The mercenaries closed in like a pack of wolves, their eyes gleaming with confidence. Lucas, Melius, and Silas braced themselves, but it was clear the enemy had planned every move. Nutface, a hulking aura swordsman, locked eyes with Melius and lunged. His sheer size and strength separated Melius from Lucas and Silas, while the remaining seven swordsmen encircled them. Among the attackers was Pug Nose, a second-grade Blade of the Ember, flanked by six Dawnblade Disciples and twenty-five normal warriors.
Nutface's red aura crackled, enveloping his sword in an ominous glow. He swung it down with the weight of a hammer, a blur of deadly steel aimed straight for Melius. "Die, you old fool!" he bellowed, his voice booming across the battlefield.
Melius had seen this kind of rage before—raw, unfocused power. His body moved on instinct. Raising his greatsword, Honeyblood, he met the strike head-on. The force of the impact shook the ground beneath them, sending tremors up Melius's arms as sparks flew from the collision. His feet sank into the dirt, but he held firm.
A grin tugged at Melius's lips despite the strain. "I won't be killed by some lowlife mercenary. who crawled out from some back alley whore's cunt" he said, his voice steady, though he could feel the toll the years had taken on him.
Nutface's eyes gleamed with fury. With another roar, he swung horizontally, aiming for Melius's side where his missing arm left him vulnerable. "What did, you say? I'll take your fucking tongue as my trophy!"
Melius saw the attack coming a heartbeat before it struck. He ducked and twisted his body, feeling the rush of air as the sword whistled past him. His boots slid across the muddy ground, but he kept his balance, barely. Still fast enough, he thought, but the strain was there. His breathing was heavier than it should've been.
Nutface wasn't giving him any room to breathe. He advanced again, his aura flaring violently. "You're weaker than my Dawnblade Disciples!" he sneered, his blade crashing down toward Melius once more.
Melius raised Honeyblood just in time, parrying the blow. The impact sent a painful jolt through his bones, and his grip faltered for a moment. He gritted his teeth, pushing back against Nutface's brute strength. His mind raced. I'm not as strong as I used to be. The aura spark I gave Lucas... it's draining me more than I thought.
The years weighed on him like never before. In his prime, Melius would've made short work of someone like Nutface—he'd fought aura swordsmen stronger and more skilled. But now, he felt the aches in his bones, the heaviness in his lungs. He wasn't just fighting Nutface; he was fighting the inevitability of age. I'm not ready to die today, he thought, his resolve hardening.
Nutface, sensing Melius's struggle, laughed—a cruel, grating sound. "You're nothing but an old man clinging to a past that's long dead."
Melius's eyes narrowed. Nutface had no idea what real battles were like, no understanding of the wars Melius had survived. The younger man fought like a wild animal, relying on brute strength and unrefined rage. Melius, on the other hand, had spent decades mastering his craft. Each swing of Honeyblood was calculated, precise.
Nutface lunged again, bringing his sword down with a wild roar. This time, Melius didn't block. Instead, he shifted his weight and sidestepped, allowing the blade to smash into the ground where he had stood a moment ago. In one fluid motion, Melius brought his greatsword up, slicing across Nutface's exposed side. The blade cut through armor and flesh, leaving a deep gash.
Nutface staggered back, his hand flying to his side as blood began to seep through his armor. His face twisted in pain and disbelief.
"You're not invincible," Melius said, his voice low and steady, though his chest heaved with effort. "You're just too stupid to know it."
Furious, Nutface roared and charged, but his movements were more erratic now, less controlled. He swung wildly, desperation fueling his strikes. Melius parried each one, the clang of their swords echoing like a drumbeat. But with every parry, Melius felt the weight of his body growing heavier. His limbs screamed in protest, his breaths shallow and quick.
Nutface, in his rage, slammed a kick into Melius's chest. The force sent Melius flying, his body crashing into a tree with a sickening crack. Pain flared through his ribs, and for a moment, his vision went black. The tree snapped under the impact, falling in two.
For a long second, Melius lay on the ground, gasping for air. Blood filled his mouth, and he spat it out, his vision still blurry. He could hear Nutface's footsteps approaching, the ground trembling beneath the brute's weight.
"Pathetic," Nutface sneered, standing over him. "I thought you'd put up more of a fight. As a fellow mercenary, I once respected you."
Melius coughed, every movement sending sharp pain through his side. He was bruised, battered, and exhausted. Is this how it ends? the thought flickered in his mind. But no—he wasn't finished yet. He wasn't ready to let go. Through the haze of pain, his instincts flared. His aura flickered weakly around him, just enough to protect him from the worst of the blow.
"Get up, old man," Nutface mocked, lifting his sword for the killing strike. "I'll make sure you never forget my name."
Melius, his body aching, pushed himself to his knees. His hand gripped Honeyblood so tightly his knuckles were white. His heart pounded in his chest, the beat heavy in his ears. I've survived worse than you, he thought. I've bled on battlefields far more dangerous than this.
With a surge of will, Melius rose to his feet, the pain still there, but his resolve sharper. His eyes locked with Nutface's. "You talk too much and I like only myself talking," Melius rasped, his voice rough but defiant.
While Melius and Nutface engaged in a brutal, close-quarters battle, Silas and Lucas faced a more tactical and calculated fight. Surrounded by the seven Aura Swordsmen and nearly thirty mercenaries, they stood in the center of a wide circle of enemies, ready for a siege.
The pug-faced leader sneered as he watched one of his youngest Dawnblade Disciples inch closer to Silas. "Get your ass back here!" he snarled. "You want to meet your father in the afterlife?"
Startled, the young swordsman backed off quickly, eyes wide with fear.
"Fuckin' Amateurs" Pug Face muttered under his breath, his eyes flicking toward the rest of his men. "Ready the bows! Keep your distance! Let's not get too close to that old man just yet."
At his command, the mercenaries nocked their arrows—many of them imbued with aura—and fired in unison. A hail of deadly projectiles streaked through the air toward Silas and Lucas.
Silas was prepared. With swift movements, he chanted under his breath, and the ground beneath them trembled. "Lucas, bring your mare closer!" he called out as the earth rose and formed a protective dome over them. The arrows thudded against the structure, but it held—for now.
Inside the dome, the air was dark and thick with tension. Silas, sweat beading on his forehead, cast a low-level ignite spell, a flicker of flame lighting their small enclosure.
"This won't hold for long, Lucas," Silas said, his voice both firm and kind. "Stay close to me. Your grandpa isn't weak, but we'll need to be ready."
Lucas, fear clawing at his gut, felt the weight of the situation pressing down on him. Yet, despite the fear, a resolve burned within him—a resolve he had made the moment the mercenaries arrived. He gripped his sword tighter.
Outside the dome, the pug-faced man was growing impatient. "Keep firing!" he barked. "Break that dome down!"
One of the Aura Swordsmen shouted, "It's cracking! The mage must be out of mana!"
The pug-faced man scowled, his face twisted in irritation. "Idiot! Did your mother got fucked by a donkey? Don't rush in! He's got tricks up his sleeve."
But the lure of gold and glory was too much for some of the normal mercenaries. A few reckless warriors charged forward, greed overcoming caution. A aura swordsman yelled, "Why are you letting them attack like this boss?" Pug face snorted "This are replaceable cannon fodder" He yelled from behind "Anyone who kills the mage gets ten times their share!" his voice like a whip. "And don't you dare touch the kid! He's mine."
Fuelled by greed, the mercenaries attacked fiercely, but they were met with more than they bargained for. As they neared the dome, the ground beneath them began to soften. They looked down in horror as the earth turned to liquid—a mud pool spell Silas had prepared in advance.
Before they could react, jagged stone spears shot up from the ground, impaling eight men in an instant. Their bodies crumpled, blood splattering across the field as the remaining mercenaries hesitated, their greed now replaced with fear.
"Retreat!" someone yelled from the back of the group, panic spreading like wildfire.
But before they could flee, Pug Face's sword flashed in the dim light, his aura-infused blade slicing cleanly through one of his retreating men. The body fell in two, lifeless on the ground. Pug Face's eyes burned with fury. "Anyone who fucking runs, I'll gut you myself!" he roared, his voice thick with menace. "On my Becca's tits, I'll kill your entire family if you try to run."
The threat worked—for now. Another volley of men rushed forward, only to be met by Silas's level-one water whip spell. The whip lashed out, cutting through the attackers, sending several of them to the ground, soaked and broken.
But Silas was nearing his limit. His breathing had grown ragged, and blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. He swayed in his saddle before collapsing off his horse.
"Grandpa!" Lucas cried out in terror, rushing to his side.
Before he could reach Silas, a shadow loomed over him. Pug Face, his sword glowing with aura, stood over Lucas, grinning lustfully. "Time to play, little boy,"
Silas, dazed but still conscious, saw the danger. His heart pounded as he watched his grandson face the Blade of the Ember. Rage flooded his veins, cutting through the pain. From his blind spot, Silas noticed three Dawnblade Swordsmen closing in. There was no time. He had to act.
With shaking hands, Silas pulled out a scroll—a powerful one he had been saving for a desperate moment like this. His voice crackled with fury. "You insolent vermin! Now you will face my wrath!"
Silas poured his remaining mana into the scroll. A blinding flash of light erupted from it, followed by a deafening crack. A chain of lightning surged through the air, striking the three advancing swordsmen. Their bodies convulsed violently as the electricity coursed through them, their auras useless against the raw power of the spell. Within moments, their charred corpses fell to the ground, lifeless.
The remaining Dawnblade Swordsmen froze, terror in their eyes. One of them, an older warrior, sneered, "The mage has used everything he's got. He's finished."
The younger one, trembling, shook his head. "What do you take me for? A fucking fool? That old man's more cunning than a fox. I'm not moving till Pug joins us."
The third swordsman, eyes narrowed, glanced at Lucas, who was still fending off Pug Face. "He's taking his sweet time with the boy," he muttered, "but we'll keep this old man surrounded."
On one side, Melius was barely holding his ground, while Silas was surrounded by aura swordsmen, his mana almost depleted. Meanwhile, Lucas found himself in the worst position, facing the formidable Pug Face, an entry-grade Blade of the Ember.