Dance of death
"Move! Move!"
A crimson-haired warrior bellowed to the group of eight children behind him, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade! His spear twirled in a dazzling storm, the weapon spinning so fast that its tip blurred into a ten meter field of brilliant, star-like spear points. Nothing could invade, and nothing could escape.
His footwork was like an art, never straying beyond the ten meter razor-thin boundary. Every step, every pivot, every shift of his weight was measured, graceful, and absolute.
Yet the battlefield was against him.
Spikes of jagged rock erupted without warning, the ground warped and crumbled beneath their feet, shifting like a treacherous tide, earth spears raining on him.
But he never faltered. Not once. His movements were too fluid, too instinctive—as if he knew the future before it even happened, his Will holding the children firm, that they also didn't falter.
"You Crimsons are a damn anomaly! Every last one of you deserves to die!"
A voice; raw with hatred, spat through gritted teeth. The speaker stood in what remained of his tattered black robes, his once-gleaming treasure mask shattered beyond recognition. He had two thick tusks that jutted from each side of his mouth, and his lower lip had been split in two by the Crimson's spear, twisting his face into a grotesque snarl.
His comrades were barely standing, battered and breathless. They had come as hunters. Now, they were prey. With many already fallen to his blade.
In worlds under the influence of the Existential Compendium, those who walked the path of the mystics—elemental dynisis were feared and known as Mancers.
A world like Ares, a bonafide 6th Ascendent world, had an unforgiving terrain. Here, even a tiny rock was denser, heavier, and more compact than one could ever imagine. A person capable of manipulating such an environment was a nightmare for any opponent.
No one in their right mind would engage an earth Mancer in a terrain like this, where the ruins of Crimson Castle provided endless ammunition.
There was no need to burn through massive amounts of dynamis or spend precious time altering the terrain. It was already primed for destruction.
Just as fighting a lightning Mancer during a storm was suicide, so too was battling an earth Mancer amid rubble and debris. It was like giving wings to a tiger.
Yet, this crimson-haired warrior had fought over ten of them. Over ten earth Mancers!
And he was still standing. He wasn't unscathed though; his wounds were deep, his breathing ragged, and his mind strained, but the crucial fact remained that he was still standing. And worse yet, he still had fight left in him, while his enemies had been whittled down to just six.
The only reason they still breathed, the only reason they hadn't been turned into crimson mist, was due to the children the man protected to his back. He was severely handicapped. And they knew it.
Even now, they launched attack after attack, not to break the warrior—but to strike the children behind him!
But it was all futile.
Every desperate, world sundering blow; all eviscerated by the man. His crimson aura seemed to banish the very force behind their strikes. Each attack that met his spear didn't even send shockwaves rippling through the air; there was no explosion of force, no violent gusts.
The energy simply ceased to exist. The power of the Devour branch of the Crimson bloodline.
Their expressions were twisted further into a volatile mix of frustration and fear.
Was this nullification? Or absorption? They couldn't tell. They didn't even know which would be worse.
But it seemed the heavens were not on their side.
"Took you long enough," the crimson-haired warrior muttered, seemingly to no one. Until a figure dropped from the sky, landing behind him in a kneeling stance, head bowed.
Unlike the Crimsons, he lacked their crimson signature hair and eyes—a sworn subordinate of the family.
"Lord Marcus"
Marcus didn't spare him a glance. His gaze remaining fixed on the enemy.
"Are the others safe?"
"Yes, my lord."
"And yours?" His tone was razor-sharp, brooking no deception.
"Yes, sire." Cold sweat clung to the back of the kneeling man's neck.
The crimson-haired warrior finally nodded. "Good. Take these ones away."
No further instructions were needed. The dark-haired subordinate knew what that meant. He had to protect them with his life.
Without hesitation, he reached into a pouch, unleashing massive, battle-ready beasts. Their powerful limbs struck the ground with force as the children quickly mounted, and the escort led them away at top speed.
The crimson-haired warrior was careful to keep the Mancers from them, his spear carving a protective arc through the air. Not a single one's strike reached them.
Only when the children had vanished from sight did he turn back.
Six mancers remained.
He rolled his shoulders, his grin sharp enough to cut air. It was time to end this. He had to finish this quickly and move on, it didn't hurt to be too careful.
Then he bellowed.
"[Crimson Spear Domain: Dance of Death!]"
---
"Miss Alita, please, we need to leave. It's dangerous out there."
"I want to fight."
"We can't be doing this right now. You'll get us both killed." The former voice sounded with a grimace.
"No, I want to go out there and fight."
"What do you even hope to do out there? You're still an unascended child!" The voice spat with a tinge of frustration.
"Don't ever call me a child again!" the rebellious voice snarled, low and fierce.
"Besides, that's all the more reason I need to be out there; I'm just a level away from level 25, to get my First Ascension class, and ascend... Then fight some more."
At this point, the owner of the first and matured male voice; was practically boiling over with frustration and desperation.
"Leave with him. Now isn't the time to play around."
A third voice cut through the tension, firm and commanding.
From the doorway, a crimson-haired man of regal bearing strode in. He was tall, and his posture effortlessly exuded authority. One of his eyes gleamed crimson, and the other a deep, enigmatic purple. A thin sheen of sweat clung to his skin, betraying that he just came from the battle raging outside.
His sharp gaze swept over the room—taking in the slightly teary-eyed, white-haired man struggling to reason with the fourteen-year-old firecracker with wild crimson hair, and a purple headband tied around her forehead.
"Patriarch!" The white-haired man instantly fell to one knee.
Alita, however, snorted. "I'm not playing around. I want to fight."
Luiz looked down at the defiant girl, saying nothing.
His silence was oppressive, and his gaze felt like heavy stone pressing down on her. For a moment, she held firm. Then, her fingers twitched, followed by her stance stiffening. Finally, when she could take no more, she bared her teeth in frustration.
"Stop looking at me like that. You overgrown bully!"
His gaze however, did not leave her.
With a final furious glare, she spat, "Fine! I'll go with him."
"Good."
Yet inwardly, Luiz sighed.
'_This cousin of mine is really a handful… I wonder how Kallen will deal with her when they meet and bond. Speaking of which...'_ Turning to the white-haired man, his voice became cold and apathetic.
"Where is he?"
There was no need to specify. The man immediately understood.
"Some of the Crows went to look for him when the chaos began. Some searched the training rooms, others his quarters, and a few headed toward the Sacred Grove. But… we haven't received word from them yet."
Luiz's frown deepened. At the mention of the Sacred Grove, his expression hardened—his crimson and purple eyes turning glacial. But when the man admitted that no messages had come back…
The room turned to ice.
The white-haired man dared not lift his head. Even the rebellious Alita, who moments ago had been full of fire, remained silent.
After what felt like an eternity of suffocating quiet, Luiz finally spoke.
"Go with him."
The finality in his tone was indisputable.
Alita said nothing. She didn't need to. Though she burned with reckless passion, she was far from stupid. She knew when to stop.
And right now, the mood felt very wrong.