“Yahaha—” Kenier vaulted from the fifteen-meter wall. In midair, he used Magic Breaker to morph and bleed off the drop, like a hawk cupping the wind. A blazing pillar slammed into the ironclad ramparts; the stone flushed hot, but didn’t scar.
“Kenier! Leave them alive. Not a single long-eared one dies, got it?!” The man’s warning cut through the heat like cold rain.
“Yes, Knight-Captain Kaines! Yegaga—” Kenier cackled. He dragged his crimson-flame greatsword, sprang onto his warhorse, and burst away like a comet trailing sparks.
Kaines lifted his chin; nearly a thousand of the Iron Cavalry Legion surged out like a steel river. Two knight leaders whipped their mounts hard, and the iron tide tore the battlefield open.
...
Iron hooves thundered. The earth keened. The fleeing mass heard the drumbeat behind and ran like scattered leaves before a storm. Medith’s strength faded; she slipped from the column, distance peeling away until she fell a hundred meters behind.
“Haha! Look at your fine comrades. They’re ditching their own commander to save their skins, Medith—” Kenier laughed, drawing closer, ever closer...
His blade was about to cleave her mount when Medith jerked the reins. The horse threw its head up; a shrill whinny sliced the air like a snapped bowstring.
Thump! Medith yanked her warhorse into a ten-meter leap, springing skyward like a stag over a frost fence. Kenier, lone pointman, stared up, slack-jawed at horse and rider rising into blue.
A jolt of dread bit him. He wrenched the reins to peel away. Then a black silhouette fell like an eclipse. Thud-thump— Hooves hammered down. A warhorse’s scream ripped the dust. Kenier’s mount’s armor shattered; its body burst, entrails mangled under the stomp, while Medith’s own warhorse stood untouched, like iron under snow.
“Your horse is dead, Kenier.” Her breath, cold and contemptuous beneath the war-helm, slid into his bones.
“A trap?!” His heart lurched, like a hare hearing the snare snap.
“Right. But no prize.” Medith chopped down like winter on brittle reeds. Kenier’s eyes sharpened; he flipped and raised his blade, catching her crushing strike. “Hmph! You’re alone. You plan to solo our tens of thousands?”
Medith answered with steel. Her greatsword hummed, silver turning milky-white, a killing aura flowing like ice fog. Kenier blanched; instinct howled. Medith’s presence shed its skin—no rabbit cornered, but a dragon breaking cloud.
Ding—
Clang—
Hum—
Medith flickered through a triangle within ten meters of Kenier, light-swift, like lightning sketching a sigil. No one saw her hands, only heard three metal cries. She ended behind him, sword poised like a drawn note.
“Dirge: Chord.” Medith drove her blade into the earth with tyrant calm. The Iron Cavalry Legion roared in from the front; a black-armored host pressed from the rear. Faced with a sea of death, she felt no fear—only deep, old hate, cold as midnight water.
Kenier’s eyes bulged. He stared at his heat-shimmering greatsword. Ding—clang-clang-clang... The blade snapped at the waist. The heat bit the dirt, then fell to ember-red dust, fading into the heavy air like ash in rain.
“Impossible...” Shock numbed him. Then his body lifted, weight slipping away like a cut rope. Two heartbeats later he knew—Medith stood below, gazing up with the eyes of death.
She drew her greatsword and wheeled downward with brutal grace. The blade birthed a Cyclone, a ring of wind that hurled him tens of meters skyward, a storm stairway into blank blue. Kenier met Medith’s gaze as they passed shoulder to shoulder.
Only then did he understand: the rumors carried no lie. That blood-smeared blossom of a face, those beautiful eyes, scornful and hateful like a hell-god descending, almost stopped his heart cold.
