If they chose to leave him be, Seraph was willing to cast his past grievances into oblivion. But if they persisted in hounding him—even if the King of Arkflame himself intervened—he would show them no mercy.

  “Clear off,” Seraph said, his voice flat, yet carrying a suffocating weight. “And stay out of my way.”

  Regrettably, these men were too deeply steeped in their own ignorance. Their eyes were incapable of perceiving the difference in the young man before them. In their sight, Seraph remained merely the frail boy who had always submissively accepted their torment.

  “Ha! Found your tongue, have you, you little vermin? I’ll give you credit, I didn’t think you had it in you to talk back. Tell you what—I’ll be a trifle more merciful today. I’ve a new spell to put to the test, and you’re just the puppet I need. Come along then, to the training hall with you. It’s a sight closer to the Infirmary than this wretched forest; I’d hate for you to rot out here where no one can find the pieces. Hahaha!” Zurek jeered, his laughter thick with crude arrogance.

  As Zurek laughed, his two lackeys joined in, their words and actions treating Seraph’s life as though it were entirely devoid of value.

  Upon hearing this, Seraph’s fury reached a boiling point. Unnoticed by the others, his fists gradually clenched. The atmosphere around him shivered and warped as if scorched by an invisible pyre. The air grew heavy with the scent of ash and wrath; his cloak and the surrounding leaves began to whip and whirl despite the absence of wind. The temperature surged, and the mageia force began to oscillate violently.

  ‘Have I truly stomached such humiliation all these years?’ Seraph thought, his rage seething. ‘I cannot bear the sight of this filth for a second longer!’

  “I’m telling you once more,” Seraph spoke through gritted teeth, his voice low and dangerous. “GO BACK! I’m warning you—don’t force my hand, for your own sake!”

  The young man clenched his jaw. If possible, he truly wished to avoid conflict and did not want to harm this group. He did not fear a minor scuffle; he simply did not wish to squander his time on the incessant nonsense that followed them.

  “You dare threaten us?!” Zurek bellowed, taking a menacing step forward. “You should feel bloody honoured we even deign to speak to you! Do you honestly think I haven’t shown enough mercy by letting you draw breath all this time?!”

  At last, they perceived the gravity of Seraph’s dismissal. They did not retreat; instead, their hearts seethed with indignation that the one they had perpetually oppressed now dared to challenge them with such unprecedented defiance.

  “I’ve warned you for the last time,” Seraph’s voice cut through the air, cold as a winter tomb. “Away with you!”

  Seraph’s heterochromatic eyes flashed as if charged with internal lightning. His azure eye mirrored a maelstrom, a watery abyss prepared to swallow souls, while his gold eye shone with the lethal nobility of an executioner. A crushing pressure began to leak from his frame—a weight so immense he remained unaware of its manifestation. Under that oppressive force, the complexions of the three men ashened instantly.

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  The atmosphere surrounding the trio grew turbulent, as though they had stumbled into the eye of a cycling gale. They could not fathom what was occurring; this was a sensation they had never encountered, even when facing other magis.

  They sensed the stark disparity from the past, yet not a shred of their reason believed this terror originated from the young man before them. Those who have never stepped into the crucible of war cannot recognise the shroud of killing intent or the true scent of death.

  “I thought we were being easy on you, you little rat,” Zurek spat, struggling to mask the tremor in his hands. “We left you to your own devices for days, and this is the thanks we get? Since you’ve forgotten your place, I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll carry to your grave. In this Sanctus, my word is law!”

  The three acomages swiftly hoisted their gemstone staves, preparing to incant their spells.

  Yet, a sudden cacophony intervened. A burst of mageia power from an unknown source erupted before they could even find their footing—

  “Ventus Swirl!” The incantation thundered alongside a violent explosion.

  [Boom!]

  The swirling ventus mageia slammed into the three men, sending them spiraling into the air as if caught in a miniature hurricane. The area mageia possessed a wide striking radius; all three were seized by the atmospheric pressure, spinning uncontrollably in mid-air, their bodies no longer their own to command.

  Before they could even plummet to the earth, Seraph leveled his wooden staff, weaving a continuous incantation with lethal speed.

  “Ventus Ictus!” Seraph unleashed the spell in a blur of motion.

  [Crunch!]

  The trio remained oblivious to their fate; yet, as they drifted helplessly through the air, the gale surrounding them suddenly coalesced into glowing orbs of pale emerald. The wind compressed and vibrated with violent resonance before slamming directly into the midsections of the three airborne figures.

  The arrogant acomages felt as if a hammer’s fist had struck their bellies with crushing force. They were propelled backward, spraying arcs of blood across the sky. One struck the hard earth, another collided with jagged stone, and Zurek was hurled into a tree before collapsing into the dirt.

  The three rolled through the dust in a wretched display. Their cloaks were shredded and caked in mire; their faces were smeared with pathetic streaks of gore. Almost the instant they impacted the ground, they heaved violently. A mixture of vomit and ichor pooled around them, radiating a pungent, sickening stench.

  The odor of the vomit was as foul as if they had swallowed rotting carrion. Their breath came in ragged, dry gasps, as though they were on the verge of expiring from sheer agony. Their movements were those of men in profound torment—a threshold of pain they had never before encountered.

  While the three languished on the brink of unconsciousness, the shadow of leather boots came to a halt before them. As Zurek and his lackeys forced their gazes upward, the silhouette of the tall young man eclipsed the searing afternoon sun. The encroaching darkness of the figure before them smothered the light; in that gloom, they saw only heterochromatic eyes, cold as distant stars beneath a veil of shadow.

  [Splash!]

  Terror seized them so completely they urinated where they lay in the dirt. A sharp, acrid stench filled the air. Most acomages had never set foot upon a battlefield or witnessed a true war; they were like flowers within a glass house, nobles raised in pampered luxury. But this was the day they finally encountered a being of such harrowing dread.

  “I did warn you,” Seraph said, his voice flat and devoid of any warmth.

  The young man’s tone held no trace of anger; in truth, his visage remained entirely devoid of emotion. Yet, that frigid cadence suggested he was prepared to execute the trio at any given heartbeat.

  The three began to crawl backward instinctively, their frantic retreats synchronized with every stride Seraph took toward them. Zurek hurriedly hoisted his hands in a desperate plea.

  “Please! Mercy, I beg of you! We’re going—we’ll leave this instant! Anything you want, just... please, let us be!” Zurek shrieked.

  His two lackeys struggled to shout in agreement, nodding their heads so violently that Seraph briefly wondered if they would suffer from neck strain for days to come.