The thought twisted in Nathan's mind, a venomous echo blurring the scene before him. He had once craved power above all else. Now, he realized the toll compounded daily, the price violating every principle he’d ever held dear.
He risked extending his Spirit Vision, sweeping the platform. The sensory feedback hit him like a physical blow, stealing his breath.
Projectiles hammered the failing mana barrier. Disciples screamed commands, voices cracking into desperate pleas. Fresh blood mingled with old stains on the platform's deck. The Supreme Mana Stone dimmed with every pulse. Eyes turned vacant, glassy with hopelessness. Their minds were breaking before their bodies.
Minato moved with relentless desperation, though hesitation flickered in his eyes. Every few seconds, the Stormcrown leader shot a skeptical glare at Nathan's back.
Frank lay in a coffin of ice, breath and pulse suspended in stasis. Blood still wept frozen tears from his wounds. He didn't just need healing; he needed a new heart.
Beside him, Elen—face bloodless—poured his remaining energy into the struggling defenses. Even in the brief pauses to recharge, he mechanically passed rations to Nathan.
Xander and Zahra lay immobile, bodies ravaged by Entropy. Xander was out cold; Zahra’s mana flared erratically, a broken circuit sparking in the dark.
Argentius surged forward, neck and shoulder tethers straining against the tonnage. His white fur cut through the golden sandstorm—a flickering lighthouse for the desperate souls clinging to the platform.
Nathan retracted his vision. Vincent's voice echoed in his mind. Are you giving up? Dying here? Remember, I’m captured. Someone has to come get me.
“I know,” Nathan mumbled, gritting his teeth. “Shut up, Vincent.”
You claimed the power to decide for others. Now you have to live with it.
“Shut up!”
“Nathan?” Zeryn leaned in. “You okay?”
Nathan didn’t answer. His left hand parried invisible blades; his right moved with the unflinching precision of a machine, executing subroutines programmed by long-dead masters.
A pulse from [Seismic Sense] snapped him back. He had networked the skill to the group, granting them shared perception.
The dunes were shifting.
They formed massive walls, blocking the path. Weaving through them to avoid being sky-lined was a luxury they could no longer afford.
“Orders, Nathan?” Argentius asked.
“Punch through the dune. Can you do it?”
“I can. But it's sand. If the tunnel collapses, you humans don't exactly dig your way out.”
“Do it.”
Delay was death. Something was scratching at the edges of his perception—the Obsidian Fang Sect, closing in.
“Why not split?” Argentius countered. “They hunt you and that wretched bloodline.”
“Argy. Without you, who pulls them? Don't ask questions you know the answer to.”
“Exhausting,” Argentius scowled. “I could take you and run. Why carry the dead weight?”
Nathan ignored him. "Reinforce the Mana Dome!" he roared.
Confusion flashed, then obedience. The barrier flared blue; the ambient temperature spiked.
Nathan intercepted the volley. His sword danced, wreathed in fire and lightning, showering the deck with molten slag. It countered a sand-forged fist from a Mirothean Tier 3, the impact filling the air with the screech of grinding metal. The platform lurched violently.
Argentius armored himself in Metal and Wind, transforming into a living drill bit before slamming headlong into the dune face.
Light vanished. The mana wall hissed as corrosive deep sand ate at the shielding. The barrier groaned, buckling under the crushing weight. Speed dropped to a crawl.
“Brace!” Nathan yelled.
Mana surged. Even the wounded broke meditation to lend their strength.
With a muffled whoosh, they burst from the dune, instantly greeted by a torrential rain of attacks.
A flash blinded him. Two empowered Dunehaunters dove from above, four massive pincers glowing red, descending to crush the column.
Nathan sprang. He checked his force to avoid driving the platform into the sand, then detonated mana at his soles—a series of micro-explosions launching him skyward.
Two punches. A crimson arc. Scorpion ichor and human blood painted the sky.
He tucked and dove back toward the platform.
Too late.
In the seconds he was gone, the front lay exposed. Projectiles punched through the weakened shield.
Disciples scrambled, unleashing desperate counter-attacks that warped the air. But it wasn't enough. Bodies rolled off the platform edge, tumbling into the waiting maws of Sandwyrms. The monsters roared, surging faster as they feasted on fresh nutrients.
Boom!
Nathan unleashed the stockpile from [Death Leech] and [Energy Storage]. A heatwave blasted outward, draining his Lava Essence dry. The vanguard was blown back, but the Tier 3 broke through, targeting Zeryn. The attacker was met with a scream of agony as the sword prodigy skewered him with superior Sword Intent.
A fragile equilibrium returned.
Dull numbness settled over the disciples' faces—the combat fatigue of those who have lost too much. No more wails of grief. No more bursts of anger. Like Nathan, they just wanted this hell to end.
The PsiLink notification brought a momentary, collective exhale.
But the enemy frenzy only redoubled.
“They’re stalling!” Zeryn shouted. “They want leverage before the ink dries! This isn't good news!”
Argentius rammed another dune. The mana dome flickered, threatening final collapse. Exhaustion hung over the group like a shroud.
“Use the reserves, Nathan!” Minato screamed. “Why are the Water and Earth cultivators sitting on their ass? Use them!”
“They are saving your ass,” Nathan snapped. “You want to command? Be my guest! Take the chair. But if we wipe, it’s on you.”
Minato growled in frustration but fell silent, directing his squad to layer another wind defense around the column.
Energy low, Nathan couldn't risk another wide-scale attack. He weaved into enemy ranks with Lightning Aspect, reaping monsters and men alike—an untouchable phantom, a harbinger of inevitable death.
[Death Leech] sated his energy hunger, but the cultivator’s ancient enemy returned: mana fatigue. It clung to his blood vessels, to every cell, turning the flow of energy viscous. [Healing Factor] could have purged it, but the skill was spread thin, triaging countless other wounds.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Senior Brother!” Elen called out. “Rations are critical!”
Nathan nodded. He knew. It was why he relied on the cursed [Death Leech]. Lightning-essence foods were dwindling. The Lava Essence powder had three doses left.
He glanced back. The path stretched endlessly; the Green Mountain was a dream.
The chase ground on. The enemy adapted to Nathan's anomalies, shifting focus to Zeryn. Pressure intensified. [Battle Trance] rhythm shattered. Stacks failed to build.
He was useless in a battle of pure Intent. [Martial Arts Mastery] analyzed the opponent: not overwhelmingly strong, but strong enough to pin a crippled Zeryn.
Nathan moved to relieve him, but the enemy Tier 3 manipulated wind and sand to box him in. The interference was terrifying, scrambling even his Spirit Vision. His head throbbed, hundreds of claws scraping his brain.
Triggered [Mind of Tranquility]. One credit given.
The pulsing subsided to a dull ache.
Minato launched counter-tornadoes. The shriek of wind tore the air. The platform listed violently under the atmospheric pressure. Even Argentius squinted against the relentless sandblasting.
Nathan exploded with Lightning Aspect, leaving bright afterimages as he intercepted the charge. Lives were traded like currency.
Then, his world froze. Among the energy streams feeding [Death Leech], he tasted the essence of the disciples dying behind him.
His lips trembled. “No. No, no! Not that!”
The description said "fallen enemies." Why?
Because they are obstacles, Nathan. Darkan’s voice echoed—a figment of fracturing sanity. His Master couldn't know about [Death Leech].
He had always exploited the System's loopholes. Now, the System was exploiting him. Its definition of "enemy" was flexible—just like his interpretation of skill descriptions.
Anyone who hindered him, anyone who became a burden, was an "enemy." The energy of the allies he failed rushed into him.
He froze. A single, fatal second.
An attack slipped past. Zeryn raised his blade, but too slow. A hole punched through his hand and shoulder. Overexertion forced a spray of blood from his lips.
Nathan snapped back, body registering the terrifying feedback.
[Battle Trance] stuttered—fast, slow, gone. Stacks reset.
He ground his teeth, burning the last of his lightning essence to counter. Body steaming, he materialized beside his friend.
“Status?” Nathan demanded, voice tight.
“I’m spent, Nate,” Zeryn rasped, wincing as residual energy gnawed at his wound. “I can’t fight. I know I can't stop you, but think. You always have a choice.”
Nathan ignored the bombardment. He swatted a projectile that breached the barrier without looking, gaze fixed on Zeryn. Slowly, his eyes drifted to the disciples huddled behind them.
Elen met his gaze. “Are you leaving us?”
Panic rippled through the column. The weight of their stares settled on him—a physical, crushing burden.
Crash! A section of the platform sheared off. Machinery hissed and sparked. The mana dome flickered, dying.
Zahra looked up, Xander’s head resting on her shoulder. Her mischievous glint was gone, replaced by a hollow calm. She nodded. Hair whipped across her face, veiling a small, wistful smile.
Go.
Nathan ground his teeth until they creaked.
“No!” he roared. “I stay!”
He stood. A Dragon’s Roar shattered the desert air, freezing lesser monsters in their tracks.
“Argentius! Release restraints!”
With a ferocious snarl, Argentius ignited with silver light. His frame expanded, muscles bunching with newfound power. He tore through the next dune like paper, jerking the column forward with bone-rattling speed.
Nathan held nothing back. He didn't care where [Death Leech] feasted; he just fed.
[Martial Arts Mastery] turned his mind into a cold calculator. He stopped trading wounds. He prioritized evasion, allowing [Healing Factor] to address the mana fatigue. But the cost was high: the column behind him was now exposed to the storm.
He had no strength for guilt.
Without Zeryn, [Battle Trance] was dead. The new plan was simple: Kill. Kill until the math changed. He plunged into the oncoming storm.
He severed a Sandwyrm's head, using the falling corpse as a launchpad. His punch, stacked with [Amplifying Strike] and [Rebound], shattered a cultivator’s sand shield. [Counter Strike] twisted him mid-air, dodging a khopesh before his sword found a heart. He threw a blind elbow backward. Berserker State 33%. The Dunehaunter behind him detonated into a hundred pieces.
Behind him, the projectile storm found the column. Zeryn deflected what he could with flagging Sword Intent, but the Tier 2s were on their own.
Defensive artifacts flashed. Talismans burned to ash. Desperation formations flared.
Minato rallied his squad. A spectral crown materialized above them—the Stormcrown Formation. Razor-sharp tornadoes shrieked outward, shredding the immediate blockade.
At the next waypoint, survivors refused to board. Instead, they planted a white flag in the sand. Surrender. Just like the Prince.
Rage consumed Nathan—not at their choice to live, but at the cost to those remaining.
The enemy held fire. A small detachment moved in to detain, not kill. The message was clear: Surrender, and live.
The psychological warfare worked. Another group bailed, leaping from the moving platform to kneel in the sand, hands raised.
An undefended section of the platform exploded, shearing away. Disciples who had chosen to stay were thrown into the dunes. They found no mercy; cut down instantly, their bodies looted before the dust settled.
“Cowardly bastards!” Minato roared. “Anyone else tries to jump, I kill you myself! Try me!”
Nathan saw the darting eyes. They wanted to run. Fear was the only thing holding them.
The formation was shattered. The defense was gone. The defense was him.
He lost count of the kills. Dozens? Hundreds? The act was no longer loathsome; it was mechanical. Slashes without hesitation. Thrusts dealing certain death. He was an avalanche, burying everything in his path.
The Mirothean Tier 3 leader circled like a vulture.
“How do you still stand?” his voice rasped, dry as the sandstorm. “What technique is this? Demonic Arts?”
Receiving silence, the leader signaled his troops to spread out. Sandhowlers focused their sonic scream on Nathan. He didn't flinch; he clamped his hands over his ears and channeled mana to rupture his own eardrums, plunging his world into absolute silence. He fought on, a deaf whirl of violence, until the Sandwyrms split to give him a wide berth.
But it was too late. He had bought the time he needed.
He retreated to Zeryn. The platform was a smoking wreck, riddled with holes; the mana dome, tatters of fading light. Spent talismans littered the deck like confetti.
Caelindor shouldn't have broken. At full strength, their superior gear would have held. But the terraforming and Mirothea's monster doctrine had tipped the scales. These weren't personal companions; they were state-issued assets. War by attrition. The realization tasted like ash.
His hearing slowly regenerated, a dull roar returning. Argentius tore through the final dune.
Then, the tiger's voice cut through the chaos, a lifeline for Nathan’s suffocating soul.
“Green!”
Nathan whipped his head around. Distance blurred, but the colors were unmistakable: emerald grass, rich brown earth, tall sturdy trees.
The sight pulled the others like gravity. They turned. They saw.
Hope.
A roar of relief erupted. The finish line.
Nathan turned back to the Mirothean army. He saw their frustration. Five hundred pursuers with every advantage had failed to break them. They had whittled the hundred down to fifty broken souls, but they hadn't won. Because he stood in the way.
The enemy leader raised a hand. Space twisted. Dunes obeyed his command, rolling like ocean waves to wall off Argentius. The great tiger bristled, a pulse of silver aura crushing the sand obstacles instantly.
But it wasn't over. Sandstorms condensed into aerial rails. Tier 2 cultivators abandoned their mounts, surfing the wind-paths with practiced skill.
The leader smirked. In a flash, the encirclement was complete.
No command was needed. The survivors stood for the final defense.
Projectiles rained. Mana flared. Chaos reigned.
A Dunehaunter smashed the deck. Minato’s wind lassoed falling cultivators. Sandhowlers screamed, the sonic pressure forcing the group to their knees. Shields faltered. Projectiles found marks. New wounds. New dead.
Nathan intercepted what he could, but even his speed had limits.
He glanced back. The distance to the green zone was closing.
Time.
“Execute!” Nathan roared.
The ten reserve Earth and Water cultivators stood.
They thrust their hands forward. The dunes roiled. The ground convulsed, blurring the [Seismic Sense] map. Water erupted, soaking the sand deep. The subterranean Mirothean forces hit a wall of mud, forced to surface, choking and stalled.
An artificial rainstorm shrouded the moving column.
Nathan scanned the horizon, hands clenched.
“Nathan?” Zeryn gasped. “What are you doing? Why did you stop?”
“I’m staying, Zer,” Nathan said, bitterness soaking his voice. “I can’t go.”
“Says who?”
“Darkan.”
Zeryn’s lips pressed thin. His pupils darted—a frantic, silent conversation with his own protector. But the silence that followed was deafening. If Darkan said no, Zeryn's guardian couldn't override it.
“I made up my mind miles ago,” Nathan said calmly. “Always have a backup plan. This is the backup. I hold the line. You guys run.”
“Don't be a martyr! Don't be another Lachlan!” Zeryn shouted.
“I don’t think Lachlan wanted to be a martyr either,” Nathan replied softly. “Maybe things change after today. But first, you need to survive.”
“Then I stay.”
“No.” Nathan shook his head. “One stray shot hits you, and I carry that guilt forever. Trust me, Zer. I’m a cockroach. You can't kill me.”
Before Zeryn could protest, Nathan moved. He hooked Zeryn’s arm. Sharp Aspect bit into his skin as Zeryn resisted, but Nathan ignored the pain, heaving his friend toward Argentius.
Then, he leaped.
He hit the sand running. Behind him, massive earthen walls erupted—two meters thick, stretching hundreds of meters. The Mirothean army slammed into the barrier. Behind it, the swamp of mud and water cemented the trap.
This was the play. The wall was the final card to ensure escape. Since he couldn't go back, he played it now. Minato and Zeryn could handle the rest. He just had to buy the time.
A few enemies, stranded on his side of the wall, landed cautiously. Ahead, the Tier 3 leader and his army hovered like angry hornets, weapons locked on Nathan.
“Smart,” the leader admitted, amusement coloring his tone. “I’ll give you that. But foolish. Capturing you covers all our losses. Hell, we might even profit. The bounty on 'Nathan Reed' is substantial.”
Nathan laughed. The sound was deep, ancient—a primal echo of a dragon.
“You think I’ll just offer my wrists?”
“Then we wear you down,” the leader dismissed.
“You should know something,” Nathan’s voice dropped to a growl. “I was holding back. My comrades... were a burden.”
In his peripheral vision, a new army darkened the horizon. The Obsidian Fang Sect.
Let them come.
He reached deep. He recalled the campaign's first day. The first deaths. George, the city guard who just wanted a better life. The Nyralith genocide. Laurent, limbless in the sand. Arthur Merinor’s depravity. Lachlan’s sacrifice. Frank’s cold body.
Enough fuel.
Time to test the new bloodline.
Berserker State: 100%.