Chapter 227: Winds of Hope

Words : 1018 Updated : Oct 1st, 2025

The head of a middle-aged man with short brown hair and a mustache gazed emptily at the army of human wizards numbering a little over a thousand, flies flying around it. The wizards of the Imperial Army naturally recognized Targon Rockbarrow, the Earth Magna, though they would’ve most certainly preferred to meet him alive. The Atrox Seres raised the severed head high, gripping it by the hair and rotating it to lock eyes with it. "This guy is mostly a bit sturdy and persistent, but that’s about it. He was never a threat to me," the mighty Fellkin said. Their battle lasted over two days. But in the end, a human’s constitution would never match a Fellkin’s, and Targon ran out of steam first, eventually falling prey to the Atrox Seres. Emmanuel and the members of the Boulder Guards watched the brutal scene with utter grief and hatred blazing in their eyes. Some of them even wept for their fallen lord. Targon, although strict and a bit awkward, was a kindhearted and stoic leader. He was also mighty, able to move mountains with a single wave of his arms. Today was a black day. Perhaps for the entire Imperium, as the grim realization that death loomed above their heads settled in. It wouldn’t only be Targon who would be dying today. Emmanuel, Ennya, the Boulder Guards, the Zephyr Battalion... No one would be spared, Hal included. He didn’t even dare think he could hold this Fellkin off for a single moment. This was the very definition of tricks and strategies being nothing in front of absolute might. The Atrox Seres’ hands moved once more, ripping a spatial pocket oozing with black smoke and placing the head there before shifting his attention back to the human army, then to the young human hovering in the skies. His movements were leisurely, as if he were certain that not a single soul would be able to escape him. Hal was even more petrified after the mighty Fellkin’s gaze landed on him. Every fiber of his being trembled in utter horror, screaming and begging for him to leave the area. But how could that be possible? Everyone was in the Atrox Seres’ mercy, and one would only be able to die a bit later than another. Even the army stopped advancing. If even the elite wizards like Emmanuel, the Boulder Guards, and the Zephyr Battalion were frozen in fear, then how could the regular wizards fare any better? "Hmm...I’ll save you for later." The Atrox Seres said, shifting his gaze back to the Imperial Army and aiming his hands at them. Death was coming. But then, just when Emmanuel and the others were certain that they were done for—their lives flashing before their eyes—the mulberry-skinned hands suddenly separated from the forearm, plopping to the brownish-red ground as viscous purple blood spurted out of the severance. Everyone froze, including Hal. What the hell just happened? "Hmph, you might have slain Targon, Fellkin, but do you think you can do the same to me in the same amount of time?" A stern voice echoed in the night. In the next moment, a green-haired man in his mid-thirties appeared from a storm of fallen leaves, hawk-like eyes gazing coldly at the Atrox Seres. "L-L-LORD ZEPHYRON!!" exclaimed those from the Zephyr Battalion in utter relief and delight. Their lord, Zephyron Haldavar, had returned, shining a ray of hope in the black and crimson darkness of the Atrocious Fellkin. The Wind Magna only responded with an order, his words as cold as the breeze he commands: "Retreat full throttle to the empire! I shall hold this Fellkin down." There were no pretentious sentences of heroism or anything, just pure rational efficiency. They were all to retreat to the empire without looking back. Zephyron didn’t use any words that implied self-sacrifice, but even those with half a brain knew the danger he would put himself in. Targon, an older and more experienced Magna, was killed. How could Zephyron survive a duel against the Atrox Seres? But despite this, the Wind Magna’s expression was as stern as ever, fully deserving of the title Stiff Face. There didn’t seem to be a hint of fear in his eyes. Zephyron had long spotted his fallen subordinates, yet there wasn’t a change in his reaction. This wasn’t the time to grieve. At the Wind Magna’s arrival, Hal was finally able to break free of the fear gripping his heart. He quickly descended back to the army. To his surprise, the wind whispered to his ears: "Well done, Hal Fennec. Now retreat to the empire with everyone. You must not and cannot fall here." Hal clenched his fists as he descended, determination flashing in his eyes. He, too, concluded that Zephyron was about to sacrifice himself, most likely for his and Ennya’s survival. For the future of the empire. A brief staredown ensued between the mightiest of the two races, though Zephyron noticed that the Atrox Seres kept glancing in a certain direction, spotting one of Khatu’s subordinates there. The Wind Magna narrowed his eyes, making a few assumptions in his head. Emmanuel, meanwhile, quickly rallied the troops. Formation didn’t matter much. They just left the scene as quickly as they could, a few of the Boulder Guards sobbing at the thought of being unable to retrieve even the head of their fallen lord. Nonetheless, they felt blessed to be given a chance to return to their families. The war in the east was an utter disaster for the empire, but the fell race suffered significant losses as well. They should be happy that they weren’t wiped out, and that Hal Fennec and Ennya Kasai survived, although the loss of two Magnas would be a rather severe blow to the Imperium. Soon, the march began, but there was no order to their footsteps. Everyone just jogged the hell out of there at a pace neither too fast nor too slow. Then began the horrifying mana fluctuations, signaling the beginning of what could possibly be the true end of Zephyron Haldavar’s life.

Chapter 227: Winds of Hope

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