The ward mage’s slide comes to an end, feet digging in, cloak flaring behind him.

  Same white as the rest—but his cloak bears a silver sun etched over the heart. Eerily similar to mine. Coincidence or not.

  His face stays obscured behind the haze of his own shield, but I can feel the tension. He’s tall—easily over seven feet. Broad, solid. Built like someone who was born to hold the line.

  He turns toward his allies—now reduced to ash and broken limbs.

  My lightning arcs took out at least ten.

  He knows it.

  Knows the choice I’m forcing him into.

  Shield himself? Or them?

  He doesn’t have enough mana for both.

  And they know it too. Desperation hits them like a fever—screams rise, war cries break free. Bullets don’t work, so they draw blades, spades, whatever they’ve got left and charge me like zealots.

  Straight into the storm.

  Good.

  Let’s test how far his shield really stretches.

  I plunge my blade into the ground.

  The nearest one—I grab.

  He barely has time to scream before I hurl him toward the mage.

  The mage catches, slows him—saves him. Useless.

  I grab another.

  Wait.

  If I can’t pierce the shield…

  Why don’t I just crush it?

  With the squad leader squirming in my grip, I squeeze. Every ounce of mana floods into my arms. The flare turns harsh—bright, crimson. The air warps around us. Cracks form beneath my fingers, not in bone, but in the mana itself.

  His allies slash and stab at me with whatever they’ve got—machetes, trench knives, clubs—but my shield doesn’t so much as flicker. Their weapons slide off like rain against glass. Unbroken. Absolute.

  I squeeze harder.

  The man screams.

  The shield groans.

  And then—snap.

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  The ward shatters.

  In the same breath, so does his skull.

  But it took too long.

  My gaze lifts—back toward the right flank.

  The floating bastard’s almost here.

  And he won’t wait his turn.

  I go for a quicker option—my blade’s back in hand.

  This time, I don’t hold back.

  I channel raw power into the swing, enough to split a hill in half.

  One soldier charges. Brave. Stupid.

  I aim for him.

  He braces—his shield flares solid, pulsing with borrowed strength. The ward mage’s doing.

  My blade whistles toward him—then stops just short.

  It doesn’t need to land.

  The air detonates.

  Massive arcs of lightning rip outward, forking through the squad like wildfire.

  The mage panics.

  He thought it was a direct strike—one soldier targeted, nothing more. But the arcs keep spreading, jagged and ruthless.

  He scrambles to shift the ward, trying to adapt—but too slow.

  He only saves himself and five others near enough to catch the redirect.

  The rest?

  Gone.

  The one I feinted toward—left unshielded in the confusion—takes the full blast. His body jerks, smokes and collapses. The others die without even that much ceremony.

  The haze around the mage’s head pulses like a furnace—boiling, furious.

  Only five remain.

  And another idea sparks.

  I charge, blade flaring with lightning, heat building in my limbs.

  This time, I’m not slicing. I’m hammering.

  Pile-driving them straight into the dirt.

  They move to intercept—desperate, flanking, trying to contain me. Like that’s ever worked.

  I lock onto the one in the middle and swing—an overhead arc meant to flatten, not cleave. Like slamming a stake into packed soil.

  I expect —my blade crashing against a shield, burying them in the ground from the backlash.

  But—

  No shield.

  No flare.

  No resistance.

  My blade cuts clean through.

  Lightning arcs out, catching the others.

  They drop, twitching, burning.

  The mage didn’t even try.

  He’s given up on protecting them. Every ounce of mana saved for himself now.

  Smart.

  Cowardly.

  Not enough to win.

  What now? Is he just buying time?

  Hoping his little Koln knockoff shows up and cleans this up for him?

  If so—

  He’s already out of time.

  I charge him.

  If he’s going to rob me of my experimentation, then fine—he can be the experiment.

  Blade flaring, lightning clinging tight to the steel, I bear down on him like a living hammer.

  He just stands there.

  Perfect.

  My whole body burns with power—lightning surging through muscle and bone. I’m the most powerful pile-driver the world’s ever seen.

  I swing.

  The arc splits the air—screams past the sound barrier, cracks the sky, rattles the ground.

  Blue lightning leaves an afterimage behind the blade, slicing through mist and silence.

  My Zweihander connects.

  The shield flares blue.

  But he doesn’t sink.

  The earth around us does.

  I skid to a halt, eyes narrowing.

  His shield spills from his feet, spreading wide, pressing down. Not just defending—redirecting. Compacting.

  He’s turning the earth beneath him into packed dirt.

  Like a living compactor.

  Wait—

  Compactor × pile driver…

  Mega business opportunity.

  We shouldn’t be fighting.

  We should start a landscaping company.

  I leap back, boots skidding across scorched earth.

  Alright.

  So he can shield himself from the blow and redirect the force so he doesn’t get buried.

  Great.

  Pile-driver plan: dead.

  Landscaping company: on hold.

  I pace in a wide arc, watching him.

  He doesn’t follow. Doesn’t taunt. Just waits—shield humming low, still pressed into the earth like he’s rooted there.

  He’s not trying to win.

  He’s trying to outlast me.

  Smart.

  But patience won’t save him.

  Not if I stop playing fair.

  “So—what are you waiting for? Your flying boyfriend?”

  He doesn’t bite.

  “You know, I actually thought you were pretty cool. Shielding everyone, taking the hits. Noble stuff.”

  I shrug, casual.

  “But then you turned into a cowardly little compactor—kinda killed the vibe.”

  “Shut it,” he growls—low.

  The haze around his shield shifts. Tightens. Distorts.

  I grin.

  “Oh? Not a fan of the nickname? Or is it the truth stinging? That you’re just a craven coward who gets his soldiers killed while he plays statue?”

  That does it.

  The shield flares—hard. Blue light constricts misformed around his body, no more subtle spill into the earth, no more calm diffusion.

  He’s rattled.

  Perfect.

  I launch the moment it locks—lightning bursting from my limbs, blade blazing.

  Fifth Form—Finisher.

  The blade screams forward, a jagged streak of blue lightning carving through the thin mist, zeroed in on the gap his temper just opened.

  The blade connects.

  Shield ruptures—fractures spider across it like glass under pressure.

  Then it breaks.

  My lightning barrels through, the blade punches clean—and his arm goes with it.

  The limb flies, blood trailing like a streamer.

  He screams—finally.

  I pivot to finish, blade already mid-arc.

  But a sudden gale slams into me—raw, howling, and laced with mana.

  It rips me off my feet, sends me skidding across the cratered earth, cloak snapping, boots carving trenches in the dirt.

  I slam to a stop, blade still in hand, breath short.

  Overhead—

  Guess who decided now was the time to show up.

  Floating in slow, dramatic fashion like a self-important weather god.

  The one who fled before.

  His mana flares—wind coiling tight around him.

  I spit dust, steady my stance, and glare up at him.

  “Took you long enough.”