The forest was eerily silent in the aftermath of the battle. The sharp crack of shattered trees, the flicker of flames fading into the distance—it all blended into the hum of Michael's fading consciousness. His body was on fire, his skin scorched and raw where Zelya's flames had burned through his Verdant Shield. His arm was a twisted mess of bone and flesh, the broken ribs beneath his chest sharp reminders of the barbarian's axe. But the pain, the agony that roared through his body, was nothing compared to the weight of his mission. He had to escape. He had to live.
The earth beneath him shifted, groaning under the strain of his stumbling footsteps. Each step took all his willpower, every inch a battle between his mind and his body's desperate need to collapse. His legs were unsteady, his feet dragging across the damp forest floor. Blood seeped through his clothes, mixing with the dirt, a trail of death marking his passage. The world blurred around him, colors fading to gray as his vision began to swim.
How long could he keep running like this? How far could he go before his body finally gave in?
He couldn't answer that. The only thing he could focus on was the next step, the next breath. The thought of the Zeranthian forces chasing him, closing in on his position, was enough to keep him moving. He knew they would follow the blood trail, that they would track him down like a wild animal. But it didn't matter. His survival was his sole concern now.
The sounds of the forest had become muffled, swallowed by the growing roar in his ears. His pulse hammered, his heart a wild drum that drowned out everything else. Yet in the silence of his mind, he knew that he was nearing the end of his strength. He stumbled once more, his hand bracing against a tree for support, his breath ragged. He needed a place to hide, to recover—something to get him through the night.
His gaze scanned the trees, the dark trunks looming like sentinels in the gloom. In the distance, a cave mouth yawned wide, half-hidden behind a tangle of vines. Michael's blurry mind latched onto it. The shelter would have to do.
He forced himself forward, his body screaming in protest. Each step felt like dragging lead, but he finally reached the cave. Without thinking, he stumbled inside, collapsing onto the cold ground, his vision spinning into a vortex of darkness.
When he awoke, it was to the bitter sting of the air against his skin, the cold seeping into his bones. His body felt like it was being pulled in every direction—aching, bruised, burned. His head throbbed with the pounding of his pulse. But he was alive.
His eyes opened fully, and for a long moment, he simply stared at the ceiling of the cave, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. The pain was still there, gnawing at him like an insistent beast. But beneath it, there was something else—an echo of the battle, the roar of Karth's axe, the crackle of Zelya's flames. It all came rushing back in waves, leaving him breathless.
He'd done it. He'd survived.
But at what cost?
He reached for his arm instinctively, his fingers brushing against the tender, swollen flesh of his broken limb. His ribs felt like jagged stone inside his chest, sharp and painful with every breath. He forced himself into a sitting position, the world spinning as he did. The blood was still wet on his skin, his clothing torn from the violence of the fight. He needed to heal.
Slowly, with trembling hands, he reached out to summon the power of the Verdant Cultivation Method. He felt the energy pulse through him, slow and unsteady at first, like the faintest flicker of light in the darkness. The vines he conjured rose from the earth, wrapping around his body with a strange gentleness, their healing power soothing the worst of the burns and bruises.
But even the Verdant Method had limits. It couldn't mend bones. It couldn't restore his shattered arm or heal the internal injuries that threatened to break him from the inside out.
Michael grit his teeth and closed his eyes, focusing on the connection between his body and the earth. The ground beneath him seemed to hum in response, the pulse of nature wrapping around his senses, steadying him. His body was torn, fragile in a way that it had never been before, but his will was still as strong as ever. He would recover.
He had to.
As he healed, his mind drifted back to the fight. The rush of adrenaline, the thunderous clash with Karth, Zelya's relentless flames that threatened to consume him entirely. For a moment, he had been certain that he wouldn't make it. But somehow, against all odds, he had found a way to survive. He had done the impossible. He had killed Zelya.
But even in victory, there was no satisfaction.
He thought about her face, the cruel mockery in her eyes as she died. It had been a clean kill—direct, precise—but he hadn't felt the thrill of it. Instead, there was emptiness, a hollow ache in his chest. And then there was Karth, still alive, still out there. The barbarian champion had been wounded, but Michael knew he wouldn't stop. Karth would be hunting him down, relentless, furious. He couldn't afford to rest. He couldn't afford to think too long on the battle.
The war wasn't over.
The war had barely begun.
Michael's thoughts shifted to the traitor, Count Varrik. The man who had been feeding the Zeranthian forces information. Michael had learned that much, even in the chaos of his final moments. He couldn't let Varrik's betrayal stand. He couldn't let his kingdom fall apart from within.
But for now, he had to survive. He had to recover. And if he was going to defeat Karth and expose the traitor, he needed time. Time to heal, to grow stronger. Time to plan his next move.
He gritted his teeth against the pain, pushing through the haze of exhaustion. His body screamed at him to stop, to rest, but his mind—sharp as ever—drove him forward. There was no rest. Not yet. Not until the war was won.
The last thing he saw before slipping back into unconsciousness was the dark, winding tunnel of the cave—his temporary refuge from the world. But as long as he was alive, the war would follow him.
And the fight would continue.