Ilterish began running toward the man in the sky without a moment's hesitation. His cloak billowed behind him, and his sword was clenched tightly in his right hand. With each step striking the stone ground, an echo rose—his determination cutting through the shouts and cries like a mist.
His eyes never left the man above, fully aware of what that orange light meant. He ran straight toward it, knowing it was more than just a mark—it was a warning, a harbinger of coming disaster.
The man hovering in the air no longer bore just a symbol on his forehead—his orange glow blazed like a flare. His eyes were narrowed, burning with fury. His robe whipped in the wind, bending the air around him as he floated.
Strapped to his waist was a large, dark-colored satchel. His hands moved quickly, searching inside. His fingers closed around an object, and without hesitation, he hurled it.
And then—
BOOOM!
The moment the object struck the ground, it exploded. Flames and shards of stone erupted upward. Guards nearby were thrown off their feet. Smoke filled the air, blinding everything in sight.
Like a madman, the attacker reached into the satchel again. One by one, he pulled out those pieces of hell and hurled them with reckless speed. Each one hit the ground with another blast, another wave of fire. The marble floors of the palace cracked apart—turning the courtyard into an inferno.
The flying man's eyes locked onto a single target: Ilterish.
He noticed him approaching. Ilterish, cloak billowing behind him, advanced with unwavering determination—his sword in hand, gaze sharp enough to slice the air itself. The man with the orange glow curled his lips into a twisted smile. A savage glint appeared in his eyes. He immediately reached into his satchel again, pulling out several more explosives with nimble fingers. Then, gliding forward, he moved toward Ilterish—now hovering just meters above the ground, directly above him.
And then... he threw them.
Those small yet deadly glowing objects spun through the air. Their target was clear: Ilterish.
Ilterish's pupils widened for a split second. His mind reacted with the reflex of a seasoned warrior. He tightened his grip on his sword. Dodging would not be easy—because the man wasn't just throwing those devices, he was guiding them.
But at that exact moment… the sky shuddered.
A meteor-like mass, blazing with fire, descended from above—hurtling toward the orange-glowing man like divine retribution. It came fast, roaring like thunder, and struck the man's position with the force of a lightning bolt.
KRAAAAAK!
The ground trembled. Stones were blasted into the air. The shockwave slammed into the palace walls, drowning out even the explosions as ash and dust engulfed the courtyard. Sight was stolen by a storm of heat, debris, and danger.
Ilterish dodged the deadly projectiles hurled toward him with masterful precision, treating the chaos like a dance of war. He deflected one with his sword, altering its course, and narrowly avoided another by dropping low. Though the blasts roared around him, Ilterish remained standing—untouched.
Slowly, the dust began to settle, and the scene became clear.
The man with the orange glow was no longer soaring—he was on the ground, body broken, mind scattered. But what truly drew the eye was the figure standing tall above him.
A man with one foot pressed firmly against the attacker's back, his posture upright, arms slightly extended—an aura of power surrounding him. A yellow light blazed on his forehead, radiating authority. The defeated attacker beneath him looked like a discarded rag, while he stood like a divine seal carved into the earth.
That man... was Mukan.
General of the Tengritugen Empire. Ilterish's own brother, and a destructive force on the battlefield rarely witnessed in any age.
Ilterish's eyes narrowed slightly for a moment. There was a familiar aura, a familiar power in that stance. His brother had descended onto the battlefield.
The supreme commander of the Tengritugen Empire, the feared leader of its armies, the younger brother of Ilterish and Balamir—yet in size and might, a figure far beyond both.
He stood nearly two meters tall, and even beneath his armor, his imposing build radiated fear. His shoulders were broad, his muscles massive, and every movement carried the weight of a man who could halt an entire army on his own. His jet-black hair flowed gently in the wind, and the yellow glow on his forehead burned like a sacred seal.
His face bore an uncommon purity among warriors—smooth, sharply defined, and expressionless. There was no prideful arrogance in his gaze, no fury. He was simply doing his duty. As a general should: cold, precise, and ruthless.
He was thirty-five, but his eyes held the layered wisdom of someone who had seen the dust and blood of countless battlefield campaigns. Compared to Ilterish, he moved not by instinct, but by command—like a stone monolith, a fortress nearly impossible to budge.
And now, that fortress stood over his enemy, one foot planted firmly on their back, the light on his forehead glowing, as if embodying divine justice itself.