VengefulBirch
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Chapter 141-143
🕑 Added 2025-10-20 15:20:03 +0000 UTCChapter 141
“Lazhardrak has been killed so many times--in so many horrible ways. And his followers--dirty rats like you--have been massacred since before I was born,” the Infernal says to Levrina, who looks terrified at her own arms, feeling all her Soul Magic restrained.
“HOW?! HOW ARE YOU DOING THIS?! WHO ARE YOU?!”
“I killed one of Lazhardrak Imagos myself thrice. What pushes rats like you to follow such a loser?”
“YOU DARE TALK ABOUT MY LORD LIKE THAT?!” Levrina put her fear aside for a moment and lashes out, almost foaming at the mouth.
“I dare, yes,” the Infernal smiles, tilting his head.
In that brief moment of pause, Levrina finally pieces everything together.
She looks at the hellish landscape again, then at the fortress of obsidian, finally resting her gaze upon the Infernal's tattoos.
“You... I know you.”
“I'm sure you do,” the Infernal's smile grows wider. “I wish you did, at least. It would be a surprise if Lazhardrak didn't instruct his followers on this King, the only person to banish him three times. Even that bastard of a Headmaster was impressed.”
“Y--you're HIM.”
“Yes,” the Infernal chuckles. “Lazhardrak was always my people's greatest enemy. The God of Broken Souls. What a joke. He thinks he can wield Soul Magic better than the descendants of those who invented Soul Magic?”
“You're my Lord's archenemy,” the woman trembled, trying to muster her magic again to slaughter the heathen in front of her. Yet, she could do nothing. And she didn't struggle to believe that this Infernal could restrict her like this now since she finally understood whom she had found herself in front of.
“You're... Baalrek the Bastard.”
The Infernal took a deep breath.
“It's been a while since anyone was bold enough to call me that to my face. I forget that Lazhardrak spread this epithet.”
At that point, Levrina sees Baalrek the Bastard raise a clawed hand and she suddenly feels as if hot blades had been driven through her entire body.
“AHHH! SCREW YOU, BALREK THE BASTARD! I WILL--”
Suddenly, her voice is taken from her.
“You will do nothing and you will only speak when I say so,” Baalrek says. “In fact, you forget that this is a Soul Space.”
Levrina tries to speak again but her eyes widen in horror as she touches her mouth and feels only skin over it. Her lips are gone. Her mouth has been sealed.
“Let's see what you did to the kid, now,” Baalrek walks forward and Levrina frowns.
What kid is he talking about?
“You don't even know, right?” Baalrek says as he comes to rest in front of her.
Levrina is about to reply when Balrek simply plunges an arm in her torso, making her silently scream in pain.
“Let's see... Lazhardrak's followers have always been the nastiest to deal with--well, close to the nastiest, at least. You took that kid's future, the Void Mage. Now, let's see if we can give it back to him.”
Levrina can't understand how Orrivane had earned the favor of such a scary entity like this one. Baalrek the Bastard was a legendary enemy of their Cult, a myth of old, the only one who had killed their Lord more than once.
“Soul Tethers... Soul Bonds...” Baalrek says, almost bored. “Here we go. Thankfully, you have a tether to the kid.”
Levrina felt her mouth come back and stumbled back as Baalrek removed his arm from her torso.
“Why did you give my voice back?” Levrina says, frantically touching her face. “What did you do?!”
“Nothing yet. And I gave it to you because I want to hear you scream.”
“Wha--”
“Soul Recession. Soul Separation. Soulbond Shattering.”
Baalrek moves his hands so rapidly that Levrina can barely see them.
The Cultist screams split the soul space, making the earth and sky tremble under the pleased gaze of the Infernal.
“This will take a while, too. I want to make sure I get to destroy everything you tethered to the boy's soul through you. But that means I'll have to be very meticulous with how I cut you apart. I hope you had an unpleasant life because I'm about to try and make this the worst thing you've ever experienced and I would like it to be a little challenging.”
*
I wake up on the couch and I see the dead body of Levrina on the ground.
“Where did she come out of?” I ask, a bit disgusted.
King Baalrek told me take a nap in the room where Levrina had brought me.
*Done, Jacob Cloud. Orrivane Nyxmoor has been freed.*
Thanks, King Baalrek. I didn't expect it to be this easy, honestly.
*Your friend wasn't that important in their plans. He's just a very talented kid. If he had waited any longer before asking for your help, they had plans to strengthen the Soul Magic that bound him. I just undid everything they did to him. I've also notified the--*
I see the Headmaster popping into existence right in front of Levrina's body.
“Lazhardrak's followers dare mess with my students?” The voice comes low and deep, much lower and much deeper than what I'm used to from the Headmaster. “Do they think I grew senile?”
I see dark smoke coming out of the Headmaster's nostrils.
“Headmaster,” I say, clearing my voice. The smoke starts clouding the room and it makes me cough.
With a wave of his hand, the smoke around us disappears.
“Jacob Cloud.”
The Headmaster turns slowly toward me and then toward the body.
“You took a great risk. You should have notified me of this immediately. Baalrek might a great expert of Soul Magic, but you ran wild with another useless risk.”
I know that the Headmaster knows about King Baalrek. After the fight with the Cult of Asmodeus, King Baalrek told me he met the Headmaster while he was fighting Asmodeus's incursion with my body.
“I only risked my life,” I say. “I'm sure King Baalrek would have notified you if that happened. There was no one else's life at stake here but Orrivane's and mine. And I got both back by just staking mine. This was a risk, but it was mine to take.”
The Headmaster takes a deep breath and nods, “I see why that stubborn man chose you. You two are very much alike.”
*WE'RE MOST DEFINITELY NOT.* King Baalrek screams in my mind.
“Now, then,” the Headmaster snaps his fingers and Orrivane teleports in the room, falling disoriented to the ground.
“What the--”
When he sees the dead body of his aunt lying on the ground, he mutters, “is she dead? Damn it, I'm going to--”
“You were liberated of your shackles, Orrivane Nyxmoor. And you have Jacob Cloud to thank. I was notified of your story and your affiliation to the Cult of Lazhardrak.”
“Headmaster, I--” Orrivane looks scared now.
“There's no reason to justify anything. You have not committed any crime since you came here and I am not interested in your past either. You've been given a second chance to life, a chance to become a real Knight by none other than the Fake Champion.”
“W--what?” Orrivane looks stunned. “I thought--”
“Jacob Cloud called me after the fact. Through methods I cannot divulge, he killed Levrina Nyxmoor and destroyed what tethered you to the Cult of Lazhardrak.”
Orrivane turns toward me with, unexpectedly for someone usually so relaxed, tears in his eyes. He comes up to me and gives me a tight hug.
I hear his breath shaking and I awkwardly return the hug.
Jacob Cloud, the Fake Champion, disciple of Baalrek the Bastard, I hear the Headmaster's voice in my head. How fitting.
*
With Orrivane's business taken care of, the Headmaster now on the tracks of the Cult of Lazhardrak, and Elder Karl on his way to make money off the Runic Notation I gave him, it’s now time to assess my personal progress toward Platinum Rank.
Name: Jacob Cloud
Class: Infernal Architect – Lv. 172 → 194
Core Skills:
Hellbane’s Sword – Lv. 65 → 100 (Platinum – Offensive)
Flame Slash – Lv. 85 → 100 (Gold – Offensive)
Flame Shield – Lv. 89 → 100 (Gold – Defensive)
Flame Armor – Lv. 100 (Gold – Defensive)
Infernal Veins – Lv. 89 → 100 (Platinum – Constitution)
The Grimoire Extraordinaire (Rainbow – Support)
Class Skills:
Furnace Core (Passive) – Lv. 100
Flameform Blueprint (Active) – Lv. 100
Infernal Thread (Passive) – Lv. 100
Ember Keystone (Active) – Lv. 44 → 68
Architect’s Insight (Passive) – Lv. 100
Hellspire (Active) – Lv. 100
Ignition Array (Active) – Lv. 57 → 79
Attributes:
Strength (STR): 345 → 369 (+2 Free Attributes)
Dexterity (DEX): 404 → 500 (+52 Free Attributes)
Endurance (END): 245 → 267
Vitality (VIT): 404 → 500 (+52 Free Attributes)
Intelligence (INT): 780 → 1000 (+132 Free Attributes)
Spirit (SPI): 780 → 1000 (+132 Free Attributes)
Wisdom (WIS): 635 → 701
Charisma (CHA): 18 → 18
Luck (LCK): 10 → 10
Unassigned Points: 0
Other Skills:
Minor Cookery – Lv. 34 (Iron)
Greater Night Vision – Lv. 92 → 100 (Gold)
Light – Lv. 67 → 79 (Bronze)
Expert Pickaxe Mastery – Lv. 91 → 100 (Platinum)
Greater Mineral Sense – Lv. 94 → 100 (Platinum)
Mana Well – Lv. 100 (Gold)
Vibrational Hyperawareness – Lv. 100 (Platinum)
Heavenly Intuition – Lv. 89 → 100 (Platinum)
Platinum Grip – Lv. 42 → 88 (Platinum)
Expert Endurance – Lv. 87 → 100 (Platinum)
Expert Strength – Lv. 77 → 90 (Platinum)
Infernal Wings of Ash – Lv. 100 (Gold)
Web of Withering – Lv. 100 (Gold)
Diavolo Draw – Lv. 78 → 91 (Gold)
Black Flame – Lv. 35 → 44 (Fusion Skill – Platinum)
Blood of the Ancients – Lv. 58 → 79 (Platinum)
Tribulation of the Damned – Lv. 26 → 44 (Platinum)
First Step of Mephistus – Lv. 22 → 39 (Platinum)
Sigil of Baal – Lv. 16 → 34 (Platinum)
Hellish Reversal – Lv. 1 → 20 (Diamond)
Greater Fire Resistance – Lv. 100 (Platinum)
Shard Dominion – Lv. 94 → 100 (Platinum)
Greater Striking Rhythm – Lv. 100 (Platinum)
Quake Balance – Lv. 100 (Gold)
Greater Fault Line Instinct – Lv. 100 (Platinum)
*
Orrivane stands under the dorm arch as he ponders what to do next.
He has been thinking all day of a way to thank Jacob. Yet, nothing really came to his mind.
The day will not leave him. Gratitude sits in his chest and has no words. Now, he walks toward Jacob’s building because walking feels like a way to think.
Moonlight spills across the campus, and shadows stretch long from the dorm walls. Orrivane’s boots crunch on the gravel path as he moves toward the noise. His mind churns with thoughts of Jacob. Jacob saved him, pulled him from the edge.
From my soul being shattered…
Jacob’s not the strongest, but he’s clever, and he knows about his Rainbow Skill. Orrivane clenches his fists as he walks. He wants to help Jacob, maybe in a Dungeon, maybe somewhere else. Jacob will need someone, and Orrivane owes him that much.
Sound rolls out from the practice field behind the dorm.
Strikes? At this hour? Who’s training? Orrivane thinks.
A dull boom lifts dust from the ground.
Another boom answers it.
Then a flurry of thuds.
The sounds grow louder, sharper. Booms echo through the night, and the ground trembles under his feet. Orrivane tilts his head.
He turns the corner and sees the field lit by a few training lamps, dummies set in a ring. Some lean, some lie split, some hang on ropes.
He squints into the dark, but the moonlight only shows shapes moving fast. Who’s out here? The Academy’s on break, and most students are gone. Only a few stay behind, and none train this late. Orrivane’s heart picks up. The booms sound wrong, too heavy. Powerful, for sure, but too heavy.
Like someone just gained a massive increase in power but can’t control their strength.
He steps off the path and moves toward the field.
His thoughts keep circling back to Jacob. Orrivane’s never been good with words, but the gratitude in his chest feels like a weight he cannot carry alone. He tried all day to find a way to say it, to show it. Nothing fits. He thought about offering to spar, but Jacob’s not built for that. He thought about sharing loot from a Dungeon run, but that feels cheap. Jacob deserves more, something real. Orrivane’s fingers twitch as he walks.
The booms grow deafening, and Orrivane crouches behind a low wall near the practice field. He peers over the edge. Training dummies stand in rows, some splintered, some smoking. A massive figure moves among them, fast and precise. Orrivane narrows his eyes. The figure’s huge, broader than any student he knows. It weaves between the dummies, striking with force that shakes the ground. Each hit sends a boom rolling across the field, and Orrivane’s breath catches. He knows that shape. It’s Lancelot, Jacob’s Squire.
Lancelot’s fat frame moves with impossible speed. He spins, and his fist crashes into a dummy, splitting it in half. Wood shards fly, and the ground quakes again. Orrivane’s jaw tightens. Lancelot’s not supposed to move like that.
He has seen Lancelot fight in the Tomb of Fate, but he wasn’t this fast. Nor even close to this strong.
He’s heavy, slow, a wall of muscle meant to block, not dance. Yet, here he is, dodging and striking with a grace that makes no sense. Lancelot pivots, and his foot slams into another dummy, sending it toppling. The boom echoes, and Orrivane’s heart pounds. He edges closer, staying low.
Lancelot pauses, chest heaving, and turns toward the dorm. Moonlight catches his face, and Orrivane sees focus there, sharp and unyielding.
How’s Lancelot doing this? Is it magic? Training? Something Jacob did? Orrivane’s gratitude twists into confusion. He came to help Jacob, but now he’s watching Jacob’s Squire move like a Knight.
A strong one, too.
But right when Orrivane thinks that this is the full-extent of Lancelot’s power, the large-sized Squire is bathed in a golden light.
Three practice dummies walk on their own.
Wait, those are Diamond Rank dummies. Early Diamond Rank, but still. What the hell is he doing?
Orrivane is about to intervene before Lancelot hurts himself, but…
BOOM!
Lancelot throws a palm at one and it just…
Orrivane cannot believe his own eyes.
The dummy has just been pulverized!
Who the hell is Jacob’s Squire?!
Chapter 142
Iskara stands in the grand hall of House Drazhal because her parents dragged her home during the Academy break, her body still aching from the training that never ends since Azrakel fell. Maelthra Drazhal paces before the throne while Kaedor sits rigid with arms crossed, their stares heavy with blame since Azrakel’s death reached them days ago. She knows they expect her to have restrained him and forced him to see reason, yet the memory of his corrupted rage haunts her and she wonders how she could have stopped him alone.
“You let your brother die at the hands of a thief,” Queen Matriarch Maelthra says as she stops pacing and turns to face Iskara directly. “Azrakel betrayed us all when he joined that cult, yet you should have restrained him and forced him to see reason instead of standing by while a human with stolen Infernal powers ended him.”
Iskara clenches her fists but keeps her voice steady because arguing now would only worsen the shame, and she thinks how was she supposed to do that when Azrakel had sunk so deep into Corruption that his veins ran black and his eyes burned with Asmodeus's fire.
“Azrakel chose his path and fought us all in the Tomb of Father, Mother,” she replies as regret twists in her chest. “I struck him with Boon Transfer to weaken him for the team, yet Jacob Cloud finished the fight because the moment demanded it and I couldn't hold Azrakel back alone since the Corruption had made him too powerful.”
King Consort Kaedor leans forward from the throne and his eyes narrow with disappointment that cuts deeper than any blade.
“You brought shame on House Drazhal because you failed to restrain him yourself and make him see reason before it came to death. Azrakel was your blood even if he turned traitor, and you let an outsider steal that duty while a pretender delivered the end. That human mocks our heritage since he wields powers he never earned, yet you requested we grant him exemption from the hunt and we regret honoring that plea now because look at what it cost us.”
Iskara meets their gazes without flinching although she thinks again how was she supposed to make Azrakel see reason when he snarled at her like a beast and swung his warhammer with violet fire that scorched the ground.
“I fought Azrakel with everything I had and weakened him so that we could win,” she says as anger simmers beneath her calm. “Jacob's strike came because Azrakel was beyond restraint or reason, not because I shirked my role, and the exemption was right then since he saved us all and he had already saved my life!”
“Behave yourself, Iskara Drazhal! You shall speak to your Royal Mother with respect or we’ll deliver the appropriate punishment for your breath of etiquette!” Queen Matriarch Maelthra thunders “We spared Jacob Cloud at your word since you claimed he deserved mercy for his role in you perfecting the control over Lucifer’s Veins, yet Azrakel's death stains our name because a pretender delivered it instead of you restraining him to bring him back. We question your judgment now since this weakness invites rivals to test us and you should have held him until his senses returned.”
Iskara bites her tongue because she knows defiance will make her parents tighten their control, and she bows deeper while their words cut into her. Queen Matriarch Maelthra's eyes flash with infernal fire that matches the training that made her and Azrakel bled for years.
“Enough of your excuses, daughter,” her father says, and he rises from the throne because the King Consort rarely stirs without purpose, and his voice echoes off the hall's walls. “We are willing to revoke the exemption we granted that human thief because your plea blinded us to the insult he represents and because Azrakel's blood demands retribution that you failed to deliver. You will return to the Academy as our eyes on Jacob Cloud, and you monitor him closely and report every whisper of his stolen power back to us or forfeit your claim to Lucifer's Veins entirely. We want to know whether there’s anything we can claim from him.”
Queen Matriarch Maelthra nods because she savors the weight of the command. Iskara straightens her back because the threat strikes at her core, where the Veins pulse with inherited fire that Jacob helped her tame, yet now that same power dangles as a prize she could lose, and she feels the split widen between the duty that forged her and Jacob.
She leaves the throne because silence will do more than begging. The corridor feels narrow as the yards where the Infernals stole her childhood. They taught her glory and pain, and they left no room for real bonds. Azrakel fell, and the loneliness grew. Jacob cut through it because he somehow understood her immediately, and he was the reason why they had not succumbed to Azrakel.
She enters her room which a choice standing in front of her. If she watches Jacob, her house may use it to hunt him, and if she stays silent, they may call her a traitor. If she loses her Rainbow Skill, she loses everything she’s worked so hard for, and if she defies her house, she could start a war.
Iskara sits on the bed and looks at the scars that made her strong and hollow.
Duty ties her to a dead dream, and Jacob…
She doesn’t know where putting her fate in Jacob’s hands would bring her.
Chapter 143
The corridors of Ytrial stretch quiet and cold this morning.
I walk through the misted courtyards with Elder Karl’s words still echoing in my head.
“If you’re looking for Professor Veythra,” he had said, stroking his long white beard, “you’ll find her by the eastern wing of the Astral Annex. She’s the only Infernal left who still teaches full-time now, did you know that?”
So here I am, crossing the long stone path that cuts through the outer gardens. The smell of wet moss clings to the air, and distant bells toll over the roofs.
Then—noise.
A rumble. Shouts.
I pause halfway down the archway when the sound grows louder—hundreds of feet, pounding.
I turn just as a crowd spills from the main street, students and servants alike rushing past in one sweeping current.
“What’s going on?” I grab the sleeve of the nearest boy sprinting by.
He nearly trips as he shouts back, “You didn’t hear? The Elven Royalty caught a traitor! They’re holding a public trial—Trial by Combat!”
“A trial? Here?” I ask, frowning. “At the Academy?”
“With the Headmaster’s permission!” the boy yells, already running again.
I stare after him.
The Headmaster allowing that? That doesn’t sound right.
Still, curiosity wins.
I glance once toward the eastern wing, where Elder Karl said Veythra would be waiting, and then toward the growing roar in the distance.
If the Headmaster really approved this, there must be a reason.
I adjust my cloak and follow the flood of people through the main arena at the Academy.
*
Walking through this giant crowd of people hurrying to see what I suspect is a public execution masqueraded as a trial by combat feels dirty.
Why are they rejoicing so much?
They said it’s an Elven traitor, no?
So, what stakes do non-Elves have in wanting to see such a person die other than selfishness?
To be fair, even though I’m walking slowly and not hurrying to this spectacle of death, I am no better. Curiosity moves me just as it moves everybody else. Maybe I’m just trying to think I’m more dignified than I actually am. Maybe I should run toward it, instead. That almost feels more genuine than taking this high ground.
The air is humid when I enter the arena—probably because of all the bodies packed together.
I haven’t seen so many people at the Champion’s test.
There’s a rabid hunger in the eyes of all the present.
A little realization hits me.
You can’t kill someone at the Academy and go unpunished. The Headmaster is the one who doles out death—he’s got a monopoly over it. This is one of the very few occasions when someone was allowed to kill somebody else. But why Elves? Why here?
When I look to the main box, the one overlooking the entire arena, where the most important people sit, I see the Headmaster there with a neutral expression behind his golden frames. Beside him, there’s Elves—many of them. All adorned in rich clothing and jewellry.
Why’s the Headmaster doing this? I wonder. Didn’t he say that justice was the most important thing? That he didn’t care about nobility and royalty? Then why allow these people to slaughter someone, even a criminal, here? What is he thinking?
For a moment, I see the golden rims of the most powerful man in the Academy turn to me. But maybe it’s just the sunlight playing games with me.
When the Headmaster raises a hand, a few minutes later, the entire arena goes quiet. The marbled bleachers watch in rapt attention. But it’s not the Headmaster talking. An old Elf walks forward and speaks, amplifying his voice with Mana.
“My name is Thalion of the Royal House Arendor! I thank the generosity of the Headmaster for gracing us with the privilege of being able to execute one of the most despicable people our country has sadly produced!”
A gate trembles, slowly pulled up by levers until the heavy, spiked metal fully opens.
The heavy clanking of chains fills the silent arena as a blue-eyed woman…
She’s not even a woman. That’s a girl. She’s gotta be my age, I think to myself.
“Witness the Bastard!”
A wave of boos, mostly from Elves students, rises from the bleachers.
The girl stumbles forward with chains that drag across the sand and clank with every step she takes.
Her hair hangs matted and dark over pointed ears, and bruises mark her pale skin where the guards must have beaten her.
She looks up at the crowd with defiant eyes.
Thalion continues his speech while the boos fade into murmurs.
“This bastard child of House Arendor betrayed her own blood! She leaked secrets to the rebels and caused the deaths of hundreds in our borders! Justice demands her life, and the Royal House will see it done through combat! Who among you will champion our cause and end this filth?”
The crowd roars again, but I feel a twist in my gut because this doesn't sit right. She's barely sixteen and she’s done all that?
Who the hell is this girl?
A tall Elf steps into the arena from the opposite gate, his armor gleaming silver and etched with runes that pulse with mana. He carries a longbow and a sword at his hip, and his face shows no emotion because duty has hardened him.
“I, Lirael of House Arendor, will execute the sentence,” he declares with a voice that echoes through the amplification spell.
The girl stands there in chains while her eyes lock on Lirael, and she doesn't flinch even though death stares her down. Lirael draws his bow with a slow pull, and an arrow notches itself as if mana guides it. The crowd hushes because they sense the kill coming, but then gates creak open from the sides of the arena. Five more Elves step in, each armored like Lirael, and they fan out around the girl so that she faces a circle of executioners.
“What the hell?” I mutter.
“Six counts of treason. This bastard girl faces six counts. Therefore, five have offered to be the champions for this trial besides my nephew.”
Ok, this is preposterous.
Elves hate those who do not conform to their society, Jacob Cloud. Among all the races, they’re the most neurotic. And it’s not close.
King Baalrek, I don’t know what the girl has done, but can I do something?
I look as they remove the chains from the girl and give her a simple, rusty sword.
When Lirael’s aura erupts, I raise an eyebrow.
That guy’s at Intermediate Diamond Rank…
Another aura erupts from one of the five fighter. Another Intermediate Diamond Rank aura...
Both of them are at Intermediate Diamond Rank.
But then, water starts dripping from the girl and surrounding her, with her aura matching the other two’s.
The rest of them are mostly at Early Diamond Rank, but none of their auras feel particularly impressive.
The one with an Intermediate Diamond Rank aura, a woman with silver hair braided tight, raises a spear while she chants under her breath, and runes glow along the shaft.
“I, Elowen of House Arendor, join to ensure justice,” she says, and her voice booms through the same spell. “I will put an end to this whore.”
Next to her, a broad-shouldered Elf draws twin daggers that flicker with green light, and he positions himself so that he blocks any escape toward the west gate. “I, Thorne of House Arendor, stand for the fallen,” he declares, and his tone bites like acid because hatred fuels it.
The third Elf, taller than the others, summons a whip of vines that crackle with energy, and he coils it ready while he steps closer to the girl's flank. “I, Sylas of House Arendor, enforce the blood debt,” he announces, and the crowd cheers louder now that the spectacle grows.
Fourth comes an archer like Lirael, but she carries a crossbow loaded with bolts that hum faintly, and she kneels to aim low so that her shot targets the legs.
“I, Miriel of House Arendor, seal the traitor's fate,” she states flatly, and no emotion shows on her face because duty has numbed her.
The last one, an older Elf with scars across his cheeks, wields a greatsword that he plants tip-down in the sand, and he stands guard at the girl's back so that she can't retreat. “I, Garrick of House Arendor, end the shame,” he growls, and his grip tightens on the hilt while mana surges through the blade.
“Nimirea Arendor, are you ready to pay for your crimes?” the old Elf asks.
The arena holds his breath.
“Who is that, that all these Elves want to kill her so bad?” I hear someone ask.
An Elf student spits on the ground and replies, “she’s the Wandering Knight’s bastard daughter. Sir Renquell Arendel.”
I widen my eyes.
“He never raised her. No one knows how she got this strong. She was raised by savages, they say. She aided the anti-royalists who often try and overturn the monarchy.”
“Damn,” a spectator comments before shrugging. “I guess she deserves it then.”
This makes no sense. Why would the Headmaster allow this?!
There’s something you can do, Jacob Cloud. But there’s a good chance it will get you killed.
Suddenly, I turn to see two familiar faces walking towards me.
You know what? I think I’ve got this.
*
“Let the trial begin!”
Nimirea takes a good look at her opponents.
This is going to be a tough fight, she thinks.
The old Elf's words hang in the air before the arena erupts in cheers, and she grips her rusty sword tighter while her water aura surges like a tidal wave that crashes against the sand.
She doesn't waste time on words, and she launches forward as Lirael releases his first arrow that whistles through the air with mana trailing behind it. But Nimirea twists her body in a fluid dodge so the arrow buries itself in the ground behind her, and she counters by summoning a whip of water that lashes out and forces Lirael to leap back before he can notch another.
Elowen charges next with her spear thrusting like a serpent's strike, but Nimirea parries the blow with her sword while she channels water to form a shield that absorbs the impact and sends Elowen stumbling sideways.
Thorne darts in from the side with his daggers flashing green, and he aims for her ribs because he sees an opening, yet Nimirea spins and kicks up sand that blinds him momentarily so she can slash at his arm and draw first blood.
The crowd gasps as Thorne retreats with a curse, and Sylas cracks his vine whip forward to ensnare her legs, but she leaps over it while her water aura hardens into spikes that she hurls at him and forces him to roll away.
Miriel fires a bolt from her crossbow that hums with energy, and it grazes Nimirea's shoulder because she's dodging multiple attacks now, but she doesn't flinch as she retaliates with a wave of water that knocks Miriel off her knees and soaks the sand around her.
Garrick swings his greatsword in a wide arc from behind, and his Mana surges through the blade so it glows with power, yet Nimirea ducks under it while she sweeps her leg to trip him and follows up with a sword thrust that he barely blocks with the hilt. She's holding her own against all six because her movements flow like a river that adapts to every obstacle, and the Elves exchange frustrated glances as they realize she's not the easy kill they expected.
But the pressure builds when Lirael and Elowen coordinate their attacks so Lirael shoots high while Elowen stabs low, and Nimirea deflects the arrow but takes a shallow cut from the spear that slows her step. Thorne presses the advantage with his daggers slicing in quick succession, and she blocks most but tires as Sylas's vine whip finally wraps around her ankle and yanks her off balance.
Miriel reloads and aims for her chest while Garrick raises his greatsword for a finishing blow, but it's Thorne—who's one of the minor warriors at Early Diamond Rank—who sees the real opening and lunges with his daggers poised to stab her side because her guard drops for a split second.
“Shard Dominion!”
In a flash of fire, the dagger gets redirected away.
Nimirea turns to see a young man with deep blue eyes smiling at her.
Thalion, the old man, whirls toward the young man with fury in his eyes.
“Who dares interrupt royal justice?”
“I do,” he says. “Jacob Cloud, Champion of the Academy. If this is trial by combat, then, she can be aided by her own champions.”
The six move closer again.
Thalion roars in laughter.
“I know of your name! You little rat,” he says, ignoring the Headmaster behind him. “Well, if you choose to die today, that will be to the great benefit of my people! We’ll settle the score with not one, but two bastards!”
“Oh, see, I didn’t say I was coming alone,” Jacob smiles and one very heavy figure jumps off the bleachers into the arena, cratering the ground.
“Ouch, ouch. Oh man, that hurt!”
Everyone looks stunned at the fat guy, and even Thalion can’t help but laugh like a maniac.
“And that’s your help?! HAHAHA!”
But then, the air freezes and becomes colder as a mage slowly levitates down the bleacher, surrounded by one of the rarest types of magic.
Void Magic.
“My name is Orrivane Nyxmoor. I choose to partake on the side of Nimirea Arendor.”
We walk beside Nimirea and I announce.
“This is round two. Let’s have some fun.”
Comments
Joshua Little
Thanks for the chapter.
IdolTrust
Get some more favor from the wandering knight. Maybe another waifu for the not-harem.
Nick Lembcke
Awesome chapters. love the story.
