The road trembled beneath marching boots.

  Five hundred soldiers advanced in disciplined ranks, their movement perfectly synchronized. Steel armor clattered in unison, shields locked so tightly together that no gap remained. Spears formed a bristling forest at the front, their tips leveled with ruthless precision. Behind them, archers stood shoulder to shoulder, bows drawn, arrowheads glinting coldly beneath the pale sky.

  From a distance, it looked less like an army—

  —and more like a closing wall.

  It was not a battle formation.

  It was an execution line.

  Aldric Rowan stood alone in the center of the road.

  Wind stirred his coat. Dust rolled across the dirt beneath his boots. The air felt heavy, compressed, as though the land itself was holding its breath.

  He did not raise his sword.

  He simply breathed.

  Slow.

  Measured.

  Calm.

  “…So this is how far you’re willing to go,” he murmured.

  From the ranks, the commander lifted his arm.

  The movement was sharp. Decisive.

  “ARCHERS—LOOSE!”

  The sky vanished.

  Hundreds of arrows screamed downward at once, blotting out the sun as they fell like a black storm. The sound was overwhelming—bowstrings snapping, arrowheads tearing through the air, death descending in a single breath.

  From the soldiers’ perspective—

  The man at the center of the road didn’t dodge.

  He didn’t run.

  He disappeared.

  The arrows struck the ground—

  —and split apart an instant later.

  A thunderous crack followed as compressed air detonated outward. The shockwave rolled across the front ranks like an invisible hammer. Shields rattled violently. Men staggered back, boots digging into the dirt as formation buckled.

  “W-What—?!”

  “Where did he go—?!”

  Aldric reappeared ten meters ahead.

  To the soldiers, it felt as though he had skipped through space.

  His sword was already swinging.

  “First Form — Thousandfold Severance.”

  One slash.

  The blade did not glow.

  It did not flare.

  The air itself was cut.

  A crescent-shaped pressure wave tore forward, smashing into the shield wall. Steel split cleanly in half. Spears snapped like dry twigs. Soldiers were hurled backward, bodies lifting off the ground as though struck by an unseen giant.

  The wave carved a straight path through the ranks—

  —and only stopped when it reached the far end of the formation.

  For a moment—

  Silence.

  Then panic exploded.

  “H-Hold formation!”

  “Don’t break—!”

  “STAND YOUR—!”

  Too late.

  Aldric stepped forward.

  Each step carried him several meters. The ground cracked faintly beneath his boots, dust lifting in delayed bursts. His speed was not explosive—it was continuous, relentless, as though the world itself struggled to keep pace with him.

  From the soldiers’ eyes—

  They couldn’t track him.

  They only saw the aftermath.

  Steel flashed.

  A silver blur passed through the formation. Men collapsed seconds later, armor splitting apart along impossibly precise lines. Some looked down in confusion before their legs gave out. Others never realized they had been struck at all.

  A spear lunged toward Aldric’s back.

  He twisted mid-step.

  The spear shattered against the flat of his blade.

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  The soldier fell, breath ripped from his lungs.

  Another desperate order rang out.

  “ARCHERS—FIRE AGAIN!”

  Arrows rose.

  Aldric raised his sword slightly.

  “Second Form — Flowing Void.”

  His blade traced a smooth, circular arc.

  From the soldiers’ perspective—

  The arrows slowed.

  Then stopped.

  They hung in the air for a fraction of a heartbeat—

  before bursting apart simultaneously, shredded by invisible pressure. The recoil blasted backward, throwing archers off their feet as bows snapped and strings tore loose.

  Fear spread like wildfire.

  “He’s not human—!”

  “MONSTER—!”

  “RETREAT—!”

  Aldric didn’t slow.

  He didn’t rush.

  He moved at a pace that made time hesitate.

  I can’t linger, he thought.

  Elowen… Azelion…

  Minutes passed.

  When the dust settled—

  The road was littered with bodies.

  Five hundred soldiers lay scattered across dirt and fields—disarmed, broken, groaning. Blood stained the earth, armor twisted and split as though cleaved by an invisible god.

  Aldric stood at the center.

  Breathing steady.

  Sword lowered.

  “…Five hundred,” he said quietly.

  Then—

  The air changed.

  Pressure descended.

  From the forest edges, five figures stepped forward.

  And every surviving soldier felt it.

  These were different.

  The first was tall and broad, skin pale and cracked like stone. With each step, the earth responded—ground rising and shifting beneath his feet.

  The second was a slender woman wrapped in floating crimson threads. They moved as if alive, vibrating softly, each strand thin enough to be missed—and sharp enough to kill.

  The third flickered in and out of existence, his form unstable, like a shadow tearing through space.

  The fourth knelt, palm pressed to the ground as glowing runes spread outward, forming a circular pattern beneath him.

  And the fifth—

  Silver eyes.

  Calm.

  Observant.

  A soldier, half-buried in dirt, stared at the scene in horror.

  …No way.

  The earth surged.

  Stone spikes erupted toward Aldric’s legs.

  Aldric reacted instantly.

  He kicked off the ground, launching himself forward as the stone snapped shut behind him, pulverizing empty air.

  Earth manipulation. Broad range, slow recovery, he assessed.

  Crimson threads slashed through the space he had vacated.

  Dozens of them.

  Aldric twisted mid-air.

  His sword blurred.

  Each swing produced a sharp crack as compressed air detonated. Threads were severed instantly, falling lifelessly to the dirt.

  Space warped.

  The third figure appeared behind him, dagger descending.

  Too predictable.

  “Third Form — Reflex Edge.”

  Aldric pivoted mid-landing. His blade snapped backward, striking the instant the man fully reappeared.

  Crack.

  The body flew, blood spraying as it slammed into a tree with bone-shattering force.

  Runes flared.

  Gravity slammed down.

  The ground cratered beneath Aldric’s feet as pressure crushed inward.

  “So, you try to bind me,” Aldric muttered.

  He exhaled.

  Shifted his stance.

  “Fourth Form — Still Horizon.”

  The pressure vanished—

  No.

  It was cut.

  The rune field split apart, symbols collapsing into fading light. Aldric crossed the distance in a blink and struck the caster unconscious with the pommel.

  Three down.

  The silver-eyed man clapped slowly.

  “Magnificent,” he said softly.

  “An honor to face you, Swordmaster.”

  The surviving soldier’s blood ran cold.

  Swordmaster…?

  No—

  “…No,” the soldier whispered.

  “…It’s him.”

  Memory surged—an old battlefield, a lone man standing amidst corpses.

  “One of the Five Swordmasters—!”

  “We’re not a match—!”

  Aldric vanished.

  “Fifth Form — Sovereign’s Descent.”

  One step.

  One strike.

  The slash never touched him.

  The pressure alone crushed the silver-eyed man into the earth, every future he perceived collapsing at once.

  Silence returned.

  The field lay in ruins.

  Splintered trees leaned at broken angles. Deep gashes carved the earth where pressure blades had passed, the dirt still trembling faintly as if unwilling to settle. Blood soaked into the road, dark and steaming in the cool air.

  Aldric Rowan stood at the center of it all.

  His sword hung loosely in his hand, its edge unstained despite the carnage around him. His breathing was calm—steady—but his eyes were sharp, alert, never resting.

  Three bodies lay motionless.

  One was unconscious.

  And one—

  The man with silver eyes was still alive.

  Pinned into the earth by sheer pressure, his body twisted unnaturally, bones shattered beyond recovery. Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth, yet—

  He was laughing.

  A dry, rasping sound at first.

  Then louder.

  “Hah… hahah… hahahaha…!”

  Aldric frowned.

  He stepped closer, boots crunching softly against broken stone.

  “It’s futile to laugh like that before you die,” Aldric said coldly.

  “If you have strength left, answer me one thing.”

  The silver-eyed man’s laughter turned wet, bubbling with blood.

  “You knew who I was,” Aldric continued, voice calm but edged with steel.

  “You recognized me as a Swordmaster… and yet you still came.”

  His gaze narrowed.

  “Why?”

  The silver-eyed man’s laughter faltered.

  His lips trembled.

  “…To… distract you,” he whispered.

  The wind brushed past.

  Aldric didn’t react at first.

  “…What?” he asked.

  The words were too soft. Too faint.

  The man coughed violently, blood spraying onto the dirt. He forced his head up, silver pupils already dimming, and spoke again—louder this time, each word dragged out with his last breath.

  “It was… to divert… your attention.”

  Something snapped into place.

  Aldric’s eyes widened.

  His calm shattered.

  He turned sharply, gaze locking onto the road stretching into the distance—the road Elowen’s cart had taken.

  No.

  His grip tightened.

  No—no, no, no—

  So that was it.

  The five hundred soldiers.

  The specialists.

  The deliberate delay.

  They never intended to win.

  They only needed time.

  Aldric looked back just in time to see the silver light in the man’s eyes finally fade, his smile frozen in something close to triumph.

  The body went limp.

  Silence reclaimed the field.

  Aldric stood motionless.

  For the first time since the battle began, his heart skipped.

  “…Damn it,” he whispered.

  His jaw clenched, expression darkening—not with fear, but with cold, burning fury.

  I was too focused.

  I let them pull my attention here.

  He sheathed his sword in a single, sharp motion.

  “If anything happens to them,” he said quietly, voice shaking with restrained violence.

  “I will not forgive myself.”

  The wind screamed as he turned and vanished down the road, the ground cracking beneath his accelerating steps.

  On the Road to the Count’s Estate

  The horse cart jolted violently.

  The horses screamed, rearing in panic before skidding to a halt.

  Elowen’s heart dropped into her stomach.

  Before she could speak, figures emerged from the trees—one by one, then dozens—closing in from all sides. Steel glinted. Faces hidden beneath cloaks and helms.

  Surrounding them.

  A trap.

  She moved without thinking.

  Clutching Azelion tightly against her chest, Elowen stepped down from the cart, placing her body between the child and the encircling figures.

  Her arms trembled—but her voice did not.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “What do you want?”

  The figures parted slowly.

  A man stepped forward.

  His smile was faint. Almost polite.

  Too calm.

  “We already told you,” he said softly.

  His eyes slid past her face—

  —and locked onto the infant in her arms.

  Azelion stirred.

  The man’s smile widened.

  “We’re here for the baby.”

  The wind fell silent.

  And Aldric—

  Was not there.