The God of Control worked subtly, twisting loyalty from within. Devious, but undeniably effective.
Suddenly, the digging stopped.
The scraping ceased. The tunnel fell dead silent.
Then came a gravelly, guttural voice that scraped across her nerves:
"Tunnel's done. We're within Viessa's teleportation range."
Molgar.
Viessa's skin prickled.
That voice always sent a chill down her spine. Molgar was a beastkin, cursed with the misfortune of being half mole.
Hunched. Short. Covered in dirt-matted fur. Buck teeth and twitching whiskers. She could picture his squat silhouette even in the dark, making her stomach turn.
But this time, it wasn't just him. It was what he said.
'This is it. The make-or-break moment of the war, and I must pull it off!'
Her heart pounded. Panic surged.
'Why did he choose me? There are others—stronger, smarter—why me?'
Then, like a tide washing over her, the anxiety dissolved.
Another whisper—not from her mind, but inside it:
'No. I will do fine. Lord Ithriel chose me for a reason. Who am I to question his wisdom?'
Her fear melted into purpose. Her mind sharpened like a drawn blade.
Viessa stepped forward. Her voice rang clear and strong through the silence:
"All soldiers, place your hand on someone next to you."
A thousand metallic clinks answered her—gauntlets tapping chest plates, chainmail brushing chainmail. The tunnel shimmered with readiness.
Then Folen's voice echoed again, this time louder, rising with fire:
"Listen well, soldiers! Our generals bled for us, fighting for Lord Ithriel's will while we watched from the sidelines. No longer! Today, it is our turn. Our turn to decide the fate of this war! When we emerge, strike fast and strike first—aim for the giants. Cut down their strength before they can react! Show no mercy. Do not falter!"
His words exploded through the tunnel like thunder.
Then came the answering war cries from over a thousand throats. Blades scraped from scabbards. Fists pounded against armor. The air grew thick with rage and purpose.
Viessa could almost see them, raising swords, eyes blazing, even in total darkness.
Then, beside her ear, Folen whispered once more:
"We're ready."
His hand settled gently on her shoulder.
She nodded, heart steadying into rhythm.
"On three," she called out. "Get ready."
Frantic sounds followed—scrambling hands regripping armor, hurried breaths, and whispered prayers.
If anyone failed to make contact, they'd be left alone in this buried tomb.
"Three... Two... One."
Then, in an instant, the darkness vanished, replaced by a searing brilliance that slammed into Viessa's senses like a tidal wave.
Her boots struck solid ground with a sharp thud, the texture of sunbaked yellow stone grating against the soles. She winced as sunlight poured into her eyes, flooding her vision after the suffocating blackness of the tunnel.
Her heartbeat thudded in her ears, pounding like a war drum, as her pupils adjusted. Slowly, shapes formed—tall, hulking silhouettes etched in dazzling light—giants.
They loomed like pale statues carved from moonstone, their ash-white skin gleaming beneath layers of ornate silver armor. Long, silken hair draped down their backs like waterfalls of white-gold thread, fluttering gently in the high cliffside winds.
Their backs were turned, completely unaware.
Through the towering legs of the giants, Viessa could see more miniature figures—beastkin bristling with fur and muscle, ogres armored in bone and steel, dragonkin with thick, scaled hides, and even highborn elves, all standing side by side.
Their fists were raised skyward as they shouted in unison, cheering for their champion locked in battle.
"You got it, Darfin! That big oaf's got nothing on you!" a loud female voice rang above the others.
Viessa's breath caught in her throat.
'They have no clue, it worked.'
Behind her stood over a thousand of Ithriel's hidden soldiers, all silent, poised like coiled snakes.
Then, without sound or warning, the sky shimmered with the glint of magic. Spells erupted from behind her line, hurtling overhead in a storm of destruction.
Lightning spears crackled like white-hot nerves, fireballs spun like miniature suns, and whips of water lanced through the air with slicing precision. Wind scythes howled in invisible arcs. Even swords and javelins, thrown with desperate fury, gleamed as they tore toward their towering targets.
The air rippled violently with displaced pressure, the only hint of what was to come—Folens' barrier still smothered every sound, muting the chaos to a haunting silence.
The magic struck.
Viessa watched, wide-eyed, as every giant's head exploded into a red, misty bloom. Silver helmets clattered as torsos crumpled forward in unison, massive bodies slamming into the cliffside like falling towers, causing the earth beneath her to tremble.
Seraphine's soldiers turned, faces twisted with disbelief and terror. Mouths opened to scream, but Viessa heard nothing—only the silent terror of unreadable words. Then, just as the enemy staggered to comprehend what had happened—
Folen dropped the sound barrier.
A wave of deafening noise exploded outward.
War cries roared like a tidal surge. Steel clanged. The ground thundered beneath a thousand boots as Ithriel's hidden forces surged forward. Viessa felt its force in her bones, raw and alive. Her skin prickled with adrenaline.
Ahead, Seraphine's army scrambled to recover. Though stunned, they began to roar back, raising weapons with frantic urgency as they turned to face the sudden threat behind them.
Then, at the far edge of the cliff, Seraphine herself turned—her presence radiant and terrible. The wind howled around her, stirring her gown like wings of flame. Her flawless face twisted into something monstrous, veins bulging, eyes wide with shock and fury. She lifted her chin, her voice tearing across the battlefield in a scream that shattered the sky.
"ITHRIEL!"
Meanwhile, on the obsidian battlefield, moments before chaos erupted atop Seraphine's cliff, Lucy had just unlocked another page in his manual.
Page 8/100 — Mana Circulation.
The knowledge surged into his mind like a violent river, threatening to split his consciousness. Yet compared to the torment of earlier chapters, this pain was almost bearable. The first chapter had felt like having his brain set on fire—but with each new page, the agony dulled slightly.
'Or maybe I'm just getting used to it,' Lucy thought grimly as he raised his battered arm to block one of Vorn's swift punches. His free hand slashed out with his sword, but Vorn leapt backward, dodging it with the effortless grace of someone who had seen centuries of war.
Lucy was in shambles.
His nose was broken, his face smeared in drying blood, and every joint screamed with agony. His limbs felt moments from dislocation, muscles trembling from overuse. The silver armor that once gleamed proudly on his body now lay in mangled pieces across the obsidian floor, bloodied and shattered. He could feel every heartbeat like a hammer strike behind his ribs.
'What else is new? This whole war's been me getting my ass kicked,' he thought, forcing a dry, bitter smile onto his face.
But his mana moved beneath all the pain, bruises, and blood.
It didn't crawl anymore. It sprinted.
He could feel it now, energy racing through his veins with the speed and precision of an Olympic sprinter. His body still ached, but the magic within him felt cleaner, more refined, like it was finally starting to obey.
"Get ready, Vorn," Lucy said, raising his sword again. His breath was ragged, but his eyes burned with determination. "I will land a hit soon."
Vorn chuckled, a warm, fatherly sound that contrasted with the brutality around them. "I hope so. It's getting boring dodging all of your attacks, young man."
Lucy let out a breathless laugh, then lunged forward.
But just as his feet left the ground, a thunderous boom tore through the air, halting him and Vorn mid-motion.
The battlefield paused, frozen by the sound.
Vorn's eyes went wide—wider than Lucy had ever seen. Instinctually, Lucy spun around to see what had rattled the stoic elf.
And then he saw it.
Far in the distance, atop the high cliffs where Seraphine's home base loomed like a shining fortress, giants were falling.
Their massive, headless corpses crumbled in slow motion, their silver armor glinting in the sunlight as their bodies collapsed to the ground like toppled statues. The impact sent waves of dust and shock rolling across the battlefield.
Lucy's heart dropped.
"What the hell is going on?!" he shouted, stumbling back.
Vorn didn't answer immediately. He stared in silence, rubbing his white goatee with a trembling hand. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, but heavy with meaning.
"Ithriel has set his plan in motion," he said. "Right now, his army is attacking yours from behind."
Lucy's mind went blank.
'No, no, no, that wasn't supposed to happen.
The whole point of me fighting Vorn was to stop this exact moment—
Wait, Llarm, Eri, and Gindu.
They're up there.'
A cold dread seized his chest.
They were strong. He knew they were strong. But if this was an ambush, if it was that well executed.
There was no way to know if they were alive.
"Vorn, I have to go!" Lucy shouted, panic creeping into every word. His voice cracked, filled with raw fear. "My friends are up there!"
He turned to sprint toward the cliff, but Vorn's hand shot out and gripped his arm like iron.
"Not yet," Vorn said firmly. "I have one last thing to teach you."
Lucy whirled around, his voice shaking. "Vorn! I have to! They could be dead! I—" His voice broke. Images of Llarm's crooked grin, Eri's quiet fidgeting, and Gindu's proud remarks raced through his mind like knives.
He couldn't lose them. Not after they accepted him.
Vorn didn't flinch. His short, slicked-back white hair bounced as he shook his head. "Don't be reckless, Lucy. Right now, in your condition, you'll die before you reach the cliff. You'll die without helping anyone. Give me ten minutes. Heal. Learn what I need to show you."
Lucy's fists clenched at his sides. He wanted to scream, to shove past Vorn, to run—injuries be damned.
But deep down, he knew the elf was right.
His legs were barely holding him upright. He'd collapse halfway there.
'If I go now, I won't save anyone. I'll add one more corpse to the pile.'
He lowered his head, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.
"Fine," he muttered, voice trembling. "Ten minutes. That's all you get."
He dropped to the blood-soaked obsidian, his legs finally giving out beneath him. A wave of exhaustion and relief washed over him as the pressure eased. His hands glowed faintly as he began healing his wounds—fractured bones, torn muscle, deep bruises.
But his thoughts refused to slow.
'Please be okay,' he prayed silently. 'Please, Llarm, don't you die on me. Don't you dare.'
"So," he muttered, trying to focus. "What are you going to teach me?"
Vorn sat a few feet away, crossing his legs in the center of the chaos, his expression unreadable.
"My ability," he said. "And with it, you just might save them all."