Chapter 255 - 257: How To Fight A Tier 7? (part 1)

Words : 1654 Updated : Oct 5th, 2025

Chapter 255: Chapter 257: How To Fight A Tier 7? (part 1) When they’re far from the city—past the reach of spells, screams, and smoke—the wind grows quiet. Ruva slows, holding Sorin carefully in her arms. Around, the charred earth gives way to untamed forest. The air is cooler here, untouched by battle. Then— A ripple. A sharp shift in pressure. A figure descends from above in a blur of motion and golden light. He lands silently on a jagged rock outcropping just ahead of them, arms folded, expression unreadable beneath windswept silver hair and eyes like steel. Astram. His presence alone silences the wind. Tier 6. A general. A monster among monsters. Ruva go beside him, kneeling to let Sorin rest against a boulder. Her breathing is shallow, but she’s awake—barely. Astram steps forward, cloak brushing the ground. His gaze settles on Sorin, eyes narrowing slightly. "I guess," he says, "I’m late." Sorin forces her eyes open. She winces, then gives a faint nod. "General Astram." Astram offers a faint tilt of the head in return. Though they share the same rank, the gulf between Tier 5 and Tier 6 is vast. Sorin shifts, trying to sit up straighter despite the pain. Ruva steadies her with a hand. Astram glances around the treetops, confirming they aren’t followed. Then his gaze returns, sharp and heavy. "General Sorin," he says evenly, "how many monsters did we lose?" Sorin takes a moment to breathe, then replies, voice hoarse but steady, "Rough estimate... twenty thousand." Astram doesn’t blink. His expression stays neutral, but his fingers curl slightly at his sides. "Tch." A quiet sound. Astram’s jaw tightens as he exhales through his nose. The air still carries traces of char and blood, but his focus is razor sharp. "That Tier 6," he mutters. "Wasn’t in the report." Sorin turns, frowning. "I thought thes Shadows scouted ahead?" "They did," Astram answers without looking at her. "But they didn’t see him. Either the bastard was shielded, or he was only moved into position after the shadows pulled out." Ruva watches him cautiously, then steps forward. Her voice is small, but she doesn’t hesitate. "General Astram?" He glances at her, expression softening ever so slightly. "Yes, Princess Ruva," he says with a brief nod. She lifts her chin, determination fighting through her exhaustion. "Are we going back to take revenge? Right now?" Astram studies her for a beat—this child barely past fifteen, covered in dirt and soot, yet still standing. He shakes his head. "No," he says calmly. "We can’t. Not tonight." Ruva frowns. "Why not? They killed our people. They tricked us—" "I know," Astram says firmly, cutting her off with a hand. He looks at the battlefield in the distance, the smoke curling above it like a warning. "Our soldiers are scattered. Tired. Many can’t even stand. If we return now, we’ll lose even more." "They’ll have time to regroup." Ruva says, frustrated. Astram crouches slightly to her eye level. His voice stays calm, but there’s weight behind each word. "They can regroup all they want. Because tomorrow, Ruva..." His eyes sharpen. "...we’ll make them pay for every last drop of blood they took from us. Tenfold." Ruva’s breath catches. Then she nods, slowly. "Okay." Astram rises again and looks back at Sorin, who’s half-conscious but listening. "We’ll regroup at Outpost. Medics will meet us there. I’ll have flyers sweep the rear. If that Tier 6 tries to pursue, I’ll handle him myself." ---- The temporary camp hums with quiet urgency—healers moving between tents, wounded monsters groaning low, medics weaving spells and salves into torn flesh. The battlefield feels far away now, tucked behind miles of forest and fatigue. Inside a wide, cloth-draped tent near the heart of the camp, the air is calm and dim. The scent of dried herbs and burning incense lingers in the space. Sorin lies on a thick mat of beastfur, bandaged and cleaned, her breathing steadier than before. Her eyes remain closed, but her brow is no longer furrowed in pain. Ruva sits nearby on a low stool, her knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. Her armor’s been removed, her hair tied loosely behind her neck, and dirt still smudges her cheeks. She stares at Sorin quietly for a while, then says, almost in a whisper, "War is really cruel." Her voice trembles, not from fear, but something deeper. Grief, maybe. Or guilt. "The twenty thousand... they just died. Just like that." Sorin’s eyes flutter open, sluggish but aware. She turns her head slightly toward the girl and manages a faint smile. "Don’t be so down, Ruva," she says, her voice rough but steady. "Those monsters didn’t regret it." Ruva lifts her gaze. "Really?" Sorin looks up at the roof of the tent, exhaling slowly. "Yes, because I’ve fought beside them for months now. Most of them... dream of dying in battle. Of giving everything they have for something greater." She pauses, then looks at Ruva. "For their king. Your big brother." Ruva blinks, eyes wet but not crying. "They really think like that?" "They do," Sorin nods. "It’s not just orders or duty. It’s pride. Loyalty. Purpose." She shifts slightly, wincing but still speaking. "For them, dying like that... it’s an honor." Ruva hugs her knees tighter. "I just... I didn’t expect it to feel like this. It wasn’t supposed to be this bad." Sorin closes her eyes again, smiling faintly. "It always is. No matter how many battles you survive, the first real one always stays with you." The silence stretches a bit between them, but it’s not uncomfortable. Then Ruva says, softly, "Tomorrow, we’ll make them pay, right?" Sorin’s smile turns sharper—wounded, but fierce. "We will," she says. "But not for revenge. For the fallen. For those who can’t fight anymore." Ruva nods slowly. Then, quieter: "For them... and for my brother." Outside, the night wind rustles the trees, carrying with it the low murmurs of soldiers healing and preparing. Tomorrow waits. ---- Meanwhile, In Zark City. The moon hangs high over Zark City, casting a cold light on the spires of its blackstone palace. Fires still burn in the streets—not from battle, but from the fury of failed triumphs and hurried retreats. Inside the towering stronghold, tension coils thick in the air. In the grand meeting chamber—where crystal light flickers over obsidian walls, heavy footsteps echo. The doors slam open. Mhazul strides in, face thunderous. Dust and blood still clinging to his boots. He doesn’t wait to be seated. "What is happening, Gander?" he demands, voice sharp as steel. "Reports say we’ve suffered huge casualties. Half our force that attacked Durken Valley wiped out!" At the long table, Gander, looks up calmly from the map he’s studying. His fingers are stained with ink and ash. He doesn’t flinch at the accusation. Before he can speak, a woman at the other end of the table intervenes. Virela leans forward, her voice measured. "Calm down, Mhazul. You’re not helping anything by barking." Mhazul rounds on her but exhales hard through his nose, reigning in his temper. He turns back to Gander. "Well?" Gander straightens, voice even. "It’s okay. This one’s on me. I relied too much on the intel and didn’t consider all the possibilities." His words hang in the air. Mhazul stares at him for a moment. Then, slowly, his shoulders ease. The fury simmers down, replaced by something heavier. "We should stop dragging this out," he mutters. "No more delays. We already have what we need to raze Imlan to the ground." Gander nods once. "That’s why I called the four of you." There’s a faint shimmer in the air as the chamber’s spell-locks disengage. A door at the side of the room creaks open. Footsteps enter. Two more. Grathum, and Zurrak. Gander looks at the four now assembled—Mhazul, Virela, Grathum, Zurrak. The monsters among monsters. The highest weapons left in their arsenal. "You four," Gander says, "are our only peak Tier 6s." No one argues. Zurrak crosses his arms. "So, you want us to move?" "Not yet," Gander says. "But soon. The humans have fielded their own Tier 6. He caught us flat-footed, broke through our advance, and crippled our momentum. We can’t risk that happening again." --- After some time, their meeting comes to an end. The air in the chamber is heavy with silence, and no one says a word until Gander stands. "I’ll forward everything to His Majesty," he says quietly. "If he approves our decision, we’ll act on it. Until then, rest, recover... and prepare." The others nod, one by one. Then they leave, shadows disappearing through ancient stone halls, while Gander remains, staring at the map—his jaw tight, his fingers clenched around a small iron token. --- In the dim, reinforced training hall beneath the palace grounds, a quiet storm brews. Alix stands shirtless in the center of the room, sweat clinging to his skin, muscles tense. Around him, dozens of training dummies lie shattered. Scorch marks paint the floor, and the mana in the air is dense—almost suffocating. He exhales hard, then flicks his wrist. His sword hums to life in his hand, sharp and crackling. Tier 6 skills pulses through it, barely restrained. He takes a stance. Slashes once. Then again. The attacks are clean. Efficient. Powerful. But not enough. Not even close. He stops. Alix lowers his arm, the skills in the blade dissipating into sparks. His chest heaves. His eyes—sharp, bright, burning with frustration—stare at the charred floor in front of him. "Again," he mutters. A flash of energy tears a crater in the stone wall. Another dummy explodes into splinters. Still not enough. Not nearly enough. Alix clenches his jaw and breathes in deeply, trying to push back the storm within. Sweat drips from his brow. His body is strong—capable of going toe to toe with most Tier 6s. But Tier 7... They were different.

Chapter 255 - 257: How To Fight A Tier 7? (part 1)

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