The wind howled across the ruined stretch of highway, carrying with it the scent of smoke, ozone, and something else—something wrong. The convoy of armored cars stood frozen, engines idling, metal hulks silent as tombstones. In front of them, clad in black and navy, the elite members of the Vandercrest Guild stood like statues. Beyond them, crouched behind the vehicles and makeshift barricades, the military units were barely holding their formation. Many were slumped, unconscious or groaning, as the air itself warped and pulsed with residual mana.
At the far end of the highway stood only two figures—two shapes that did not belong. One of them hadn't moved since the beginning, golden armor gleaming despite the overcast sky. Thalric, unmoving, unreadable. And next to him, hands clasped behind his back, face a serene mask of elegance, stood Dravenor, his long blonde hair flowing gently, untouched by wind, his eyes locked upward.
Up above, the real storm raged.
The battle between Eric Vandercrest, the last prodigy of the guild's founding family, and Oryssia, the childish whirlwind of destruction, was too fast for the eye. They were blurs streaking across the sky, clashing like titans—every collision unleashed a shockwave that cracked the road and shattered nearby light poles. Magical energy whipped through the air, thick as fog, humming with a chaotic rhythm that made weaker men vomit or pass out. One poor soldier in the back lines screamed and started bleeding from the eyes before he was dragged into a medic tent.
From his place of stillness, Dravenor finally spoke. His voice was low, cultured, but it carried.
"She's taking too long."
He didn't look at Thalric, but the golden figure responded without turning.
"That's what happens when you send a child to hunt."
"A child you trained."
Thalric didn't argue.
Oryssia and Eric crashed to the ground in a wave of displaced energy that sent dust and gravel flying. Oryssia landed on her knees, panting, laughing like she'd just gotten off a rollercoaster. Her pink eyes glowed, and her face was twisted in glee.
"Again! Again! Let's go one more! Or ten more!"
Eric stood across from her, sword gleaming with lightning. His coat was torn, revealing armor lined with sigils, and blood trickled from a gash above his eyebrow. His breathing was calm. Controlled. But his knuckles were white, and behind the mask of calm was a flicker of doubt.
From behind him, a voice called out. A young man in guild colors—Kellan, one of the newer recruits—spoke up.
"Guildmaster! Let us fight with you! Together—"
"Shut it, idiot!" snapped Marla, the fire-user and second-in-command. "He's fine. We stay back unless he tells us to move."
Kellan flinched but nodded. The others stood in tense silence, weapons drawn. The air burned with pressure. Magic swirled between the combatants like a living storm.
Oryssia lowered herself, ready to lunge again—
"Enough."
The word wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. Dravenor's voice cut across the battlefield like a blade, and the entire highway seemed to pause.
Even the dust fell still.
Oryssia pouted like a child told to leave the playground.
"Boooring. I was just getting to the fun part…"
Still, she obeyed. She hopped back toward Dravenor, plopping onto the hood of a wrecked car and sitting cross-legged, sulking.
Eric stared at Dravenor now. The calm was back, but his sword didn't lower.
"So now what? You watch your monster lose and decide it's your turn?"
"No," Dravenor said, smiling slightly. "There's no need. This was a courtesy. A delay. A test."
Eric narrowed his eyes.
Dravenor lifted his hand.
A slow, simple motion. No flare. No dramatic light. Nothing visible happened.
He lowered it.
Eric blinked. "What the hell was that supposed to be?"
Dravenor smiled like a parent humoring a child. "A warning."
Confusion flashed across Eric's face, until a sharp gasp came from behind him.
It was Marla. She'd turned to look back at the convoy—and immediately dropped to her knees.
Eric turned.
He froze.
The military was gone.
No screams. No battle. Just… gone.
Behind the armored vehicles, where dozens of armed soldiers had once crouched, were heaps of meat. Mangled. Twisted. Unrecognizable. Some were fused into the cars, some still held their rifles, though their arms were detached. Blood soaked the gravel in silence.
Even Seth, the man who had first reported the enemy's arrival, was there. Or at least, what was left of him.
A wave of nausea hit several of the guild members. Kellan turned and vomited.
Eric didn't move.
Dravenor was smiling again.
"Resistance is admirable. But I don't need admiration. I need results."
His eyes, cold and colorless, locked onto Eric's.
"Join us. Help us prepare this world for the coming of our lord. You've seen what we are. You know how futile this is."
Eric didn't respond immediately. He looked around. His guild. The corpses. Oryssia still sulking. Thalric still unmoved.
Then he turned to his people.
"Weapons ready."
They hesitated. Only for a moment.
Blades hummed. Guns charged. Spells ignited.
Eric looked back at Dravenor.
"If you think humans will work for monsters like you, then you're more deluded than I thought."
Dravenor sighed.
"I was afraid you'd say that."