Reckless

Leif could not bear the thought of a leader killing his allies and his people. Leif tossed the coin again.

The coin flew into the air, spinning like a tiny star reflecting in the sky covered in ash and poisonous dust. The golden light from the runes engraved on the coin flickered like the heartbeat of a sleeping god.

Leif had yet to touch it.

In that moment, in the blink of an eye, Siegfried disappeared, only to appear like a living nightmare right next to Leif. A sword slash tore through the air, so sharp that the entire space seemed to crack.

Leif leaned to the right, a reflex that had come from countless lives and deaths. But it was too late.

The blade sliced into the left bicep. From the shoulder to the elbow, the hem of the black cloak flew up, crimson blood sprayed in a curve against the gray sky.

A heavy "Slurp—" sound rang out as the poison began to eat into each tendon.

Blood splattered in a long streak across the air. The coin had barely landed in his palm when the blue-black blade tore through Leif's left robe.

His arm was torn from shoulder to elbow. The wound wasn't deep, but it was enough for the poison to seep into every fiber of his flesh. The poison from the blade was like a sentient parasite, immediately slithering into his veins.

Several blue tendons began to emerge around his shoulder, spreading down to his wrist, winding like deadly tree roots.

His body staggered, and his legs gave way beneath him. His right hand reached up… and grabbed the coin that had just fallen right at his chest. Clang.

Touching it was life, a gamble. But at the same time, Leif saw the skin around the wound gradually turn blue-green, the poisonous roots winding like small snakes, eating into his marrow.

"Damn it…"

Leif gritted his teeth, his hand holding the coin clenched so tightly that his fingertips turned white.

The golden light from the coin flared up again, as if it were breaking through the dark clouds that were gathering. But Siegfried still stood there, cold and lifeless. His black eyes did not reflect the fire, did not waver, only a terrifying emptiness.

Leif retreated, his left foot sweeping across the ground, ice rising from beneath his feet like a last line of defense. The ice coagulated, trapping the poison that was crawling through his veins.

Not dead yet.

Leif gritted his teeth, kneeling on one knee, his hand tightly gripping the coin, the forbidden artifact that he could not miss. Under his feet, the ground rose in thin layers of ice, automatically protecting him as if it had a soul.

The mana twisted in the hand holding the coin, the rune once again flashed a violent golden light that swept across his pale skin.

Siegfried said nothing, like a ghost with a human form, silently standing a few steps away, his eyes empty like a stone mirror without reflection. The poisonous dragon had a human form, its breath was enough to blow away dozens of lives with each beat.

"What are you?"

Leif breathed heavily, the wound was bleeding black blood, and his arm was no longer able to move. But his eyes were still cold and bright like snow under the moon.

"Killing without blinking an eye, enemies and allies alike… A thing like you, calling yourself a warrior, is also a disgrace."

The words were swallowed by a terrifying screech from Siegfried. He closed in again.

One step, two steps, the ground below shattered like glass, the blade in his hand trailed a strange, poisonous light. But this time, Leif did not retreat.

He threw the coin into the sky, his eyes reflecting the golden light from it.

"If I don't kill you, I won't have the face to survive this battle."

From the small circle of light of the coin, a magic circle like a mirror appeared in the sky. The runes were stacked on top of each other like layers of ancient memories, forming a door. He chanted silently, blood from the wound sliding down along the rune on his wrist.

Under the feet of the two combatants, hell opened up.

The sound of metal colliding with bone rang out. The screeching of magic, the sound of ice explosions, the sound of fire, the roar of thunder, and lightning rushed in like a pack of wild beasts. The skeleton soldiers flew into the air, shattered, and then mended themselves as if death were just a temporary inconvenience to them.

The smell of blood mixed with the smell of death, mixed with the poisonous mist that was creeping along every crevice of the rocks, clinging to armor, seeping into wounds, burning every fiber of living flesh.

Screams echoed from all directions, the cries of young mages who were poisoned, of knights whose tendons were pulled in an instant, or of scholars who were panicking when they saw their friends turn to ashes after just one touch.

The wind blowing through the battlefield also carried with it a dust of bones that sparkled purple. Against the dark gray sky, the fragments of runes that had not yet melted still floated, burning dimly like unextinguished ashes.

In the distance, a few imperial soldiers were gagging in their helmets. The healers were overloaded, their healing magic useless against something beyond biological limits.

They shouted each other's names, shouted their positions, tried to form groups of resistance, but layer after layer they crumbled into chaos.

The royal sorcerers were forced to continuously erect barriers, but their mana was depleted as if it were being corroded by the battlefield itself. They didn't have time to admire Flauros or Leif anymore, they could only pray that they wouldn't be the next to melt.

A knight was hit by the poison fire, his body burned like a living torch, he rolled on the ground, and then fell silent. On the other side, a gunner had his chest blown off, fell, but his soul was still sucked into some bone spell, wandering around, unable to escape.

The friend standing next to him went crazy, screaming and pouring all his remaining mana into a single arrow, shooting straight into the forehead of a skeleton soldier, who took half a step back and roared. Not dead.

In the sky, the crows had truly arrived. Black Crow watched the battlefield from above, its jet-black wings reflecting the light from the explosions as if signaling that the nightmare was not over yet.

In the midst of it all.

Two streaks of light, one icy white, one deadly purple, still rushed at each other, swirling into each other.

Siegfried tilted his head to avoid the sharp ice sword, his eyes as black as a bottomless pit, did not waver. The moment Leif touched the ground, he had already closed in like a whirlwind.

The skinny arm swung up without a weapon, just a claw like a whirlwind carrying the original poison sweeping across the space.

BOOM!

Leif was thrown away, his body spinning in mid-air like a kite with a broken string, slamming into the stone wall that had cracked after the previous great battle. The wall cracked even more, rubble fell along with a stream of dark red blood flowing from his forehead, on his eyelashes, and dripping down his lips.

Before he could regain his composure, a dark shadow had already closed in on Siegfried once again. His hand was glowing, his fingertips trailing streaks of poison that sparkled like fireflies in the night, but each streak meant imminent death.

Leif blocked the ice sword—KENG!—a loud noise, his arm felt numb as if it was about to break. He took three steps back, each step leaving a long trail of blood under his feet.

Siegfried was expressionless, looking at the long trail of blood on the ground.

Siegfried swung his arm again. A poison arrow shot straight into Leif's left shoulder, not penetrating it, but still causing the surrounding flesh to burn and rot into a pitch-black color.

Leif gasped, his lips turning purple, and he retreated, his left leg already dragging.

A large scratch from his stomach to his chest was bleeding, and his right arm felt heavy as if thousands of needles were piercing every vein. He let out a scream, gritting his teeth to endure, sweat and blood mixed and dripping from his chin.

Leif took a deep breath, the stench of blood in his throat burning his internal organs. He didn't say anything, just quietly slid his finger lightly to touch the veins that were bulging under his pale skin.

The gold coin was still in his sleeve, cold and sharp like a reminder.

The bet has been placed. No retreat.

Hasty footsteps echoed behind his comrades, who wanted to rush forward.

But Leif only needed a sharp glare to make them all stop. "Squeeze in," that gaze seemed to say, "and we'll all die." Each of the Black Crow's wizards understood all too well. If the formation was in disarray, Leif would no longer be the spearhead, but the breaking point.

He glanced at Siegfried, who was still walking slowly, the terrifying leisureliness of a death god who knew he was invincible. Blood continued to flow from the wounds in his stomach and shoulder, but Leif paid it no mind.

Instead of wiping the blood, he raised his sword.

Clank.

The cold sound of breaking glass rang out like broken glass in the night. Leif used his magic to break the ice longsword in half, the pieces falling as cold mist.

In his hands, there were now two ice shortswords, faster, cleaner, more brutal.

Once again, without warning, without forewarning, without incantation. Leif charged forward, like a silver-blue lightning bolt tearing the ground, the two shortswords drawing arcs of ice that shattered all the surrounding air.

Flauros stood high above, his dark cloak fluttering in the blood-scented wind. The light from the chaotic fires below reflected in his emotionless eyes like the surface of a lake at the end of winter.

Quiet and deadly. But within him rose a nameless wave, as silent and persistent as the morning dew clinging to his skin.

He looked at Leif, who was heavily wounded but still charged into battle as if his life were nothing more than a mortgage. Not using brilliant magic, not chanting complicated spells like other wizards, Leif always chose to create weapons, attach them to his hands, and then charge in like an old cavalryman from a forgotten era.

"Fool," Flauros said silently.

Not with disdain, more with emotion.

Leif was a wizard, but he carried within him a rough and wild fighting style no different from that of an ancient warrior. He did not fight with words, but with teeth and blood, with ice blades that melted with each blow.

No one knew for sure, but Flauros, or rather the leader of the main force of the ancient magic legion, did. Among them, a skinny, bare-handed boy tried to use a wooden knife to fight against a group of adults with magical powers.

Blood stained his shirt, but he still stood up, picked up the broken handle of the knife, and continued to protect someone whose name was no longer mentioned.

From that moment on, Leif chose to fight like that.

Fight like a beast, but keep the heart of a man.

Flauros thought, then smiled faintly, his emotionless eyes returning to their normal state.

"That's interesting," he muttered, twirling the black staff in his hand, "but if you continue to fight like that, sooner or later you will die."

He still had no intention of intervening. But his gaze still did not leave the bloody teenager who continued to charge forward as if the Grim Reaper was holding his hand and pulling him.

Flauros left. Without looking back. Without hesitation. He headed east where the crowd of people were gathered in panic like a school of fish pushed out of water, eyes wide open, not knowing where to run in the sea of rubble.

The stone citadel of Ozone, once hailed as impregnable, was now a mass of rubble mixed with dust and blood. The shockwaves from the battle with the bone dragons earlier had not only torn the ground apart but also taken away what used to be called "architecture".

Flauros still held his spear in his hand. The tip was soaked in black ash, the hilt glowing with faint purple magic. But instead of rushing into battle, he began to chant.

His voice was deep and even, as if he were telling a story rather than invoking a spell of survival. The air gathered, swirling around the spear. From there, a layer of red and gold fire burst forth like a flower blooming in the sea of desolation, the light dazzlingly bright.

The fire did not burn, nor did it destroy. Instead, it curled around the trembling, falling people, the children who had lost their mothers, and enveloped them like a soft blanket in the icy cold.

The magical fire Flauros summoned was inherently destructive, but with a few subtle adjustments, it became a safe zone.

A child crawled out from the pile of bricks, his hands bleeding. Flauros did not stop, just gently swung his spear to the side. A circle of fire rose around the child, soothing the wound and pushing him towards the temporary corridor created by the magical earth pillars.

The crowd, already panicking, instinctively retreated when they saw the fire surrounding them. But instead of being burned, they only felt a gentle warmth.

The ashes floating in the air seemed to be pushed back, creating a transparent space in the chaos of destruction. In Flauros's hand, the magic spear was still glowing red, but in his eyes, there was not even a ripple of fluctuation.

In the distance, the sound of explosions and the flash of sword light between the blue ice and purple gas continued to resound without stopping. But here, amidst the red-yellow light, the people were temporarily protected.

He chanted a second layer of incantation. The ancient language was swallowed by the fire. The broken ground under his feet shook slightly, and then small stone pillars rose from the ground to form fixed paths, like temporary escape routes that were enough to prevent the civilians from being trampled.

Flauros still did not turn his head to look back. He walked forward, one hand holding the spear, the other hand drawing a long flame in the air.