187. A final attack

Varzok soared through the evening sky, the fading sunlight painting the city of Veralt in hues of deep orange and crimson. Below, its people carried on with their lives, blissfully unaware of the predator gliding above them. The guards atop the walls stood at ease, their watchful eyes scanning for threats beyond the city’s borders. They never once thought to look above. With a smirk, Varzok kept his cloak closer, his form blending seamlessly with the air as he passed undetected. He descended, landing lightly on top of the slanted roof of an inn. The scent of roasted meats and cheap ale drifted upward, mingling with the murmur of hushed voices. The gathered crowd below spoke in excitement, yet there was a cautious edge to their whispers. “I heard Castle Dorn fell very easily. Our lord is going to finish the war soon.” “Yeah, I have heard Duke Lucian is just holding up in a castle, too scared to attack. Victory should come faster than we expected.” Varzok's lips curled into a sneer. Yes, some of what they said was true. Castle Dorn had been won. But victory? No. That was an illusion. The humans celebrated too soon, blind to the inevitable. Lord Shakran himself was moving to strike, and when he did, the so-called lord of their—Arzan Kellius—would fall. His severed head would be offered to Mistress Regina, and with him gone, chaos would rip through the region. Varzok felt a pang of bitterness. He would miss the carnage. The sweet, desperate cries of the dying. The warm taste of Mage’s blood as his brothers and sisters feasted on the fallen. It would have been glorious. But he had a mission. And if he carried it out well, when he returned to his lord’s triumph, his contributions would not be forgotten. Turning his gaze toward the far end of the city, he spread his wings and leapt into the air once more. The castle was in the distance, a dark silhouette against the twilight sky. Below him, patrols of armored men moved in formation, their eyes sharp, their postures rigid. There were not many, but enough to serve as minor obstacles. Still, they were only mortals. He could rip through them with ease. The only real threat would be the man called Enforcers, but according to their gathered intelligence, every last one had left the city to aid their lord. Perhaps a Mage or two remained, but that was no concern. Mages were dangerous at a distance—deadly, even. But if he closed the gap before they could react? Their heads would roll just like any other. With that thought, Varzok tilted his wings and shot toward the castle, his presence still hidden from sight. Tonight, he would complete his task. And when he returned, it would be to a castle ruled by his kind. But for now, he didn’t need to kill anyone. Dark wings sliced through the night air, a silent shadow against the moonlit sky. The drinker glided over the castle's highest spire, his gaze flickering between towers and cannons, tracking movements below. The scent of old parchment drifted faintly from somewhere within. Circling lower, he skimmed past rows of windows, keen eyes scanning for anything of worth. Then, there it was—a vast chamber lined with shelves, their burden of books stretching into the dimly lit depths. An archive. He banked sharply, wings folding as he dove toward the window. His fingers twitched, and a sliver of his own blood curled into the air, weaving a silent command. The glass cracked in spiderweb fractures, shards trembling on the brink of collapse. A flick of magic caught them midair, suspending disaster before lowering them soundlessly to the floor. Slipping inside, he let his cloaking ability fade, mana humming low in his core, conserved for the inevitable. Shadows curled around the towering bookshelves as he prowled between them, getting to work immediately, fingers trailing over leather spines, flipping pages, scanning lines before discarding each volume in search of the ones he needed. Varzok prowled through it, his eyes scanning rows upon rows of books, his fingers tracing over aged spines. The smell of parchment and dust filled the air— but none of the tomes he picked up contained what he sought. Druidic magic. Lord Shakran had made it clear—above all else, those books were the priority. If Varzok could retrieve them, it would be a victory in itself. Anything else—information on the drones, the enchanted armor, the forge’s inner workings—would be a bonus. Serving under Mistress Regina had given him the knowledge he needed to learn the languages of mortals. Therefore, he was well versed in reading and had little to no problem skimming through a lot of books. But no matter where he searched, the druidic texts were nowhere to be found. A low growl rumbled in his throat as he rifled through a pile of books on a long oak table. Beginner magic theories. A treatise on elemental affinity. A stack of notes on golem creation—perhaps useful, but not his goal. He marked them mentally, considering whether they were worth taking back. Then—footsteps sounded. Varzok froze, every muscle going taut as his sharpened senses picked up the sound of soft-soled shoes tapping against the stone floor outside. The rhythm was light, unhurried. A single person. A woman. A maid, most likely. His lips curled in amusement. Easy prey. He could silence her before she even realized she wasn’t alone. A quick slit of the throat, a hidden body, and then he could continue his search undisturbed. The steps grew closer. With a practiced motion, Varzok leapt soundlessly onto the top of a bookshelf, his cloaking ability activating once more, shrouding him in the darkness of the high rafters. He crouched low, his crimson eyes gleaming faintly as the door creaked open and the maid stepped inside. She was young. Her brown hair was neatly tied back, a few stray strands framing a soft face. The uniform she wore—a simple black-and-white maid’s dress—was pristine, not yet stained with sweat or dust from the day’s work. She moved with an easy grace, her steps light as if she were accustomed to walking quietly. Unaware. Defenseless. Varzok watched, unmoving, his claws flexing slightly as he considered his next move. Would she scream? Would she struggle? Or would she simply drop, throat sliced open before a single sound could escape? He would find out soon enough. Varzok remained perfectly still, his breathing nonexistent as the maid stepped further into the archive. He observed her carefully, waiting for the moment to strike. She wasn’t leaving. Instead, she moved through the bookshelves, her eyes scanning every corner, her brows furrowing slightly. She had heard something. That much was clear. But she was just a mortal, no trace of mana leaking from her form. No Enforcer, no Mage, nothing. And yet, she was searching. Varzok almost scoffed. Did she truly believe she could find anything? Then she reached the table where he had been moments before. Her gaze flicked to the displaced books, her expression shifting into quiet confusion. The drinker cursed inwardly. A mistake. He had been too focused on speed, too careless in returning things to their place. And now, this mere servant had noticed. He couldn't give her more time. Varzok moved. In a blink, he shot forward from the shadows, claws poised to silence the girl before she could even scream— But then she looked up. Straight at him. Varzok’s body locked up, his instincts screaming. Could she see him? No—that was impossible. His cloaking ability was absolute. There was no way she could— Then the air changed. A storm erupted from nothing. The pressure in the archive shifted, thick mana rolling through the space like crashing waves. The drinker’s eyes widened in shock as a powerful presence coalesced into existence. Right before his eyes, from the heart of a spiraling storm, a figure emerged. The mist from the summoning still clouded the room, but through the veil, Varzok could make out a shape—a towering, majestic deer. Storm clouds wreathed its body, roiling with every graceful movement. As it shook itself, the mist dispersed, revealing its full form. Its horns were long, sharp, and crackling with wind, miniature tornadoes swirling around them. Across its stormy pelt, lightning flickered and danced, illuminating the creature with a spectral glow. Its piercing eyes locked onto him. Varzok had never seen such a being before, but his instincts screamed that this creature was dangerous. Far beyond anything he could hope to defeat. Then, the creature’s gaze sharpened, and its mouth opened. “I told you, Claire. I felt a presence.” Its voice was deep, resonant, filled with the weight of the storm itself. “This pesky creature is hiding here like a rat.” Bolts of lightning tore through the air, their crackling hum deafening as they surged toward him. Varzok barely managed to dodge, twisting his body mid-air as the searing light burned past him. The force alone sent a tingling sensation across his skin, and he knew—had he been even a fraction slower, the attack would have ripped through him. His cover was gone. Snarling, he called upon his blood magic, twisting the very essence of his being into crimson lances, sharp and deadly. They shot forward in retaliation, aiming for the beast that dared to stand in his way— But his magic was nothing. The lightning bolts struck through them effortlessly, dispersing his attacks as though they were mere candle flames in a storm. Then the creature spoke again, its voice booming. "You are far too weak for your attacks to do anything to me." A fresh wave of energy surged through the archive, the air charged with lethal intent. "Just die and make sure you don’t cross my path again in your next life, filthy drinker." Varzok gritted his teeth, dodging again as another bolt tore through the space he had been in mere moments ago. He hadn't expected such a monstrous entity to be guarding the castle. For a brief moment, the warrior in him wanted to test his strength against the creature, to push forward and claim victory for his lord. But he knew better. This wasn’t his mission. Fighting a prolonged battle here meant death. So, he ran. Vanishing from sight, he reappeared in the corridor outside, feeling the thick, crushing presence of mana still clawing at his heels. The lightning did not stop—it chased him, hounding his every move, as though the beast’s wrath had taken on a will of its own. Varzok flew through the halls, moving faster than ever before, weaving through stone passageways and twisting corridors. But the storm was relentless. And so was the laughter. Its voice echoed after him, its amusement grating against his pride. He needed to escape. With no other choice, Varzok rushed toward the stairway leading up. If he could reach the rooftop, he could disappear into the sky, away from this cursed place. But as he splintered the door open with his blood magic and stepped onto the rooftop— He knew he had made a mistake. The rooftop wasn’t empty. Men stood in formation, weapons drawn, eyes locked onto him with sharp, deadly focus. In the center of the gathering, amidst the flickering torches and steely-eyed soldiers, stood a woman who commanded the very air around her.  Petite yet striking, her long hair reached her waist. She held herself with a regal poise, every movement exuding a silent authority that made her presence impossible to ignore. A noble lady, possibly. Her attire screamed so. Her posture was impeccable, the subtle grace of her stance telling of her noble blood, but it was the cold fire in her eyes that held his attention. In her hands, the air seemed to twist and curl with power. But was that—was that water magic? Varzok’s instincts screamed within him, a primal, gut-wrenching warning that set his teeth on edge. From the moment he’d entered, he had expected things to go smoothly, then how? His stealth was flawless, his senses honed over countless years of hunting and evading—no one should have seen him. And yet, there she was, standing at the heart of the trap, her gaze fixed on him with unwavering precision. Varzok stood motionless, his crimson eyes flicking across the ranks of armed soldiers surrounding him. His mind raced, calculating every possibility, every potential escape route. But none were good enough. Then, as if sensing the end, the woman spoke. "Surrender, and we will make sure you don't die. You'll only be captured." To most, those words would have sounded like mercy. But to Varzok, they were a death sentence wrapped in chains. A fate worse than any execution. The bitter smirk that curled his lips was one of grim acceptance. "That's a fate worse than death already," he muttered under his breath, his voice a low rasp of defiance. With a fluid motion, blood began to surge from his body, twisting and coiling like a living entity. It formed a barrier of deep crimson around him, pulsating with the rhythm of his heartbeat. The soldiers tensed, their weapons raised. The first arrow came with a sharp whistle through the air, its steel tip gleaming under the moonlight. Varzok's blood shield responded instantly, surging to life as the arrow crashed against it. Some arrows shattered on contact, others ricocheted off with harsh clinks, but none breached the shield. His eyes flicked to the noble Mage just in time to see the glow intensify in her hands. The air around her seemed to hum with magic. A stream of water condensed into a razor-sharp beam, hurtling toward him with deadly speed. Varzok’s hands shot outward, his blood exploding in all directions, forming a violent wave of crimson mist that enveloped the rooftop. The air filled with the sounds of gasps and staggered footsteps as the soldiers were momentarily blinded by the eruption. In the instant of chaos, Varzok moved. His wings—made of nothing but blood and will—spread from his back, and he launched himself into the night sky, his body propelled by raw, frantic power. Arrows streaked past him as he ascended, some grazing his skin, others tearing through his clothes. Pain flared in his chest, but he pushed it aside, focusing only on escape. Higher. Faster. Away from this ambush. The sky darkened, swirling with ominous clouds. A distant rumble rumbled through the air, heavy and foreboding. The rain began to fall, sharp and cold, drenching him in an instant. His blood wings fought the wind, but his instincts screamed that something was wrong. Something far worse was coming. And then he heard it. A voice he had hoped never to hear again, cold and venomous, slicing through the storm. "Filthy drinker, you are going to die here." The same deer-like creature. Fuck. His breath caught in his throat, his heart skipping a beat. And then, with a deafening roar, lightning tore through the heavens, twisting and writhing like serpents hungry for their prey. Varzok barely had time to summon his blood again, his final defense, his last hope. But it was too late. The bolt of raw energy struck him like an unstoppable force, ripping through the sky with a deafening crack. Pain. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before. His entire body seized in agony. His muscles locked, his chest constricted as if all the air had been sucked from his lungs. His thoughts shattered, leaving only white-hot torment. He could feel his body plummeting, the world spinning out of control, the earth rushing up to meet him at terrifying speed. The castle below loomed, growing closer and closer. And then— His body collided with solid stone, his skull slamming into the unforgiving surface. The world went black in an instant, swallowed by the abyss of unconsciousness. *** Kai stood in the middle of the wreckage, his dark gaze sweeping across the ruined courtyard. The scent of blood still lingered in the damp air, mixing with the charred remains of spell-torn stone. Corpses were being carried away by soldiers, their bodies lifeless reminders of yet another battle fought in the name of power. The castle grounds bore the scars of the fight—cracked stone, shattered parapets, and deep scorch marks from magic that had been unleashed without restraint. All of this… because of one man’s ambition. He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension coiled within him. He cracked his neck to the left and right, the tension leaving him ever so slightly. Just as he turned, he caught sight of two figures approaching—Ansel and Killian, both moving with the kind of urgency that only meant more bad news. Ansel was the first to speak. "Lord Arzan, we just received the report from the scouts. A blood drinker did try to infiltrate Veralt… but it has been taken care of." Kai’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Did it survive?" Ansel shook his head. "Unfortunately, no. The Storm Sovereign struck it down. It crashed head first into the stone wall, and… well, its head burst on impact. We weren’t able to interrogate it." Kai clicked his tongue in irritation. "That’s bad. It would have been useful to learn more about Regina’s forces." He turned toward Killian next, shifting gears. "And what about Lucian? Did you find him?" Killian shook his head. "No, my lord. There’s no sign of him anywhere." Kai’s jaw clenched. "We’re searching everywhere around Dorn, even in the nearby mountains," Killian continued. "We did find tracks, but they’re muddled—it’s difficult to follow them." Kai nodded, thoughtful. Lucian was a dangerous man. He had been the war’s instigator, the one pulling strings behind the scenes. As long as he remained free, there would be no true victory. As he was lost in thought, Ansel stepped forward. "I believe I know where he would be, Lord Arzan." Kai raised an eyebrow, folding his arms as he studied Ansel. "And where exactly do you think he is?" Ansel’s answer came without hesitation. "Veyrin." Kai's eyes sharpened. "You’re sure?" "I’m confident he ran back into the walls of his city, taking advantage of the battle as a distraction," Ansel continued. "The soldiers we took prisoner mentioned seeing him flee when most weren’t looking. It lines up with what I expected." Kai exhaled, rubbing his chin. "That means we’ll need to march. Veyrin might not have many men left to guard it, but the walls will still be an issue." S~eaʀᴄh the Novёlƒire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. Ansel, however, merely shook his head. "I don’t think that will be necessary, my lord." Kai narrowed his eyes. "And why is that?" A small smirk tugged at Ansel’s lips. "Because I have a way to get inside without a battle." *** A/N - You can read 30 chapters (15 Magus Reborn and 15 Dao of money) on my patreon. Annual subscription is now on too. Also, pre orders for Volume 1 are live. Pre-order Magus Reborn Volume 1 HERE. Read 15 chapters ahead HERE. Join the discord server HERE.