The gorge lay in ruin. Blood soaked the shattered stone. The monstrous Duskfang Terror twitched once—then fell still.
The Skysea Faction survivors barely had time to breathe.
And then—the howling began.
A wave of spiritual force surged through the land. The chant of the dying beast had reached ears far beyond.
The earth shook.
From the depths of the Bonegrove Ravine, a new tide approached. A screech—a hundred screeches—rattled the cliffs. Shrill cries, guttural growls, and stampeding limbs.
"Prepare yourselves!" Grand Elder Dervan's voice thundered.
Out from the treeline poured chaos.
Two hundred Ferrel Realm beasts—snarling wolves with bone-plated backs, apes twice the size of a man with molten eyes, centipedes hissing dark mist. Each one driven by the call of blood.
Among them: ten Soul Awakening Realm beasts. Great hulking forms cloaked in spectral aura. Their steps cracked stone.
And behind them, slithering through the mists, came three eerie, serpentine beasts—glowing eyes, oil-slicked scales, and aura dense enough to cause air to warp.
The children of the Duskfang.
"This is no longer a battle," whispered Elder Vahn, one of the mid-stage cultivators. "It is a slaughter."
Even Dervan paled.
They raised every barrier they could. Talismans flared. Defensive formations drawn in seconds. But what they faced was overwhelming.
The Ferrel beasts struck first, crashing into the line like a wave. Screams followed. A cultivator's leg was ripped off before he could activate his defensive charm. Another was torn in two by a leaping fangbeast.
The Soul Awakening monsters followed behind—one exhaled black mist, and the talisman users within screamed as their skin blistered.
A boar-like beast charged through three early-stage warriors in one breath, its tusks drenched in viscera.
Blood painted the air.
They fought back—blades, talismans, fists. One elder detonated a spiritual bomb talisman, taking five Ferrel beasts with him.
But it wasn't enough.
The children moved with slow, eerie grace. One touched the ground—black cracks spread. Stone melted into dust. A cultivator stepped too close and dissolved, screaming.
Dervan gritted his teeth. The situation had spiraled beyond control.
Beasts were overwhelming the defenses. Screams of agony and cries for help pierced the air. One after another, Skysea warriors fell.
As chaos reigned, Dervan's hand reached into his robe. His fingers found the talisman—a crimson-edged scroll he had purchased at the auction in the city of Greyveil.
Mystic Flame Talisman.
He had bought twenty. Now, he used the first.
He activated it.
The talisman ignited—red script flaring as a sphere of condensed flame formed in the air. It hovered for a moment, silent, almost underwhelming.
Then it struck the ground.
A brilliant explosion flared out, flames licking the battlefield with hunger. When the fire made contact with non-living surfaces, it exploded fiercely with a wide area of effect. But when it touched the living—even just a flicker—it was different.
The fire spread.
What started as a weak spark grew larger, moving like a virus. It crawled across the target's body, feeding on breath, soul, and essence. Its color shifted from red to deep violet—an unnatural, horrifying hue.
The first Ferrel beast it touched ignited. It howled, writhing violently.
A second nearby creature caught fire before it even made contact. Then a third.
Within seconds, over twenty beasts were alight, purple fire devouring them from within. They didn't burn normally—the flames seemed to drill into their flesh, into their souls, until they fell.
The Soul Awakening beasts bellowed.
They tried to flee. One tried to smother it with its aura.
The Mystic Flame ignored it.
Another was engulfed before it could react. It screamed—an echoing, mournful cry—as its spirit was seared from within.
Then the serpentine horrors arrived.
They coiled around fallen comrades, snarling.
One tried to retreat.
Too late.
The Mystic Flame leapt, wrapped around its body, and within moments, it convulsed violently and exploded in a burst of violet fire.
The remaining two hissed, slithered back, summoned spiritual mist to counter it.
It only fueled the flame.
They tried to smother it under stone and ash.
It danced across the rocks, latched onto scales, and roared higher.
They died screaming.
The battlefield grew still.
The Mystic Flame Talisman had consumed all.
It did not leave bones. It did not leave flesh. It burned until there was nothing.
No beast cores remained.
Dervan stood still, gazing at the scorched terrain.
Smoke drifted across the wind. His hands trembled as he closed the empty scroll casing.
"That was one talisman," he said quietly.
Elder Vahn stood beside him, pale. "One."
"We still have nineteen left," Dervan muttered. "And yet... what price did we pay for this?"
"It cost us dearly."
"But it saved us all."
"Better alive than dead."
They looked over the charred earth. The silence was unnatural. Haunting.
And the Mystic Flame Talisman had left no doubts.
It was a force to be feared.