"Raid Leader Fury," Elcana Harold called into his bracelet, his voice taut.
"I can hear you," replied a graveled voice.
"Do you understand the situation?"
"Stone golems—magic-imbued. Direct lightning wielders to strike their chests. They'll collapse."
"Understood."
Harold severed the link, then opened the psychic bond shared among Elcanas. "All Elcanas, command lightning wielders to target the golems'—"
"STOP!" Garth's shouted, his voice cutting through the air.
Harold whirled, staff crackling. "What madness—"
"Their chests are rigged with explosives," Garth gasped, memories sharpening. "Lightning will detonate them. You need a nature summoning."
Harold's hood trembled. "Do you know what you're asking?"
Garth did. A nature summoning required at least seven Elcanas channeling their lifeforce across the battlefield—each separated by hundreds of paces—to bend the natural order. It was sacrilege, punishable by exile, and would leave them bedridden for weeks.
"Elcana Harold!" A voice crackled through the bracelet. "The front line is collapsing!"
Harold's grip tightened on his staff. Garth's plea hung in the air, wrapped in an inexplicable aura of certainty. Against every instinct, Harold relented.
"All Elcanas," he declared through the bond, "I invoke a nature summoning."
Silence fell. No protests, no questions—only the weight of the forbidden act thickening the air. One by one, the distant Elcanas acknowledged, their acceptance humming through the psychic bond.
"Hold the line for five minutes," Harold ordered. "No fire or lightning strikes on the golems." He sank into a meditative stance, staff across his lap.
"What force do we summon?" he asked Garth.
"Rain."
Harold closed his eyes. Across the battlefield, the other Elcanas mirrored his posture in their scattered positions, their staves glowing faintly as they channeled their collective power. The earth itself seemed to pulse beneath them, a slow, rhythmic heartbeat.
*What-do-you-seek?*
The voice—ancient, resonant—echoed in Harold's mind, its syllables vibrating like tectonic plates shifting.
"Rain," he whispered.
Garth watched, his chest tight. In his past life, he'd learned the truth: Elcanas didn't command nature. They bargained with it. The earth's voice spoke first, and only those deemed worthy received its aid.
Above, the sky darkened. Clouds churned, heavy with unshed rain.
Garth's stomach dropped. The water wielders—they're still in the rear. Lightning wielders, suited for close combat, languished behind them. Without orders, the Venators wouldn't adjust—protocol forbade it.
He snatched Harold's Mind Bracelet, its silver coils cold against his skin. The moment he clasped it, the Raid Leader's roar exploded in his skull.
"HAROLD! Why are the lines breaking? Where are the Elcanas?!"
Agony lanced through Garth's temples. The bracelet's psychic link—untempered by training—felt like nails driven into his mind. He severed the connection, then scoured the bond for any Venator reckless enough to wear an Elcana's bracelet.
A shrill voice pierced the static: "Raid Leader! What's happening?!"
Garth winced. "Listen!" he barked, fighting the pain. "Pull everyone back. Send lightning wielders forward. Now!"
The Venator hesitated. "But protocol—"
"DO IT!" Garth roared.
"Y-yes, sir." the Venator responded, assuming it was an Elcana giving him the command. Never having used a Mind Bracelet before, he assumed all voices through it would sound muffled.
As soon as he spoke, a searing headache surged through his skull.
Garth was abruptly reminded of his weakness, a realization that filled him with self-loathing. Clutching his head in frustration, he tore the bracelet off and tossed it aside, completely ignoring the fact that it wasn't his—nor was it cheap.
He hunched over, his breath coming in ragged gasps. As he fought to regain control, he suddenly felt several cold pats against his back.
Straightening up, he tilted his gaze toward the sky. A blanket of raindrops stretched across the heavens, their descent growing heavier by the second.
"It... is done."
A weak voice reached Garth's ears from behind.
He turned to find the Elcana barely standing, swaying with exhaustion.
"Now what, boy?" the Elcana asked, his tone condescending despite the strain in his voice. He was clearly irritated by what he had just been forced to do.
Following Garth's strategy, Elcana Harold had commanded the Venators, ensuring they followed through with his plan.
While the demons relentlessly slaughtered and pushed back the Venators, they were caught off guard when the Water Wielders surged back onto the battlefield.
In the blink of an eye, the Wind Wielders followed, positioning themselves strategically behind their allies. With precision, they unleashed a controlled gust of wind, sweeping across the drenched battlefield. The rainfall, which had soaked everything in sight, turned to ice upon contact, freezing the demons in place.
With their enemies immobilized, the Water Wielders then manipulated the frozen water that encased the golems, pulling it in opposite directions. They tore in opposite directions, splitting the demons cleanly in two.
Just like that, the battle was over.
The Venators scanned the field, ensuring no demons remained standing. As the realization set in, victorious cheers erupted across the battlefield.
Beside Garth, the Elcana stood in stunned silence. Despite his frailty, he forced himself to remain upright, as though bearing witness to this moment was worth enduring the pain.
"This... is incredible."
Slowly, he reached up and pulled back his hood.
Garth's breath caught in his throat.
For an Elcana to reveal his face to a non-Elcana—or anyone outside his family—was a gesture of immense trust. More than that, in most cases, it signified that the Elcana owed a great debt to the person before him.
Beneath the hood was a man whose face bore the weight of time. Though his features were strong and chiseled, deep wrinkles lined his brow and eyelids. His hair, once likely dark, had faded to a brilliant white, and his sharp blue eyes shimmered with wisdom beyond his years.
Garth averted his gaze.
He didn't deserve this honor—not yet.
In his past life, as he grew in strength and reputation, he had witnessed this gesture many times. Dozens of Elcanas had revealed their faces to him, a sign of deep respect for his incredible feats. But here, in this moment, he had done nothing to warrant such a display.
"You saved everyone here today," Harold rasped, his voice once the very essence of authority, now reduced to the frailty of an old man.
"I just did what was necessary," Garth muttered.
"Who... are you?"
Garth stiffened.
Only now did he realize the sheer extent of his knowledge—knowledge far beyond what someone of his supposed status should possess. Explaining himself was impossible. If he spoke the truth, he would fall under intense scrutiny, possibly even endangering himself.
His silence and the flicker of confusion on his face made Harold reconsider his question.
"I mean... what is your name?" the Elcana clarified.
"I—"
Before he could formulate an answer, a voice boomed through Harold's Mind Bracelet.
"Elcana Harold! What is going on?!"
Harold winced, squinting in pain from the sudden intrusion. Perhaps activating the bracelet in his weakened state had been a mistake.
"Please, Raid Leader... I need you to calm down," a weak voice responded, barely registering through the bracelet's connection.
The Raid Leader inhaled sharply, remembering just how fragile Harold's condition was.
Garth seized the opportunity.
Harold could sense the presence beside him shift, but by the time he turned, Garth was gone.
The moment Harold had asked for his name, Garth had known he had to leave. He couldn't afford to reveal his identity—not yet. His instincts screamed at him to disappear, and he obeyed without hesitation.
Merging seamlessly into the foray of Venators, he moved unnoticed among them.
Even after the battle, there was no time to rest. Every available Venator assisted in gathering the remains of fallen demons—specifically, their cores.
Demon cores were immensely valuable. Leaving them behind would be nothing short of foolish.
Typically, designated personnel known as Valets were responsible for retrieving cores. However, Valets only operated in Raids and nearby Clearings, where their safety was assured.
This was neither a Raid nor a Hunt. It had been an all-out battle. No Valets had been permitted to follow.
One might assume that, after such a grueling fight, the Venators would be reluctant to gather the cores. Yet, the opposite was true. They moved with enthusiasm, their spirits high, grateful simply to be alive.
Adding to their excitement, the upper echelons had ordered a generous distribution of the collected cores among the Venators.
It was a day of triumph.
If only they knew to whom they truly owed it.
The last time this battle had occurred, less than a quarter of the Venators had survived.
But now?
Nearly the entire army would return home to their families.
Garth worked alongside them, collecting cores, but his mind was elsewhere.
While the others eagerly pondered how they would spend their rewards, Garth focused on something far more dire.
A catastrophe loomed over his homeland, inevitable and inescapable.
In three months, the capital of the Eastern Kingdom would be annihilated—by a cosmic golem.