Things ran against his prayers; the Hydra youth felt it like a river turning against its source.

Behind, cavalry hounded him like wolves; ahead, a brutal aura rushed in, some strong one drawn by magical voice-transmission.

He clung to hope like a lamp in storm—let it be a clan elder, or at least anyone not of the Dark Dragon Clan.

Hope cracked when his pupils caught those pitch-black wings and that signature dragon roar. The crushing presence paraded like a war banner, drowning him in despair.

“How… could this…”

Despair stained his eyes; the black wings mocked his struggle like crows over carrion. The figure closed in. He let fight go and sank to his knees.

Behind, the cavalry grinned like hyenas. Their sabers swung, a hair from cleaving his neck. With a “senior” projecting pressure ahead, the lord’s order felt like easy prey.

He shut his eyes to greet death; a thunderclap burst by his ear.

BOOM!!!

It wasn’t his death that arrived, but theirs—the saber-swinging riders. Aphelia severed heads; shock and fear stayed painted on faces as skulls spun through air.

She didn’t land; she bombed. A vast surge of Arcane Power flipped mounts like toys. Everyone but the Hydra youth behind Aphelia took ruin inside—the blast blooming within bodies like planted bombs.

It had two perks: it hid her usual killing signature, and it culled quantity-reliant fodder in one sweep without burning power on spell arrays—a scythe for the masses.

Aphelia did all that in under half a minute—barely the time a commoner takes to think, a match flicked in the dark.

“Get up.”

The hoarse voice made him jolt. He snapped his eyes open. The vicious riders lay in pieces. The dragon-like powerhouse stood with her back to him, black flames licking the blade.

“I ask. You answer.”

From the armor-clad, sturdy frame came a voice like rotten wood creaking. It puzzled him, yet under that absolute pressure, resistance dried up like leaves in frost.

He nodded fast. Lying before such a force felt like throwing pebbles at a tide. If hope had a thread, anyone would grasp it; he’d accept any demand for a sliver of life.

Truth be told, he’d escaped because he wasn’t one of those fools who offered life like candles to the wind.

As if reading his heart, she flicked him a glance sharp as a blade, chilling him—a wordless warning not to wander.

“Why are they hunting you?”

“I…”

He glanced at Aphelia, confusion flickering like moths. A Dark Dragon Clan powerhouse—how could she not know? He feared the cause itself might provoke her like a spark in dry grass.

Aphelia sighed, then stabbed her blade into the earth with a sudden thud. He flinched, dropped his wandering thoughts, and answered in a rush.

“The Dark Dragon Clan… the princess. Her army’s hunting Hydra Clan folk. I’m a fish that slipped the net…”

“Don’t blur it. Where did you escape from?”

Twisted black flames wreathed the blade. His words had stoked her temper like wind in embers. One wrong answer, and that earth-stuck blade would harvest his life.

“Th-there’s a hidden bunker nearby. Those who dodged the first Dark Dragon purge hid there. Not long ago, for some reason, they found us and began the siege…”

He trembled and watched her like a rabbit eyeing a snare, afraid a stray word would trip a mine and draw a killing stroke.

“How did you get out?”

Things were sharpening into shape. Aphelia mused: was this youth released by their strategist on purpose? A lure to draw out more Hydra Clan prey, chess pieces moving under fog.

“The remaining clan powerhouses held them off for a spell, told us to break out in every direction…”

He spoke plain truth, but clipped the key. Fear gnawed him—if she learned the whole, she’d cut him down without a blink.

“Finish. Hide one more thing, and I kill you.”

Murderous intent flooded him like winter water. The twisted black flames slipped their leash and ringed him in a tightening coil.

Fear of death pressed his chest till breath became drowning. Aphelia’s unmasked pressure let this merely high-rank youth taste the word “death.”

“I…”

He trembled, mind trying to resist like paper against rain, but his body shook beyond his control.

“I…”

Suddenly, thoughts flashed—some forced in, like chains buried deep. He realized something inside him had been tampered with, a lock set in his flesh.

“I was entrusted… to find Lord Nero in Clive City, beg him to send troops, and to relay… relay the Hydra Clan’s plight… but—”

As the last word rose, his jaw left his face. Terror stayed stamped in his eyes. A second, precise cut closed his throat and stole his life mid-sentence.

Crimson sprayed. He fell slow, regret and fear glazing his gaze. In that drop, he seemed to plead to Aphelia with his eyes—then a blade pinned him through.

The blade wasn’t Aphelia’s. It belonged to a brother and sister standing behind the youth.

“What a useless fool…”

“He almost blew the lord’s plan.”

They traded lines like performers, yet their long blades and the warm blood still wet on steel made danger hum like a hive.

Their pitch-black armor bore the glaring insignia unique to Nero’s elder sister’s troops. Yet the rich elemental surges spilling off them screamed Hydra Clan without doubt.

“Interesting… traitors, are you?”

Aphelia snorted cold, drew her blade, and the black flames turned into arrow after arrow, streaking for their faces. She set her stance—Ancient Martial Flow.

Unexpectedly, they took the pure-Arcane arrows on the body—or rather, on armor they trusted like a second skin—and drove their thin, needle-long blades straight for Aphelia.

“Ancient Martial Flow—Tempest!”

Her blade lashed like squalls and rain, stabbing at the pair. Each strike drew only super-rank power, yet to common eyes it was a blur of stabs and cuts.

The siblings were, at best, super-rank. Their swings were riddled with openings to Aphelia. She avoided vital spots, using a stormy style to disable, not kill.

Traitors like this always had plenty to spill.

With that in mind, Aphelia suddenly felt a threat prickle like cold rain. Her blade turned; the downpour stopped. A tide of sword force shoved them back into defense.

In that instant, death brushed her cheek without a name.

“What are you… really?”

She drew a long breath. Her instincts didn’t lie; a hidden kill lay coiled there. Pure Arcane Power gathered, becoming roaring black flames that veiled her blade’s shift into a spear.

“You’re strong…”

“But we…”

They crossed and burst forward. Two quick shadows circled her, blades flashing cold like coiled vipers, waiting for one slip to strike and take her life.

“No need to tell a corpse.”

“Ah, that tone is grating. So you don’t want to talk!”

Her spear slammed into the ground without warning. The heavy strike made the earth shiver. With no wind-up, the shock forced the circling pair to leap.

A colossal dragon roar rose again—this time with extra bite, Aphelia’s deliberate seasoning.

Mid-leap, both felt the impact like facing a true dragon. Bodies locked; hands slowed by half a beat.

Aphelia poured more power and hid a curse array within the roar, like thorns under velvet.

Her spear swept them from the air and drove them down hard. The ground buckled under the blow; their crash carved a deep pit.

No question—this was Aphelia attacking in earnest. When she stops holding back, every motion carries ruin. Even so, this wasn’t her limit; at full tilt, they might not live.

She didn’t stop. As they hit, Aphelia dove, spear descending like a smith’s hammer toward the pair below.

“Spiral…”

“Rending Blade…”

Their voices rose from the dust below, making Aphelia’s heart twitch. Her spear didn’t pause; it drove down, decisive as falling stone.