The battlefield was painted in blood and fire. Scorched earth smoldered beneath their feet, the acrid scent of burnt flesh mixing with the metallic tang of blood. The air itself trembled under the weight of the clash—two wills colliding, neither yielding.
Cassius stood at a distance, his expression unreadable. He had always believed himself talented, a prodigy even among royalty. He had awakened his mana core at the unheard age of four, a feat never recorded in the annals of his bloodline. And yet, the scene before him forced him to reconsider everything he thought he understood about talent.
A boy—Amon von Oltheros —moved with a relentless, predatory grace, his blade singing through the air like a whisper of death.
His opponent, Vothar, was a veteran, a battle-hardened warrior who had long ascended to S-rank. His skill was unquestionable, his experience undeniable. But in this moment, he looked desperate. Cornered.
Amon's crimson eyes gleamed with something primal, something terrifyingly absolute.
His blade—Perses—shrouded in his crimson Will pulsed with an eerie excitement, as if it, too, reveled in the bloodshed.
Steel met steel.
The impact sent a shockwave through the charred battlefield, kicking up dust and embers. Vothar gritted his teeth, muscles screaming as he parried the attack with his single remaining hand. His scimitar trembled under the force. The boy's strikes weren't elegant, nor refined—they were brutal, precise, and utterly merciless.
His other arm lay severed in the dirt, still twitching, still warm. Blood dripped in thick rivulets from the stump, soaking his tattered robes. The pain was nothing. He had endured worse. What unsettled him was the boy—his unrelenting pace, his eerie stillness between movements, as if he were more specter than man.
Vothar moved.
A single step, a twist of his body, and his scimitar slashed forward in a deadly arc, aiming for the boy's exposed ribs. Amon barely shifted. The black blade deflected the strike with a subtle flick, as if dismissing the effort entirely.
A beat.
Then, Amon was inside his guard.
Vothar's instincts screamed. He twisted, his knee driving up toward the boy's stomach—only for Amon's free hand to catch it mid-air. Amon's grip was cold. Unyielding.
And then, he twisted.
A sickening crack split the battlefield.
Vothar's leg bent at an unnatural angle. He didn't scream. A warrior of his caliber had long surpassed such things. But his breathing hitched, his body shuddering involuntarily.
Amon let go.
Vothar staggered back, his lone hand tightening around his scimitar. He was losing—he knew it. But losing wasn't an option. Not here. Not against a child.
Vothar surged forward , his remaining strength manifesting in a deadly arc of his scimitar aimed straight at Amon's neck. The speed was blistering, the strike coming in so fast that even Amon's reflexes were barely enough to dodge it. The blade grazed his cheek, leaving a shallow but stinging wound.
Amon's heart pounded, his blood rushing. The pain was sharp, but it was fleeting.
The next strike came faster, more furious, and this time, Amon didn't parry it—he had to dodge. He ducked low, feeling the razor-sharp edge of the scimitar skim past his ear. A mere inch. His heart raced, and for the first time in this battle, he felt vulnerable. He had been overconfident seeing vothar crippled even if he was from a lesser verdant world he was still a S Ranker and Amon was a F- ranked individual.
Amon was being pushed back. His movements had grown dull, more frantic, and the weight of each blow was beginning to take its toll. Sweat dripped down his forehead, his chest heaving with exertion. He could feel the pull of exhaustion.
"You're slowing down, boy!" Vothar snarled, pushing the attack. The older warrior lunged again, this time slashing horizontally. Amon barely evaded.
With a roar, vothar's remaining mana surged, igniting the very air around him. The battlefield trembled under the sheer force of it. His scimitar burned white-hot, glowing like molten metal.
One strike.
That was all he needed.
He lunged, moving faster than before, faster than any wounded man should. The scimitar whistled through the air, aimed directly for the boy's heart.
---
He had expected Amon to step forward and meet his attacks. But no—Amon stepped backward, his body moving with an eerie, unnatural stillness.
In the middle of his retreat, he summoned an orb in his hand.
His fingers tightened around it. A quiet click.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, the orb whistled through the air toward Vothar.
Vothar's eyes widened.
*No.*
He had seen these before. The boy had been using them since the beginning—mana-draining mist, explosions. But before he could react, the bomb detonated.
It didn't explode with fire. It stole his sight.
A blinding white flash consumed his vision. The world went dark.
Vothar's balance wavered. His pulse roared in his ears. His breath came in ragged gasps.
His instincts screamed—MOVE.
But before he could recover, another orb hit the ground.
He couldn't see it.
But he felt it.
BOOM!
The force sent his body hurtling through the air. His remaining arm twisted violently as his body crashed into the earth. Pain. Searing, unbearable pain. His ribs—crushed. His fingers—broken. His mana—fading.
As his vision returned in fragments, he saw it—Amon standing a safe distance away. Watching.
And at his feet, an orb, blinking softly.
A moment of silence.
Then—
BOOOOOOM!
The explosion was monstrous, a wave of destruction that consumed everything in its path. Flames erupted like a volcanic wrath, skin melted off bone in an instant. The air filled with the wretched scent of burnt flesh.
Vothar's body convulsed as the blast tore into him. His lone arm was gone, disintegrated into nothing but charred fragments of bone. His torso was a gaping, smoldering wound, ribs exposed, flesh peeling away in molten strips.
His face—unrecognizable. His once-proud silver hair burned to the scalp. One eye had burst from the pressure, leaking thick, gelatinous fluid down his ruined cheek. His lips curled in a twisted grimace, teeth bared—some shattered, some melted.
He was dying.
His body slumped, a twitching, blackened husk. His mind reeled, spiraling between pain and incomprehensible dread.
This was it.
He was killed.
By a child.
His remaining eye, bloodshot and dilated, barely managed to look up one last time. Amon stood there, bathed in firelight, his crimson gaze devoid of mercy.
Cassius, watching from the side, felt an involuntary shiver crawl up his spine.
This wasn't a fight.
This was a massacre.
Amon exhaled softly. Then, without a word, he turned away, leaving behind nothing but a corpse burning in the flames of its own failure.