The atmosphere grew tense, shifting suddenly from a chaotic battlefield into something eerily controlled. Oliver narrowed his eyes at the elf standing opposite him, bow drawn and ready for another attack. Yet the elf made no move to engage. Instead, two figures detached themselves from the larger group of elves and sprinted away. A tactical retreat? Reinforcements? Something wasn't right.
Oliver tensed, tracking their movement with the longbow raised, fingers brushing the string, ready to release. But before he could let his arrow fly, he noticed something unusual. The two figures didn't continue running indefinitely. After covering a precise distance, they stopped abruptly, pivoting to face him. A moment later, a transparent field began to bloom from their location, spreading outward in every direction like an expanding bubble.
It looked familiar, an elemental shield, or at least something akin to it. Shields like this were ancient magic, designed to channel and stabilize elemental energy into a fixed barrier. On paper, it sounded like a formidable defense, but experienced mages knew better. These shields were notorious for being unreliable. They allowed anything, magic or physical objects, to pass through freely, as though the barrier were nothing but a trick of light. Only individuals with heightened perception and exceptional magical control could use the faint disturbances caused by the field to counteract or evade attacks. Few ever bothered with such shields anymore. Certainly not two people in tandem.
Oliver frowned. Something felt... off. Even if these two were attempting to synchronize their shields, the risks far outweighed the benefits. Barriers of this kind, when brought into contact with each other, often reacted violently. The resulting explosion could not only incapacitate anyone nearby but also wreak havoc on the casters themselves, inducing dangerous magical feedback. The casters might suffer anything from dizziness to unconsciousness. Only under impossibly precise conditions, identical magic power, synchronized casting speed, and an unknown factor no one had ever been able to pinpoint; could two shields merge safely.
But no one had ever achieved such precision. No one.
Oliver's heart raced as the implications began to dawn on him. His instincts screamed at him to retreat, to get as far away from this unpredictable situation as possible. The elves might be important to An's cause, but staying here meant more than injury, it could mean death.
Just as he turned to leave, something horrifying happened.
His body rebelled against him. He tried to step forward with his left foot, but his right arm swung awkwardly instead. He attempted to twist his waist to pivot away, only for his neck to jerk in the opposite direction. It was as though his movements had been scrambled, every signal from his brain misfiring across his body.
Panic surged in his chest as he fought to regain control, but his body refused to cooperate. Adapting would take time, time he didn't have. He strained his right eye, the only part of him that hadn't fully betrayed him yet, scanning the distant crowd. That's when he saw it.
In the midst of the other elves stood a figure, glowing faintly with a strange, otherworldly light. A chill ran down Oliver's spine. 'Is it him?'
He wasn't the only one affected, others nearby staggered, their movements jerky and disjointed. But since many of them had been standing still, the disruptions hadn't yet escalated into full chaos. The subtle interference had crept up like a shadow, unnoticed until it was too late.
Then came the moment Oliver dreaded most.
The two barriers met.
He braced himself for the inevitable explosion, heart thundering in his chest. Yet, to his disbelief, the explosion never came. Instead, the two shields merged seamlessly, their edges blurring into one unified barrier, smooth and stable.
His jaw tightened as the full weight of the situation hit him. This was something no one, neither his teachers nor the most skilled mages; had ever accomplished. Two independent barriers had merged without catastrophe, an impossibility made real before his very eyes.
'Are these two elves even using shields?' he wondered, a cold knot forming in his stomach. 'Could they be blessings instead?'
His thoughts raced. If these elves had non-healing blessings, this battle could take a grim turn. He cursed himself for overlooking the most basic rule about elves; many of them possessed healing blessings, making them formidable even under heavy attack. Now he needed to reassess the entire group before him, fast.
He mentally cataloged everything he'd seen so far: the initial prophecy, the fireball, the ice magic, the two barriers, and those strange interference effects disrupting coordination. Six enemies were actively affecting the battlefield in ways he could barely comprehend; and that left over fifty more whose abilities remained unknown.
Oliver clenched his jaw, a wave of frustration rising in him. 'Is this their entire force, or are they just the vanguard?' He scratched his neck absently, a nervous habit he hadn't indulged in for years.
And then, cutting through the tense silence, a voice rang out.
"Some of you may have already figured it out," the voice said, calm and confident. "Yes, some of us have more then one blessings."
The words hung in the air like a thunderclap, sending ripples of unease through Oliver's mind. Multiple blessings within a single individual; were rare, dangerous, and near impossible to control. Yet here they were, wielding them with ease.
His blood ran cold.
This wasn't just a battle. It was a display of power far beyond anything he had anticipated.
The timing of the other side's announcement felt suspicious; too deliberate, too calculated. Oliver didn't bother to focus on the elf's grandiose claims. He knew better than to get caught up in flashy words. If the other party truly possessed multiple blessings, there would have been no need to emphasize it so theatrically. People don't need to state the obvious if it's already common knowledge.
No, the elf's real goal was clear: to sow hesitation. The aim was to make Oliver second-guess himself, to shackle his movements with doubt and indecision, giving the enemy the chance to exploit that hesitation. And hesitation on a battlefield, even for a moment, could be fatal.
At that moment, one of the elves beside him spoke, picking up on the tail end of the enemy's declaration: "But this secret… it's only for us. No one outside this circle can hear it."
The words carried a strange finality, like a death knell echoing through the tense atmosphere. It was a statement designed to fracture morale, a reminder that they were isolated in this confrontation. Many of the non-combatant elves, once stoic and composed, faltered. Their faces betrayed subtle shifts, tiny cracks in the mask of calm they clung to. Even the faintest whisper of death was enough to rattle those unaccustomed to combat, especially elves, who relied on holy water and magic to heal even the smallest wounds.
Then came the final dagger; the enemy's voice dropped into something resembling pity, but his words were sharp and cruel.
"What a waste. If food weren't scarce, maybe some of you could have made decent laborers."
The insult spread like wildfire, and the quiet murmurs of the elves turned into a chorus of unrest. Panic rippled through the ranks. When survival is at stake, people instinctively weigh their lives against the burden of the task before them. These elves; once serene, bathed in holy water at every minor scratch; were now staring down the prospect of death. It was a reality they had never imagined, and the fear became almost tangible.
The illusion of safety shattered, and death now loomed closer than any of them had ever thought possible.
---
Oliver's sharp gaze swept over the battlefield, his thoughts racing. The enemy's words weren't just designed to paralyze him; they were crafted to stir chaos among the watching elves. If the spectators outside the immediate fight were provoked enough to intervene, everything would spiral out of control. That only made him more certain: there was something off about the claim of multiple blessings. He couldn't quite pin down what, but it gnawed at him, a piece of the puzzle just out of reach.
And time was slipping away.
He noticed the enemy's wound closing, the skin knitting back together unnaturally fast under the barrier's strange effect. He couldn't afford to waste another second figuring out what was going on. Whatever this barrier did, it was stalling him and the longer it held, the greater the advantage for the other side.
'I need to act. Now.'
Without the awkward, uncoordinated disruption from earlier, Oliver raised his bow again, nocking an arrow with practiced ease. He knew one thing for certain: the dissonance that scrambled his movements couldn't be activated mid-flight. As long as he kept up a barrage of arrows, the enemy wouldn't get the chance to cast it again.
His first arrow streaked through the air, whistling toward the injured mage. But before it could find its mark, two magicians sprang forward from behind, raising a magical barrier with alarming speed. Even the mage he had struck earlier was back on his feet, chanting under his breath, weaving another spell.
The rest of the group sprang into action: bows drawn, crossbows raised, weapons brandished, all turning toward Oliver. If he stayed where he was, he'd be a sitting duck. The longer he stood his ground, the more likely he was to get overwhelmed by the coordinated assault.
Without hesitation, he broke into a sprint, weaving through the chaos. He couldn't afford to get pinned down. If the enemy cast another interference spell or restricted his movement, he'd need to stay mobile, ready to adapt on the fly. Every step he took was calculated, ready to evade incoming magic or projectiles.
What he didn't expect, however, was interference from the sidelines.
Among the scattered elves watching from a distance, one figure stirred. It was subtle, just a shift at first but then the figure rose.
Oliver's heart skipped a beat. It was one of the elves who had been unconscious at the start of the battle.
'He's awake?'
The elf remained low, feigning unconsciousness to avoid drawing attention. But as Oliver sprinted past, the elf's right hand shot up. A faint shimmer flickered from his fingertips, and suddenly, the ground beneath Oliver gave way.
His foot hit something soft, mud, conjured from nowhere.
He slipped forward, momentum carrying him hard toward the ground. Instinct kicked in, and he caught himself just in time, slamming his right hand into the dirt to stop his fall.
'Is this... another blessing?'
Frustration bubbled beneath his skin as he scanned the crowd, trying to identify who had cast the spell. His eyes darted from face to face, but instead of recognition, he found confusion. Many of the watching elves wore the same puzzled expression as him.
'Not them? Then who?'
A sudden, chilling realization struck him. His gaze snapped toward the elf beside him; the one he had assumed was just another passive observer.
The elf was standing now, eyes sharp, expression unreadable.
Before Oliver could react, the elf's voice cut through the noise, sharp and demanding.
"What are you doing here? Are you here to kill us?"
The question was shouted loud enough to silence the battlefield. It echoed like a spark in dry grass, igniting the smoldering fear among the crowd.
For a moment, everything froze. Even Oliver and the leader of the enemy force hesitated, stunned by the sudden outburst.
And then, like bees drawn to honey, the suppressed panic erupted.
The elves, already teetering on the edge of fear, found the release they had been waiting for. Confusion gave way to suspicion, suspicion turned into anger, and anger spread like a virus through the crowd. The air grew thick with tension, a storm ready to explode at any moment.
In an instant, the delicate balance of the battlefield shattered, and chaos took hold.