Serek jerked his arm and hurled the knight he was still holding.
The armor clattered as the body tore free of his grip and flew forward—a spinning mass of metal and flesh. Philip saw the throw too late, stepped aside, and slipped off the attack line, feeling the air shudder beside his shoulder.
He barely straightened when he realized—that was exactly what they wanted. Serek was already charging forward, the ground trembling beneath each step. He accelerated with every stride, closing the distance so fast the eye could barely track it.
_Crack!_
The air crushed Philip's head and chest as Serek broke the sound barrier. A thin vibration rippled across the road, lifting dust and pebbles, and the shockwave hit Philip before Serek himself did.
Clang!
Philip raised his sword and met the strike head-on. Steel shuddered, and his arm went numb for a heartbeat from the sheer force of Serek's blow. Anyone else would have been flattened into the dirt, but the Water School did not block with strength.
_Flow._
Philip twisted his wrist, sending the attack sliding aside in a curved arc. The redirected strike tore into the ground where he had stood a second ago. Dust burst upward, the air vibrating from the diverted force.
He saw an opening at Serek's flank. Philip stepped in and drove all his momentum into a piercing thrust aimed between the ribs, straight for the heart. The distance vanished, and the blade hit flesh on a perfect trajectory.
_Thunk!_
The sound was dull—like hitting stone. The blade bounced off, and the shock ran down his wrist. Serek didn't move an inch.
Northern School technique. _Iron Flesh_—a body-hardening art that compresses muscles and tendons into a dense frame. When activated, aura tightens the tissues until steel can only scrape harmlessly across the surface.
Serek grinned, a thin pale ripple passing beneath his skin like frost cracking over ice.
_Whirlwind._
Serek twisted his blade, and red aura burst outward in a wide slicing ring. Pressure ripped through the air, slashing the space ten meters around him.
Clang!
Philip intercepted the edge of the wave, but the force hurled him backward. He slid across the ground, heels and blade carving a trench.
CRUNCH!
"Ghk—"
His knee jerked violently, pain exploding so sharply the world shrank to a single burning point. The joint had taken the full brunt of the recoil. He barely stayed upright, feeling a tendon tremble under the skin.
Serek laughed—loudly, brutally—his voice drowning out steel and screams.
"Hey, little Boreas pup! Bet your mother screamed just like that when they fried her in a ditch! Son of a whore, your leg shakes worse than she did!"
Philip didn't answer.
His face stayed calm, his breathing steady. In the Water School, the first lesson was always the same: keep the inner surface still—let nothing, not even a brute's taunts, leave a ripple.
A blur.
Serek vanished for a moment, dissolving into trembling air. Elite warriors could accelerate so sharply that the eye lost them in the first flicker of aura; only the trailing vibration revealed the angle. Philip caught the movement just as Serek's blade swept toward his arm, aiming to sever it cleanly.
_Malgra's Fin._
A technique created after long observation of the water dragon Malgra—teaching the body to slip through attacks with the same winding glide as a fish weaving between rocks.
Philip shifted his torso with effortless fluidity. The strike passed so close it brushed his sleeve. He slipped beneath it, as though drawn into the empty space under the blow, and in the next heartbeat appeared behind Serek.
Philip's blade swept in a counterattack.
Crack!
The blade nearly struck true. A hair more—and Serek's neck would've been cleaved open in a single clean cut. But Philip's knee betrayed him again—crunching, buckling for an instant.
A moment. That was all Serek needed.
BOOM!
He spun with such violence the air lurched. His blade came in a wide arc, feinting straight at Philip's head. Philip raised his sword, ready to catch it—then realized, too late, he'd been baited.
Serek shifted his footing, a short step, subtle but final.
The strike dropped.
He wasn't aiming for the blade.
He was aiming for the knee. The same weakened joint already screaming under every movement.
The hit landed.
***
The battlefield. Not much time had passed, yet too much had already been decided.
"Well?! How do you like the duke's little shit now?! Enjoying it?" a coarse voice barked.
A blow landed directly on Philip's bloodied face. One of Serek's men pressed a filthy boot against his cheek, grinding his head into the dirt. Philip jerked, rolling onto his side.
"Don't twitch! Tch!" the man added, spitting on Philip's wounded body.
Philip lay bound beside the few knights still breathing. The rest lay motionless around them.
They had lost.
No matter how skilled Philip was, no matter what artifacts protected him—he could not hold the fight. He remembered that at the start, he had even dominated.
But he had overlooked two crucial things.
First—his knee. The injury from the horse's fall never stopped interfering, and Serek struck it again and again. Each hit worsened it.
Second—his men. The ambush shattered their formation. While Philip fought the trio, the others fell under crossbow bolts, traps, and Serek's attackers. The advantage slipped away far too quickly.
And now he lay bound, Serek having taken him prisoner.
"Hahaha! Enough, enough… show some respect to our noble guest," a loud cheerful voice rang out.
A thick, log-like hand landed on the shoulder of the man who'd been spitting on Philip. He flinched, as though caught in a crime, and immediately backed away.
Serek swayed as he approached.
He was enormous. Over two meters tall, his body looked like a mass of force sculpted for battle. Every muscle on his arms and shoulders hinted at overwhelming power.
Seeing him from below, Philip wondered for the first time—was he a mutant? Half-demon, perhaps?
Short sandy hair stuck out on Serek's nearly shaved head, thinned and balding. But his grin was that of a wild dog baring its teeth.
He stepped closer and bent down, as though preparing to strike Philip. His massive frame cast a shadow over him.
But instead of hitting him, Serek unexpectedly lifted him under the shoulders and set him upright like a child, so he wouldn't fall to the side.
"Ah, you…" Serek shook his head, his voice strangely soft—disorientingly gentle. "Your water style is good. A real pleasure to watch."
The sincerity in his tone—almost friendly—threw Philip off balance more than any blow.
"I don't need praise from a rabid dog who bites his master's hand," Philip growled with hatred.
They both knew exactly what he meant. Betrayal. The day Serek turned his blade against the Asuran king. The attempt to abduct the princess.
Philip stared at him as if trying to drive the words deeper than any sword.
It was all he had left.
Philip could not believe his own fate. After everything he'd sacrificed—after pushing help away, betraying expectations, forcing himself forward—he had failed. And that thought hurt more than his knee or his wounds.
Somewhere deep inside, Philip thought it would've been better to die in battle. There, at least, he wouldn't feel this shame. This emptiness.
Serek looked down at him, shaking his head without malice.
"I didn't betray…"
"Oh?" Philip lifted his gaze, disbelief written in his eyes.
"…You can't betray someone you were never loyal to."
"Tch… Convenient. So all your feats were just accidents? A dog biting everyone because he never figured out who his master was?"
The words were sharp, meant to wound.
But Serek didn't flinch.
"I am loyal to the one who dragged me out of poverty. Who gave me a sword, bread, and a place in this world. Who trained me until I could stand where others fell."
He didn't name the person. Not even a hint.
"To him I serve. Him and no other. Not that pathetic Asura family that planted their asses on a throne and decided that makes them rulers."
He was about to say more, but suddenly stopped. His jaw clenched, his face twisting with hatred. A memory flickered inside him.
"There was a moment… I was already beside the princess. My hand was reaching. Everything was ready. Everything… aligned."
His fist tightened until the knuckles whitened.
"But her. That bitch."
His eyes burned with hatred.
"Lilia. August's daughter. If not for her."
The image flashed bright in his mind.
Glasses on the bridge of her nose. Chestnut hair falling along her neck. The white combat uniform of an Asuran knight.
A sword in her hands. A single step forward. Blocking his path.
"She'd been assigned as Princess Ariel's personal guard just weeks before that day," Serek growled. "Young girl. Looked like she had no strength at all."
He exhaled.
"But she delayed me…"
He remembered their clash.
Unexpected skill, sharp body turns, precise strike lines—she reminded him of one of the Seven Swords, her father August. She moved the same, held the sword the same, even her stance echoed his techniques.
She didn't win. But she stalled him. And that was enough to ruin everything.
Serek bared his teeth at the memory.
The last wound he dealt her was deep. He felt his blade scrape along her spine—so deep that no aura could prevent the damage. He made sure she would never be a swordswoman again, destroyed everything she had.
The thought warmed him.
Serek straightened and looked over the battlefield. His men stood around—some looting bodies, others dragging spoils toward the wagon. He raised his hand, and everything stopped.
He drew breath, ready to shout an order:
"Drag the bodies to the—hr—"
The sound broke into a strange, ragged gasp.
For a moment, everything froze. Even the wind seemed to stop.
Serek leaned forward slightly, confusion crossing his face, as though interrupted by something absurd.
He lowered his gaze—and saw the blade. A thin line of steel emerging from his chest.
One thought flickered through his mind: _A sword? Why is there a sword here?…_
"Pardon me, monsieur… but I very much dislike fair fights…"
The voice came from behind him—calm, almost polite. A figure faded into view as if stepping out of the air itself. Runes along his armor flared faintly.
Only now did Serek realize—the blade had entered through the back of his skull and exited through his face.
A swing.
Serek's head flew upward and landed somewhere to the side. His body fell to its knees, then collapsed forward.
The camp stirred. Some men already reached for their weapons.
_Click!_
A rune on the knight's gauntlet flared. A fan of fiery explosions swept across the line, engulfing Serek's men in flames.
Philip blinked, trying to steady his vision. The fire was still rolling along the edges of the field when a figure in noble armor stepped forward. The man dipped into a light bow, as if he'd arrived not from battle but from a reception hall.
"Monsieur Philip, an honor to make your acquaintance. My apologies for the delay—I arrived as swiftly as I could," he said quickly, politely, directly.
He knelt beside Philip, sliced through the ropes on his wrists in one smooth motion, and offered a hand to help him rise.
Pain flashed sharply, but Philip gripped the knight's forearm. Soon the others who could still move were freed as well.
They had no weapons, their auras nearly spent—yet the fight ended swiftly. The armored man moved with such calm certainty that his presence alone broke any resistance.
After gathering swords, they advanced together. The remnants of Serek's unit tried to form a defense, but there was none.
They killed all of them.
***
Some time later, the battlefield quieted. Thin pillars of smoke rose into the air, mixing with the smell of burning and blood. The torn ground was carved with trenches from dashes, strikes, and explosions, as if dozens of plows had ripped it apart.
The wagon lay on its side, wheels shattered, boards charred. Horses lay still, bodies sliced or torn by explosions, some trophies burned beyond recognition.
The bodies of Serek's men were scattered chaotically. Some had been blown away, others cut so cleanly that death had come instantly. A few remained kneeling, as if they hadn't yet fallen.
This place could no longer be called a road.
Philip wiped blood from his cheeks and gave a slight bow, feeling his knee twitch in pain.
"Thank you for your help. Without you, we'd have died here."
The man laughed lightly, as if he'd heard an amusing tale.
"Oh, come now, monsieur! I hardly did anything at all. Snuck in and lent a little hand—that's the extent of my valor."
He waved away the gratitude as if it were unnecessary.
Philip studied him more closely. The armor shone like silver, every plate curved with a master's precision. Artifact armor. The kind that couldn't be bought with any amount of gold—passed down through families or gifted by the crown. On the man's face, sharp blond mustaches pointed forward, so neatly shaped they looked measured with a ruler.
"By the way," the man said, clicking his heels in a small bow. "Brinn. Knight of the Church."
Philip blinked. The words were spoken so casually he thought he'd misheard.
"A… knight of the Church?" he asked, stunned. "What are you doing here?"
His thoughts raced. He sifted through theory after theory, searching for any reasonable explanation. Why would the Church send a knight here? What business did they have in the Wildlands? And most importantly—how could this concern his family, the Boreas lineage?
Too strange a coincidence. Too timely an appearance. And Brinn clearly wasn't someone who appeared anywhere by chance.
Brinn noticed his expression and raised a brow, as if following the thread of his thoughts.
"Oh, monsieur, do calm yourself," he said lightly, almost teasing. "Nothing dangerous. I'm merely here on Church business. Tracking down a criminal."
He paused.
"A Migurd."
Philip froze. The shock was so sharp even the pain in his knee dulled.
"A Migurd?" he repeated. "You must be mistaken. How could a member of the Migurd race be here? This is the opposite end of the world from their lands."
He tensed. Childhood fragments resurfaced—everything he'd heard about the Migurds. Short. Bright blue hair. And above all—telepaths. If the Church was to be believed, Migurds could burn a mind with a touch of thought; their speech was deception, their presence corruption.
Brinn saw the shift in Philip's expression and nodded as if satisfied.
"You see, monsieur," he said more softly, "so you understand the gravity of the matter. Such creatures are an insult to the Creator's grace. Their thoughts are poison, their very presence a stain."
He glanced over the battlefield, assessing the destruction, then turned back to Philip.
"But since I had the pleasure of aiding you, you may, of course, rely on support in return," he said in the same calm, confident tone. "The Boreas family has always stood for honor and duty. The Church values such houses."
Philip frowned.
"And how can I assist the Church?"
Brinn tilted his head.
"Quite simple, monsieur. Have you encountered a young woman recently? Roxy. From Sharia."
Philip froze. The name snagged on something in his memory—recent, but hard to grasp.
He sifted through possibilities. Roxy… Who could she be? A merchant's assistant from a nearby camp? That odd traveler asking the way to the pass? A novice from the caravan of pilgrims he'd let through that morning? The name was too familiar. Too.
But no face matched.
"Roxy… Roxy… ah!"
He remembered. A small girl on a white horse, with a white staff. Her pointed hat, light enchanted clothing, her precise posture—it all fell into place.
A mage from Sharia. The one summoned by his father. Of course. It was obvious now. She was headed to Buena to teach Paul's son.
Brinn saw Philip's eyes widen and smiled with satisfaction.
"I see you recall her now, monsieur," he said quietly. "Then tell me everything you know."
Philip exhaled and relayed all the details. The girl on the white horse. The staff that glowed with each gesture. His father's invitation from Sharia so she could become tutor to Paul's son in Buena. He mentioned her restraint, how she tried not to draw attention.
The words came easily, yet inside a growing unease took root—as if he wasn't giving Brinn a story, but a key to something larger.
Brinn listened attentively, and with every passing moment his smile widened. By the end, he even whistled softly and patted Philip's shoulder, as if he'd heard marvelous news.
"Excellent, monsieur Philip! Simply excellent. Such information is extremely valuable," he said with almost festive cheer. "You cannot imagine how much this simplifies my task."
He looked as though he'd just enjoyed a rare wine and could not hide his delight.
Philip described the road to Buena in detail—where to turn after the stream, how to circle the hills, where the path narrowed and could mislead a traveler. Brinn nodded as though noting every word.
When Philip finished, Brinn straightened his back and stepped away.
"Well then, monsieur, my thanks! You've been invaluable. Time for me to depart!"
He turned—and in the next instant sprinted off with surprising speed. Dust rose behind him. After a few dozen steps, he stopped sharply, lifted his head toward the forested slope, and shouted:
"I can probably cut through there!"
And without waiting for a reply, he dashed toward it.
Philip instinctively leaned forward, watching him vanish into the distance. And then realization struck him.
"Brinn…? You…"
He didn't finish. The Church knight had already disappeared among the sparse trees. Only then did Philip understand:
Brinn wasn't running toward the village.
He'd chosen the most dangerous part of the Wildlands—where monsters gathered in the greatest numbers.