Light's Released || Episode 2: Utmost Battlefield

  Aven lay sprawled on a soft, unfamiliar bed, the plush comfort cradling his exhausted body. The warmth of the sheets and the quiet serenity of the room offered a rare reprieve from the chaos that had become his life. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to relax, his breathing steady as sleep beckoned him deeper into its embrace.

  Suddenly, an intense beam of light cut through his closed eyelids, shattering the peace.

  “Ugh…” he groaned, throwing an arm over his face. “What the hell…?”

  The light was relentless, and before he could even attempt to piece together where he was, a familiar, smug voice pierced the silence.

  “Rise and shine, sleepyhead!”

  Aven cracked one eye open, squinting against the brightness. Standing at the foot of the bed, emerging through a swirling green portal, was Yuri. His ever-present smirk and chaotic energy were in full force as he leaned casually against the portal’s edge.

  “Yuri…” Aven muttered, his voice thick with irritation. “What now?”

  “Oh, don’t play dumb!” Yuri chirped, far too enthusiastic for someone barging into another’s sleep. He grabbed Aven’s hand and yanked him upright with surprising force. “We’ve got places to be!”

  “Wait, wha—” Aven barely had time to protest before Yuri dragged him headfirst into the portal.

  The disorienting sensation hit Aven like a freight train. One moment, he was groggy in bed; the next, he stumbled out onto hard, uneven ground, his legs barely catching him. The air here was starkly different—thick with tension and the faint metallic tang of blood.

  As Aven blinked, trying to focus, his surroundings came into view: a battle-scarred wasteland stretched out before him. The earth was cracked and scorched, littered with shattered weapons and rusted armor. The sky was an oppressive gray tinged with a deep, ominous red, casting an eerie glow over the desolate landscape.

  “Where the hell are we?” Aven muttered, his grogginess giving way to growing unease.

  “Ah, excellent question!” Yuri exclaimed, stepping through the portal behind him with an exaggerated flourish. “Welcome, Aven, to your very own training arc!”

  Aven blinked, his irritation mounting. “Training arc? What are you talking about now?”

  Yuri spread his arms, grinning like a game show host revealing the grand prize. “Think of it as your personal anime episode! You’ve got stakes, drama, and plenty of character development waiting for you!”

  Aven pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yuri, I swear—”

  But Yuri’s smirk faded slightly as he stepped closer, his tone turning uncharacteristically serious. “Listen up, because this part’s important. There are rules here. Rule one: you must use the weapon and powers you got from the wheel. If you try to rely on anything else as your main strategy…” He paused dramatically, his grin returning with a devilish edge. “You’ll be paralyzed. Painfully.”

  Aven’s eyes widened, a spark of alarm breaking through his irritation. “Paralyzed? Are you serious?”

  “Oh, deadly serious,” Yuri replied, tapping his chin as though pondering whether to elaborate. “But since this is a training arc, I won’t be too harsh. Use what you’ve got, learn the ropes, and, uh, try not to die. Sound good?”

  Before Aven could argue, Yuri stepped back toward the portal, which began to shrink behind him. “Oh, and one more thing,” he added, flashing a wink. “Don’t expect me to bail you out. This is all on you, buddy. Good luck!”

  With a final wave, Yuri disappeared into the closing portal, leaving Aven standing alone in the desolate battlefield.

  For a moment, Aven stared at the empty space where Yuri had just been, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. He let out a long sigh, surveying the ominous wasteland around him.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me…” he muttered under his breath, rubbing his temples.

  But as the weight of the situation settled on his shoulders, Aven forced himself to take a deep breath. “Alright,” he said to himself, his tone steadying. “Training arc. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  With that, he took his first step forward, the wasteland seeming to hum with the promise of challenges ahead.

  A deafening explosion shattered the uneasy calm, sending a gust of wind rushing past Aven. Dust and debris filled the air as he instinctively turned toward the source of the blast, confusion and alarm flooding his senses.

  Before he could process what was happening, a firm hand grabbed his arm, yanking him into the cover of a crumbling wall.

  "Private! Did someone hit you in the head? Do you feel any pain?" a young man barked, his voice urgent but steady.

  The soldier, barely older than Aven, began checking him over for injuries, his hands moving quickly and methodically. Aven blinked, disoriented, his mind struggling to catch up.

  "I… what? Who are you?" Aven stammered, his words fumbling. He glanced down, his confusion deepening. Gone were the familiar clothes he’d been wearing just moments ago. In their place was a bright red uniform made of light armor, adorned with intricate details and the emblem of a triangle surrounded by unfamiliar symbols.

  Aven's breath hitched as he tried to make sense of the situation. Wasn’t he just in pajamas?

  “Hey, snap out of it!” the young soldier commanded, his tone softening as he placed a glowing hand on Aven's forehead. A warm, green light emanated from his palm, and Aven felt an immediate wave of calm wash over him, his racing heart slowing.

  The soldier studied him closely, his brow furrowed with concern. “Do you remember your name? Your rank?” he asked, his voice quieter but no less firm.

  Before Aven could answer, the ground shook violently, the air filling with the cacophony of chaos. Explosions thundered in the distance, accompanied by the distinct sounds of magic being unleashed—water crashing, fire roaring, earth shifting, and wind slicing through the air. Distant chants mixed with screams, creating a symphony of destruction that seemed to close in around them.

  Aven’s mind reeled. The soldier’s questions buzzed in his ears, but the sensory overload made it nearly impossible to focus. Who was he? What was happening? Why was he dressed like this?

  The soldier crouched closer, his expression hardening as the sounds of battle grew nearer. “Look, I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but we’re in the middle of a warzone, and I need you to pull it together. Can you fight?”

  Aven hesitated, his hands clenching into fists. His memories were a scrambled mess, but one thing was clear—there was no escaping this chaos.

  “Yeah,” Aven said finally, his voice steadier than he felt. “I think I can.”

  The soldier nodded sharply, gripping Aven's shoulder. “Good. Stick with me, Private. We’re getting out of this alive.”

  With that, the two of them ducked low, moving cautiously through the debris-strewn battlefield as the sounds of destruction raged around them.

  The battlefield roared with the unrelenting sounds of war. Explosions echoed across the terrain, and the air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and magic. Aven and the young soldier pressed themselves against cover, the chaos unfolding around them like a storm of violence and strategy.

  Nearby, allies moved in synchronized precision, manning medieval-style weapons imbued with arcane power. Massive ballistae, catapults, and cannons lined the makeshift fortifications, their crews charging them with elemental magic. Flames crackled, water swirled, and streaks of lightning danced as ammunition, each weapon radiating energy that pulsed with destructive potential.

  The loud thrum of firing beams reverberated as glowing projectiles shot through the battlefield, cutting through enemy lines like divine judgment. Soldiers shouted commands, their voices barely audible over the deafening barrage.

  Towering figures clad in ornate, heavy armor stood at the forefront of the operation. These were the barrier casters—large men whose imposing forms shimmered with magical energy. They planted their feet firmly, their hands outstretched as they cast powerful barrier spells that shimmered with iridescent hues. These protective shields absorbed and deflected incoming projectiles and spells, safeguarding the weapons and the soldiers operating them.

  “Keep the barriers steady! Don’t let them break through!” one of the casters roared, his deep voice cutting through the chaos.

  Aven watched in awe, the surreal scene almost overwhelming. Each soldier moved with purpose, their actions a blend of disciplined combat training and magical expertise.

  “Private! Eyes forward!” the young soldier snapped, jolting Aven back to reality. “We’re not sightseeing. Stick with me and stay low!”

  The two of them darted between cover, the ground trembling beneath their feet as another volley of magical artillery erupted from their lines. Sparks and debris rained down, and Aven felt the heat of fire magic pass perilously close.

  For the first time, he began to understand the scale of the conflict he’d been thrown into. This wasn’t just a skirmish—it was a full-scale war, where magic and steel clashed in a deadly symphony. The only question was how he would survive it.

  Amidst the swirling smoke and chaos of the battlefield, a handful of soldiers sprinted forward, their movements quick and calculated. The ground beneath them shimmered ominously, glowing faintly with traces of mana—explosive traps set to ensnare the unwary. A few soldiers, unprepared, met their untimely end, their bodies consumed by the violent burst of magic, the shockwaves ripping through the air.

  “Watch your step and follow me!” the young soldier barked, his voice firm with authority. He moved with practiced ease, his eyes scanning the floor as he read the magical signatures in the soil. His comrades, experienced and in tune with the world’s arcane forces, did the same. Their gazes turned to the ground, where tainted patches of mana pulsed like venomous veins—explosive fields waiting to detonate with a wrong step.

  Aven, still feeling disoriented, followed their lead, doing his best to match their pace. As he focused on the ground, his senses sharpened, but the sight of the lethal traps still made his heart race. The soldiers moved seamlessly, dodging and weaving through the deadly minefield of magical energy.

  Suddenly, a hostile figure appeared from the smoke—a mage, hands crackling with electrical energy. With a shout, he unleashed a barrage of electrified spells, arcs of lightning streaking through the air, aiming to strike down anyone who dared venture too far.

  But one of the soldiers, a man with graying hair and an aura of calm authority, raised his hand with practiced grace. His eyes locked onto the storm of magic, and with a sudden, decisive motion, he manipulated the mana around them. Through telekinesis, he shifted the earth and magical fields, pulling the safe ground closer and forming a makeshift barrier to shield the soldiers behind him. The air hummed as his magic worked in tandem with the battlefield’s chaos.

  Aven, still trying to acclimate to the onslaught, found himself suddenly enveloped by the barrier, the world narrowing into a single, protective pocket of space.

  “Stay close and keep your heads down!” the young soldier urged as he crouched beside Aven, his voice unwavering in the face of the danger around them.

  The hostile mage’s voice rang out, filled with fury. “Take the covers down!” he shouted, his tone laced with command.

  In response, the enemies began to coordinate their efforts, launching magical bombardments that rattled the very earth. The ground shook with a deafening roar, and the air itself seemed to crack under the pressure of the explosions.

  A massive explosion tore through the enemy’s defenses, a blast so powerful that the shockwave rocked both sides. The sheer force of it sent debris flying in every direction, causing soldiers to scramble for cover as the smoke and dust clouded the air.

  Aven’s heart pounded in his chest as he crouched low, the sound of the explosion still ringing in his ears. Through the haze, he could barely make out the silhouettes of soldiers pushing forward, their resolve unbroken.

  The battle was far from over, but Aven knew one thing for sure—if he was going to survive this, he would need to adapt quickly. The rules of this war were different, and he had to play by them if he was to find his place.

  Aven's breath came in sharp, ragged bursts, his body still trying to adjust to the chaotic battlefield around him. His heart raced as he focused on his palm, willing the flames to come. “Come on, come on… come out,” he muttered under his breath, frustration lacing his words. For a moment, nothing happened, and he nearly gave up—but then, a flicker of heat, a small spark, erupted in his hand. Slowly but surely, fire began to form, swirling and crackling like a tempest contained in his palm. It wasn’t much, but it would do for now.

  With a grunt, Aven hurled the fireball into the air, his aim precise as he targeted an area within the enemy’s defenses. The fire shot upward before it detonated in a violent explosion, flames cascading outward, tearing through the magical barriers and scorching the earth. The hostile soldiers reeled back, their formation momentarily disrupted as they scrambled to recover from the unexpected attack.

  Taking advantage of the opening, the young soldier pushed forward, his steps swift and sure. The graying-haired man, whose magic had been a calming force until now, raised his hand and began to summon the earth itself. Massive stone slabs rose from the ground, forming a protective wall beside them. With a grunt of effort, he used his control over the terrain to fortify their position, ensuring that the path ahead remained clear.

  "Move!" the young soldier barked, urging Aven and the others forward.

  Aven, still in shock at the effectiveness of his fireball, followed without hesitation. The sounds of battle raged around them as they breached the enemy’s defenses, the clash of steel and magic echoing across the field.

  Just ahead, a hostile soldier, clearly wounded, was attempting to patch himself up, his breath coming in labored gasps. The young soldier saw him and, without a second thought, rushed toward him.

  In a blur of motion, the young soldier reached the hostile combatant and placed his hand on the injured man’s chest. Immediately, the hostile soldier began to convulse violently, his eyes wide with terror as if something was ripping through his very soul. The young soldier didn’t flinch; he dragged the man out of harm’s way, showing no sign of hesitation.

  Aven stared, his eyes wide with a mix of surprise and disbelief. "What... just happened?" he muttered under his breath.

  The young soldier, not missing a beat, turned to Aven. "I can control the mana in his body. It’s not pretty, but it’s effective. Keeps him from being a problem for us."

  Aven’s mind raced as they moved further into the enemy's lines. The sheer speed and efficiency with which the young soldier acted left him in awe. He could barely process the whirlwind of actions happening around him—so much power, so much control. Was he even capable of something like that? Could he learn to harness his own powers as easily?

  But before he could ponder further, the walls of the enemy’s defenses loomed closer. His thoughts sharpened, and he steeled himself for what was to come. The battle wasn’t over, and there was no time to waste in figuring out the limits of his abilities. He had to keep moving.

  The other soldiers prepared their crossbows, each infused with elemental magic, their expressions a mix of determination and tension. With practiced precision, they aimed and fired, their enchanted bolts streaking through the air like glowing comets. A few distracted hostiles were caught off guard, falling quickly to the lethal strikes.

  But the brief success was short-lived.

  One of the hostile soldiers, clad in dark armor, began chanting a rapid incantation, his voice sharp and commanding. Within moments, glowing orbs materialized around him before shooting outward as fast, deadly magical pellets. The projectiles tore through the air, striking several allied soldiers with brutal efficiency. Aven barely had time to react as men around him fell, their cries of pain piercing through the chaos.

  “Damn it!” the graying-haired man cursed under his breath. His eyes narrowed as he quickly extended a hand toward the nearby wall. With a flick of his wrist, his telekinesis surged forth, wrenching a section of the building’s wall open. Dust and debris scattered, but the gap created a perfect line of sight to the hostile soldier responsible for the attack.

  “Now!” the graying-haired man barked.

  The young soldier was already moving. Drawing his longbow with practiced ease, he notched an arrow, its tip glowing faintly with a magical aura. He aimed through the gap and released, the arrow flying true.

  The hostile soldier, caught entirely off guard, barely had time to react before the arrow struck him. Aven watched as the man’s body convulsed violently, his magical energy seemingly disrupted by the impact. The hostile soldier fell to the ground, his spellcasting abruptly cut off.

  “Close it!” the young soldier shouted.

  Without hesitation, the graying-haired man raised his hand again, the gap in the wall sealing shut with a grinding sound of stone against stone. The battlefield outside remained chaotic, the air thick with the sounds of shouting, clashing weapons, and elemental magic tearing through the environment.

  As the immediate threat subsided, a squad of allied soldiers stormed into the building. They were clad in medium-weight armor, their faces grim but resolute. Without a word, they moved with purpose, filing out through another exit to engage the enemy forces outside.

  The young soldier turned to Aven, his expression serious but steady. “Stay sharp. This isn’t over yet.”

  Aven nodded, gripping his newfound determination tightly as they followed the squad into the fray. The relentless cacophony of war continued around them, the battlefield alive with the fury of clashing elements and the cries of combatants. There was no room for hesitation—only the fight ahead.

  [The Dungeon of Latom]

  The heavy clanging of steel boots against the cold stone echoed through the dimly lit halls of the Dungeon of Latom. Emperor Leon Thee Magnus, the once-mighty ruler of the Zahuv Empire, strode with purpose, his dark crimson cape trailing behind him like a shadow of the empire's former glory. Beside him, two of his most trusted elite soldiers followed silently, their faces obscured by ornate helmets, their weapons gleaming with an eerie readiness.

  Leon’s expression was cold, but his mind was a tempest of thoughts, swirling with anger, shame, and defiance.

  How did it come to this?

  His hand clenched into a fist at his side, the leather of his gloves creaking under the pressure.

  We were supposed to be unstoppable. The Zahuv Empire, the beacon of strength and power, the envy of nations. And now? Now we’re nothing but a fractured shadow, a crumbling monument to arrogance.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  He can hear the screams of his soldiers in the fields, the clash of steel against steel, the crackling of magic tearing through the air. The Photia Empire’s relentless assault had pushed his forces to the brink. Resources had dwindled, their proud banners now stained with blood and mud, and the honor of his name—his family’s name—was tarnished beyond recognition.

  The Magnus line has stood for centuries, unbroken. A legacy of warriors, conquerors, kings. And I... I will not be the one to let it fall. I won’t give those vultures the satisfaction of watching me beg for mercy. If the Zahuv Empire is to perish, I will make certain the Photia dogs pay the ultimate price for their victory.

  His grip tightened around the hilt of his ceremonial sword, the weight of it both comforting and damning. The blade had once been a symbol of hope and authority, but now, it felt like a reminder of his failure.

  The two soldiers beside him, clad in dark, intricately designed armor, moved with the precision and silence of shadows. They were the finest his empire had left—his "Specters," soldiers handpicked for their unmatched loyalty and skill. They spoke no words but matched his every step, their presence both reassuring and unnerving.

  Leon glanced at the taller of the two, his golden armor glinting faintly in the torchlight. This was Atrius, a warrior known for his brutal efficiency and unyielding resolve. On his left was Selene, cloaked in black and armed with dual blades that shimmered with enchantments. Together, they were the last of his elites, the remnants of a once-mighty force reduced to mere handfuls.

  These two would follow me to hell itself if I asked. Perhaps that’s where we’re headed now.

  The hallway grew colder as they approached the heart of the dungeon, the air thick with dampness and despair. Leon’s thoughts darkened further as he prepared himself for the inevitable.

  The Photia Empire will not take me alive. They’ll not find a weeping ruler begging for scraps at their feet. If this is the end, I’ll turn it into a reckoning—a memory so drenched in fire and blood that it will haunt their empire for generations.

  He stopped abruptly, his voice breaking the oppressive silence. “Atrius. Selene.”

  The two Specters snapped to attention, their movements sharp and practiced.

  “I will not ask you to follow me beyond this point,” Leon said, his tone low but resolute. “You’ve served me faithfully, more than anyone could ask. What I am about to do... it will either turn the tide or doom us all. If you wish to leave now, I will grant you that mercy.”

  Atrius stepped forward, his voice a deep, unyielding growl. “My life belongs to you, Emperor Magnus. Until my last breath.”

  Selene simply nodded, her piercing gaze speaking louder than words.

  Leon felt a small flicker of warmth—loyalty, even in the face of certain doom. He turned back toward the dark corridor ahead, his resolve hardening like tempered steel.

  If I fall, I will fall as Leon Thee Magnus, Emperor of the Zahuv Empire. And the world will remember the cost of crossing me.

  The heavy iron doors groaned as Leon Thee Magnus pushed them open, the ancient mechanisms grinding from centuries of disuse. The room beyond was cavernous, its high ceilings lost in the shadows. At its center stood a massive, intricately designed seal—a circular array of runes etched deep into the floor, glowing faintly with a pale blue light. Within the seal stood Valtrax, the Dracotour.

  Valtrax was an imposing figure, towering over them even in his restrained form. His body was a grotesque fusion of monstrous strength and twisted elegance. His scaled skin gleamed with a dark, obsidian-like sheen, and his chest and limbs were adorned with what appeared to be natural armor resembling royal regalia—sharp, jagged, and encrusted with gemstone-like protrusions that shimmered menacingly. His elongated face bore a twisted, arrogant grin, his glowing yellow eyes filled with condescension.

  Two massive horns curled back from his head like a crown, and leathery wings folded behind him, each lined with spiked ridges. His tail, long and sinuous, lashed the ground with an audible crack, as if in protest of his confinement. Despite the magical bindings encircling him, his aura was overwhelming—a crushing presence that made Leon’s breath hitch.

  This… This is what my ancestors sealed away?

  The room felt alive with Valtrax's raw, untamed power. Even in chains, the Dracotour exuded an arrogance that was almost suffocating.

  As Leon and his two Specters approached, Valtrax's head tilted slightly, his grin widening to reveal rows of razor-sharp teeth. His voice, deep and resonant, echoed through the chamber.

  "Well, well, well... What do we have here? A Magnus, I presume? And two little lapdogs?" He laughed, a booming sound that reverberated off the stone walls. "You dare step into my presence? The audacity! The sheer stupidity!"

  Leon’s jaw tightened, but he held his ground, his pride burning brighter than his fear.

  "Silence, beast," Leon commanded, his voice firm. "You will show respect to your emperor."

  Valtrax’s laughter grew louder, mocking and full of disdain. "Respect? For you? A frail little man clinging to the scraps of an empire already crumbling to dust? Oh, this is rich. Tell me, Magnus, do you think releasing me will save your pathetic kingdom?"

  Leon’s hand rested on the hilt of his ceremonial sword. His pride as a Magnus burned hotter with each insult, but he refused to rise to the bait.

  “You will serve me, Valtrax,” Leon declared. “You were sealed away by my ancestors because of your strength, your unrelenting aggression. And now, I will unleash you upon my enemies. Together, we will make the Photia Empire regret ever crossing us.”

  Valtrax’s grin twisted into a sneer, his voice dripping with mockery. "Serve you? Me? Valtrax the Magnificent, the Supreme, I Am The Apex Of Power, The very idea is an insult! I am no servant, little man. I am a king among beasts, a god among worms! You dare to think you can control me?"

  Leon took a step forward, his eyes blazing with determination. "I don’t need to control you. I only need to point you in the right direction. Do what you will with the Photia Empire—tear them apart, burn their lands, I don’t care. But know this: without me, you’ll remain here, rotting in this dungeon for eternity."

  Valtrax’s eyes narrowed, his grin faltering for the first time. He leaned forward, the chains around him straining as he did. "And what if I tear you apart the moment I’m free, Magnus? What then? What’s to stop me from making you my first victim?"

  Leon’s lips curled into a smirk. "My pride. You think I fear death? I am a Magnus. If I die releasing you, then so be it. I will not let my empire fall without a fight. My name will be remembered, and you will serve as the blade of my vengeance."

  Valtrax regarded him for a moment, his gaze piercing. Then he threw his head back and laughed once more, the sound shaking the very ground beneath them.

  "Ah, such arrogance! I like it! Fine, little Magnus. Release me, and I will grant you your wish. I’ll raze your enemies to the ground... and then, perhaps, I’ll decide whether you’re worthy of living in my world."

  Atrius and Selene exchanged uneasy glances but remained silent, their loyalty unwavering. Leon stepped forward, drawing his sword. He pointed it toward the glowing seal, the blade humming with mana as he channeled his will into the ancient bindings.

  The runes flickered, then began to dim. Valtrax’s grin widened, his body thrumming with anticipation.

  "You’ll regret this, Magnus," Selene said softly, her voice barely audible.

  "Perhaps," Leon replied, his tone resolute. "But regret means nothing to the dead."

  With a final surge of power, the seal shattered. The room was consumed by a blinding light as Valtrax roared, his chains disintegrating. When the light faded, the Dracotour stood fully unbound, his monstrous form towering over them, wings unfurled and radiating a menacing grandeur.

  Valtrax stretched, his every movement exuding a mix of arrogance and menace. "At last! Free again!" He turned his glowing eyes to Leon, a wicked smile on his face. "Now then, Magnus… let the fun begin."

  Valtrax flicked his finger with a casual yet menacing gesture, his movement swift and deliberate. The air crackled with power as the force of his flick slammed into Leon, sending him skidding back several paces. However, Leon’s feet remained firmly planted, his stance unwavering, the weight of his sword grounded in the earth like a pillar. His eyes remained cold, his expression stoic despite the power that had nearly sent him to the ground.

  His two elite soldiers, Atrius and Selene, remained by his side—silent, calm, and alert. There was no trace of fear in their posture, no sign of hesitation in their eyes. They were unwavering in their loyalty to Leon, their resolve as firm as stone.

  Valtrax’s smile grew wider, a twisted gleam of amusement flashing in his eyes as he took in the scene. He sniffed the air, sensing the absence of fear that should have been palpable in the presence of such an overwhelming force. The audacity of it thrilled him.

  A dark, nostalgic memory stirred in the Dracotour's mind—a vivid flash from the past. His massive, glowing eyes narrowed as he looked at Leon, his grin twisting into something more thoughtful, almost reverent.

  "Prada Thee Magnus…" Valtrax mused aloud, the name rolling off his tongue with a strange mix of admiration and envy. "The Human Prodigy. He was something truly remarkable, wasn't he? Not bad, little Magnus, but you’re not quite there yet."

  He paused, stretching his enormous muscles as if savoring the moment, enjoying the silence that hung between them. "Your grandfather, Prada… an excellent human being, I must admit. Perfect, even. But that perfection didn’t come from some noble destiny or divine blessing." Valtrax’s tone darkened, his eyes flashing with barely contained rage. "No, he earned it through sheer might. His mastery over silent mana, an ability so potent that it left even me envious." He chuckled, though there was a hint of bitterness beneath it. "I couldn’t stand it. The way he wielded power, so effortlessly. It was… infuriating."

  The Dracotour's massive frame rippled with tension as he flexed his wings, the air growing heavier with his presence. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, towering over Leon with his wicked grin still firmly in place.

  "But I digress..." Valtrax said, his voice now tinged with a dangerous amusement. "I could end your life here and now, little Magnus, but that would be far too easy. And where’s the fun in that?" He let out a dark laugh, the sound echoing in the cavernous room. "No, for now, I think I’ll let you live. Killing you wouldn’t satisfy me—not yet. Besides, I haven’t had a decent challenge in centuries."

  Valtrax’s eyes gleamed with malicious delight as he surveyed Leon and his elite soldiers. Despite his overwhelming strength, there was something in him that found fascination in the human before him, a flicker of respect buried beneath his arrogance. It was almost as though, deep within, he was looking for something more—something that might prove this human worth the risk of being in his presence. But for now, the game would continue.

  "Let’s see just how far your bloodline’s stubbornness goes," Valtrax mused with a playful sneer. "Perhaps your grandfather’s strength was no fluke. Maybe there’s something worth watching in you after all."

  Leon stood tall, his grip on his sword firm, his eyes locked onto the Dracotour. There was no fear, no doubt in his gaze—just an unshakable pride. His ancestors had fought for this empire, and now it was his turn.

  "Then let the games begin, Valtrax," Leon replied coldly, his voice unwavering, as if the weight of his bloodline was enough to steel his resolve. "I will prove that Magnus blood runs deeper than your arrogance."

  Valtrax’s enormous footsteps reverberated throughout the chamber, each step crushing the stone floor beneath him with a bone-shaking force. His massive form glided effortlessly across the room, a predator savoring its dominance, his eyes gleaming with malicious delight.

  "Very well," he boomed, his voice echoing with the weight of ancient power. "I will crush your enemies for you. I would love a good fight, after all." His laughter, deep and thunderous, filled the air, an ominous sound that seemed to rattle the very foundation of the dungeon.

  As he walked past Leon and his two elite soldiers, the sheer size of Valtrax made him seem like an unstoppable force of nature. Despite his overwhelming strength and ferocity, the Dracotour didn’t make a move to strike them down. Instead, he passed by them with a casual arrogance, as if they were beneath his notice. His wings twitched slightly, a sign of his excitement—he was in no rush, as he clearly enjoyed the fear and awe his presence instilled in the humans before him.

  Leon’s eyes narrowed, but he remained unmoving, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. His elite soldiers stood silently beside him, their expressions unreadable, but the tension was palpable. Valtrax’s behavior was both a show of power and an unsettling form of mercy.

  "It seems," Leon said, his voice low but resolute, "that you're toying with us. But if this is your mercy, then let it be known that we accept it."

  Valtrax’s laughter died down as he reached the far side of the room, turning back to face them. His monstrous grin stretched wider, a mixture of arrogance and amusement in his eyes. "Mercy? Oh no, little Magnus. This isn’t mercy," he said with a dark chuckle. "This is just the calm before the storm. If I were truly merciful, you’d already be dead. But since you begged for my help, I’ll indulge you. For now."

  The air around them seemed to thicken as Valtrax’s mana surged, his aura expanding like a dark cloud. The ground cracked beneath his feet, and the temperature seemed to drop as the overwhelming presence of the Dracotour filled the room.

  "Consider this an act of doom, little Magnus," Valtrax purred, his eyes locking onto Leon’s. "One you’ll be blessed to witness firsthand."

  For all his bravado, Leon could feel the weight of the Dracotour’s words. There was no doubt that this was not a show of kindness, but rather a prelude to destruction. Yet, Leon’s resolve didn’t waver. He would face whatever came next, as the Magnus bloodline had done for generations.

  Valtrax turned and strode toward the exit, his massive frame cutting through the air like a living storm, the sound of his laughter trailing behind him like a harbinger of doom.

  The scene abruptly shifted, the perspective narrowing until it was focused solely on a single eye. A scout’s eye—sharp, intense, and glowing with mana as if it were a living lens of calculation. Mana surged through the eye, projecting a field of intricate runes that hovered in midair, glowing faintly with precise energy. The air seemed to thrum with anticipation as the eye quickly calculated the distances and angles with surgical precision.

  The data was visualized in the air, lines and numbers flickering in rapid succession. The scout’s mind processed it all—calculating trajectory, wind speed, distance, and elevation. His focus sharpened as his magic enhanced the images before him, producing a grid of measurements. The distance from their position to the Zahuv Empire's major base was exactly 3.12 kilometers, the angle of attack precisely 18.3 degrees with a slight northward wind factor of 2.4 km/h.

  Nearby, the ground trembled ever so slightly as the soldier preparing the massive ballista at the designated position double-checked the angle. His hands were steady as he infused the magic into the tip of the oversized bolt, charging it with explosive-inducing mana—an energy meant to obliterate everything in its path.

  "Ready, Aim, Fire!" the scout’s voice rang out, the words carrying the weight of the moment.

  The ballista's trigger was pulled. The air cracked with the sound of immense tension being released as the bolt, charged with magical power, hurtled through the air. Its trajectory was perfect, the lines and runes of the scout’s calculations reflected in the path it took.

  The scout’s gaze didn’t waver. He observed the flight with meticulous care, watching as the explosive bolt flew closer to the target. The calculated precision of the strike could potentially change the course of a battle—a gamble on the outcome of the war.

  The bolt whizzed through the air, its sharp tip slicing through the atmosphere with a high-pitched whistle. As it struck the wall of the Zahuv base, the explosion was catastrophic. The ballista bolt detonated violently, sending shockwaves through the enemy’s defenses. The blast tore through stone and steel, igniting the surroundings in a sea of flames and smoke. Within moments, the majority of Zahuv’s men within the blast radius were obliterated, their cries lost in the roar of the explosion.

  As the dust and smoke cleared, Photia soldiers surged forward like a tidal wave, charging into the wreckage with precision. They swiftly swept through the remaining Zahuv forces, systematically taking down any stragglers who hadn’t been close enough to the blast to be caught in it. The sound of battle rang out as the soldiers of Photia methodically cleaned up what was left.

  But for Ballista Operator, it was a different story. His legs buckled under the overwhelming strain of mana use, and the intense power he had channeled to guide the ballista bolt finally took its toll. His vision blurred, and before he could react, he collapsed, his body giving way to exhaustion. Another soldier, standing nearby, rushed to his side, quickly lifting him up and guiding him to a more peaceful spot to rest.

  The Operator's body sagged as he was gently placed on the ground, his mind slipping into unconsciousness. But even in his fading awareness, something felt wrong. His instincts, honed by countless battles and his sharp eye for danger, flared up. A strange sensation crept through the air, an unnatural heat that seemed to burn the very atmosphere around him.

  Then, his eyes flickered open, flames dancing within them as a surge of unnatural energy engulfed the battlefield. It wasn’t just fire—it was as if the flames themselves were alive, writhing and twisting in ways that defied logic. There was something wrong here. The fire wasn’t natural, and it didn’t come from any weapon they had.

  The scout's heart raced as his eyes focused on the source of the phenomenon. Through the swirling inferno, a colossal figure emerged—unfazed by the flames that surrounded it. It was massive, its form outlined against the blazing backdrop as it strode forward with terrifying confidence. The very ground seemed to tremble beneath its steps.

  With a sickening crack, the giant figure snapped its jaws around a nearby Photia soldier. Despite the soldier’s heavy, durable armor, the creature’s bite crushed through it as though it were paper, the man’s body effortlessly consumed in a single, savage motion. The scout’s breath caught in his throat. This wasn’t a normal soldier or beast—it was something far more dangerous.

  A primal sense of dread surged within him as the figure continued its unrelenting march. The scout knew that whatever this creature was, it was not something they could easily defeat. Something far darker was at play here. And the battle had only just begun.

  The oppressive weight of mana bore down on the battlefield like an invisible storm, suffocating and relentless. The scout struggled to stay upright on the cliff, his breaths shallow and strained. He clutched his chest, beads of sweat trickling down his temple as he gasped, “What the hell is this mana? It’s… it’s suffocating me. How is he condensing mana like this? It’s like a gravity spell!” His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the ground, clawing at the dirt as though trying to escape the crushing force.

  Valtrax moved through the battlefield like a harbinger of destruction, his towering form a grotesque spectacle of primal power. The earth quaked with each step, and his chains, once meant to restrain him, now clinked against his scales like grim trophies of his release. In one massive clawed hand, he held a mutilated corpse, blood pooling in the grooves of his glistening, opalescent scales. His maw, a terrifying arsenal of jagged teeth, tore into the body with a sickening crunch, the echo of breaking bones reverberating across the battlefield. Thick, dark blood dripped from his chin, splattering onto the scorched earth below.

  Valtrax paused, his glowing amber eyes narrowing as they scanned the soldiers of the "Photia's Empirical Forces" assembling before him. A sneer curled his blood-streaked lips as he spat out a fragment of bone. “I expected an army of vampires. Elves, at the very least,” he rumbled, his voice a deep, guttural growl that resonated like rolling thunder. “But this?” He gestured dismissively at the humans before him. “This is what they send to face me? How utterly uninspired.”

  His disdainful gaze drifted briefly upward, a flicker of something ancient and bitter crossing his monstrous features. “How far Zahuv has fallen,” he muttered, his tone almost melancholic. “Prada would weep if he saw me reduced to cleaning up the mess of his descendants. Though… I suppose I don’t mind. Crushing you pathetic worms does hold a certain charm.”

  Valtrax strode forward, his chains that once restrainded him for centuries rattling ominously like Souvenir's with each step . The Empirical Forces, though hesitant, they stood their ground, their training kicking in as they quickly assumed tactical positions. Their disciplined movements spoke of determination, but the overwhelming presence of Valtrax made even their bravest shudder. Despite their fear, they charged, a coordinated assault against the towering beast.

  [Back to Aven]

  Aven slumped down on a wet wooden chair, his armor stained with blood and dirt, his body heavy with exhaustion. His mind was a storm, replaying the horrors he had just witnessed. The guttural screams, the sickening crunch of bodies colliding, and the sight of insides laid bare—these were things no story or movie could have prepared him for. This wasn’t some heroic tale of glory. This was raw, chaotic, and terrifyingly real.

  He clenched his trembling hands into fists, trying to steady himself, but his voice betrayed his despair. “How the hell am I supposed to recover from this? Oh God... I can’t do this. I’m not strong enough. I want to run. I have to run. This is too much... too stupid. I’m not that stupid…”

  The words spilled out like a mantra, desperate and frantic, as his chest heaved with panicked breaths. He felt the edges of his mind fraying, the reality of war too immense to fully grasp.

  A soft thud beside him pulled him out of his spiraling thoughts. A young soldier, his face streaked with dirt and exhaustion, had plopped down next to him. Despite the weariness in his eyes, his voice carried an unexpected gentleness.

  “Hey, you okay?” the soldier asked, his tone tinged with concern.

  Aven forced himself to nod, though it felt like a lie. His voice came out hoarse, barely audible. “Yeah... I’m okay.”

  The soldier didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press. Instead, he offered a faint, tired smile and handed Aven a small bundle wrapped in cloth. “Here. Found this in their storage. You should eat.”

  Aven unwrapped it to reveal dried rations: stale bread, a strip of jerky, and a few bland crackers—food meant to last, not satisfy. He took a small bite of the bread, chewing mechanically. It tasted like nothing. Just an empty texture in his mouth, as hollow as he felt inside.

  The soldier studied Aven quietly, noticing the blood smeared across his face and neck. Without a word, he removed his helmet and raised a hand. Mana pulsed faintly in his palm, and a gentle stream of clear water began to flow from his fingers.

  “Here,” the soldier said, his voice soft but steady. “There’s blood on your face. Wash it off. It’ll help.”

  Aven hesitated, staring at the surreal sight of water conjured from thin air. But his exhaustion won out, and he dipped his hands into the stream. The cool water ran over his skin, washing away the dried blood and grime, leaving a sense of fleeting relief.

  Around them, soldiers from the Photia army were gathered in small clusters, eating their meager meals of stale bread and watery porridge. Despite the bleakness of their surroundings, laughter rippled through the camp as they shared jokes and stories, trying to cling to normalcy in the face of despair. Unbeknownst to them, this would be their final meal.

  He rubbed his face with his hands, trying to shake off the images. His fingers combed through his hair as he replayed the soldier’s words. “Mana,” the soldier had called it. Aven frowned, the word foreign and surreal. “Mana? It sounds straight out of some fantasy novel,” he muttered, scoffing softly at the absurdity of it all.

  A sudden movement caught his attention. He turned to see the young soldier who had been fighting alongside him. The boy looked pale, his eyes wide with fear. Around them, other Photia soldiers coughed and struggled to breathe, their faces twisted in discomfort. Aven scanned the area, his brows furrowed. There was no sign of poison or any visible danger. The air smelled normal, and yet, the soldiers around him were visibly struggling.

  Aven stood and glanced at his own hands. He felt fine, unaffected by whatever invisible force seemed to be suffocating the others. Confusion and unease gnawed at him. What the hell is going on? He looked back at the young soldier, who was now clutching his chest, his breathing shallow. Aven’s eyes darted back toward the horizon, where faint, unnatural flames flickered ominously in the distance. Something was coming—something far beyond his understanding.

  Aven’s confusion deepened as he watched the soldiers around him gasp for air, their discomfort rising with every passing second. The air was thick, but not with smoke or poison—it was something else, something that seemed to press in on him from all directions, invisible but suffocating. His hand instinctively tightened around his sword, though he didn’t know why, unsure of what exactly he was bracing for. His mind raced, but his thoughts were scattered like ash in the wind.

  Then, in the blink of an eye, the ground beneath him trembled, and an explosion ripped through the base. The force was so immense that Aven’s body was thrown backward, his arms struggling to keep balance as he tried to shield himself. The shockwave of the blast sent dust and rubble tearing through the air, swirling with terrifying speed. The heat was searing, and the force was like a living beast, clawing at him, trying to throw him off his feet. His body was slammed by the debris as it scraped against his skin, leaving bruises and cuts in its wake. It felt like an eternity, as if time itself was suspended by the chaos unfolding around him.

  Amidst the havoc, Aven found himself the only one still standing. His chest heaved, and his breath came in short, pained gasps. He tried to steady himself, using the sword for support, his fingers trembling but refusing to let go. His body was battered, his mind disoriented, but his resolve... his resolve remained unbroken.

  A low, menacing voice cut through the deafening roar of destruction—a voice so heavy, so dark, it felt as though it had emerged from the very bowels of the earth itself.

  "You’re still alive?" the voice sneered, filled with cruel amusement. "A human like you, with no mana to speak of, surviving all that... Let alone becoming a warrior."

  Aven’s heart raced, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as the source of the voice slowly became clear. He turned, his eyes wide with disbelief as a colossal figure emerged from the thick cloud of dust and debris. The creature’s presence was suffocating—a monstrous force of nature, radiating an aura of dominance and untold power.

  The figure, standing far taller than any human could ever hope to be, was draped in scales that shimmered like obsidian under the moonlight, its eyes glowing like molten gold. Aven’s mind struggled to comprehend what he was seeing—was this truly what he was up against?.

  Light's Released || Episode 2: Utmost Battlefield