Chapter 84: Ambush!

The morning sun broke through a veil of mist, casting golden slashes across the battered stone walls of Sarver City. The silence was eerie—unnatural. Not a merchant's shout, not a child's laughter, not even the creak of a window opening.

Josh Aratat rode at the front, his gold grade, high level blade strapped across his back, a symbol of rising vengeance. These days, he uses the sword more often than his kingly staff.

Behind him, thirteen generals rode in disciplined formation, each general, including Ralia Amia and Lola, cloaked in dark battlewear, their faces hardened, their eyes forward. The sound of their horses echoed down the empty streets like war drums approaching a battlefield.

The city gate stood open, yawning like the jaws of a beast—no guards, no banners, no trace of resistance.

It was a ghost city.

Josh's jaw clenched as his eyes scanned the state of what once was a proud place. He knew why the streets were abandoned—why doors were bolted and curtains drawn. Xerm, the Golden Toad, and his corrupted followers had turned this city into a hunting ground.

Wherever they went, horror followed. Citizens had become cattle, families were torn apart in the night, and even children were dragged away—used in alchemy so vile it made the very earth sour.

Josh's gaze darkened with fury.

He dug his heels into the sides of his horse. The beast reared slightly, then thundered forward past the threshold of the city, hooves pounding into the dirt with urgency. His generals followed, thirteen shadows in his wake.

As they exited Sarver, a foul wind swept past—dry and heavy with the scent of blood, rot, and something worse... fear.

The land stretched ahead, a narrow road winding through jagged hills that rose like crooked teeth. The path sloped upwards, toward the gates of Cumba City—a place that loomed in the distance like a serpent curled atop a mountain, waiting to strike.

Then, Josh's eyes narrowed. His senses flared.

A shimmer.

A pull in the air.

A break in the rhythm of nature itself.

He activated his Kingly Awareness, a divine perception skill that allowed him to read the battlefield like a page in a book. A 50 meters perimeter around him becomes as visible to him as the content of a transparent glass, active for 3 hours straight.

"They're waiting for us," Josh said without turning his head. His voice was low, steady—but it carved through the morning air like a blade. "Thirty mages. Lying in ambush."

The generals didn't question it. They didn't ask for signs. They obeyed.

Their horses slowed simultaneously, forming a defensive spread as they reached for weapons. Tension thrummed through the air like a taut string about to snap.

And then—

From behind a rock outcrop ahead, a masked man stepped out, robed in deep violet. His hands were raised, glowing with arcane energy. More followed behind him—dozens—lining the ridge like a forest of cloaked threats, magic humming between their fingers.

The first one sneered beneath his mask, his voice like gravel soaked in arrogance.

"Surrender or die," he barked. "We are the mages of Cumba City! Devoted followers of the toad god, Xerm! We won't ask again—drop your weapons, kneel, and you might live."

He smirked, confident that numbers and surprise were enough to crush the strangers before him.

But he had made a fatal mistake.

He had overrated himself.

Josh did not flinch. Did not blink. He simply lifted a hand—and unsheathed his sword.

The golden blade pulsed with an inner fire, humming with rage, as if eager for battle.

Then he spoke, not loudly, but with such force that it echoed like thunder through the hills:

"Wrong move."

The wind itself seemed to pause, as though the world was bracing for what would come next.

"Generals… attack."

The two words fell from Josh's lips like the toll of a death bell. Simple. Cold. Final.

And just like that, hell was unleashed.

Josh leapt from his horse with terrifying grace, his body slicing through the air like a blade itself. His golden sword flashed mid-flight—one fluid arc of destruction—and landed with him, cleaving the masked leader into two perfect halves. Not just his torso, but his limbs separated cleanly, as if measured and cut by a celestial artisan.

The mage didn't even get to scream.

The other twenty-nine stared, frozen in horror. Their leader had launched an ice spell that fizzled out the moment Josh touched the ground. It was like watching water thrown on a god—useless and laughable. Josh hadn't even flinched.

Then it hit them.

They weren't the hunters here.

They were the hunted.

Panic spread like wildfire in their ranks. Several began to chant, desperate to cast a coordinated spell to repel the intruders. Glowing sigils flickered into the air—attempts at firewalls, defensive barriers, chain lightning. But they had no time.

Josh gave a sharp nod.

And Ralia Amia stepped forward.

Her eyes glowed a soft amber as she raised the Orb of Memories, an Earth-grade high-level relic gifted to her by Josh himself. It hovered an inch above her palm, spinning slowly, humming with ancient power.

She whispered into the orb, and it pulsed.

A wave of emotion—raw, disorienting confusion—burst forth and swept over the battlefield. The attackers blinked, then staggered, caught in a sudden haze. One looked around and muttered, "Where... where am I?" Another dropped his staff. Their coordination shattered. Their chants died in their throats.

Faces twisted in bewilderment, like they had forgotten who they were, what they were doing, or even why they were there. Eyes wide, mouths slack, limbs trembling—paralyzed by a flood of lost memories and scrambled thought.

Josh's generals didn't wait.

They moved like shadows in moonlight, slipping through the fog of confusion with surgical precision. Blades hissed. Blood sprayed like ink across parchment. The air was filled with nothing but the sound of wet slashes and bodies crumpling to the earth.

One man came out of the trance just in time to see his own arm tumble to the dirt—and the next moment, his world went dark as his head followed.

When the final mage's consciousness returned, he saw only silence. The other twenty nine, his comrades, torn limb from limb, lay strewn across the hillside in grotesque patterns of crimson. It took him a heartbeat to realize that his own body was lying beside them—his head, severed clean, staring upward in horror and disbelief.

None of them had even known how they died.

Josh wiped his blade once across a fallen cloak and sheathed it without a word. The golden hilt glimmered, as if satisfied.

He mounted his horse once more, the generals following, blood dripping from their weapons, eyes sharp and unspeaking.

The message was clear:

This was no army to ambush.

This was a force to kneel before… or be erased.