The slaughter didn't end quickly.
For over fifteen minutes, the clearing had been a chaos of screaming metal, shattering bone, and the rhythmic.The thousand-man circle had been worn down, not by one decisive blow, but by a slow, methodical destruction.
By the time the sun began to dip lower, casting long, bloody shadows across the scorched earth, the once-mighty Lazarus force was a fractured mess. The "unstoppable" army was gone.
The clearing was now unnaturally quiet. The only sounds were the crackle of burning pikes and the heavy, rhythmic breathing of Varkesh Ironfall as he stood amidst a landscape of ruin.
The Legend wasn't looking at the dead; he was looking at the handful of survivors huddled near the tree line. Their armor was shredded, their weapons discarded, and their eyes were wide with a terror that had long since surpassed the capacity for speech.
Varkesh stepped forward.
The ground groaned under his weight. He moved with the slow, inevitable momentum of a mountain. He reached towards one of the remaining attacker, his hand shooting out like a strike of lightning, and closed his fist around the collar of a Lazarus officer.
He lifted the man upward until their eyes were level.
"Who sent you?" Varkesh's voice was a low, vibrating growl that seemed to rattle the officer's teeth. "Why the Academy? Why now?"
The officer's face was pale, blood trickling from beneath his cracked helmet, but he didn't look like a man ready to beg. Instead, a twisted, smirk pulled at his lips, revealing teeth stained red.
"You... you have no idea what you've started" the officer wheezed, his voice bubbling with fluid. He gripped Varkesh's massive forearm with trembling, weak hands. "The Mana Heart was only the beginning. You think you've won? You're going to pay... you're all going to pay for this."
Varkesh's eyes narrowed. He felt a sudden, violent vibration radiating from beneath the man's breastplate. It wasn't a heartbeat. It was a countdown.
"Teren! Get back!" Varkesh roared.
Varkesh felt it first. Not mana. Destruction.
The officer's eyes started glowing white. His veins turned black, bulging against his skin as if they were about to burst from the internal pressure.
"For the New World," the man whispered.
Varkesh didn't let go. He didn't have time.
[BOOM—!]
The officer's body didn't just die. It detonated.
A violent sphere of pressurized mana exploded outward from the man's core, the force of a thousand grenades contained within a single human frame. The shockwave ripped through the clearing, the blinding white light swallowing the Legends and the forest alike.
[Estimated Time to Arrival: 134 Minutes]
The white light of the detonation in the forest was so bright it felt like it could be seen from outer space itself. But in the Healer Hall, the air was thick with a different kind of tension—the smell of ozone and the copper tang of spilled blood.
Zen stood amidst the ruin of the upper floor. He looked down at an attacker pinned against a fractured stone pillar, the man's armor shattered and his breathing shallow. Zen's hand, still tight from the adrenaline of the fight, reached down and grabbed the man's breastplate.
"Why?" Zen's voice was a jagged edge. "Why did you come here?"
The attacker coughed, a spray of red hitting the floor. He looked past Zen toward Evan, then back, a shivering laugh escaping his throat.
"You think… this was a random raid?" the man wheezed, his eyes glazed with pain. "We didn't come for the academy. We came for the prize. The Royal Prince… Aren Valen."
Zen's blood went cold.
"He's our leverage," the attacker continued, his voice dropping to a thready whisper. "A hostage to keep the King's airships grounded… and a message to the Kingdom. The New World doesn't care about bloodlines."
Zen's grip tightened, the metal of the breastplate groaning under his strength, but the attacker's head lolled back. He was gone.
Zen turned to look at Evan. The Healer stood there, his own clothes shredded and soaked in the blood of the men he had just systematically dismantled. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The weight of the attacker's words sat between them—the realization that their friend's identity was now in grave danger, especially since most people had no idea what the Prince actually looked like.
"Let's go," Zen said, his voice heavy.
They moved.
They didn't look back at the bodies. They didn't look at the shattered stones of the Healer Hall. They ran down the stairs, their boots striking the marble in a rhythmic, hollow sound.
Zen's mind replayed the dying man's words again and again.
A hostage.
A crown.
A message.
They reached the lower levels just as another tremor rolled through the structure. Dust fell from the ceiling. Somewhere above, something exploded.
Zen slowed.
"Aren," he said, the name heavy on his tongue.
Evan didn't answer—but his jaw tightened.
They broke into a sprint.
Because whatever Lazarus had started
was no longer confined to a battlefield.
The Weapon Maker Hall was sealed.
Not locked—braced.
Heavy plates had been slid into place along the walls. Portable shields were anchored into the floor. Every weapon that was present in the weapon hall was now pointed at the reinforced door.
Rex stood at the center of it all.
Kneeling beside the SUV.
Its frame was complete. Low. Wide. Runic channels pulsed faintly along the framework, uneven in places where the work was rushed. The core housing was open, wires and mana conduits exposed like veins.
Rex wiped his hands on his pants and leaned in again.
"Come on," he muttered. "Just don't explode."
Behind him, weapons stayed trained on the door.
No one spoke.
The silence stretched.
Then—
BANG.
The door shuddered.
Dust fell from the ceiling.
A second impact followed, heavier, closer.
Someone swallowed audibly.
Rex didn't look up.
He tightened a final bolt, snapped a duct into place, and let out a slow breath.
"Well," he said casually, straightening up,
"looks like my time has come."
Another BANG, metal groaning this time.
Rex grinned.
"…I always wanted my last words to be sarcastic."
Niel didn't slow down either.
As he and Aren cut through the corridor, their boots striking the stone in a sharp, urgent rhythm, Niel projected his voice toward the main hall. He didn't need the rune stone for this; his strategists were already in position, awaiting the signal.
"Repeat the procedure!" Niel shouted, his voice echoing with cold authority. "Seal the gate. Flood the lower hall. Fall back to the library hall and wait for reinforcements!"
There was no hesitation from the strategists in the hall. They moved instantly, their training under Niel overriding the panic of the invasion.
Behind them, the sound of rushing water began—distant at first, then rising into a deafening roar as the hidden channels opened and immense pressure surged through the Academy's structural veins. Heavy metal groaned as the gates were forced shut by the flood. Shouts from the approaching attackers echoed briefly, only to be swallowed by the sound of the flood.
Niel didn't look back.
Aren glanced once over his shoulder at the wall of water crashing through the hall behind them, then fixed his eyes forward again. "That'll hold."
"It doesn't have to," Niel replied, his breath steady despite their pace. "It just has to buy them minutes. The reinforcements are going to come any time soon."
They turned hard at the next junction, heading deeper into the heart of the Academy toward the industrial heat of the Weapon Maker Hall.
The floor beneath them trembled again, more violent this time. Something massive struck the stone somewhere above their heads, and a rain of white dust drifted down from the ceiling.
Aren flexed his hand, the dull glow of his Iron Fist humming softly beneath his skin. "Rex better be ready."
Niel's expression remained a mask of tactical focus. "He doesn't have a choice."
They broke into a full sprint.
Because whatever was waiting behind the doors of the Weapon Maker Hall was either their one chance at a breakthrough—or the dead end where their journey would finally be buried.
[Estimated Time to Arrival: 92 Minutes]