"Why are those puppet soldiers attacking their own people? Gods above, the Haima Classroom's resorting to magic now—two noble sorcerers are dead."
"The academy's rules forbid fighting on school grounds. Have they gone mad?"
"Rules? Rules don't mean a damn thing with the Carians at our gates! These traitors are unstable. If we don't fight back, we're all dead."
Yug stood at the forefront, bellowing to calm the chaos. Their original mission? Forgotten.
"But the Carians never said they'd slaughter us. It's Professor Oritis and his faction who've crossed the line—"
The sorcerer's words died mid-sentence. The battlemage's thick, unyielding staff silenced him. Procedural justice crumbled before raw force. The other sorcerers fell silent, their defiance snuffed out.
Yug's temples pulsed. He knew most of them were useless now—morale had shattered.
Only one hope remained: keep the Carians outside the academy and bleed them dry. Drag this out as long as possible. That demigod couldn't stay forever.
"Return to your mission, or I'll enforce the rules myself."
The Haima Classroom members were the disciplinary committee, the rebellion's backbone. No one dared protest. Reluctantly, the sorcerers refocused.
Just as they turned back to their surveillance, a dull thud echoed. Dust erupted from a nearby rooftop.
The sorcerers froze, their gazes snapping toward the source. What they saw drained the color from their faces. Silver and blue armor gleamed, gold filigree and gems adorned the gorget, and a light blue cloak billowed in the wind.
"The Carian Knight—he's inside!"
The news hit like a death knell, shattering what little resolve remained. Some even looked relieved.
Throne stepped out of the shallow crater, lifting his helmet's visor just enough to flash a casual smile.
"Good evening, gentlemen."
His tone was light, as though he'd stumbled upon them during a stroll.
No one moved. The dust settled, carried away by a passing breeze.
"What are you waiting for? Kill him!"
Yug raised his staff, conjuring a Cannon of Haima. The magic sigil flared, but Throne was already moving. A cyan ripple surged from him.
Thud—Boom!
The cannonball veered off course, obliterating a distant spire. Throne charged straight for Yug, his expression cold.
The fence-sitters' resolve was crumbling. Simple solution: kill whoever stood in his way.
With a swift step, he lunged, his longsword thrusting forward.
Clang! Sparks flew as the blade struck the Ant's Skull Plate. The recoil numbed his wrist, but Throne didn't flinch. He ducked.
Whoosh—
A Gavel of Haima swept inches above his head.
Yug, a Battlemage of Haima teetering on the edge of heroism, was fast. Seeing Throne evade, he raised the Ant's Skull Plate again and roared, "Stop staring! Help me!"
He knew these sorcerers were shaken, not broken. He just needed to hold out a little longer...
"You won't last."
Throne's left palm glowed black-purple. He pressed it gently against the shield, and arcs of electricity surged across Yug's body.
Gravity Well. A technique borrowed from the Alabaster Lord.
Yug's body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. He strained to turn, relying on sheer force.
He turned—too late. Starlight coalesced, and the swordsman's blade was already behind him.
A sharp pfft cut the air as the longsword drove into his chin and burst out the crown of his skull. Throne vaulted into the air, planted a boot in the man's chest, and yanked his blade free. The heavy corpse tumbled off the rooftop.
Swish.
He flicked his sword, scattering droplets of blood. Around him, sorcerers stood frozen, staves half-raised, disbelief etched into their faces. None had expected Yug to fall so quickly.
"Get lost."
Throne's voice was cold, a single word that crackled like a whip. The sorcerers flinched, then scrambled, robes billowing as they fled.
Those who hesitated didn't last long. Throne's Dark Comet streaked through the air, silencing them with brutal efficiency.
The rooftop erupted with noise—alarm bells ringing, footsteps pounding—throwing the academy into chaos.
Melina appeared beside him, her face a mask of calm.
"What now?"
"Need you ask?" Throne shouldered his sword and leaped from the roof. "Kill!"
......
Below lay the courtyard garden, trees casting shifting shadows, the archives still bearing the scars of fire. Ahead, the Grand Library and the Academy Committee loomed, connected to the plaza by a narrow, winding staircase suspended in mid-air.
This was the heart of the academy. Control this, and the rest would crumble. The sorcerers on the front lines would scatter; the die-hards would fall.
To his left stood the abandoned archives. Behind him, the Debate Parlor and dormitory. At the plaza's center, an ornate fountain sparkled under the moonlight.
Thirty or forty sorcerers stood scattered across the plaza, hoods marking them as elites drafted from various classrooms.
Azure magic sigils filled the air, glowing like a constellation of stars—dozens of magical machine guns aimed and ready.
Throne scanned the scene, then took Melina's hand.
"Are you ready?"
"Mm."
"Then, attackers—"
He charged forward, feet barely touching the ground as a rain of Glintstone Pebbles descended.
"Kill them all!"
The storm of firepower roared, shattering trees, tearing apart stone pavilions, and filling the air with dust. Cyan light flashed through the chaos as Throne and Melina moved like ghosts.
Throne held Melina's hand with one hand and deployed the Thops Barrier with the other, deflecting magic from the front.
When they reached the courtyard's center, magic bombarded them from behind.
"I'll take the front, you take the back."
He spun, using his momentum to hurl Melina into the fray.
A figure burst from the dust, soaring toward the dormitory eaves. The sorcerer standing there barely had time to react before a short blade filled his vision.
Pfft. With a blade through the head, Melina spun around the corpse's neck, her leg snapping out to shatter another sorcerer's hood. She released, momentum carrying her toward the next target. Her movements were swift, fluid—a lethal dance that carved a gap in the barrage.
The sorcerers pivoted as one, staves crackling toward Melina—until Throne materialized atop the archive ruins. Steel flashed in his left hand, the Carian Greatsword blazing in his right.
"Where are you looking?"
His swing birthed a hurricane of carnage. Blade-light carved through flesh, leaving only crimson-spattered armor fragments in its wake.
Throne's molten gold gaze locked onto the floating staircase ahead, where sorcerers clustered thickest. He coiled like a spring—barrier braced, weight balanced on the balls of his feet.
One step. A cyan meteor tore across the night.
"Watch out! He's coming!"
"Where are the puppet soldiers!?"
Glintstone projectiles shattered against his guard, their ricochets cratering the plaza below. No spell could slow his ascent. The moment their incantations faltered, the moment they scrambled aside—
Boom.
The meteor struck. The spiral staircase trembled.
Beneath his boot, a sorcerer's remains oozed between the stonework. Throne's sword hummed, gathering a vortex of wind. The tempest howled—not cutting, but lifting. One by one, robed figures tumbled into the void, their screams stretching thin before vanishing in the dark.
An executioner loose among sheep needs no strategy. Throne worked with brutal efficiency. Each downward stroke split bodies and staves alike. A backswing sheared through a statue; his kick launched the half-ton debris a hundred meters.
Bang. Bang. The hail of rubble pulverized those below. Severed limbs slickened the steps with dark rivulets.
No knight stood here now—only a demon. He planted himself atop the spiral, sword raised to the stars, and roared:
"Get out!"
The war cry shook the heavens.
Blades found throats from the shadows as Melina danced through the chaos. The sorcerers broke. Staves clattered to stone as they fled—no glances back, no thoughts of resistance. The academy's labyrinthine halls would hide them. This demon couldn't scour every corner.
"We won."
Melina alighted beside him, breath steady.
Throne's sealed helm betrayed nothing. "Cannon fodder doesn't count. The real problems just arrived."
The dormitory doors exploded inward. Oritis and Leon led the charge—three Tarnished at their heels, a tide of puppets surging behind. Shadows shifted; Oritis wasn't fool enough to let Throne plant the Carian standard atop the Committee's spire.
Melina's pupils narrowed. These weren't panicked scholars—these were veterans, breathing hard not from exhaustion but battle-lust. Bloodflies swarming a disturbed nest.
Killing intent sharpened the air as they closed the distance. She didn't hesitate.
"You advance. I'll hold them."
Their sole advantage was the head start. Complete the objective before the noose tightened.
Throne squinted at the staircase's zenith. Even drenched in slaughter, caution anchored him. An ambush there meant certain encirclement.
"No rush."
He watched the professors storm the plaza, magic crackling at their fingertips. His hand closed around Melina's wrist.
"Let's play first."
The railing groaned as he vaulted them both back into the killing floor.
......
Eira held the front line as Oritis stormed back, fury burning through him. Two invaders had breached their defenses—just two. The school gate could fall and they'd still fight through the labyrinthine halls. But if the heart of the academy fell? No sorcerer would follow a leader who couldn't protect their sanctum.
He shoved past the retreating mages, their panic sour in the air.
"Two. Two of them did this to you?"
The Dark Moon's wind ripped his wide-brimmed hat away. He clawed at his bare scalp, dignity forgotten.
"Where?"
A sorcerer pointed, hand shaking. "The left plaza—they vanished into the research buildings."
Behind the archives, the abandoned labs loomed like a graveyard of forgotten spells.
Traitor. The thought struck like a blade. Chelona had been missing too long—this stank of betrayal. The attackers had raced straight for the spiral stair, then doubled back instead of ascending. Why? If they'd gone up, they'd be dead by now. This circling, this cat-and-mouse—it gnawed at his nerves.
No time for games. Every second wasted was a gift to the Carian Army battering their gates. Oritis scanned the plaza—shattered stone, twisted bodies. His eyes tracked upward.
"They came from... no."
Impossible. Four defensive layers, all breached. They'd been outmaneuvered before the fight even began.
Leon's voice cut through the tension.
"That knight—the one who slaughtered the Cuckoos. He's here."
His grip tightened on his weapon. "Leave him loose inside, and we're finished."
History proved it: one warrior could break an army. And this one? He'd scaled the academy's heights in a breath. If he could slip past the Crucible Knight, nowhere was safe.
Oritis glared at the sky.
"Four hours. We root out this rat first—then we hold."
Leon moved without hesitation, signaling the Tarnished and puppet soldiers. They fanned out, blades ready. Even the most unruly mercenaries obeyed now. The corpses spoke louder than orders—this was no amateur. No one gambled with their life twice.
Oritis turned on his heel.
"With me."
He herded the cowering sorcerers toward the Committee chambers. They'd bolt if he blinked. The group splintered, two forces hunting shadows.
In the ruins, a shape stirred. Dust settled on a cloaked figure.
"Clever," Throne murmured from the darkness. "But not clever enough."
This was the only way to deal with him; after all, even Unseen Form couldn't escape detection magic.