Chapter 86 You need to come with us

Slowly, he turned his head, his silver eyes locking onto Daurgien. The towering beast straightened, his claws twitching as he appraised the newcomer. Despite his overwhelming size and monstrous appearance, there was a flicker of hesitation in Daurgien's movements, a rare acknowledgement of the power standing before him. The Nynthall's lips curved into a faint smirk, a gesture devoid of warmth or humour. "You've been busy," he said, his voice smooth yet laced with an undertone of condescension. It wasn't a question, but a statement. Daurgien's eyes narrowed, the predatory glint in his gaze sharpening. "And who are you again?" The beast growled, his voice a guttural snarl that reverberated across the canyon. The tension between the two was palpable. Jolthar, still catching his breath from his prior battle, could only watch, his mind racing. Why was the Nynthall here? Their prior encounter had been brief but impactful—a confrontation that left Jolthar with more questions than answers. Now, as the mysterious man stood between them and Daurgien, the situation took on an entirely new layer of complexity. Jolthar's hand tightened around his sword. The Nynthalls were as dangerous as they were enigmatic. He couldn't afford to let his guard down, not with the lives of the knights and the women hanging in the balance. - The tension in the air grew heavier as more figures emerged from the ship. One by one, a group of about a dozen individuals descended gracefully to the ground. Unlike the first Nynthall, these newcomers were draped in ornate robes, each embroidered with intricate patterns that seemed to shimmer faintly in the dim light. Their sophisticated appearances contrasted sharply with the rugged battlefield, and their presence exuded an aura of otherworldly command. Jolthar's eyes darted between the newcomers and the first figure, unease gripping his chest. The way they moved, the way they carried themselves—it all screamed power, precision, and purpose. The lead figure turned to Jolthar, his cold, silver eyes glinting with amusement. "We got ourselves a good harvest this time," he remarked, his voice calm yet laced with a predatory undertone. Jolthar's frown turned deeper. Harvest? The word drew more questions as he wondered if this world was filled with twisted personalities. The knights, already battered and exhausted, shifted uneasily. Jolthar tightened his grip on his sword, his knuckles whitening. The blade, though steady in his hands, felt heavier than ever. The situation was spiralling out of control, and he knew it. The Nynthralls weren't here by chance. They had come for a purpose, and that purpose was maybe Belan or those abominations. The lead Nynthall took a step closer, his silver eyes gleaming. "So, what will it be, young warrior?" he asked smoothly. "Will you surrender and spare yourselves unnecessary pain, or will you continue this futile resistance? I assure you, the outcome will remain the same." Jolthar's jaw tightened. He glanced back at the others—Eran, Belan, Lysanrda, and the knights. They were battered and exhausted, their breaths ragged, their weapons barely held aloft. But their eyes, though filled with fear, still held a flicker of determination. "We're not going anywhere with you," Jolthar said finally, his voice steady despite the storm raging within him. He raised his sword, its edge catching the faint light of the mana stones. "If you think you can take her, you'll have to go through me first." The Nynthall tilted his head, his smirk returning. "Very well," he said, his tone almost amused. He raised a hand, and the robed figures behind him began to move, their dark magic crackling to life once more. "Let's see how long you can last." The battlefield erupted once again, but this time, the air was filled with an even greater sense of despair. Jolthar braced himself, his sword at the ready. - The battlefield was chaos, but the sudden shift in focus was palpable. Daurgien, who had been readying himself for another clash, suddenly found the Nynthralls turning their attention to him. They surrounded him with unsettling precision, their dark robes swirling as spells began to crackle and shimmer in the air around them. The monstrous figure let out a guttural roar, his claws swiping furiously as he tried to fend off the coordinated assault. Bolts of shadowy energy lashed out, striking his robust body and forcing him to stagger. For the first time, Daurgien seemed less like an unstoppable beast and more like prey caught in a trap. Jolthar watched the scene unfold, his mind racing. The Nynthralls' sudden focus on Daurgien was unexpected, and it gave him a moment to assess. But he couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't an act of mercy; the Nynthralls clearly had their own plans, and sparing Daurgien was unlikely to be part of them. As he pondered their strategy, the lead figure, Yilar, began to move. His steps were deliberate and unhurried, as if the chaos around him were of no concern. His violet eyes remained locked on Jolthar, their piercing gaze filled with curiosity and a faint hint of amusement. "Who might you be?" Yilar asked, his voice calm but carrying an edge of authority that resonated across the battlefield. Jolthar tensed. There was something unnerving about Yilar—his presence, his tone, the way he seemed to stand apart from the violence as if he were beyond it. Jolthar didn't respond immediately, his grip tightening on his sword as he assessed the situation. Then, without warning, the atmosphere shifted. A crushing, oppressive force radiated from Yilar, spreading outward like an invisible tidal wave. The air itself seemed to grow heavier, suffocating and unyielding. The knights, Belan, and the others around Jolthar crumbled to their knees under the weight of the pressure, gasping for air. Jolthar staggered but remained upright, his body trembling as he fought against the overwhelming force. It was unlike anything he had felt before—a power so absolute, it felt as though the very fabric of reality was bending around Yilar.