Bacon Macleod
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B3 Chapter 415: Argent Clash, pt. 5
🕑 Added 2025-09-25 21:30:01 +0000 UTCAcross an engraved depiction of Deadacre and its surrounding landscapes, the scry net projected a layer of warbling blue light.
Every time the artifice detected a fluctuation in the background mana, the illusion would spike, growing brighter and taller above that spot. The problem was its poor resolution — at best, it gave her a general indication of a location. That wasn’t so bad — but the poorly tuned accuracy of the machine was doing her head in. A few times a day, the artefact would spike with a false reading.
Ro sighed, staring at the table with her arms crossed. She knew it was only noise. Just random static, really — yet every time it happened she felt her heart leap into her throat.
It was driving her mad; alone in the room as she was. Rieker tried to keep her company when he could, but he was busy. The demands of being guildmaster waited on no one, not even lost and hunted delvers.
Hells, she was busy too, but Ro couldn’t help but keep watch. She might have a token that would alert her if a signal grew too loud too quickly, but she couldn’t bloody focus on anything else. At least in here, she could still get a little paperwork done — content to keep watch on the scry net out of the corner of her eye.
Yet just like every other hour she’d spent staring, there was never a true signal.
It was all just noise.
Resting her palm on the pommel of her bastard sword, Ro shook her head. This was stupid — she’d run out of busy work a half hour ago. Other things needed her attention; she could get Mally or one of the other attendants to keep an eye on the scry.
Standing up from where she leaned against the wall, she turned to leave — a bitter taste on her tongue.
There was a flash of light, spiking bright in the corner of her eye.
Again, her heart leapt, but she steeled herself.
A blink, and it’d be gone again, as it had been every other time.
The light grew brighter.
She froze.
The light grew brighter still.
Turning slowly, Ro saw a tall peak almost leaping into the air above a map segment halfway to the edge of the table to the east of Deadacre’s marker.
Her mouth went bone dry, even as her knuckles went white from the force with which she gripped the hilt of her sword.
The light grew brighter still.
Roaring upwards, standing nearly three handspans above the table surface. An immense outpour; far, far too large to be noise. Not even a brawl of Silvers could cause such an outflow of energy — at least, not without significant numbers of them.
Her breath caught in her throat, her mind racing. There was only one thing it could be — the very moment she had been waiting for. Yet for the signal to be so strong…the boys must be in great danger.
Kept in her pocket, the communication token keyed to the scry net screeched a piercing note as it vibrated incessantly.
The signal grew stronger, bright enough it would have been blinding to a lesser woman.
Ro was already out the door.
She tore her way through the guild, hallways passing in a blur. They needed to move! Rieker, Arc, Bronwyn and his team — all of them. She had the heading; she’d seen where it was on the map.
Four or five days at a slow walk, half of one if they pushed themselves — less, if they had a little help. Thank the gods she had insisted they all be prepared, with gear ready in storage artefacts.
Dipping into her own, Ro summoned a cluster of potions to her hands. They would need them if they were going to make it in time, cost be damned. The alchemist who’d brewed them for her said the backlash would be fierce, but it would let them arrive in a couple hours at most.
Shattered bloody axles, with the strength of that signal, even an hour might not be swift enough.
Ro took a corner at speed, inscribed floorboards screaming torturously under the forces involved. An attendant turned the corner — she kicked off the wall, flying over his head before he could even blink.
Everyone would be upstairs, discussing how best to approach the problem of the beasts — even Arc had joined, worried the trouble could spill over into his own city.
Reaching the stairway, she took them ten at a time. An eyeblink later, she hurled open the door to the meeting room. It cracked, slamming into the wall with a colossal boom.
Two golds and four silvers met her entrance, instincts making them all leap to their feet.
Ro hurled her potions at each of them, trusting them to catch.
“We need to go, I just saw a massive spike of energy a few days east of the city. It’s verging on a Gold-tier clash — at least twenty silvers. We can be there in just over an hour if we take the tonics.” Her words all but fell out of her mouth.
Without waiting for their answer, Ro spun on her heel and raced to gather the rest of what they would need.
“For fuck’s sake, Ro, just don’t run ahead! If it’s Gold, we all need to be there!” Rieker roared after her.
…
A clawed hand of terror tore its way up Kerel’s throat. His breaths came heavy, hard, and fast as war raged around him.
It was chaotic, messy, and altogether too fast. He was a rogue — everything he had was built towards his speed and senses, and still he could barely keep up with the pace of the battle. Gods’ rotten scorn, it had been seconds since Yena’s head had been vapourised!
His danger-sense Skill went haywire, screaming at him from every angle. A flash of blue to his left — he flinched as the tree next to him detonated.
Someone collapsed, blood spraying in a cone where their head had once been. Who was it?
Adrenaline surged through his veins as Kerel threw himself to the side, scrambling for cover before the archer could fixate on him. Gods’ fuck! Had that been Vros? That archer had shot straight through the damn tree — even with Silver skill and strength, her arrow should have shattered!
Who the fuck had second tier arrows, the cost was unimaginable!
Breathing in panicked gasps, Kerel desperately tried to figure out how he would survive this.
Lun Li had already fallen, that giant of a skirmisher flicking his blade as her body slid clean off its crystalline edge, blood staining its red.
Quick as a blink, Kerel threw himself to the side. Shade’s Grace saved him; his form wavered as a lance of light shot through where his heart had once been. Yet as soon as he rematerialised, another spike of dread hit. He danced back as an arrow ripped past his chest.
It detonated — a cone of splinters that ripped through his hardened leathers like paper. Gasping, Kerel coughed wetly as the tang of iron filled his mouth. Fucking fuck — he needed help. He wasn’t a frontliner.
This was too much.
But there was no one. Half of them were dead — both mages; all the archers.
That giant demon of a beast had boxed in their only two heavies, batting them around like a cat playing with its food. Heavy paws smashed into Gorosh, the vanguard from the Roanwheat team as the beast stopped the man from pursuing the skirmisher-mage thing.
Clad in steel or not, the man went flying, hitting a tree so hard it splintered. A creaking scream cut through the forest as the trunk fell, collapsing on top of the vanguard.
As soon as the vanguard was downed, the giant badger creature descended on Boruk. Kerel’s heart clenched in his chest as the pirate unleashed everything he had. Wave-like emanations sliced from his blade, roaring with the power of a tsunami as they tore apart earth and branch alike.
Yet when they struck the creature’s chest, Kerel only heard a dull crack. Fine lines appeared in its armour — but they were shallow, and sealed in moments. Gargantuan jaws opened, metallic teeth dripping.
Its roar screamed death as the very leaves in the boughs above him quaked with terror.
Kerel couldn’t stop himself from watching in horror as he danced across the battlefield, dodging and weaving. If he stopped for even a moment, he’d be dead. That ranger nailed every spot half an instant after he touched the ground.
Still, he felt almost magnetised to the pirate's plight, fear holding him in a vice grip.
The beast charged, metallic spikes erupting from the ground in a wave of glinting crystalline facets. Boruck stomped, letting loose his own scream as a surge of mana whirled around him. An ethereal phalanx of skeletal sailors formed, shields raised high. Moving quickly, Boruk slapped his chest — lapping waves surrounding his feet. Another Skill.
Kerel didn’t know if it would be enough. Even the man's yell of defiance had seemed fragile.
The pirate’s defence shattered in a heartbeat as the beast hit him like a ballista. For all the reinforcement of his layered abilities, Boruk crumpled like a child — slamming into the ground and digging a furrow through the earth.
There was a flash of claws — and Kerel watched the man he’d known for thirty years lose his head.
And then the beast was gone again, bounding towards Gorosh, who was dragging himself free of shattered oak. His heavy-plated armour shimmered with some enhancement skill, but Kerel doubted it would matter.
He needed to get the fuck out. But the skirmisher was too fast. If he was to have any hope, that man had to die. He could slip past arrows, dodge lances, even outrun the beast — but not the giant with the crystal sword.
Kerel ripped his gaze across the battlefield and found Minha, the skirmisher from the Roanwheat team, engaging the enemy leader wholeheartedly. Her bastard sword was a blur, slipping through his guard again and again. Whenever he struck, the vambrace on her arm flared, deflecting his blade away. She was focused. For all the man’s power, he wasn’t unbreakable. All she needed was a moment — Kerel could give her that.
Focused and desperate, Kerel tapped every skill he had, uncaring of the resources he burned. He ripped knives from his bandolier and hurled them with explosive force. Each one carried the strength of an alchemical blast, capable of shredding armour and crippling targets as stamina fueled its impact.
Yet his eyes widened as the leader only grinned — his green-gold eyes fiery and bright. Wind howled around him in a torrent, as light spilled from under his breastplate. A moment later, Kerel saw the twisted, jagged designs on his temple flash.
Then Minha stumbled, her eyes glazing. Some affliction — weak, barely pausing her for a second.
Kerel knew what came next.
Desperate, he hurled everything he had, skill after skill, blade after blade. Yet an ill-omened wind roared around the leader, scattering magic and turning blades. With casual ease, he thrust his arm out. Minha was already shaking it off, shock flashing in her eyes.
Swinging wildly, Minha’s blade burned — yet the enemy only spun, catching her blade with his own. His parry seemed to leech all power from her strike, turning it into the flailing of a babe.
A spark jumped at the tip of the man’s crystal sword. He pivoted.
Twisted crystal cleaved through the side of Minha’s head.
She dropped like a rock.
Now it was only him, Gorosh, and Old Yon.
Fuck the skirmisher! No way he was killing that — he had to go, now! He could feel their gaze, fury burning at the height of their bloodsong. They wanted him dead.
He ran.
Danger flared at his back. Kerel threw himself aside — only to feel death where he would land. Gritting his teeth, he triggered his skill again, veering off course.
Wherever he went, danger waited. Three more times he tried to slip the net that closed around him. Dread spiked deep in his belly, there was no way out. He had to take a hit.
So he chose the least lethal.
A blink after he rematerialised, a screaming hunk of metal and flailing limbs crashed into his chest. He gasped. Gorosh, his breastplate torn open, as blood poured from a rent in his chest. Abandoning the bruiser to his fate, Kerel scrambled to his feet.
And met the rising dawn.
An orb of solar magic burned ahead of him, so densely packed it warped the air. Heat radiated so strongly it scorched his skin, even from a dozen strides away.
Resignation hung like a noose from his neck. It was so fast — he still had to try.
Against such a spell, his limited intangibility would be useless. Kicking hard off the ground, Kerel simply ran. Crossing dozens of strides in a blink, the spell struck Gorosh where he had left him.
For a moment, Kerel held out hope.
He could escape, he could! Old Yon was who they were after — the bastard was already running! He could see those violet wires, wrapping around the trees ahead of him, a pallor on the old man's face.
If he cut right, they’d have to pick one to chase down — no way it would be him!
Then he felt a flash of heat, and heard a roaring crack as the sunlit orb detonated behind him.
A flash of white followed quickly after.
Comments
Talmor Keidar
TFTC
Léon Geide
How the turns have tabled, dear Yon xD Again can’t wait for the next chapter
