Crushing Pressure

The scent of iron clung to the air, thick and suffocating. The wet, heavy sound of something hitting the ground echoed through the space, blending with the restless rustling of leaves all around.

"Fuck! Damn it!" Warwick roared, his voice laced with pure fury and disbelief.

His severed arm lay on the ground, still twitching with involuntary spasms, blood spurting erratically from the raw, mangled stump. His wide eyes reflected a mixture of shock and hatred as the full force of the pain finally crashed down on him.

But the golden-eyed boy saw none of it. He refused to open his eyes. His fingers had gone white from how tightly he clutched the scroll in his hands, as if it might slip away at any moment. Sweat trickled down his forehead, mingling with the droplets of blood splattered around him.

'Almost there…'

He couldn't stop. Not now. The energy being drained from the scroll made his limbs tremble, but he forced himself to push forward, ignoring the chaos around him. Ignoring the sound of steel slicing through the air, Warwick's enraged screams, the dry crack of the earth splitting apart beneath something he couldn't begin to understand.

A few meters away, a deep fissure stretched across the ground, cleaving the forest in a flawless divide, as though an invisible blade had carved right through it. At the center of the destruction, the man from the Dracknum family stood unshaken, his claymore gleaming under the pale moonlight. His previously indifferent gaze now carried a deadly intensity.

Slowly, he raised his blade, spinning it with effortless precision before resting it on his shoulder. Then, a smile appeared on his face—a calm smile, yet filled with something that sent a chill down Darius's spine.

"I regret any distress caused, but the moment has come to expel you."

Darius didn't hesitate. His instincts flared before his mind could even process the words. In an instant, he leaped backward, narrowly avoiding another lightning-fast slash that descended from the sky in a vertical arc.

Warwick wasn't as lucky.

His body was sent flying with brutal force, twisting through the air before crashing against a nearby tree. A bestial roar of agony tore from his throat as blood gushed from his freshly mutilated shoulder.

Darius, now without his hood, revealed a pale, chiseled face, his crimson eyes burning with fury. His short, silvery-blond hair stood in stark contrast to the cold, unyielding expression that had settled over his features.

But the Dracknum warrior gave no room for hesitation.

He surged forward with astonishing speed, his claymore carving through the air in a deadly arc aimed straight at Darius, intent on cutting down any hope of resistance.

"Inconceivable…" he murmured, his voice calm, yet carrying the weight of imminent death.

Darius moved at the last possible instant, and where his body had been just a heartbeat before, only shadows remained—shadows and a swirling mass of bats scattering across the battlefield.

"How delightful… a vampire." The man raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

The bats wheeled through the air, coalescing in a dark whirlwind beside Warwick. In an instant, Darius reformed, his movements seamless, fluid. In his grasp, Warwick's severed arm, still warm.

Warwick clenched his teeth, his fist trembling.

"Just do it, Darius!"

"Shut up! I'm not the one who was careless enough to lose an arm!"

His voice was sharp, but his gaze remained steady, focused. With a practiced motion, he pressed the severed limb against the bloodied stump. A deep crimson glow emanated from his hands. The torn flesh, the exposed muscle, the shredded nerves—each began to twist and writhe, like living serpents seeking one another. Congealed blood pulsed and stirred, flowing back toward the severed limb like invisible threads weaving an unholy tapestry.

The connection was forged in mere seconds.

A sickening snap echoed as the bones locked into place.

Warwick let out a guttural groan, his entire body shuddering. But then—he flexed his fingers. First, a faint twitch. Then, his fist closed fully.

A twisted grin spread across his face. "Perfect."

The Dracknum warrior watched in silence, tilting his head slightly. And then, slowly, a new smile took shape on his lips—not just of amusement, but of something deeper. Satisfaction.

"Well, well… this grows ever more fascinating." His grin widened, fingers tightening around his sword's hilt as if the steel had become but an extension of his very being.

The blade began to glow, engulfed by a swirling blue energy. And before any reaction could come, he was already moving—his body flowing with the deadly grace of a predator, his sword carving through the air with razor-sharp precision.

When steel met Warwick's fist, the impact rang out—a metallic, piercing clash that reverberated through the trees.

"You're not the only one who knows how to use Aura," Warwick shouted, a wide grin splitting his face. His eyes burned with fierce intensity as an orange energy flared to life around his fists. His arms darkened, as if shadows were seeping into his skin, coating it in a dense, metallic black sheen.

The energies collided with an explosive force, sending violent ripples through the forest. Leaves whipped into the air, the ground beneath them cracked and trembled under the strain.

Warwick did not falter. His muscles coiled, his grin stretching wider—wild, exhilarated.

"This fight is just getting started!" he growled, his fists radiating with raw, unbridled power.

The Dracknum warrior held his stance, his golden gaze assessing the opponent with cold precision. His sword pulsed with vibrant blue energy, humming as if it were an extension of his very being.

Warwick lunged forward, the earth splitting beneath his feet as his strikes came down with relentless force. The clearing resounded with the clash of fists against blade—thunderous echoes of steel and sheer brute strength.

"Ah… then let us ascertain the extent to which this will carry us." the Dracknum murmured, his voice firm yet eerily composed, as if, for him, the battle had only just begun.

The fight escalated. Warwick's blows came heavy and devastating, each strike seeking to crush. The golden-eyed warrior danced between them with calculated precision, deflecting each attack at the very last moment. Sparks of blue and red crackled through the air—a violent symphony of clashing energies.

And then, in a fleeting instant, the battlefield shifted.

A new threat emerged.

"Well done, Warwick."

The voice sliced through the chaos like a dagger.

Darius.

Like a pale specter rising from the abyss, he moved with eerie silence. His hands, cloaked in a crimson, bloodthirsty glow, bore elongated claws—unnatural, deadly.

The Dracknum warrior sensed the danger at the very last moment.

Darius emerged behind him, his claws slicing through the air, aimed straight for his neck—a killing blow.

But the young Dracknum reacted with the precision of a seasoned fighter.

He inhaled. His feet shifted subtly against the ground.

He exhaled. His body turned in a single, fluid motion—sharp, controlled.

The blue blade intercepted Darius's strike by mere inches, steel hissing as it redirected the lethal attack.

Warwick seized the opening, his fist rocketing forward, aiming straight for the young warrior's ribs.

Yet, the Dracknum did not hesitate.

In an unnatural movement, he twisted his sword toward himself—its point aimed directly at his own chest.

And then, with unwavering force—

He drove the blade through his own body and released it.

The sword, still shrouded in vibrant blue energy, pierced through his torso without shedding a single drop of blood or leaving so much as a wound and shot forward like a radiant spear.

Warwick hesitated for the briefest of moments.

"What…?"

His eyes widened as he watched the blade seemingly pierce through his opponent's body. And in that single heartbeat of doubt—he lost his chance.

Like a lightning strike, the Dracknum warrior spun and seized the still-airborne blade, pulling it forward in a vertical slash.

Warwick barely had time to react. He raised his arms, bracing for impact—

But the strike never came.

Instead, the Dracknum halted the swing mid-motion… and then, without warning, lunged forward.

With razor-sharp precision, he drove the blade deep into Warwick's shoulder.

The brute's expression froze. His teeth clenched as the impact reverberated through his body. Slowly, blood trickled down the steel, dripping onto the ground with a dull, rhythmic sound.

"FINALLY!" The boy with the scroll shouted, his voice bursting with euphoria as it echoed through the clearing.

The parchment trembled in his hands, its arcane circles flickering weakly before unraveling, consumed by the very energy they had channeled. The magic inscribed upon it had served its purpose.

"Took you long enough!" Darius appeared at his side, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he watched the fractures in the barrier spread. The foul stench seeping from the other side grew stronger with each passing second.

"Warwick, move it! Time to vanish!"

But Warwick didn't seem inclined to follow orders.

With the blade still buried in his shoulder, he let out a low, ragged laugh—wild, untamed, as if the pain only fueled his hunger for battle.

"Damn it… and just when things were getting fun…"

That was when the air changed.

The Dracknum warrior tilted his head ever so slightly, golden eyes gleaming with something primitive, something ravenous.

With nothing more than a thought

He unleashed his Aura.

The world seemed to crush around them.

A suffocating force filled the space, dense and overwhelming.

Darius, Warwick, and the noble boy froze mid-motion, their bodies locking in place, as if the very gravity of the battlefield had tripled. An instinctive, primal chill ran down their spines.

"And who," the Dracknum's voice, scarcely more than a whisper, yet reverberating through the air with the weight of a storm, "granted you the audacity to forsake this place?"

Their eyes widened in unison. Sweat trickled down their temples.

"You have tarried beyond what is permissible." His expression remained an enigma, yet his tone was laced with frigid contempt.

The air around him trembled, his Aura coiling and shifting—like a storm on the verge of breaking loose.

"And now that the moment has at last come to pass..."

The tip of the blade buried in Warwick twisted ever so slightly, earning a muffled grunt of pain.

The Dracknum took a single step forward.

"You think you will escape?"

And in that moment, Darius and Warwick realized the obvious.

"We need to get rid of this lunatic!"

........

Oswin clenched his teeth, his golden eyes locked onto the battle ahead.

"For fuck's sake, what are you all waiting for? Let's get the hell out of here!"

"And how exactly do you propose we do that?!" I shot back, keeping my voice low to avoid drawing attention. 

"Look at that fight—do you really think we can just walk through unscathed? Or would you rather retreat and run straight into her? Into the Crothyna?"

Oswin fell silent.

Nikolas, who had been watching quietly, let out a sigh and crossed his arms.

"Alexander's right. Besides, even if that guy is from the Dracknum family, we'd only get in the way if we were spotted. I have no intention of becoming a hostage… or a burden to anyone. Especially not to him."

His gaze settled on the claymore-wielding swordsman. The respect in his tone didn't go unnoticed. He knew who that warrior was.

At the center of the battlefield, where the clearing had been scarred by chaos, a man with long black hair and severe, almost regal attire stood, wielding an ornately adorned claymore. His movements were fluid, precise—every attack like a step in a dance rehearsed countless times before.

And against him stood two adversaries.

The two criminals moved in deadly harmony, their strikes quick and ruthless, probing his defenses. Yet, despite their relentless assault, not a single one of their attacks had so much as grazed him.

A few steps away, Glória tugged on Oswin's sleeve, forcing him to turn toward her.

"Oswin… they're right. Remember that attack from before?"

He hesitated—but I saw it. The moment realization struck.

The attack that had forced us into hiding.

That flawless cut that sliced through the earth as if it were nothing more than parchment. It hadn't even been aimed at us, and yet we had no choice but to flee.

And now, those enemies were standing against the very person who had unleashed that strike—and they were still alive.

Oswin bit his lower lip, his fists clenching tight.

Oswin clenched his fists, his jaw locked tight. He knew. We all knew. We didn't stand a chance here.

"Damn it!" he spat, grinding his teeth.

For some reason, after minutes of watching the battle unfold in the distance, a heavy silence had settled over the forest. The relentless clang of metal against metal had vanished. One of the mercenaries was gone from sight. Now, only the swordsman and the remaining opponent remained visible.

"Could it be a stalemate?" I murmured, trying to make sense of the sudden stillness.

But before anyone could answer—

A crushing force collapsed upon the world.

My chest tightened. My breath caught. It felt as though an invisible weight was pressing me into the ground, threatening to bury me beneath it.

"What is this?!" I gasped, my knees nearly buckling.

"A-AH!"

Glória screamed—then her body crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

"Nikolas!" Oswin barked, his breathing ragged, his body trembling beneath the pressure. "What's happening?! Why did Glória pass out?!"

Nikolas gritted his teeth, his forehead creased in deep concentration. Even he, the one among us most prepared for the dangers of this forest, was struggling under the sheer force pressing down on us.

"It's him…" he muttered, his voice low and tight with tension. "His Aura… the sheer pressure of it… Glória just couldn't take it."

My heart pounded faster. I had never felt anything like this before.

The King's pressure had been absolute, overwhelming—but it had never made me feel like I was about to break.

This one was different.

It was wild. Ruthless. A bloodlust so raw and unchained that, for the first time, I truly believed I could die at any second.

Looking at him, I could perceive his aura, an intimidating presence that seemed to envelop his entire being. Around him, the bluish energy slowly shaped itself, taking the form of a spotted lion, its long, flowing mane moving with the force of an invisible wind. It was as if he were a caged beast that had finally broken free, only to seek revenge on its captor.

Oswin staggered, sweat pouring down his face.

"But he was winning, wasn't he?! He didn't need to unleash this… He could've just focused the pressure on his opponent, right?! Why release it against everything and everyone?!"

I tried to answer—but even breathing had become a struggle.

The invisible weight crushed down harder, my muscles trembling under the strain. And then—

A chill shot down my spine.

It felt as though something ancient and starving had just set its sights on us.

"…She's here…" Oswin's whisper was barely a breath. His skin had gone deathly pale, his entire body quivering.

"We're going to die…"

The entire forest seemed to hold its breath.

The Hunter and the Prey had been chosen.

And we were on the wrong side of the equation.

In that moment, the cub in my arms, surprisingly awake, started to cry. And a sharp pain pierced through my chest, as if I had lost something I would never get back.